2011

USCA | LITERARY ARTS MAGAZINE | VOLUME 43

Mission Statement 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.

{{Broken Ink}} USCA’s Literary Arts Magazine

Š 2011 Broken Ink and contributing artists. All rights reserved.

Editor’s Note

Over the course of my time as Editor-in-Chief of Broken Ink I have been incredibly impressed with the artistic community at USC Aiken. Not only did the artists and writers on campus turn out a staggering amount of submissions for this magazine (over 200!), the quality of those pieces made for some stiff competition when it came to our final selections. I believe the result of our staff and review panel’s lengthy discussions of the pieces is a literary arts magazine that represents the breadth and quality of our artistic talents at USCA. Sadly, we were unable to include all of the amazing pieces we had the privilege of reviewing.

On behalf of the Broken Ink staff, I would like to thank all the student artists and writers who make this magazine possible by submitting their creations. Others who have more than earned my gratitude this year are the staff of the Student Life Office, the English faculty, the Washington Group Award panel, the fine arts faculty, our proofreaders, the English and fine arts upperclassmen who volunteered to help on our submission review panels, and, for being a great mentor and friend, Karl Fornes— our faculty advisor.

All of you have “got tiger blood, man.” For my fellow students on the Broken Ink staff, thank you for making my time at USCA filled with friends and creativity. As I graduate and leave the magazine in your capable hands, just remember one thing: you are all “bi-winning.”

Much inspiration to you,

Christina Berkshire

Broken Ink Editor-in-chief, 2009- 2011

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Contents Poetry 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14-15

James Mock Brady Morris Lindsey Hubbs Roy Hudson Christina Berkshire Oliver Finnie Emily Short Ashley Wilson William Blake Bolen

22 23 24 25

Silence Is...

Piety Higher Education Capes and Tights Ilinx A Blessed Deflowering My Inner Life Matthew 5:42 But I Forgot to Bring My Swimmin’ Trunks Dreams of Fall Of You The Unconquerable Quest for Rest: A Writer’s Untold Story Famine Here are the Men with the Hoses to Hose the Place Out Side Effects of Life My People Autumn Evening Haiku Contest Winners

27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

Alice in Moss Laundry Time Three Moons on the River Mary Alice Daily Essentials Hooper Water Cento II Untitled II Withered Tree of Color Capelli Liquido Communication No Cover Galloping Through the Woods Loralei with Teddy Bear

Christina Berkshire Melissa Wise Jeanine Rodriguez Mabry MacGregor Berrien Chidsey Maria LaRocca Amy Martyn Turner Jeanine Rodriguez Tim Schmidt Berrien Chidsey Degan Cheek Maria LaRocca Trey Workman Anna Blizard Sam Lobrano

The Odyssey of Destiny The Craftsman’s Myth Sunset

Brent Hoover Brady Morris Andrew Hasben

16 17 18 19 20-21

Andrew Hasben Joshua Truel Abe Kalsbeek David Welcher Udge Kurbudkin Eric Russell Isaiah Cohn Ashleah Hudson

Art

Prose 43-45 46-48 49-50

3

Washington Group Awards Prose Sunset Andrew Hasben This is one of the short stories included in my short story cycle. I wanted to write a story that explored the physical and emotional distance between two people. This story, in particular, focuses on two individuals who are in love with one another, but who refuse to emotionally commit to each other, believing they have more time. { Page 49 }

Poetry Matthew 5:42 Ashley Wilson This poem is about a boy named Matthew and the time we spent together. { Page 13 }

All submissions were screened in a blind review (no author names attached) by a committee of five English faculty. On behalf of all the students whose work appears in this year’s magazine, the Broken Ink staff thanks Professor Vicki Collins, Dr. Matt Miller, Dr. Bill Claxon, Dr. Eric Carlson, and Dr. Tom Mack for their review.

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Silence Is...

Golden.

Why do we feel it necessary To fill the air with trivial Sounds?

Listen.

Hear the breathing of the wind, As it inhales‌exhales.

Hear the weeping of the sky, As the weight she carries becomes too much to bear.

Hear the land reaching up, begging To be kissed by the sun.

Why are we still making noise?

Listen to what is being said When nothing is spoken.

The words are more beautiful Than the arias Pavarotti recites, The chords Mozart manipulates, Even more lovely than the songs sirens sing.

Silence is‌

James Mock The inspiration for this piece was solely personal experience. So much noise goes on in the world that I try and get away from it and just listen to the things around me. I started to think about that, and it motivated me to sit down and try to convey what occurs when nothing is happening around me and everything is quiet.

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Piety The sky growls as I glance

to the half-opened door of the church

at the grey headstones, crumbling

and peer within

rectangles infested with lichen as grey

The smells of age are thick at the threshold;

and as old as the stone it consumes

dust and decaying wood mix with the ozone of the approaching storm

Ahead, among the field of graves,

I can see

sits the church, sovereign

light falling weakly

above the markers of the dead,

onto ancient pews,

its only congregation the wind

between the doors that once stood open

that bows through the long-since shattered

wide to the devout and the living,

windows with incomprehensible reverence

now between the realms

and the rain that sometimes seeps through the rotted roof

so I step away, unwilling to defile this place

I can hear that storm gathering above me, preparing to give way to that celestial downpour like one more attempt to flood the filth away but, much to the chagrin of the righteous, it only serves to get us sinners soggy It’s almost funny how just being near a church resurrects the sometimes-sacrilegious cynic in me, but this time the skeptic’s voice is subdued, half-hearted, as if it doubts its own words, instead of the preachers’ I’m unsettled at once because I realize I’m unsettled, ill at ease with the fact that this place, this forgotten site, sends a shiver down the back of my neck The ruin holds a power, unspoken of in the super-churches and bible camps, a charge as if lightning struck here and never left, unearthly and forgotten

Brady Morris

to men of cities and streetlights

This poem was partially inspired by an in-class assignment in a poetry workshop and a haunting, repeating mental image.

I step forward along the broken stone path, punctured with weeds and untamed grass,

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Higher Education Sleek and brown with a busy kind of air, he darts expertly through the overhanging boughs,

bestowing

shame on those who mammoth him.

Bright black eyes shine with vigilance, keen as he scuffles along, seeing An exodus of young scholars mere inches from his steady laboring.

If he could sing, he would vie with the most melodious of birds,

running

silent scales as he continues.

Others pay no heed to him, offer him no reward; still he scurries, needing no approval.

Would-be geniuses endlessly immobile, can’t learn from one so small.

Sadly,

it’s against the nature of such self-important researchers.

Steadily,

searching for synthetic slaves to drive and whip at leisure.

Lindsey Hubbs

Unfortunately,

Last semester in Dr. Geyer’s Intro.

To Creative Writing class, I was required to write a poem in free verse. Up until this point, I’d always written poetry with some sort of meter or rhyme scheme, so this was a challenge for me.

My inspiration was a squirrel scurrying around in the pine straw of our very own Quad, completely oblivious to the students walking around him.

squirrels don’t possess machines for their work, relying instead on their own natural tools.

