Page 1

Broken Ink

Broken Ink Ink Broken 2006 - 2007


Table of Poetry Poetry 5. A Plague On Both Houses, Part II...............................................................T. J. Overstreet 10. The Falling Leaves...............................................................................................Rachael Bond 11. Broken..................................................................................................................... Paul LeDuc 14. Abstraction...........................................................................................................Rachael Bond 16. Correction Fluid..................................................................................................Lisa Heckrotte 17. For Granted...................................................................................................Savanna Stephens 18. Song for a Simple Love.....................................................................................Jessica Mouser 20. Dandelion Resurrection................................................................................ Savanna Stephens 21. What do you Think?........................................................................................Jonathan Roberts 30. My February...................................................................................................Savanna Stephens 31. The Shifting Face of Heathenism.......................................................................Lisa Heckrotte 34. The Day After the Cemetery............................................................................. Bruce Stephens 35. Choke............................................................................................................ Savanna Stephens 37. Rag Doll..............................................................................................................Lisa Heckrotte 38. The Factory on Highway One........................................................................... Bruce Stephens 41. Each Curve...........................................................................................................Rachael Bond 42. Love me forever, my ass.....................................................................................Lisa Heckrotte 43. Anguish......................................................................................................... Savanna Stephens 44. Final Knowledge............................................................................................... Bruce Stephens 45.The Let Down................................................................................................ Savanna Stephens 50. Silhouette.............................................................................................................Rachael Bond 51. The Broken Places.............................................................................................Jessica Mouser 52. A Resolution.......................................................................................................Jessica Mouser 52. A Sort of Closure........................................................................................ Jonathan Overstreet

Literature

Literature Fiction FICTION

25. Another Day’s Work...............................................................................................James Silton 47. Within the Moonlight’s Rain..................................................................................James Silton

Literature


e

Contents Art Art Front Cover ...Brian Buckle Inside Front Cover ...Christopher Lyons

Art

4. Contemplation ...Brian Buckle

9. Parallel Petals ...Savanna Stephens 12. Window ...James Moser

15. The Silence Within ...Matthias Jung 19. Orchid Dreams ...Matthias Jung

Art

22. And I Quote ...Seth Fields

24. License Plates ...Megan Robinson 29. Glass ...James Moser

32. The Oi in Dan ...William Steffey 36. Sam ...William Steffey 39. Foresight ...Savanna Stephens

Art

40. Glass Bass ...Savanna Stephens

46. Moonshine ...Savanna Stephens 49. Rein-Carnation ...Seth Fields

53. Through the Looking Glass ...Brian Buckle Back Cover ...Christopher Lyons


Contemplation

...Brian Buckle


A Plague On Both Houses, Part II Winner of the 2006 Oswald Creative Writing Award

By T. J. Overstreet

5

Continued from the previous issue. VI. I stab at brilliance in this darkness And try to create something pleasing To offer up to this invisible being At this great altar of rock and bone. But it is to no effect, I am not a maker of worlds. I am not a weaver of lyrics. I am but a tortured dreamer Who can only record his visions.

VII.

She approaches me, Coming as if from the ether, Asking me if I’m as lonely as she is. Some of us are blessed with natural talent, She seems desperate for attention, But I could care less. I tell her, The rest of us are forced to observe, With clenched teeth and jealous admiration, In a manner quite jokingly, That there is no one alive The staggering brilliance Who can possibly be as lonely That does not belong to us. As I am tonight. She says that, of the two of us, I actually do look lonelier. (I did not know she could read me that way). We sit down together, and she tells me of How she watched me from across the room, Sitting here drinking at the bar alone, Staring down into an empty shot glass As if it contained the key To the universe’s great mystery.


6 She asks me if I’m married. My left hand is hidden under the table, And the ring I’m wearing, Suddenly seems too heavy to carry.

And ever since our argument I’ve been like this. Hiding in small hotel bars from the world. I hide in these shot glasses from myself. It is all a form of submersion, A violent drowning of sorts. A slow self-destruction of what’s inside, A desecration of my so-called inner temple. But it is not a mere drowning, For when I fill my throat with liquid flame, I become, in my own way, baptized.

“Bartender, a drink for me, A drink for the lady.”

VIII. The fire is burning still Above you and above me, In the air all around us As we grasp each other Moving towards and away from Ourselves with each passing moment. The fire Is a Flame In the middle Of the ocean Is a Soul Is a Flame Is a Snowflake in the desert, Intricate ends coming together in Perfect microscopic union. Here, together, At the beginning Of a dark new age, We can perhaps make Something bright. We can perhaps create a future After all.


