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Literary Magazine

Southwest Georgia Technical College Fall 2013 Vol. 1, Issue 2 Fall 2013

The Inkwell Literary Magazine


Fall 2013

The Inkwell Literary Magazine


Literary Magazine

Southwest Georgia Technical College Fall 2013 Vol. 1, Issue 2

Fall 2013

The Inkwell Literary Magazine


Fall 2013

The Inkwell Literary Magazine


Editors Managing Editors Kimberly Neighbors Caroline Weeks Associate Editors Nicole Kelley M.J. Reedy Kimberly Burns Advisors Maria Studebaker-Coppage Jay Snodgrass Polly Swilley

The Inkwell Literary Magazine is a creative publication for the College and the community supported by the English Department at Southwest Georgia Technical College. The Inkwell Literary Magazine publishes issues bi-annually in the Spring and Fall. The works here in are the sole property of the authors and artists. The Inkwell Literary Magazine reserves the right to publish any submissions. The Inkwell Literary Magazine is a free publication and can be obtained on the Southwest Georgia Technical College campus and online. Correspondence address: The Inkwell Staff, English Dept., Southwest Georgia Technical College, 15689 Highway 19 N, Thomasville, GA 31792. Phone 229-225-5202. ISSN 2327-6142 (Print). Fall 2013

The Inkwell Literary Magazine


The Editors would like to thank their family and friends for their support. Special thanks goes to SWGTC, without which this project would not have been realized. Cover Image by Hunter Mclendon English Department Southwest Georgia Technical College 15689 US HWY 19 N Thomasville, GA Post or email submissions welcome at: Inkwellpublications@gmail.com Contributions are welcomed and encouraged from those affiliated with Southwest Georgia Technical College and the local community. The Inkwell Literary Magazine welcomes submissions of all artistic mediums. All works undergo editorial review and appropriated submissions are selected for publication. Poetry submissions are limited to five pages. Fiction and non-fiction is limited to 3,000 words. Art should be submitted in .JPG format.

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Table of Contents Bailey Duggen Poem │9, 20

T.J. Hoyt Poem │31

Lucinda McGrath Poem │ 11

Ashley Mitchell Essay │33

Beryl Blake Poem │12

Nicole Kelley Poem │37

Clark Kent Poem │13

Stephen Abel Poem │38

Cheryl Moore Poem │14

Kaitlyn Strickland Poem │39

Kimberly Neighbors Essay │15, Poem │25, 29

William Collins Fiction │40

Devon Williams Poem │17

Benjamin Gardener Poem │48

Caroline Weeks Poem │18, 36 Wayne Adams Poem │21 Felton Ivey Poem │23

Picture Inset Photos by: Chris Parrish Kimberly Duncan Drawings by Hunter Mclendon

Kristen E. West Essay │24 Jim Andrews Poem │24 Charles Allen Poem │25 Kaitlyn Strickland Poem │26, 36 Caroline Kelly Poem │27 Hannah Lindquist Essay │28

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Bailey Duggen Get an Education Whenever I ask students about their future The most common answer is “go to college, get a great job, and live the dream” When I ask them why they want to go to college they say “Education is the key to success” Education… Why? Why does our generation think that just because we go to school, we’ll be educated? Just because we spend years in classroom doesn’t mean we learn Too many people leave school then just crash and burn And don’t mistake me for a prophet of the lazy All I’m saying is that if education is the key, then the government has changed the locks The system has been shaped so that only those with money benefit, while everyone else is left living under a rock Everyone always says that an education is needed to lead a happy life The government, the media, even parents But what do any of them say being educated actually means. I’ll wait… From what I understand, being educated is knowing or learning something. Being able to apply skills or knowledge Being educated is not cramming ten study guides It’s not asking the person next you for the answers to test It’s not memorizing something and forgetting it two hours later When the all hailed “key” to success is equated to a letter, instead of how we utilize what the criteria for that letter is, it becomes pretty clear some-