Consequently, they do not warrant notice.

Obviously,

humans are higher beings who conquer such trifles.

Honestly,

who cares about a little rat in the straw?

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Capes

and

Tights

Capes and tights, days and nights

Out all the time fighting crime

Super strength and laser vision

Or just superior comprehension

Aspiration, inspiration

Funny looks over comic books

But when duty calls it’s one for all

Teflon vests and tear gas

Or rubber coats and an ax

Answering pleas or

Retrieving cats from trees

Ending a drug lord’s reign

Protecting those who are sane

Saving lives or just being a friend

Real heroes aren’t always comic book super men

But true role models, not for pretend

Roy Hudson This is a shaped poem inspired by superhero mythology as well as real heroes.

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Ilinx The new moon blossomed in our irises as we tended our garden of night.

We weeded vines of laughter from our plot and they repaid us our kindnesses, tripping our ankles and minds.

With heartbeats in a frantic fractal-loop, we fell through the volcanic iridescence of air, alighting in the overgrowth of freshly painted flowers.

To recompose we abandoned sight and sound to embrace our touch and smell.

We pressed our flower selves into the sky and splintered into stars.

Christina Berkshire Ilinx is a category of games described by Roger Caillois which creates a temporary disruption of perception, like spinning in circles.

This poem describes that feeling you get when you wake suddenly from a dream, feeling like you just tripped.

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A Blessed Deflowering I plucked her from the field among the daisies and daffodils because she stood out like a white rose surrounded by orchids.

Her beauty was full as a bouquet picked from God’s first garden, and she was as innocent as the day before the first holiday of sin.

Ooh… her skin was as soft as the gentle stroke of a lily, and her presence, the fragrance of a forest of gardenias.

The taste of her lips were as sweet as the drips of honeysuckles. Her love captured me like a Venus flytrap.

The corsage to my carnation, unmarred by temptation, we departed with God’s good graces.

She swayed to the breeze of my whispers as her thoughts meandered like dandelion seeds. When my tulips encountered her magnolia, nectar flowed like a volcano’s siege. Then there was sweet pollination under a honeymoon of violets.

Oliver Finnie This is a poem about a relationship.

I used flowers as the terminology for a girlfriend who was deeply into flowers. She was a virgin and I thought about how rare it would be for a virgin to get married. Usually people are deflowered before the honeymoon.

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My Inner Life my mother died when i was nine

but stuck around and kept a bottle for a child, while all along this child nursed her, as i, the necessary obligation, faded from her mind. so i, now mother to my self,

naive about these ways and

their permissions— none was needed—

for anger turned inside-out then in, blanked out before the tomes of necessary know-how,

yet fingered out the crevice in the stone

and slipped through sideways.

Emily Short

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Matthew 5:42 “Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away.�

My breath stops as I pass the pines that you and I would hide in.

Because you grow in the trees of once well worn paths, now strewn with vines.

I walk through to find the oak we laid on.

My fingers trace the bark that tattooed my back.

I can still feel the bruises on my knees. ones that came from praying for you to leave.

But, the old women quilting crosses taught me to always give to beggars.

So I let you stay.

The broken zipper on my favorite jeans a symbol of my charity.

Ashley Wilson Winner of the Washington Group Award for Poetry, see page four for more information.

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But I Forgot to Bring My Swimmin’ Trunks The cold weather brought a hard rain

There was nowhere else to go.

and the grey clouds that gave birth to it;

In lieu of the cerebral storm

My mind was midnight weary.

That I knew was brewing, I crawled inside,

Venus was hidden from my view As well as every star.

I found a shovel propped Against the wall under a sign

I envisioned my favorite moon sleeping;

Which read, “dig,”

Her chest rising and falling back into place.

and I could think of nothing more logical As the storm grew more fierce around me

No moon for me tonight, I thought –

(I felt threatened)

Drowning in the disappointment of the fact, but still rolling along with the roll of thunder

So, I drove that shovel down

As it sang to me in a deep and heavy bass –

and as I dug into the fleshy depths I found

As a strange pressure began to crown –

That the deeper I went, the harder it got.

On whatever mental plane I was wandered around on at the time –

The thoughts I had forgotten were buried

A weak spot gave way to a jet stream

Long, long ago

Of uninhibited thoughts

Shot out at me like green smoke

and odd questions:

The instant they were uncovered

Who am I?

With ghastly force at blinding speed,

Where am I? Struggling with myself to find the answers.

Blinding me with each explosive burst, and I failed to notice that the tunnel

A meaningless task;

I so fervently hollowed was being filled

A fool’s errand

With that mist of jaded thoughts.

Which proved to grow more difficult, With every passing moment,

Exhausted, I set the shovel aside

To pull myself away from –

and sat down to rest

Like a strong addiction to a hard drug

and with each passing breath

Approaching its peak –

I felt the strain increase with the next.

The fog circling around me grew thick Unrelenting

I’d forgotten that the world in which

Until everything was out of sight

I then existed was not the world

Was I out of my mind?

Or in it?

and the smoke had nowhere to go.

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In which I was born

So, I slept In that abysmal bed For what seemed an eternity,

and I dreamt.

I awoke in the backseat of a French taxi Driven by a large Middle class Middle aged Man who couldn’t understand what I said and didn’t know where I was going.

We rode on in uninterrupted silence.

I stared out beyond the city Thinking about a dream I had On the flight over Where I shoveled desperately Through soft grey flesh to no end.

I remembered, before falling asleep, Ice crystallizing slowly along the edges Of my window seat flight – Due to the sudden drop In temperature at high altitude.

I glanced out through the window –

Down into the infinite

That was the great blue sea

Below me;

Waiting for me –

Just wishing the captain Felt like taking us for a swim.

William Blake Bolen

15

Dreams

of

Fall

Once, while dreaming ‘neath the solid oak, while the night sung songs that fell sweetly upon my sleeping eyes, I saw you in the handsome trunk that stretched like a neck above my head, and dispersed in a face of green leaves like a thousand green eyes watching in silent longing.

I felt you in the branches that reached down like arms, embracing me with silent care, wrapping me in strong love, and I was warm.

When the singing ceased, and my eyes opened with the sky’s first light, I looked up towards your face, but all I saw were green things about my head, no strain of human life hung in the natural air.

A cold wind came, stirring colder tears to fall.

It rocked and swayed the canopy so it groaned.

Then, the leaves changed shades before my eyes, and fell in bunches like colored rain, till they lay amongst me on the ground like withered bones.

I scooped great bunches in my hands, but felt no life, only the stale, fading colors of death.

Andrew Hasben A lot of the times when I am writing a short story, I will write poems from the perspective of the characters. I do this to put myself, emotionally, into their situations.

This scene is similar to one that appears in one of my short stories, and I wanted to rewrite it in the form of a poem to express the character’s feelings.

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Of You This was the summer we ran down fields of grass and slid into mud holes, screaming and whooping our

battle cry – wild and free.