IX. Coming home, The first thing I see Is Marie on the couch crying. I ask her what’s wrong. “Everything,” she says. She recounts to me Her visit to the doctor Earlier this morning. How he walked into the room. With an air of sadness but necessity. And told her We would never be . . . Never be . . . Able To have a child.

Never be . . . These are words she’s inclined To repeat incessantly.

7

Over and over, And what does it all mean? What I need now is some time to think. Time to muse over and to write And to drink (it would just be a small drink). And lose myself in some greater scheme. If only she would stop her crying, Such a disturbing distracting thing. Oh how I wish she would just be quiet, And let me figure out what this means. X. I tried. I tried to create something, A sweet sacrifice for my god That I could set afire and burn In the midst of this desolate place. But now it was all for nothing. And as I kneel before this altar, Hands empty, With nothing to offer up, I hear a voice in my head That makes the air around me quiver. I realize that the voice does not belong To something else, but to myself.


8

And as I kneel before the altar, A multitude of voices swell, Becoming a chorus in my head, Numbing my mind and filling it With a slow settling nothingness. I cease to hold back myself. With clarity of vision, I can see now That what awaits me If I continue down this path Is eventual madness. So I finally give in, And become like the rest.

“Here is the truth . . .” “Here is the . . .” “Here is the truth . . .” “Here is the . . .” “Here is . . .” “Here . . .”

“Right here inside here. Right here inside.”


Parallel Petals ...Savanna Stephens

9


10

The Falling Leaves

...Rachael Bond

The falling leaves Sometimes caress Cold earth. The world is change. I change like the fall leaves Into brilliant, dazzling colors Then crinkle, wrinkle, and bend up Into a crusty, crumbly brown For I am earth. We all are. We all shall be again. The falling leaves: I am they, Lying on the dirt Of an autumn afternoon. Never forget it For the earth comes again. Everything, Eventually, Becomes one again with the leaves. For today, Let us dance; Twirl gallantly in the chill wind.


B r ok e n ...Paul LeDuc

The child, the girl f r a g m e n t e d. Pieces scattered Image shattered Forlorn to be unwhole. You never know that you’re b r ok e n ‘Till you’re faced in the mirror. Who’s the one to make you known? Who’s the one to make you whole? The One who makes you infinite eternal. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a MIRROR RROR IM Then we shall see Face to Face Now I know in F rag ment al thought, Then I shall know the whole, fully, As I am fully known.

11


Window

...James Moser


14

Abstraction

...Rachael Bond

I am form. My shapes flow And find no rest Like waves upon an ocean tempest; The colors pale Find their spirit in their very paleness. Two spots of color reside in a temple, Content to Seek and speak of more Than words can ever find Or ever pretend to capture, An inward rapture Reflecting an inner soul. I am content Like in stories Poems within the pages Of an ancient scroll, Rolled out in meticulous form: An imperfect theme Enveloped within pristine settings. It runs a race no one sees But me . It looks out two spots of color And recognizes the world of beauty For all that it is. In the end, No one can understand it, What it seeks or finds; It fails in its very abstraction, Dependent on only form, The symbols of ideas .


The Silence Within ...Matthias Jung


16

Correction Fluid

...Lisa Heckrotte

There is something subliminally abrasive about correction fluid, Something audacious in its dismissiveness. It bleaches words clean like hospital sheets Until they are perfect, pristine, futile. Words no longer dance across pages; their souls have been clipped away By modern minds unwilling to process the feel of them. Desire for the concise and the politically correct has unleashed the abominable white milk that has weakened backbones, brains. Words no longer dance past lips; their souls have been clipped away by modern tongues unwilling to admire the feel of them. They are no longer expressive vessels; Now they are caged beings.


For Granted

...Savanna Stephens

At the top of my lungs I screamed for you. It was too late; There was nothing I could do. We had only just stood there, Face-to-face, So unexpected, Intentionally out of place Basking in the glory Savoring in vain Confiding in whispers Softer than the pain The calm before the storm Was far too brutally brief Only to wake up Drenched in grief Deaf to all reason Deliberately denying Every word spoken I thought they were lying Reality slipped away I couldn’t hold it anymore Holding my head in my hands I collapsed to the floor The world around me demolished If only you had known The dust begins to settle I am alone.

17


Song for a Simple Love

...Jessica Mouser

Today is a day for exploring the trees that exalt the sky: sturdy magnolias, glossy leaves graced with diamonds drawn out by the sun and uncertain pines, their needles recast into bronze.