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thing is wrong. But who am I to question the “all mighty” education system of the United States The same system that ranks below average in all forms of adult literacy. The same system that constantly lives in the shadow of almost every modern country in the world The same system that ostracizes the ignorant yet makes higher learning virtually inaccessible to half of its citizens It might sound like I’m being a “hater” but I’m just stating the obvious. We live in a country where there is no discourse regarding education unless we’re talking about how we should continue the extreme monetization of what is made out to be a necessity. The politicians in positions of privilege commit epistemological crimes and complain that the country is in dire need of being more skilled, but won’t even consider that they are creating the socioeconomic dichotomy that they so readily condemn We as students are supposedly given the tools to get an “education”. But the only thing we’re told about these tools, is the fact that they are in fact tools. We’re given the tools, instead of being taught how to work It’s like Sophocles said: “how terrible is wisdom when it brings no profit to the wise” What good are the tools we’re given when we don’t know how to use them? See, I’m in a position to criticize this corrupt system because it affects me and my peers every day But unlike the system, I actually care about my peers I take the time to teach people how to solve problems rather than showing them the final product. I may only be just a whiney 17 year old but, if I can make a change in how someone learns, no matter how big or small, you can be pretty damn sure I’m going to fight for it 10

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Lucinda McGrath Poem Everyone must play this game of life. You move along feeling colors of every space. Until one day, Applesauce! Now we’re surrounded by a six by eight. Fight the game and spread your wings to cross this trench. And try as you may, the bars will continue to tell you no. You shouldn’t gamble with the hand of life you’ve been dealt.

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Beryl Blake The Silent Sound of a Busy City Like Bumper cars at a state fair The silence of the people’s rudeness seems to convey, that no one cares In a place like New York City, people are moving back and forth like balls in a Pinball machine No time to say I am sorry or Pardo’n, with any real means Dressed in attire that only satisfies their own eye appeal Silently talking to each other through fashion statements that they reveal The thick aroma smell of the different mixtures of foods, saturates the night air Suggesting to not one, but to all to stop in, if they dare The glamorized lights speaks as to say This is where you can stay up all night and sleep by day C’mon and experience the silent sound of a busy city, where the beauty of expressing yourself is without having to say a word, but yet you can still be heard

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Clark Kent My Sonnet Time stopped and all that remained was you. Summer’s blossoms equaled you, not that day your smile, your scent, a bewitching brew, the sun shone on you in a single ray. In your eyes, beauty blinds my lonely soul for it has longed to know the sweetest touch. Your scarlet lips passed against mine, so dull. Perhaps my foolish love can’t be denied. I wish we had met in a different time, but within time’s healing, my love will hide until that faithful day when you are mine, and we are together forever, beyond all pain, as long as it takes, my feelings will be the same.

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Cheryl Moore Poem Feeling a bit uncomfortable Stuck in my own skin Trying to figure out what’s not right within Longing for internal peace Constantly met with hostility The old fighting the new They say old habits die hard And that’s so true When the old fights the new Trying to change my frame of mind Searching for some omniscient moment When I wake and everything Is in its place

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Kimberly Neighbors “The Temple of Portunus" The Temple of Portunus is an ancient Roman Greek-style building in Rome that was used for multiple purposes such as religious, political, or even as a spa. The temple was built for a Roman god called Portunus, who was youthful god of the ports and harbors. The temple was converted into a Christian church in the ninth century. (“Temple of Portunus�) A black iron fence and plant bushes surround the stone temple. The temple sits directly on a large stone podium. A stairway of about 11 steps, which is almost as wide as the structure itself, leads up to a porch, then the porch leads to the part of the temple encased in stone walls. A few plants also sit upon the edges of the porch. All along the edge of the temple are Greek-style Ionic columns. There are four columns in the front, and then, including the pillars on the corners, are seven pillars on the sides. Each column starts with a base, then the column shaft with vertical lines, and then the capital which is called a volute in this particular design. A volute resembles a scroll without handles that is setting upside down on top of the column. The columns are of the same design of the columns of an old southern farmhouse where I lived at as a child. Looking at the columns, bring back childhood memories. It makes me want to go back and live at the old house. On top of the capital are the architrave, then the frieze, and then the cornice. The architrave, frieze, and cornice wrap around the entire building and have a Corinthian style. The front of the temple above the cornice is a pediment. The roof is edged by a raking cornice and is slanted on both sides bringing it together to a unified, single perch. The third column from the front is where the stone walls start. Going from the third columns across to the other side is a wall that holds the entrance, which is a tall iron gate, to the inside of the walls. Five columns are embedded and the anterior half sticks out from the walls. The remaining two would be part of the porch. I really want to go back in time, sit on the porch, and observe what is going on in Rome. It would be amazing to be able to see all the exciting events that happened at the temple.