This was the summer we saw girls on the computer and they stopped being annoying, and became scary, and mysterious

our minds raced with red thoughts.

This was the summer we tasted ale, its dark, cold face twisted our young minds, and made us wild, made us once more free,

we cheated life with these days.

This is the summer I think of when I think of you.

Joshua Truel This is a poem to someone that I have lost.

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The Unconquerable Quest for Rest: A Writer’s Untold Story It is three in the morning.

Time to pull from the universe its all-encompassing creativity dashed with subtle hints of Oneness: the nutty flavor in your favorite dessert.

I will draw the spirits out of it, absorb the cannibalistic hunger of forgotten souls through tense, tired skin and spit It back out, a loogie of black ink and chicken scratch, onto previously blank pages.

It is the rising sun that bothers no one save the insomniacs and the writer who has inspiration, a pack of Marlboros, and a strong cup to call companion.

I dare you to be lazy, to hit “Snooze” on the muse: an idea lost forever in the universe of thought until another poor schmuck can claim it when most inconvenient… on the toilet, splayed with a lover, in a meeting, burnt toast.

And worse! Without a pen to jot down the one line that escapes you the moment a moment is available.

Abe Kalsbeek This poem was inspired by several early morning wake-ups with inspiration on the tip of my tongue and pen. This poem is dedicated to the restless nights of writers who have succumbed to the muse... even in the most untimely of circumstances.

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Famine Maybe it’s Jesus, maybe Muhammad, Or that little gold fat guy, who Feels compelled to feed the starving With this and that; Red words in whoever’s holy book – Might as well be black, or gray, or better, Blank pages to feed my will.

Holy man, you sit upon your perch, Squawking at vacant faces, vacant minds, Vacant souls flocking towards whosever’s son Like buzzing gnats swarming to the light; But somebody forgot to tell them They’re on schedule for the cookout: A sauté of the soul, a stir fry of perjury, A crock pot of naked deceit; yet I’ll beseech you For a loaf of bread, and happily, you’ll instead Pour red wine from somebody’s holy cookbook As restitution for your avarice, As I try to stifle this bulimic onslaught From within this thing you call a soul, This thing I call my starved body.

David Welcher I see a lot of churches and religions that are content to pray and send little red boxes to Africa once a year for Christmas. You can’t feed the starving with words, but media and religion misrepresent what is actually happening in these starving countries. This poem is a satire of these notions.

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Here Are The Men with The Hoses To Hose The Place Out In the silence of aether They come, They come In the silence and aether They come Quiet!

Quiet now.

There is no time for weeping.

For They are coming now, through the whitened, silent-tile halls and I can hear the squeaking of Their rubber-coated boots.

I can hear their fire and their water.

A man is laying supine, supine He lies in a god-awful line.

He spits up red blood, like a darkiron geyser knowing he should have been wiser.

In retrospect the dandelion spots on the maps, The weedy spots that taunt and lure and haunt and more than anything else in the goddamned world— that’s right i won’t capitalize and why should i now where is he my penultimate breath come at last— tantalized him like the nacreous whorls and swirls of a rose that rose like Minutemen.

‘Why would they be...’ He thinks.

Special?

Chosen?

Untouched?

I am written on these bed sheets in coagulate scab, skin thick.

I have seen the oasis in the desert.

I have tasted the water.

I waited for the rain, taken a peach.

There was always time to reach.

I might have been a dream for baby dreamers.

I might have shown the wheels within the wheels.

I wish I had the time to see the echoes of what I could have been— “I could have been...”.

They are coming in their suits

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to erase the mistaken mistake.

Were the ocher sunsets on The Colorado so divine?

Were the spirits of Champagne so fine?

Did your calves ache before the thundering mounds of muscled flesh? In the living breeze?

Did you find your Celtic blood?

Did you discover something in the dripping, stone mouths of the darkest heart of life?

Was it the darkness that drew you, you old bastard?

The danger?

The real danger?

Chasing a dream, an adrenal thrill?

Did you find your sixty year life in five?

Oh, we will romanticize you.

Yes, we shall.

We must.

We race towards you, you old codger.

We, with our gas nozzle lips; with Our bleaching kiss.

We will bring you your rain.

Your cleansing rain.

Your burning rain.

No! Not yet!

I can regain...

I shall discover something lost!

I will bloom again!

Like lilacs!

You eccentric old bastard, you— with love and affection of course— Oh, the unfurling of a life lived...

Is there anything sweeter than the retiring?

The cutting into strips?

So noble, so noble, and see how he was in the end?

Oh God! Here it is!

The rattle! The knell!

On a bright cold day in April, your rain has come for you, at last, but We, the living, are pushing into a sere May. In the silence of aether, They come, They come In the silence and aether, They come.

21

Udge Kurbudkin This is a work that explores the concept of the ‘breaking free of the chains of society’ type motif wherein a man works for sixty years and finally discovers freedom only to realize after five years that he is really dying. It also deals with the concept of society allowing this break because, while it allows the idea of freedom, it also forces society to follow the rules for a longer time.

This piece is inspired by “The Waste Land,” “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” Gravity’s Rainbow, and 1984.

Side Effects

of

Life

Temporary bad memories, discomfort of the heart, lifelong enemies and friends that grow apart.

Excessive use may result in mistakes followed by sleepless nights.

Things of value will break, collapse under bright lights.

Mind is often left confused slight tugs on the soul feelings battered and abused abandoned in the cold.

Many moments of joy much pain from hidden strife these symptoms will never be coy they are the side effects of life.

Eric Russell I wrote this because many people complain about the things that happen to them throughout life, so I decided to write about some of the common things that happen to people in poetry form.

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My People Quick, hurry, get up, do it fast!

This is the night of broken glass, But trust me this is only the start, This will leave generations with broken hearts, Hurry, break his legs so he won’t have to go!

No, no, no just hide him in the floor and don’t let them know!

I heard that many had hid their things, Some even fled to Beijing, But what now? What for us?

Hold my hand. All we can say is “In God we trust.”

I am sure things will get better, But I need more than a sweater for this stormy weather, But my sister, Sirel, they cut all her hair, She is a girl though that does not seem fair, And why are they taking that woman’s baby?

They took the baby to the roof are they crazy?

I was so nervous my heart began to pound, All I heard was “shoot it before it hits the ground!”

Pain and tears were all around, But crying and screaming was the only sound.

We had not bathed in months, they made us make trenches, They made sure to keep us inside with barbed wire fences, One woman was pregnant, an old woman slept beside her, The pregnant woman was a hard worker, really a fighter, But they tied up her legs and her baby died inside her, That old woman tried, but she was a little slack, She had taken a shower and never came back, Usually, we were making metal and putting it in stashes, Went outside and thought it was snowing but it was just ashes, Six people were standing in line out in the middle of town, Ready, ashes, ashes------- boom! They all fell down.