18

Today, I will conquer that oak; slivers of bark with vein-like gaps run up to his proud slender peak. His crafty limbs being too high to reach, but I will wrap arms, curl toes, and embrace the climb closer. He knows the world is more glorious from above. Yet some I do not touch: the mighty oaks, stalwart lords with strong arms outstretched, forever blessing the road past my home and wistful willows, tendrils tearfully trailing in the wind. I love when the sun makes them blush or burn in gold fire; they bow as the star rushes down. All these I see, and I half-believe in dryads and nymphs and half-know that at night, while I sleep, the trees come alive.


Orchid Dreams

...Matthias Jung


20

Dandelion Resurrection

...Savanna Stephens

Yearning youth, Deep green, So withdrawn, Privately conspiring To explode Into shards Of sun-kissed Yellow pride, Smiling silence, Delicately deteriorating Into the past, Familiar comforts Slowly emerging Into fragile fibers, Wonderfully white, Atop slender stalks, Suddenly betrayed, Kidnapped by The wandering wind.


What do you Think?

...Jonathan Roberts

She asks. I sit here, mouth undone, words struggling to form, break free; I’m understanding, unable to comply, my fingers performing deft thievery, stealing my mouth’s old talent, dismantling the prescribed bondage of language, transforming words to instinct, flowing into the rosewood box, threads stretched tight, melody emanating inside, unleashed in captivity. Outside, she’s chucking questions like a zoo child hurling banana peels at caged monkeys. My hands cannot stop her, confined to coaxing song from this wild animal, held captivated but for the soaring debris invading through thread-strung bars, seeming tighter as the trash piles up and around, crowding the beast, and its mind, packed thick with alien syllables, leaps back to some ancient memory of brothers who dared to evolve, twists its mouth in imitation, releases a sub-human “What” “Nevermind.”

21


And I Quote ...Seth Fields


License Plates ...Megan Robinson


“Another Day’s Work”

...James Silton

Every day, I have to get out of bed and see the same thing all over this god-forsaken world. Some new

“artist” has released a new album that the drones of society can’t seem to get enough of. Every single time, it’s just some new punk that jumps into the recording studio and says the same thing as everyone else, only changing their pitch and tone ever so slightly to make them-selves seem “unique” to the audience. Oh yeah, I can’t say I’ve ever heard about some twenty-something year old guy whining about how his girlfriend left him and how the ache in his fragile heart won’t seem to go away. Man oh man, that’s pure freaking genius right there, ladies and gentlemen. Give that guy a friggin’ Grammy.

This is why I hate this cursed society I wake up to every morning. I hate sitting up in that one room

apartment of mine, more hung-over than Paris Hilton at Snoop Puffy Cents latest party, and staring out at the

25

murky horizon as the sun rises upon this city. The air pollution here was so bad you could crack open the window and watch the smog pour right in. That’s what you get for a cheap pad like this in a crummy neighborhood of an equally (if not more so) crummy city.

I take some pills for this hang-over of mine before getting dressed up and ready to head out. Thanks to my

little excursion last night, I received a new client - one that paid in advance as well. This guy was one slick son-uvagun I tell ya’ that. This freak had more jewels on his fingers than the king of Zaire and enough tail around him

to keep every jaw in the room planted upon the floor. Yeah… a real Slick Rick, as one of my ol’ buddies used to

say. He was the kind of man that had power, influence, money, fame, and probably a long-arse track record with the federal government concerning some not-so-legal dealings. Can’t say it bothered me any that the money was obviously dirty. No drone of this society can tell the difference when I buy my daily pack of poison anyway.

This is the usual job you find for a guy like me. Some jack-ass has been getting on Slick Rick’s nerves,

probably pushin’ in on whatever trade this guy’s dealing, and he wants the competition to die down a little: give him a little “breathing room,” as the guy so eloquently put it.

“Whatever you say,” I told him, “Just make sure I get the money in my hand.”

Getting back to the present, I was pouring myself a bowl of frosted flakes and mixing in a few cups of less-

than-fresh milk into my bowl. After a while, you learn to ignore the stench and taste of such food and make every penny of what you pay for count. Sick and tired of eating like this, but there’s not much you can do when you’re low on cash. Hell, that’s one of the reasons I accepted this job in the first place. When you need a little money to pay for shelter and food, you start making exceptions to little policies and safety measures you make in your life.