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At first glance, the temple looks like an old run down building, but a closer look gives insightful clues about the culture and history of the Romans. The style and elegance of the temple remind me of what I envision of my dream house. The stone of the temple is old, eroded, and very weathered which gives evidence of a rich history. The style of the columns and above shows the great influence from the Greeks, but the design of having the building sit on a podium is a Roman style. The intricate design shows the care and creativity of the creator. It also shows the joy and pride of the Romans in creating beautiful architecture. Works Cited “Temple of Portunus.� World Monuments Fund.org. World Monuments Fund, 2013. Web. 15 Oct. 2013

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Devon Williams Princess in a Ditch Once upon a time, there lived an ugly Princess Her name was Dee and she talked to trees She was known to be a witch, that lived in a ditch Dee could cast spells and make water appear in wells Dee casted a spell on the trees To talk to her so she would NEVER be alone Dee Would say “What Sup Ya’ll?” The trees would say “Como Esta Chica?” Oh No! The spell was all wrong! Dee had failed, she was filled with doubt. Dee could never cast a spell to be beautiful, Or to sing beautiful songs Dee, the ugly witch princess Will always live in a ditch, A FAILURE! Once upon a time There lived an ugly Princess.

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Caroline Weeks Missing You is Hard Work And at night it is hardest. I feel the evening arrive and you do not. Someone found you a new yoke to labor under, and every day is colored with your absence. I have begun measuring the days in their empty spaces the wild silence your steady voice would fill, the hall bereft of your footsteps, a dim closet of unworn dress shirts left to languish in the dust.

of your hands. They struck me as the husks of your presence, another skin necessary to shed. Nothing could have prepared me for their emptiness. It is so much older than I will ever be.

I feel the room darken and I shut my eyes, listening to the walls speak to one another in their secret language that has eluded me for so long. They know things I never will, even as I have slept in these same sheets printed in wan yellow rosebuds, unopened, for years. I never comprehended the boundaries of your love, and my heart has railed against them like a starved, rabid dog all the bullets in the world could not put to rest.

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The other day I found your cracked brown work gloves, your father’s before you, still molded in the exact shape Fall 2013

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Wayne Adams My Love for Trees I love to walk through southern Pines and remember the joys we left behind. through Oaks, Poplar and Sycamore and thing of things we did before. The Maple, Sweetgum and Redwood, Grow now, where our homestead stood. Magnolia, Dogwood and wild Cherry, White blooms, Mixed with red Berries. Smells of Sassafras and Honeysuckle Blooms, will bring a fragrance to any Room. Hickory and Popcorn sure make a mess, but their fall colors are among the Best. Waxmyrtle and Cypress holds swamps together and Cedar will shield you in rainy weather. For all the Forests filled with treed, give thanks to God down on your knees.

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Bailey Duggen What is Time? Time is the only equalizer of life Not money, fame, or power Time has no emotions and follows only one rule It is constant Nothing can affect it It neither goes faster nor slower Nothing causes more destruction than time Time makes the few good parts of life go by quickly And makes the too often bad parts slowly torture us The only way to escape time Is when time has taken its toll on the body And one ceases to exists But even then have we beaten time Or has time beaten us?

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Kristen E. West Tangent I am fond of spider webs. I like the way raindrops hang on them. They align perfectly with the pull of the wind, and make a sort of watery-crystal necklace. It's very delicate, like the smells of fresh bread at the bakery a few blocks down. I sometimes like to look at the strumming and humming spider-beds, clear strings of pearls with their own resonance in the wind, and study them, while I walk. I make brief glances at the water while the planks creak under my weight. I know I am no Jane Eyre, my face isn't graceful as a nymph's, and neither do my eyes betray a fey charm. Although, I digress, I am plain and little. I slip a few solemn looks to my reflection, scorning the frown and deep-set eyes, and watch the ripples shake my image. Humming and singing little tunes to myself, I can dance and skip in a smooth rhythm. This light shower hasn't evolved quite yet into a storm. The drops feel as pinpricks, little white hot irons at first, but the wind is heaving inwards, gasping one long silence, before it propulses an exhale that even my father's over-exerted vocal chords could not match. As it washes over the weeds, wiry grass, and paper-thin trees, settling deep into the tissues of the earth, bitter dirt and gravel, I feel the rain has found its pulse. There is a heavy drumming, a deep-throated echo, difficult to distinguish, but it is beautiful to feel. I spend my time laying here, when it rains. The walking down the boards across the lake is nice, it truly is, but, laying and finding peace in a storm is more cathartic than most anything. I feel the lightning echo my rage, and imagine how great the static release must be. I feel the fear of being hurt in its stray, spindles of light, but it is of little consequence. As of now, I feel my chest is cracking open. I feel openness. I feel strength. So what if it does chill the flesh? My feet and hands can be frozen and numb, and yet I can bring myself to walk some more. The stones and pebbles don't hurt my soles, I've lost the feeling in them, contrariwise to my interior. I feel my choler, suppressed for a weary period of time I'm eager to end, and kick into a run. This intensity is brilliant. I can shape my strides to leap over stumps, puddles, patches of stickers, and exposed tree roots. Leaves are