It was not much later until we were free Tried to find my friends, but they were all dirt debris, Cursed and diseased, Hurt and displeased, Weak from ten years of no food, we can barely stand, We will take Zionism, just give us the land, It’ll be a problem to split it into two, But now ask yourself, what have your people been through?

My people, the Jews.

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Isaiah Cohn Living in Israel I got a different perspective about the Holocaust because so many people were affected. My grandfather was in Germany at the time of the Holocaust, but luckily he escaped and fled to China.

Autumn Evening As an orange glow streaks across the gray sky, The bitter air blusters among the trees, Sending variegated leaves – Gold, red, and orange – spiraling down From hickories and oaks already nearly bare.

Evergreen Azalea bushes, barren of flowers, Stand on line and dream of spring.

And brown sprigs of grass peek through red clay, Dappled with leaves scattered over the ground.

I sit, surrounded by death and dying. Until A man and a woman emerge – two souls moving as one, With sparkles in their green eyes, And miniature versions of themselves following behind.

Ashleah Hudson This poem is a recent composition from this past autumn after sitting on my front porch near sunset and watching the neighborhood. It is my poetic interpretation of what I saw.

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NATIONAL DAY ON WRITING

HALLOWEEN HAIKU Vampires out at night.

But they sparkle in the light.

GTFO, noobs.

Matt Yon

Ate too much candy I think I might just vomit Hurh-Hack-bleh-gurble

David Hallman

Soon the world will be Overrun with the undead

In honor of the 2010 National Day on Writing held on October 20, Broken Ink hosted a Halloween-themed haiku contest. Out of 50 submissions that featured all sorts of ghouls, goblins, trick-or-treat candy and incredibly creative takes on the zombie apocalypse, these three haiku were selected by the Broken Ink staff as their favorites.

Break out the chainsaw

Casey Wilson

25

Alice

in

Moss

// Christina Berkshire // Digital Photography

27

Laundry Time

// Melissa Wise // Digital Photography

28

Three Moons

on the

River

// Jeanine Rodriguez // Acrylic on Canvas

29

Mary Alice

// Mabry MacGregor // Acrylic

30

Daily Essentials

31

// Berrien Chidsey // Digital Painting

Hooper

// Maria LaRocca // Digital Photography

32

Water

// Amy Martyn Turner // Digital Photography

33

Cento II

// Jeanine Rodriguez // Acrylic on Masonite

34

Untitled II

35

// Tim Schmidt // Pen and Ink

Withered Tree

of

Color

// Berrien Chidsey //

36

Charcoal

and

Ink

Capelli Liquido

37

// Degan Cheek // Pen, Brush and Ink

Communication

// Maria LaRocca // Digital Photography

38

No Cover

39

// Trey Workman // Digital Photography

Galloping Through

the

Woods

// Anna Blizard // Film Photography

40

Loralei With Teddy Bear

41

// Sam Lobrano // Digital Photography

The Odyssey

of

From the journal of Christian Adkins…

Destiny had dreams were now forever silenced. If I listened for long enough, I could hear the dead—their echoes of lost innocence. My men dropped to their knees, watching

I. The Last Dawn

their lives crumble before their eyes.

The world had changed. We could never go back.

This was once their home.

Fire rained down on us from the heavens. The earth

Unlike my own, their families were now mingled

was glassed over in the dead of winter. Not really a winter

with the dead. I had never witnessed grown men cry in

at all. Nukes started flying, and we ended up with a cold

bitter agony. Fortunately, I couldn’t ponder. Stealth was

day in hell. The pale sky became black as night.

our only key. We had minutes to get in and get out. War was sure to follow.

I remembered it all too well. Death waited for no one. My father, he told me this day would come. I never

I paused to catch my breath from the horrific

believed him…not that soon. I was there when the storm

carnage. My squad, cut in half, had collapsed in despair.

came.

There were so few of us…no one cared if we lived or died, not even me.

World War III.

“Set up, scouts, on all fours,” I ordered. No one

Dawn broke. Tanks opened fire on my Renegade

moved.

Strike force. I ran through the fires of hell to free my people. I was the last of my kind, fighting a war I couldn’t

“Scouts! All fours!” I shouted, trying to break

stop. Of course, stopping meant death. No-man’s land

through their emotional trauma. I pulled the private

was a living nightmare with barbed wire, blood and

nearest to me off his knees. His tear-covered face was

bodies. Screaming bullets swarmed us in every direction,

trembling.

“On your feet, son,” I whispered. I imitated my

skipping off the snow inches from our feet.

father as best as I could.

The fighting was horrific. Three of my men were

War had taught me how to bury my humanity. As

lost in a matter of seconds. I never bothered learning their names; it wasn’t worth the effort. Adrenaline pushed

I lifted the private upright, my recons finally deployed as

my legs as fast as they could go. My backpack and body

ordered. Honestly, I didn’t want to know what we were

armor were weighing me down.

looking for. No one ever told us.

Concussions from shellfire whipped the back of our heels, always driving us forward like slaves to its will. Bad

“Salvage what you can. In five minutes, we’re pulling out,” I added.

news was the constant garble of noise from our radios

Hopefully, fate would spare us that long. I had

never changed. Air support wasn’t coming. We were on

already accepted what this mission was: a one-way ticket

our own.

to hell.

That was our exit. We dove into the trenches, cutting

I slung my rifle over my shoulder and proceeded

right through a ghost town. The tanks lost track through

with my digging. I didn’t realize how desperate we were.

the fog of war. We wasted no time putting some distance

Most of my men scoured the piles of bodies, digging for

between the war and us. Minutes later, we arrived at our

their loved ones. What a way to spend your last moments,

objective.

I thought.

Inside, the city was slowly burning. Buildings had

I had all but given up on our mission when I heard

been reduced to piles of rubble. The whole place was a

the rustling. Apparently I was the only one who heard it.

cemetery, one mass grave. Skeletons littered the streets,

It sounded like tapping around us. Or more like beneath

waiting for us to join them. Human carcasses that once

us. Life hadn’t abandoned this town just yet. I dug faster,

43

my gloves black from soot.

the enemy.

There under a layer of broken concrete pieces was a

I brought my sniper rifle around and shouldered the

back door. The hinges were jammed to keep anyone out

massive, long-barreled weapon. I pressed my body against

of the makeshift bunker. I figured this was it. I glanced at

what was once a street corner, angling myself for a perfect

my wristwatch.

shot. I scoped my targets carefully, waiting for the last

Two minutes left.

tank to pass.

The battle was getting closer. I whistled a signal to

The gunner on top of the vehicle was spraying death

the squad. They sprinted over to my side. I pressed my

on anything visible with his thrashing machine turret. He

ear against the cellar. A lone thud vibrated through the

was in for a rude awakening.

earth beneath me. Someone was alive down there.

We kicked into action, rifles aimed at the bunker.

I fired. The gunner was dead on impact. Killing never got easier. The super-sonic crack could be heard

I flicked my gun’s flashlight on. Better to blind anyone

for miles. The recoil tried to throw me into the wall, but

thinking about ambushing us. I mouthed the words.