Half-an-hour later, I’m heading out the door and into the murky morning of this forsaken town. The air,

so thick you can taste it, fills my lungs as I walk down the streets in my favorite gun-metal-black long-coat. Those drones of society are all walking around me: faster, slower, bigger, and smaller. I can see the stoic looks upon their faces as they ignore everyone else around them, caring only for the single person in their lives that actually matters: themselves. You have your suits, your rags, your shirts, your bags, and every little article in between. There are old ladies trudging along with their bandanas covering their thinning hair lines, all the while there are young girls, who probably aren’t even legal, that are wearing shorts so high I could swear they weren’t even there – man, I hate false advertisement, don’t you? Then, we have these pompous business men talking on their handsfree cell-phones and yelling at some woman just because his coffee hadn’t been ready for him the second he walked in the previous morning.

What a unique batch of characters this little play has, and all of them seem to be lost in their own little

worlds as their strings move them down the streets.

You see, I don’t like to consider myself one of these drones, even though I probably am. I’d much rather

26

imagine myself to be enlightened with my own philosophy about how the world should be run. I should be getting enough dough to live off of, and everyone else should be minding their own business about whatever I do with the excess. If I choose to do some less-than-honorable business with my hard earned cash, then so be it. These suits and church-goers might be living their lives all the way into their eighties and nineties, but I’ll have died living a full and happy life that I can look back in the few seconds I have left, and I’ll be smiling. Good-ole Danny boy told me that little parable a long time ago, and I’ve lived up to it ever since. May the gods have mercy upon my wicked soul, and I’ll probably be going to Hell to pay for it long afterwards, but they’ll know I’ll have lived my life, which is much more than what I could say about old Jack on the hands-free cell phone over there.

I took a step out of the morning light and settle upon a dark alley, lighting up one of the cigarettes I bought

earlier. A nice blend of nicotine and rat poison to soothe my mind in this day and age. With a glow of my lighter, the rich formula enters my lungs and fills my mind with clear thoughts, stopping my hands from shaking, if only for a few seconds. Yeah, the flavor of this brand isn’t to my liking, but I didn’t feel like wasting all my dough on the premium brands out there. I can take a hit for the team just this once and pretend there isn’t a quasi-tar flavor in my mouth. And then there was that funny feeling crawling about my body, like the air around me just became much stickier. I felt a drop of water hit upon my shoulder, then another… and another. Before long, I was looking up into a rain storm, still standing in that damned alley. … Man, I needed another smoke. I stuck to some abandoned apartment complex, destined to be torn to pieces by a wrecking crew any day now, for half a day before the weather finally let up. During this time, I managed to get a nap in, and my hang-over


was finally out of my mind – always a good thing if ya’ ask me – and I could get out of that stinky little hole. It must have let up a little while before I woke up since there were still plenty of these mindless individuals dragging their feet around the streets. Different faces but the same darn classes and the same stench of the smoggy air. What a lovely world I live in. Hours passed before darkness finally took over the city. Neon lights blazed through the fog and lit the puddles, reflecting off all over the streets and the buildings. Already, the usual night-life started pouring over from their jobs and homes, all heading out to have a good time. Before long, you couldn’t take two steps before being approached by some deviant of society. The party never started until the drunks began littering the streets, looking for the next bar to elbow into and waste their lives away. Strangely enough, I actually like those scum bags. No one could make you laugh more than a stumbling idiot lurching around and trying to hold some moronic conversation that seems like the philosophy of the gods to themselves. Buy them a beer and they’ll be more than happy to take on some big guy in the bar, only to get the tar beat out of them. Of course, the next buggers you get to deal with would be the usual

27

hooker, looking to make a quick buck off you. Give them a couple of bucks, and they’ll make all your wildest fantasies come true. And finally, you’d get to deal with my personal favorites: the ‘gangsters’ of this city.

I’m not talking about your pump, pappa, pookie pop ‘gansta,’ but an actual, bonified gangster. These are

the real people you don’t want to meet in a dark alley. Fellows like them will rob you of your wallet, you car, your house, your family, and, more times than not, your life. I tell ya’, if you get on their bad side, these jerks can be some serious trouble. But, they can also be a god send if you can get a few to back you up in a tricky situation.

Some of my best friends… but I digress. After all, I got a job to do and an employer that is looking to give me some cold hard cash. No need to dwell on these silly details any more.