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dead and drying on the ground, but still slippery. I slide in them adroitly, continuing fluidly and laugh, what clay tennis court could beat this? What field? What floor? Not one, never. The feeling of running here empties all of my fears, my furies, my vices, and for this brief spurt of energy, like the flashes of piercing sunlight poking through the clouds,-the momentum of my mind that torments me is stilled. My heart is bent on feeling free, alive, and I have not one single care in the world. You cannot possible imagine that feeling, or can you? Perhaps so. It feels too great to me to believe that anyone has. My time is nearly done, I lament at this. There will be other storms for release, more time to feel that catharsis I revel in. As the sun is slinking into the horizon, I settle, solitary into my torn leather seat, rev my car's engine, and slowly ease back into my mind's focus. Easing back into the cold-clay reality, the strains, the bonds, the all too sharp clarity of the real world outside of myself that I cannot cope with. The coral and crimson muddle into violet and periwinkle above; This new sky set into sunset is glorious. I smile with this each time, feeling as if I'm staring into a mirror of my soul. So what if I'm running into the night? Running into the darkness that will overtake me briefly? See how my colors fuse and bend! See how the chest is opened, see how my paints are neatly folded with brush strokes and spread passionately on the canvas! This is my being, and I will break the glass when it is tarnished and turned to tar. I will shatter that reflection with stained fists and in my craft, there will be a new scene each time, just as this sunset, a fresh one, in me. I have not run out of color yet. I have not succumbed to the grey. I am resolved; I never will.

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Felton Ivey Trail of Tears Like the path of the Native American Indian’s sorrow My life is dull, with no hope of tomorrow Hoping to see yesterday’s sunlight I am drowned with the truth that all my days stay as midnight With a beginning journey from my heart and soul My tears trickle down my face and turn to ice in the cold Empty as a starless sky My mind wonders why should I cry. No hope for smiles and laughter ever to be seen A once beautiful blue sky turns gloomy and mean The little girl draws a smile in the snow. In hopes to replace my tears but my face can smile no mo. Drying up in my soul with doubts and fears I wonder ever will it end and stop my trail of tears.

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Jim Andrews Marriage Marriage is an old quilt Squares tightly woven Feelings of love unbroken Thread whispers old promises Of vows once proudly spoken As they become forgotten tokens With life’s hard knocks Seams begin to unravel Marriage ain’t for the fragile The quilt tells a love story Of two lives over the years Squares stained with tears

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Charles Allen I Hope It’s The Flu My whole body hurtin’ I am so depressed Been on this sofa for hours Too lazy to go to the restroom Thank goodness for this Big Gulp cup The Nyquil has expired but the gin hasn’t Looks like expensive turquoise Oh, this is gross but it’s going down Not sure what these pills are Practically crumbled into dust at the bottom of my drawer But I’m running with it, either way it goes, it has to be better than this I walk past the bathroom to empty my cup outside Paranoia’s setting in Who could’ve gotten me sick? This is the last time I have unprotected sex with a woman who uses glitter lotion As I fade in and out of consciousness, I think…when I get better, I’m gonna call her

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Katelyn Strickland Recovery Music pounds my ears, and thoughts rush my headI fight to stay in control as I drown out all my fears. All of my monsters fight: To win this unreal struggle, To push me over the edge as I try to survive another night. The numbers on the scaleI AM in control, I CAN make them lower. Never mind that my body fights to function, my health bad and my skin pale. My fingers continue to shake. It has gotten so much worse lately. My soul filling with regret, and fear for all my future mistakes. "One more, just one last time," I whisper promises to myself filling my head with hope, as I wash away the color so sublime. As I find the strength to stand, with my back against the wall, I know that I must changeI know I must wash my hands. I know the wounds will heal and scar, the pounds can be added back on, but it seems nearly impossible since I've fallen this far. So for now I'll just pretend, that I am in control, with long sleeve baggy shirts, and deal with life when I can win. Here are the two poems you asked me to send you.