I kept the fifty-caliber steady. I only had one more shot

Three, two, one, go! Two of my men on each side pried

from this position.

the bunker open. The doors swung free with a creaking gush. I saw them.

Rule of war: never fire twice. I figured I’d try my luck. I aimed for the tank turret’s backside and fired an

Children.

armor-piercing round. The tank blew apart, incinerating

They were trapped behind death’s door. Fear had

its trapped crew. I blotted out the screams of those men

taken hold. They cried out horrific screams within the

burning alive. Move!

dark. An older one in the shadows hushed them shut.

I got away in the nick of time. Artillery shattered the

She had her arms around them fiercely. She reminded me

street corner. A piece of metal snagged me in the kidneys.

of my mother. Instinctively, I lifted my hand, signaling a

My body armor took the brunt of the force, saving my life

halt.

but left me bruised. That was the price for taking risks. I “Hold your fire!” I whispered harshly. We dropped

our combat stances, not sure what to make of the

had to find my team. Evacuating the civilians was the only thing on my mind.

situation. Who the hell would leave them behind? Most

I crawled most of the way back. My squad wasn’t

of them were still toddlers. I had to give the older girl

faring any better. Or what was left of them. I could still

credit. She was brave enough to stand her own.

hear at least one scout shooting at the enemy. I spotted

“My God…” I muttered hopelessly.

the rest, weaving their way through a side alley.

Was this why my father sent me here? As far as I knew, he was dead. Why should any of us be any different? This

“Come on, Sarge!” they screamed at me, bearing their full load of toddlers.

place was all we could call home.

I didn’t have time to think. War found us.

“I can’t!” The pain in my side was overwhelming. It was too late.

The bombardment restarted. The tanks had given up on

Their alley wasn’t an emergency exit. It was a trap. A

targeting. They blasted everything in sight. My ragtag

tank cannon sounded off along with short-lived screams. I

scouts responded with guerrilla fire, buying us extra time.

was glad I didn’t see it. The result was pretty obvious.

I appreciated the support.

Shrapnel and building blocks flew around us,

They were blown clear, dead. God—I was so sick of this war.

taking two of my guys with them. The rest of my squad

There was no escape. I took one last look around.

swept toddlers into their arms and out of harm’s way. I

I saw her.

could hear the treads grinding as enemy tanks pushed

The older girl was there caught in the crossfire. She

through the streets. These kids wouldn’t last. My men had

was the only one left, stumbling without a care. Martyr’s

bloodlust and revenge in their eyes.

syndrome…

“Contact! Spread out!” I shouted, running to flank

Exhaustion was setting in. My men and the other

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kids were gone. Right then, nothing else mattered. I snatched the tiny girl in my cradling arms, exposing myself to the elements.

I was her human shield, her protector.

“Why?” she cried, “Why did this happen?” I didn’t reply.

Death spoke for itself. A-bombs dropped, followed by blinding flashes of light. Nukes and mushroom clouds covered the horizon.

Everything went to hell. I knew it was over.

The shockwaves came across the dunes, whipping through us. Our eyes locked on each other and never let go. She was a lot older than at first glance. She couldn’t be much younger than me. Black hair, smooth skin once I got around the grime.

Some first meeting…

I closed my eyes, and together we waited on top of the dunes for death’s touch. Minutes went by in silence. The end never came.

“Cease fire!” the tank commander ordered, popping out from the vehicle’s hatch. Their whole formation surrounded us.

I gazed up at our soon-to-be captor. ‘Baldy’ just sat there perched on his armored ride, examining his decision. The fascist Lt. Colonel couldn’t bring himself to kill us. I knew it was because of the girl. From the looks of my sniper rifle they knew what I had done.

Some things in life went far beyond my understanding.

I never forgot the faces I saw that day. No one should have to bury toddlers. Then again, no parents were left to bury their children. I didn’t save them.

Their souls would forever haunt this place and plague my dreams. Some memories should never be forgotten.

It was always the innocent that suffered for our sins.

Brent Hoover This piece is an excerpt from my completed novel, The Odyssey of Destiny. It is the first chapter in the book and is written from firstperson perspective of the protagonist, Christian Adkins. The Odyssey of Destiny is a war romance set in an authoritarian society.

45

The Craftsman’s Myth A tale is told on the streets of the eastern cities, among the poor and the desperate.

plea. May these coins bring hope and light to those less fortunate than I.” Casting his money into the holy fire, he prayed with all of his might.

Coell, his heart touched by the man’s generosity

Many centuries ago, there lived a craftsman in the city of Deiros. Young and talented, he had recently

and sincerity, heard his prayer. And so Coell did appear

graduated from journeyman to master, with his own

before the craftsman, and spoke “I will hear your plea,

shop and tools for his trade. It was a time of peace and

my child.”

“Brilliant one,” the craftsman spoke in a trembling

prosperity, and the craftsman’s skills brought him many customers and much wealth. The man’s greatest blessing

voice, “my wife is dying, and no mortal can cure her of

of all was his young and beautiful wife, whom he loved

her illness. Please, I beg of thee, save my beloved.”

Kindhearted Coell, taking pity on the man, went

before all things and who loved him in return. Life was bright and they lived in happiness.

Alas, for such times never last. War brought

to the craftsman’s wife. Yet at once he was filled with sorrow, for Coell saw that Death itself was upon her, and

turbulence and chaos to the kingdom, and business

he knew that even the sun’s glory must one day fade.

for the craftsman grew scarce and intermittent. The

Sadness echoing in his voice like a thousand thunders,

craftsman and his wife had to sell their ancestral home

Coell told the craftsman that though his wife would pass

and move to the slums, which were dirty and cramped.

from this world, she would be reborn in the next. The

Days would often pass when the craftsman would not

craftsman’s shoulders fell as Coell stepped into the flames

eat so his wife, now thick with child, would have enough

and was gone.

The craftsman did not wait for long, however,

food. Despite the difficulties and hard times, their love was strong and they made one another happy.

But Fate’s cruelty is unrivaled, and the craftsman

before he stood once more, gathered his remaining offerings, and continued down the trail. Soon he

was struck another sorrow. His beloved wife fell ill. A

came to another shrine, this one to Seruta the Mother,

dozen herbalists, doctors, and alchemists could do naught

Goddess of nature and the earth. Prostrating himself, he

to assist her. Death itself desired the young and beautiful

offered his second sacrifice so that Seruta would listen to

woman, and the arts of mortals were too weak to

his plea: “I lay before thee, Eternal All-Mother, as your

intervene. For three days, the craftsman could do nothing but weep by her side as his beloved wife slowly and

lowly petitioner. Oh, divine Seruta, I offer you the tools

painfully wasted away before his eyes. Yet on the third

and supplies of my trade that you may hear my humble

night, the craftsman resolved for a final attempt to save

plea. May these tools, crafted of the trees and stones you

his beloved. He gathered his remaining wealth, his tools,

birthed, serve to grant me your favor.” Setting his tools

and anything else he thought he could offer, and then left

upon the stone, he prayed with all of his might.