A crumbled paper in my pocket told me of a shady club in this neighborhood where my target liked to party. The facility’s lights flickered on and off, buzzing like a firefly with a dysfunctional butt, and the front

door was under guard of some burly bouncer who probably was chalked full of steroids: not some guy I felt like negotiating with. Of course, this is why Slick Rick paid me off in advance; a few lost bucks later and I was walking in like some pimp VIP, and I had just enough left in my pocket to buy myself a drink. Ain’t life grand? The thick smell of cigarette smoke and other herbal substitutes hit me like a brick as I entered into the large room, enough to make my nostril cringe. Gangsters, hookers, drug dealers, and every other rogue of society was in this place, all lost in their own ecstasy as the band’s music filled the air. Yeah… that soft melody, played upon with pianos, clarinets, and other instruments you’d typically find in such a joint. This was the high class of the low-lifes: a seedy joint to shelter those that didn’t give a damn if you hated ‘em and didn’t care what they did that made you hate ‘em in the first place. If you have a problem, then… well… this place isn’t the solution. Ugh, the details and the details. I was on a hunt, after all, and dawdling around wasn’t going to do me any


good. I needed to find this target and fast. And the quickest path to information in a place like this is the same path to everything else in the world: money. Over to the bartender I went, and I hoped this character was wise enough to know who the heck he was serving. The bartender, a rather old and greasy looking character, was busy mixing a drink when I came to the bar. A flash of green and his eyes looked up, piercing into mine, and he slowly trudged closer. He examined the bribe once more before pouring the mix into a glass and placing it upon the bar, then twisting back towards me. A gruff voice poured forth through the grizzly hairs under his nose. “What are you looking for, bub?” “A certain someone,” I replied, pushing the cash towards the old man. He looked upon it with a dubious stare, then slowly snatched it off the counter, “Very good.” Tossing the crumbled paper down upon the bar, I showed him the mug of the scum I was looking for: a harsh looking man in his early thirties that looked like he’d been beaten with an ugly stick a few times. There was a long scar across his cheek, that lined down over his chin, as well as bushy eyebrows and thin lips. The bartender took the picture in hand and stared at it for a little while, thinking, and then tossed it back across the bar. His eyes

28

looked serious, then turned towards a connecting room across the floor. “Don’t make a big mess, ya hear?” “Yeah yeah…”

Turning around, I stuffed the paper back into my pocket and passed by the other dredges in the facility,

and it hit me. That sudden rush of excitement was bursting through my veins. The electricity scorched my skin as the presence of danger raced through me. I could feel the adrenaline pulsing again and again, crushing any doubt that my goal was only a few feet away. My hand pressed upon the door and pushed it open, like it was some flimsy piece of paper. The hammer of my weapon cocked back as I drew it forth from its sheath, releasing the demons from my body as the scarred face of my target looked up at me in a drunken state. Nothing… was going to stop me now. A spray of red clouds caressed the air as my weapon fired its daggers into the flesh of my enemy. Screams began polluting the environment as women ran from the room, hiding from my dashing fury as I stood like a stoic figure by the doorway, not moving an inch as I watched the body lurch forward. Another bastard sent to the gates of Hell, all thanks to yours truly. Damn, I love my job.


Glass

...James Moser


30

My February

...Savanna Stephens

Effortlessly heartbreaking. Do you know what you’re taking Every time you tempt me? These subconscious demands So reckless and wild Once is not enough; Once is way too much, Compelling me to dread the daylight And the coming of the dawn Your persuasion all too convincing When nightfall tastes so irresistibly sweet Smooth and sensual Moonlit harms With each brush against your skin The passionate repose we claim In this subtle romance of crimson crimes Keeps the beautifully brutal ties Elegantly laced with velvet lies And the effortless passing of time Slips the silent language between us Breath stolen from my lungs Each innocent touch a lethal poison Seeping solace to my veins Dissolving each restraint With confidence of a calculated killer Claiming its next enthusiastic victim I am ready for your execution Of my demise


The Shifting Face of Heathenism

...Lisa Heckrotte

Two eras met at the dawn of a new century One clad in gossamer and lace, The other, hoop earrings and flapper attire. For just a few moments they stood at the tick in the timeline They traded a Snickers and mummy dust, Then called each other “heathen.” The old era jumped on her stallion in a wave of tulle and lace; The powerful steed turned on his heels and raced from the new dawn. “Life will improve and things shall get better” Thought Flapper as she danced and twirled. No more antiquated ideologies and corsets to bind us, This time will last forever! The morning surrendered to brightness of day, Progress was made and cigarettes marketed, And flapper reveled in her grandeur Slowly the ebony streaked through the sky, And shadows rose up all around In the distance, Flapper could see her successor, Clad in leather and smoking a joint. “Society is rotting,” she exclaimed, then turned and gave her the finger.