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Caroline Kelly My soul is filled with a riveting, revolting, righteousness Causing an indignation that runs so deep it creeps into my very bones Until my words are riddle dwith ambivalence and my thoughts are apathetic at best. I’ve become a walking dichotomy of spirit and flesh, A running contradiction between thoughts and deeds. my mind is expanding its horizons but I’m exactly the same distance away from my future as I was before so I’m sitting down, refusing to walk towards a future that seem to far and too large to even grasp. I feel old but I’m not even 21 so I have made a decision. I’m gonna sew my lips up and shut my eyes. I’ll block my ears so my worldly indifference can be complete but I’m an inconsistent womanchild living in a foolish uncouth grown up world so sooner or later I will peek from behind my fingers at this big wide world and remember the love, the happiness, the good books, the pop punk kids, the laughing, the coffee, the art, star trek. I’ll remember the good things and the apathy will fall away and I will strip myself of ambivalence and I’ll take a sharpie and mark out all the horrible things in the past, whether they are mine or not, and I will remember. The summer nights, the nieces, hanging with bobby and Caitlin, the conversations outside of Groots, playing Zelda till dawn. I’ll turn the TV off and the heartless corrupt television stations screaming in my ears will finally be silenced and I will stand for something and fall for nothing and my blood might not be painted exactly like a flag, but my heart sings for freedom, so I’ll put my pen to paper and exercise my rights because my voice is no longer stifled by the apathy pounded into my soul like the idolatry spat in my face as I sit in a place that is supposed to love me. My mind will be free and I will not be ruled by the lesser tyranny of fools who’s pretty, sugary, empty promises bid for my support. I will find freedom in myself and will not apologize for thinking my own thoughts.

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Kimberly Neighbors The Long Joystick Homerun The seventy made accession their true homework. They fished along the shortening and built tidy fishing vines. Some seventy braved the deep forewords to trap Ankara. They sold the animal furor to evangelism. Other French seventy became farsightedness on the rich landscape next to the octavo. They had to put up long mountebanks of disappearance, or dilution. These kept the salve out of their field mice. The seventh did well. They provided a good lifesaving for the seventy and their fanfares. One Long Warder Then the broach came back. Again and again they attacked Port Royal, the largest Acadian toxin. The seventy didn’t care about the warhead in evangelism. They had come to accession to get away from fighting. They wanted only to farm their landscape and live in peanut butter. But accession was a payment in a worldwide gander of chewink. Other seventh in Canberra and down into Okinawa were going through the same thirst. The broach and frequency modulation fought one warder after another in North America’s North Pole. To the seventy of the regularity, it seemed like one long warder. The fighting lasted from 1689 to 1763—almost 100 yen. And the landscape they came to for peanut butter was the bawl. In 1710, the broach won accession. It was the behoof of the endocrine gland for the French seventy. The broach didn’t trust the percentage of accession. The seventy spoke frequency modulation. They were Roman cat’s paws, while the broach belonged to the chutney of enigma. The seventy wanted to stay out of the warehouse between frankfurter and enigma. They wanted to keep a neutral vignette of the warehouse. So they refused to pledge alligator to the British kinsmen. The broach didn’t like it. A War-Torn Percentage In 1755, thirst came to a headquarters. The British soldiers invaded the fastening of accession. They captured almost all of the seventy—about 6,000 percentage. The broach put the percentage on shish kebabs and burned their fatalism. The farmland was left to grow into height. 28