Seruta, ancient and mighty beyond comprehension,

to petition before the very Gods for his wife’s life.

First, the craftsman went before a shrine to Coell the Protector, God of the sun and hope. Bowing, he offered

heard his prayer. And so Seruta did appear before the craftsman, and spoke, “Speak, my son.”

“Eternal one,” the craftsman spoke in a trembling

his wealth and valuables as a sacrifice so Coell would listen to his plea: “I bow before thee, Mighty Light-Bringer, as your

voice, “my wife is dying, and no mortal can cure her of her illness. Please, I beg of thee, save my beloved.”

Wise Seruta, indulging her child, went to the

lowly petitioner. Oh, divine Coell, I offer you what little silver and copper I have that you may hear my humble

craftsman’s wife. Yet, as she smelled the reek of rot

46

and saw the wasting flesh, her face became cold and

only thoughts were of his poor, beloved wife. Gathering

indifferent for Seruta saw that Death itself was upon the

his last remaining bit of strength, he pushed himself to his

woman, and she knew that Death was as natural as air

feet and began the long walk home, determined that his

and must come to all things eventually. Resolute that the

wife would not die alone.

woman’s fate was set, Seruta told the craftsman that the

Night fell, and moonlight guided the weary

Balance had to be maintained. The craftsman’s heart sunk

craftsman’s feet as he returned to the city of Deiros and

as Seruta took his offering and returned to the earth.

turned down the alleyway to his home. Even with the

His plea twice offered and twice refused, the

light of the full moons shining down upon the city, the

craftsman’s mood was somber as he wondered if no one,

alley was dark, and the craftsman had to walk slowly over

not even the Gods themselves, could save his beloved

the uneven ground.

wife. Still hopeful, he stood once more and continued

The craftsman stumbled back in fear as he nearly

on, his arms bare of offerings but still having one left to

walked into a tall figure standing just outside of the

offer. Soon he came to a third shrine, this one to Sar

entrance to his home. Wearing a black, concealing cloak

Darkal the Emperor, God of law, tyranny, and the Blood

with the hood drawn up, the figure seemed to be merged

Imperium. Kneeling, he offered his final sacrifice so

with the shadows. The craftsman trembled at the sight of

Darkal would listen to his plea:

the imposing figure, who had the height of a man but the

“I kneel before thee, Mighty Emperor-God, as your

presence of a God. The figure reached out and steadied

lowly petitioner. Oh, divine Sar Darkal, I offer you my

the stumbling craftsman with a strong grip that chilled

youth and strength that you may hear my humble plea.

the craftsman to his core.

May my skills and talents serve you with unflinching

“Worry not, for I am a friend,” said the figure in a

obedience and loyalty.” Placing his palms upon the altar, he prayed with all of his might.

quiet, male voice resonating with divine power.

“What do you wish of me, spirit?” whispered the

Sar Darkal, his interest piqued by the man’s offer of subservience, heard his prayer. And so Darkal did appear

awed and terrified craftsman.

For a moment the figure stood silently. “This,” he

before the craftsman, and spoke “State your request,

spoke, gesturing to the hovel, “is your home, correct?”

mortal.”

To this, the craftsman nodded. “And within, the woman,

“Potent one,” the craftsman spoke in a trembling

she is your wife?” To this, the craftsman also nodded,

voice, “my wife is dying, and no mortal can cure her of

his limbs shaking from weakness, fear, and anticipation.

her illness. Please, I beg of thee, save my beloved.”

“A most terrible malady consumes her,” the figure spoke

Dominating Darkal, looking to gain the man’s

quietly.

eternal loyalty, went to the craftsman’s wife. Yet, as he

“Death itself has come for my wife,” despaired the

looked upon the craftsman’s wife he sneered in disgust for

craftsman, “and even though I sacrificed my wealth,

Sar Darkal saw that Death itself was upon the woman,

tools, and youth for their blessing, not even the Gods

and he knew that even Gods have their own loyalties.

themselves could save her.”

Loath to have wasted his time upon the man, Sar Darkal

“The cruelty of the gods is unsurpassed,” spoke the

told the craftsman that Death had its own rules that could

figure, “for though they had power enough to save your

not be broken. The craftsman collapsed as Sar Darkal

wife, they chose to let her die.”

took the craftsman’s youth and vitality as payment for his time, and vanished.

“How do you know this, stranger? You hold knowledge of the gods?” the craftsman said bitterly,

His plea a third time offered and thrice refused, the craftsman lay long on the cold earth, his hair now white

tortured by the truth in the stranger’s words.

“Yes, my friend. I have watched as you beseeched

and his limbs weak with undue age, as every gift he had

the Gods for their help, as they stole your offerings and

offered had been taken for naught. Too weak to even

returned nothing. No negotiation, no compromise. They

curse the Gods that had abandoned him, the craftsman’s

took from you, cheated you from that which you offered.

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That is not how an agreement works.”

“True or not,” said the craftsman, “your words are empty. Let me pass, that I may die alongside my beloved and pass from this wretched world.”

“Hold, my friend, for my words are less empty than you suspect,” spoke the figure in tones that sent a chill down the craftsman’s spine. The craftsman watched in dreadful anticipation as the figure reached into his cloak, and withdrew a scroll of parchment. “Though the Gods refuse to aid you, all hope is not lost for your wife.”

His heart thundering in his chest, the craftsman whispered to the figure. “You can save her?” The figure’s head, hidden beneath the black hood of the cloak, slowly nodded once, as he unfurled the scroll and presented it to the craftsman.

“I have nothing to offer,” said the craftsman. “My wife is all that I have left, and Death steals her away as we speak.”

“I request two things,” spoke the figure. “The first, you shall serve me for the rest of your days as my servant and disciple. Agree, and your wealth, tools, and youth shall again be yours.”

“Serve me, and I ask for only one more thing. On this night, your unborn child will enter this world. In exchange for your wife’s life, ten years from this night, your child will become mine.” In his other hand the figure offered a needle-sharp ink pen to the craftsman.

The craftsman looked at the scroll. Written across it were incomprehensible sigils and runes that shone in the moonlight. A single line cut across the bottom of the page. Taking the pen from the figure’s hand, the craftsman stared at it for only a moment before slashing it across his palm, dipping the tip in the warmth that flowed from the cut. His hand shaking, the craftsman signed his name in blood, and handed the pen back to the figure. “How shall I address you, Master?”

The craftsman felt the figure smiling in the dark. “I am Pazari, the Bargainer. Do my bidding and your gifts

Brady Morris

will return to you. And forget not, for I shall return in

I got motivated to write a local legend in a fantasy world a while ago. The purpose of this piece is to sort of introduce the world and give a bit of a set up for the lore of the land.

ten years.” With that, the figure stepped away into the darkness and was gone.

The craftsman looked at his palm. The blood no longer flowed, as the wound there was already almost healed. He turned to the doorway as he heard the sound of a crying baby from within.