31


The Oi in Dan ...William Steffey


34

The Day After the Cemetery

...Bruce Stephens

Last night dripped from the tree. There was no dawn Just a gradual gray day. The sun had to be there. It had always been. But today, The sun is just belief. The rain came and went. Moments of noise Followed by quiet Birds And no frogs. The roar came on the tin again. Then frogs. And no birds. A cup of coffee and another cigarette. An unpainted rocking chair with no squeak. Blue smoke And a cat.


Choke

...Savanna Stephens

Perpetual silence conveys A deafening message As you sit there Burning a hole In the distance between us With those vacant eyes That I can’t read For the life of me. Yet, the agony Of the quiet Steals my breath With its unspeakable beauty, And the misery of your mystery Helps me endure the days As they pass with nothing But the hope Of that glimmer of a rusty smile That sears into my memory, Sending chills down my spine, And it lasts Only for as long As I can stand it Then it flees, Leaving me free, Yet confined , By the memory of you.

35


Sam ...William Steffey


Rag Doll

...Lisa Heckrotte

Rag doll with button eyes sits in the corner gazing frontal lobes unable to process scientific formulae through the vapid haze Thread bare dress poorly stitched from an old man’s shirt engulfs her fragile frame Her mouth glued shut to save her from extruding fantasies Touch her gently lest her cast off heart explode and leak from wear she is too fragile to retain her cotton core and repair the mess she’s made

37


38

The Factory on Highway One

...Bruce Stephens

The smokestack and the water tower Reflect sun on bright mornings And swallow gloom on dim ones, Remnants of the factory, They stand Like tombstones out of the pines. Deserted factories have icons and altars, Where men sacrificed their souls Toiling in sweat, lint and oil. Their silence is a liturgy To lives like threads spun into dresses, Which are worn once, And then passed down to the hired help. Their windows are stained With years of neglect and sun The grays and browns Tell leaden stories of suffering. But these churches left steeples To face progress And watch vandals Who broke the glass, Sold the machinery, Defaced the walls, And did not care, Like communicants with no memory, And clergy with no belief. I bowed in the sanctuary. I bent my knee in the sun-shafts. I cried in the sacred.


Foresight ...Savanna Stephens


Glass Bass ...Savanna Stephens


Each Curve

...Rachael Bond

I kiss your lips and feel it; As laughter runs through my veins, I touch your lips tender, Embracing each curve Swerve; My heart runs your rollercoaster Faster and faster, Flying at the speed of sound. I whisper in your ear, “I love you,” And you smile You smile You smile at me, And I feel it again, Sweeping me inward; I laugh inside ‘Cause I feel it again.

41


42

Love Me Forever, My Ass

...Lisa Heckrotte

There’s no delicate way to tell you That the thought of your face revolts me, And the sound of your voice has this acrid quality That repels me like spoiled meat. I’ve given up on saying that spiel About us still being friends And telling you to call me sometime Because, quite frankly, I would rather That you ripped all the teeth from my skull.


Anguish

...Savanna Stephens

One, Black Butterfly, In solitary silence, Perched in place Blinking its Ebony wings, Slowly Like the dark lashes Of a forgotten love, Its forbidden beauty Wreaking havoc On your self-control, Dark and powerful With the whisper Of simple fragility That keeps you distant Yet near enough For temptation To grip your soul And drive you farther From reality.

43


44

Final Knowledge

...Bruce Stephens

The gravestones, Grayed with rain, Cradled by wet grass, Tended by green trucks, Guard the mausoleum from those who fear dirt. Row after row, They push themselves up from the plastic flowers and balloons that drip with wet morning, terrified to feed the worms of Poe. I come not to grieve But to stand in awe.


The Let Down

...Savanna Stephens

Your voice resounds In the rafters of my empty mind Where this constant subconscious, Turmoil, Tears me limb from limb, Heart pounding in my chest, Lips parted anxiously anticipating The reply that cannot escape my lungs For you had not said a word, And I am left speechless.

45


Moonshine

...Savanna Stephens


...James Silton

Within the Moonlight’s Rain A shake of the skies and my eyes widened, quickly drawn from their drowsy slumber as my body lurched forward in a daze. My breath quickened faster and faster as the feeling of perspiration drew down my cheek, rolling off my chin and upon the sheets covering me. Everything around me felt hot and sweltering; my lungs refused to replenish my life-stream. Oh, how it burned inside of me. Oh, how my mind raced as time seemed to slow down, taking everything with it. Falling… I was falling back against the cushioning of my soft mattress; eyes clenched shut while my mind came into focus. Where was I? I was in my apartment. Who was I? Well that’s a silly question. When am I? Today, tomorrow, yesterday; time has no relevance. Ah yes, my logic and my philosophy returned my frenzied mind into a calm, relaxing – sensible – state of being. The air became cold around me now as the AC’s faux wind brushed over the beads of sweat along my body, sending a shiver across my skin. My hands brushed back along this hair of mine, spreading the follicles just as I liked them. Oh, that felt so good. Nothing relaxes me so much as fingers slipping through my hair, massaging gently to lull me into a mild state of bliss and pleasure. How I often longed for that touch on those dreadful Friday afternoons, staying within the office and watching the long hand on my watch tick by. So luxurious… so delightful… The dream ended as another roar erupted outside, shaking the room and disturbing my peace. My eyes turned towards the window and watched as clear bullets shot against the window, pinging off in all different directions before streaming down out of sight. I could see the various patterns and rivers flowing down that transparent window of mine, and I could also see the bright lights of the city as they rose from the ground. Their blurry, neon signs seemed to dance like the very youth that ran about their streets, chanting and laughing gaily about while the strands of time slipped by. How I missed those days when I could simply party all night long, come back at 5 o’clock in the morning, and then get up without any trouble whatsoever. How these long years just slip by is beyond my vast knowledge. Suddenly, I felt my body brushing up against something close by, causing me some alarm as I slowly tilted my head and stare down upon the figure beside me. A body; a woman’s body no less. The covers had been drawn back, revealing her thin, naked form to the darkness of the room while she slept upon her smooth stomach. Her gentle eyes lay shut as her long, dark hair cascaded along her side. This being has a beautiful figure, one many would be envious of, and the glow of her face left me feeling simply enchanted. What a beautiful portrait this would make, marked by one of the most wonderful women I’d ever seen. Yes, now I remember. Smiling, I reached out and lightly stroked along her voluptuous form. I could feel the faint moisture upon the curve of her back, tiptoeing my fingertips up along her spine and resting upon her shoulder. They ventured down upon her forearm and tickled lightly inside her open palm, and I smiled as I felt her fingers twitch upon mine. Gently, I brushed my fingers between hers and drew her hand up, kissing upon her digits. That’s all it took to arouse her from her slumber. Turning slowly, the beauty slid upon her back, revealing more than I care to describe in these words of mine. A sweet, coo-like murmur escaped her lips as she arched her spine, stretching her arms up over her head before rubbing the drowsiness from her vision. I watched as those eyes locked upon mine, pushing a slight blush upon her cheeks as she let out a warm smile. Slowly, she leaned over and brushed her cheek tenderly along my forearm before giving a not-so-adorable yawn. “What’s the matter, sweet pea?” she called out, using that pet name for me she thought up when we were first together, “Can’t get any sleep?” My lips curved as I began stroking her still reddened cheeks, “It was only the thunder.” Smiling still, I drew my arms up and stretched them above and behind me before returning them to my sides and

47


laying back against the sheets, “I suppose it was loud enough to pull me out of my dream.” “Mmm,” she murmured, ”my big, strong man scared by a little boom-boom?” “Nah, I guess it just wanted me to look outside and pay some attention to this rain we’re having.” “It’s raining?’ she sat up in the bed, looked out the window, and then pouted and slumped down into the covers once more, “I really do not want to go out driving this morning.” Laughing softly yet again, I crawled over to her and rested my body against hers, looking into her eyes and smiling wide. She showed mild interest in the maneuver, but gave in quickly as she dressed her arms around my shoulders, relaxing to the sound of the pattering raindrops against the room’s windows. A gentle brush upon her smooth neck and her chest rose up against me, releasing a breath over my lips and tempting me closer. Alas, all I could give was a loving kiss before breaking off and resting upon my own side of the bed, expressing a rather coy look. “Oh you!” she exclaimed, smiling and rolling atop me, “No teasing this early, dear.” “You know I can’t help myself some times,” I retorted, raising my finger and giving her a light tap on the nose. “Especially with you presenting like that.” “Hey!” Her cheeks were a bright red, so much so that it was even apparent in this lack of light. Again, her arms slinked around my waist as she captured me in her grasp, resting her head upon my chest and letting out a content sigh. The warm breath was, again, tempting, but I really wasn’t in the mood of taking it further than it needed to go this night. Instead, I rested my palm against her back and pressed down firmly, giving a mini-massage as her breath caressed along my neck like a summer’s breeze. And to make matters worse… I felt her small fingers slide up along my neck and into my dark strands of hair, combing ever so slowly that I could almost feel my eyes roll back in my head. What a devilish temptress I had. “Mmm… enjoying it, sweet pea?” she called out, pursing her lips lightly over my skin and drawing tiny shapes along my scalp, knowing just the way I liked it. Goodness knows this woman could send me over the edge before I ever saw the cliff, “Or do I have to scare off the mean thunder too?” “If you could, you wouldn’t need me-“ My sweet Ambrosia…