48

Sunset “I thought you were gone for good this time.” Cedar’s

scenery in silence. His eyes softened. She was radiant. He

eyes were focused outside the car window. Her hands were

looked away, but he had memorized her almond-shaped

in her lap. She picked at her fingernails nervously.

eyes and sculpted features, which were accented by high cheekbones slanting down to an even jaw, and finishing

Rider didn’t know what to say. He glanced over at her, but looked away just as quickly. He played a drum

into a slender neck. It was almost an unnatural beauty.

pattern on the steering wheel with his restless fingers. “I

She began to hum. He didn’t know the tune, but he liked

just—”

the sound of her voice. She was the reason he had come back. She was the reason he always came back. “What are

“—needed to get away for awhile, I know.” Cedar

you thinking about?”

rolled her window down. Her hair was pulled back in a

Cedar could feel Rider looking at her. In the time

ponytail but tresses of it were free and they flew wildly

he’d been gone, she’d almost forgotten him. Now, her

with the air that poured in through the open window.

Rider kept his head facing forward, but he glanced at

insides flew with the motion of the car, uneasy and

her every now and then from the corner of his eyes. Her

rough. It was too much, seeing him again. It made her

hair was vibrant in this light, a medium-brown with hints

head hurt. She wished he hadn’t come back. She let her

of dusty red and orange strands. Her skin glowed deep

hair down and ran her fingers through it several times.

bronze in the dying sunlight.

She glanced over at Rider. He was still waiting for her

Cedar pulled back tresses of her hair against the wind

to answer. “What makes you think I’m thinking about anything?”

and tucked them behind her ears. She stole a glance in Rider’s direction. The light from the early evening sun had illuminated the brilliance of his hazel eyes. She watched him for a time, only breaking her gaze when she thought

“Because you’re humming. You always hum when you think.”

She stopped humming then, and sighed. They

he might resume the conversation, but he didn’t. “So,

passed a couple whose tire had gone flat. “Remember

where’d you go this time?”

when we first met?” She turned towards him.

“Nowhere important.”

He smirked and nodded.

She sighed and leaned her head back against the headrest.

She leaned her right arm against the door and began to play with her ear.

“I was at a friend’s place.”

They were approaching a stop sign. He brought the

He checked his rear-view mirror. “You’re upset.”

car to a stop, checked for traffic, and drove the car forward

She shook her head. “No.” She placed her hand in her lap.

across the intersection. He looked over at Cedar to see if

“What do you feel then?”

she was listening. Her eyes were closed. “I just had some

“I don’t know.” Her voice sounded hopeless, lacking life. She twisted a strand of hair around her finger.

thinking I had to do.”

A traffic signal up ahead turned from yellow to red.

She opened her eyes. “I get it.” She lowered her window further. The air felt good on her face, sweeping

He eased the car to a stop. Rider opened his mouth to

lightly across her like the touch of skin against skin. “You

speak, but nothing came out. He looked out his window.

should slow down. The speed limit is thirty in here.”

Everything was still. The car behind them honked. He

“I got it.” He answered more gruffly than he intended to, and then thought about apologizing, but he didn’t. He

looked up. The light was green. He slowly accelerated.

Neither of them spoke.

Cedar focused her attention on the sky. She watched

glanced over in her direction. Her eyes were focused on the world outside of the car, watching the trees and houses

as the sunset began to bleed across the horizon. The

pass by into nothing. Her golden-brown eyes watched the

highest portion of the sky was a deep blue, fading down

49

into a soft pink and yellow mixture, followed by a streak of bold orange and fiery red. It was like falling colors.

They drove on a strip of road that was bordered on

Their eyes met and they fell into one another again.

There was the desire for a kiss in his eye. Cedar saw it through the colors that shone like gold, and she waited

his side by a wall of tall trees. Long shadows were cast

for it. There was a moment she thought he might, but

across the street by the sunlight, and Cedar watched the

something drew him from her. He looked away, and the

breaks of light dance across Rider’s face. In the shadow

kiss fell from his eye. He kissed her hand instead, and held

she could only see hints of brown and green in his eyes,

it tight in his. When he turned onto the next street, the

but when the light hit them they glowed with the spark

light in the car dimmed into shadow.

of an amber flame. They simmered like dying embers.

They approached another traffic signal situated at the

There was a fire hidden behind his stoic expression. At

heart of the crossroad. The traffic was heavy. There were

that moment, she wanted to kiss him. She hated herself

choices regarding which direction to take.

for wanting to. “Why did you come back?”

He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “I don’t know.

I guess I wanted to see you again.”

The light was red, to Cedar. To Rider, the light was yellow, and he sped up to cross the intersection before the colors changed.

“Why?” He didn’t know how to answer. Instead, he focused on driving. He liked the feeling of being in control of

Cedar’s breath caught in her chest. Her body felt tight.

Rider held her hand tight. “It’s going to be okay…I promise.”

the vehicle. His thoughts shifted to Cedar, and his body

They heard the truck roar before it hit.

tightened. With her he had no sense of direction and it

Cedar remembered falling sideways. She remembered the

made him feel weak. It was like falling. Yet, he was drawn

feel of his hand in hers.

to her; and no matter how long he stayed away, he always came back.

He glanced at her now, and she caught his eye. They fell into the moment, and in it, became one, almost.

Rider looked away, shifting his gaze back towards the road. Cedar smiled. His face flushed a soft red.

He flicked the turn signal with his finger, and slowly made the turn onto an adjacent street. The sun was directly ahead of them now. They could see the sun falling slowly from the sky. The sunlight illuminated Rider’s eyes again. They were gold.

Cedar closed her eyes, but she could still see the faint orange glow behind her eyelids. She opened her eyes and raised her hand to block the sun.

Rider reached over to pull down her visor. She reached up too. Their hands met in mid-air.

Cedar felt the heat from his skin before Rider pulled his hand away. It warmed her for a moment, but she couldn’t hold on to it. Like the heat of the sun, it slipped away.

She placed her hand down on the center compartment.

When they reached another stop sign, Rider looked

Andrew Hasben

over at her. Her eyes were blank. She looked directly

Winner of the Washington Group Award for Prose. See page four for more information

ahead. She wouldn’t look him in the eye. He placed his hand on top of hers. She looked at him, then.

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Contributors Christina Berkshire

Isaiah Cohn

Thanks to Bob Ross, I’ve been painting and creating art since I was in kindergarten. Thanks to teenage angst, I’ve been writing to some degree since the seventh grade. Now that I’m graduating with a degree in fine arts and a minor in creative writing, I figure I’ll do more of the same in the “grown up” world. My hope is to find a job that is as awesome as being Broken Ink Editor-in-Chief, though I realize that’s a tall order. In my spare time I hula hoop, play with matches (as part of the professional fire troupe Pyroteque— don’t try this at home) and figure out ways to make my corner of the world just a little more awesome.

I was born in Los Angeles, Ca. I grew up in Maale Adummim, and have had a passion for poetry since my senior year of high school. I am the second oldest of seven children.

Anna Blizard I’ve always enjoyed art, and as I’ve grown up, different aspects of it have interested me over the years. Currently, I am interested in photography and how to create that perfect photo that captures the audiences’ attention. I am most interested in capturing pictures of beautiful elements in nature or animals.

William Blake Bolen I like writing. I like reading. I like reading mine and other people’s writing. I hope you enjoy my work.

Degan Cheek I have been drawing most of my life. The pieces I submitted were done during a life drawing class.

James Chidsey I have always done art for fun, but after I graduate I hope to take it further than that. I plan on continuing my education as a graduate student studying medical illustration. There I will learn more about two of the things I find the most interesting, art and science.

Oliver Finnie I have been writing for about seven years. I enjoy telling stories in poetry and writing about experiences I’ve been through. I also like uplifting people with poetry.

Andrew Hasben Andrew Hasben is an English major, currently in his final semester at USC Aiken. He has always had a passion for writing fiction and poetry, and plans to pursue a career in creative writing.

His favorite poets/authors are: Ernest Hemingway, Lucille Clifton, John Keats, and Kate Chopin, among others.

Brent Hoover I have finished my first novel, The Odyssey of Destiny. My goal is to get it published. My interests include reading, writing and film.

Lindsey Hubbs Writing is a passion of mine. I’ve been writing both poetry and prose since the third grade. My inspirations are my favorite authors, including Edgar Allan Poe and Alexandre Dumas, and classical music with a minor intonation. I also like to discuss my stories and ideas with my peers.

Ashleah Hudson I transferred to USCA in the fall of 2008 from Aiken Technical College. I am now a senior at USCA and will be graduating in August. I am majoring in English with a concentration in Writing.

With my ultimate goal being to teach in a university setting, after graduation, I

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plan to continue my education and earn my graduate degree in Composition and Rhetoric.

Roy Hudson This is my first semester at USCA. I have been writing for many years, but I am as yet unpublished.

Abe Kalsbeek Abe Kalsbeek has been a poet for several years now and intends to be one for the rest of his life, however long that endeavor shall last.

Udge Kurbudkin I enjoy Modernism and Postmodernism.

I’ve always liked the concept of writing.

Writing is a therapeutic thing for me and allows me to share my thoughts.

Maria LaRocca My interest in photography began my first semester at USCA when I started taking a black and white film photography class. Since then I’ve learned more than I ever expected I would about the field.

In the future, I hope to continue to learn more about photography and with that knowledge, tell stories that need to be told.

Sam Lobrano Sam Lobrano is a 4th year senior fine art major. When she first started at USCA she was a major in sociology and photography was just a hobby. As she took photography classes and grew as an individual she became passionate about photography and decided to make it her career. She hopes to help in some way by showing her photos to the world and exposing people to the beauty and simplicity in the little moments as well as the big.

Mabry Macgregor I enjoy using a variety of media, but prefer ceramics and acrylics when painting. I’m inspired by the surrealists, expressionists,

and abstract art; and the subject matter that I prefer is usually figurative.

James Mock I just recently got into writing. I’ve always loved movies and because of that love, I was inspired to start writing in hope of one day becoming a screenwriter. Writing allows me to get my thoughts, feelings, and experiences out in a completely different way than just talking about it. The thing that most attracts me to writing is: I can create any story that I want to, no matter how big or small. If I wanted to have dragons, princesses, wizards, fairies, huge towers, and a talking tiger, I can have that. I could also just have two people in a room. Writing creates so many options for my imagination that I could never get bored with it.

young man, and in this stirring was the root of his passion: Graphic Design.

After many nights of sleepless musings, a sign was delivered in the northeastern winds, and they slowly whispered in his ear “Do it to it, Old Bean. Do it..... to it.” Tim Schmidt then ran to the stern of his great ship, casting off his tainted uniformed existence, and promptly dove into the waters of the unknown, waking alone and cold on the shores of Visual Communication. It is here that he sits, to this very day, honing his craft and converting the natives to his own unique brand of theological nihilism.

Emily Short Pursuing a career in media.

Amanda Tietze

I’m a fantasy aficionado, and hope to someday be a successful fantasy author.

In the meantime I’m kept busy with school, working in the Writing Room, and practicing escapism.

I have always had a passion for art, but I really got into it when I started college.

After a few sculpture classes, I found my way into Graphic Design and 35mm Photography, and fell in love. I plan on attending graduate school in 2012 for Graphic Design and Photography.

Jeanine Rodriguez

Joshua Truel

I like to believe that art imitates music, and in the case of my artwork I like to use music as an inspiration—which also influences my style and color choices.

I am a Junior English major who very much likes to talk about himself.

Consequently, I enjoy writing, playing music, and drawing immensely, though infrequently, and am an avid reader of a wide variety of poetry and prose. Before moving to South Carolina, I lived in five different countries, and a couple states.

As a result, I speak a few languages, and maintain an array of useless recreations; an array which is only broadened by the fact that I am a sufferer of chronic and incurable procrastination.

Brady Morris

Eric Russell I’ve enjoyed writing in my free time since I was younger and I like to be creative. I have always been a somewhat shy person and I never liked to share feelings or thoughts with other people, so I often chose to express them through literature.

It always seemed much easier to me that way.

Tim Schmidt Raised on the high seas under the tutelage of Admiral Nelson, Tim Schmidt always yearned for something better. Not that a position of rank within Her Majesty’s Royal Navy comes with no distinction, but something deeper stirred within this

Martyn Turner Martyn Turner is a 4th year fine art major with a concentration in photography. She loves indie style photography and lens flare. She is a 3rd generation photographer in her family and her main source for inspiration is vintage photos from her grandparent’s

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basement she loves to take old photos and recreate them. One day she would love to be in Hollywood working on movies with her uncle.

David Welcher My life focus is to bring the shattered, distorted parts of history into the light.

I am driven by my wife and son and a deep sense of hope that people, when given the unaltered truth, will rise up and return humanity to the world.

Ashley Wilson I’m Ashley Wilson. I write things. I’m just vain enough to think you should read said things.

Melissa Wise I have been an urban portrait photographer for almost three years. I enjoy photographing people, because I think it provides more character to the photo.

Trey Workman Senior, Fine Arts Major

Broken Ink would like to thank the creators of the following fonts and brushes for providing them free of charge.

Via Dafont.com AFL Font nonmetric BT Arm Wrestler Adobe Garamond Pro Via Brusheezy.com Grunge Brushes Digital Revolutions More Drips and Splats Grunge Brushes 007 Front Page Graphic Created with “Withered Tree of Color”

by Berrien Chidsey { page 36 }

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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

VISUAL

Christina Berkshire

Josh Hopperton

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LITERARY

R LAYOUT

Abe Kalsbeek

Maria LaRocca

S ONLINE

John Chambers

S TA FF

Susan Chase

Degan Cheek

Brady Morris

Justin Edwards

Martyn Turner

Advisor: Karl Fornes

Felicia Ireland

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