48


Rein-Carnation ...Seth Fields


50

Silhouette

...Rachael Bond

I see you beat the shores With your salty arms, Dipping your foliage fingers Into the coolness of the clouds above, Sweeping out the dust and dirt With your wind feet. I see you everywhere And nowhere; I hear you But I don’t always understand. Your words are electric swords Cutting through the sky The smoke leaves me breathless.


The Broken Places

...Jessica Mouser

Within me, dreams and deserts meet, reverberate, and find that they are enemies. I flinch as war erupts. Time lay like a cushion between me and the breaking of me, and I did not know that the hours devoured themselves to an end. At the crux of the battleclash lies a terrible question; I pause at the heart. To pine a ghostly life or waste in barrenness? Dreams soon dissipate in the heat as my forces flee Not I tremble through briars, forge thickets, and walk winding pathways up mountains to discover the strange: dreams fade to rain and from the clefts of the rocks, spring trickling streams, and the cracks in the ground filled with patches of green.

51


A Resolution

...Jessica Mouser

I will not venture down those alleyways, Entice me as they might; No lying words today. The dark, alluring maze; I cannot bear such thoughts, Invading bats in a cathedral’s praise. I will not mold my image of a truth. My hands twitch knowingly; The twisted gallery Awakens to seduce, Breathing my grievances. Yet, I will kill them even as they woo. I need a riddle-lord. For even though I know it leads to death, I yearn towards bitterness.

A Sort of Closure

...Jonathan Overstreet

I closed the blinds because they needed closing. Long and pale white, they exist in hospitals for a reason. From my position five feet away, I could see the slow rise and Fall of the tired heart inside its wrinkled cage; It was a body wracked by ceaseless suffering. A single jolt of Pain would send an entire arm shuddering endlessly. I stood there, drinking it in with my eyes. I saw the doctor’s thumb as it cocked back, the metal proboscis Sliding into the long plastic tunnel, The thumb driven forward in a powerful gesture, Like a bullet being fed into a gun barrel.

52

For just an instant, the old body shook terribly Sending the bed into a quiet rattling. With a great effort, the voice rasped out one final remark, But what it was could not be understood. I watched as death settled in.


Through the Looking Glass ...Brian Buckle


Washingt Art Awards First Place

“Sam”

Second Place

“Reincarnation” Seth Fields Vol. 39 Issue I pg. 49

William Steffy 2006 - 2007 Vol. 39 Issue I pg. 36

Third Place

“Through the Looking Glass” Brian Buckle Vol. 39 Issue I Cover and pg. 53

Broken Ink would like to thank the Washington Group for supplying us with the prize money for the art and literature award winners. We would also like to thank Professor Fornes for giving our organization guidance through this experience. Special thanks goes out to the student body for supporting our organization and submitting their pieces of artistic expression for publication.


on Group Literary Awards First Place “Song for a Simple Love” Jessica Mouser Vol. 39 Issue 1 pg. 18 Second Place “The Factory on Highway One” Bruce Stephens Vol. 39 Issue 1 pg. 38

Third Place “Dandelion Resurrection” Savanna Stephens Vol. 39 Issue 1 pg. 20

Editor’s Letter Two things have been noted as capstones to civilization – art and literature. Those cultures that were able to develop these were revered among their contemporary societies and we still remember them today. Not only were they able to use these things as a means to share their history, religion, hopes, fears, and discoveries with other peoples and with each other, the arts helped create a common bond between all of the generations living within a society. It seems tragic that art and literature no longer hold an important place in our society. Art can make a difference; creativity is a beautiful thing that we are all capable of. Fuck society; express yourself.


S t a Sta Lawrence Hicks Art Editor Biology Major

Rachael Bond Managing Literary Editor English Major

Chris Lyons Assistant Chemistry Major

Tara McGowan Publicity Manager Art Major


a f f aff Jonathan Overstreet Literary Editor English Major

Lisa Heckrotte Editor-in-Chief Psychology Major

Amber Epting Editorial Assistant Nursing Major

Milledge Austin Layout Editor Communications Major


2007  

Broken Ink Art and Literary Magazine