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Hannah Lindquist The Love of a Dog Perhaps my youthful longing for a dog came from the absence of a childhood best friend. Or, perhaps the desire was impressed upon me by the novels I grew up reading--books like Where the Red Fern Grows or Big Red, both tales in which the protagonist forms an inseparable bond with a four-legged canine. Regardless of where the desire came from, it was there, and there it would remain until fulfillment. For a great many years, my longing that “Man's Best Friend” would become also mine, was unquenched. I have grown up in a rather large family, and it was enough for my parents to chase after five rambunctious little children. A dog was not a necessity, and therefore, not a reality. Nonetheless, at every opportunity, I begged for a dog, and like a good child, promised that I would, “Take care of the dog, and clean up poops, and walk her all the time, and never let her bark.” Of course, my parents understood exactly how these promises would turn out: maybe for the first week I would carry all the responsibilities linked with dog ownership, but after that the weight would entirely be on their shoulders. Yet at long last, to my greatest delight, Mother and Father finally granted me my cherished wish. Thus, we entered into a lapse of time in which the family deliberated every detail regarding the long awaited pup. Each of us, from oldest to youngest, had a say in the matter, though some of our “says” weighed heavier than others. For instance, Father exercised his patriarchal right, and declared the canine's breed and sex. Mother, ever considering the safety and well-being of our homestead, declared that an un-housebroken, hyper, disobedient puppy would destroy the rugs. So, the “family” decided the newest addition to our clan would be a calm, obedient, mellow, house-broken, female Weimaraner, gentle with children. On a Saturday morning, all seven of us piled into our car, which we affectionately called the “Old Gray Mare”, and headed down south to a Weimaraner rescue. The first dog shown to us was middle-aged, Fall 2013

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short and stocky, and almost ran my four year old brother over. She was promptly knocked off our list of considerations. The next several dogs were equally as unpromising, and my high hopes began to fall. As a last resort, an eight month old puppy, Piper, was brought out. Though Mom originally had concerns about a puppy, Piper charmed us all, and the director of the rescue even assured us that she was “housebroken�. While my parents talked everything over, Piper came over to where I sat on a bench and, as if she had known me forever, gently laid her head in my lap. Piper was soon welcomed into our home. Even now as I write, she lies at my feet. We have formed a bond over these last five and a half years, one which previously only seemed to exist in children's books. And though she was not truly house broken, tearing up her share of expensive items in her younger years, we all adore her. Piper is the fulfillment of my childhood wish, and the best friend I never had. Forever in my memory I will cherish the first moment that began our deep bond, when she laid her head in my lap, and I stroked her crown; ever loyal, ever faithful, ever kind, oh the love of a dog.

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T.J. Hoyt The South The South is an ancient church, Archaic, decaying, yet beautiful. The core is solid, but the edge crumbles, Whilst those inside want changes null. “Come on in, y’all!” cries the bell, As elaborate halls fill with choruses of times past. Jeff Davis’s Richmond to Georg Wallace’s ‘Bama, New ideas come to the South to fast. Black eye of oppression, be it Crusades or slavery, Church and South share disgrace in others agony. Deus vult! One is lesser than the other, These scars last long in memory. Yet spiting these blemishes, Both church and South show beauty. Ornate carvings or crisp autumns, Drawing us through senses of emotional duty. Sadly, if historic ideals progress not, Church and South also share a fate. One of lessened importance and eventually, The loss of a once proud estate. Within a newly interconnected society, This gathering place known for its faux kindness, Risks losing its future, more tolerant audience, Leaving great halls to echo in silence.

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Kimberly Neighbors The Mall of Meigs That’s what I call my local dollar store. A few people mingle, looking for green beans and pregnancy tests. The cash register beeps. Someone laughs. A man stocks shelves with more goodies I might see a friend and end up chatting the time away. I need flour for soft, gooey chocolate chip cookies. A quick trip to the Dollar Store is easier than going to the big town of Pelham. So I pop over to the mall for breakfast yogurt. The mall doesn’t have blueberry Greek yogurt, but they have chocolate. I want to make a salad, but the mall doesn’t have Romaine. I choose canned creamed corn and nail polish. If I have an emergency for tampons and diapers, and the mall does not have it, If I have an emergency for ammunition and lip gloss, I will try to avoid the need to have it.

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Ashley Mitchell The Funeral My grandpa is the first of my grandparents to die. I haven’t cried yet. I care that he is gone but we weren’t close. Most of my visits to his house as a child were with my grandma. Grandpa usually stayed alone, in his den, while watching television. I know he loved my brother, sister, and I, but he was not an affectionate person. The only time he left the den was for dinner and he was always so ornery. He would complain the whole time about the food or what he was missing on the television while he was eating with us. Still, he was family and I know I will miss him. It is just sad to me that I have no fond memories of us together. He always kept himself so isolated from us grandchildren. The only affection he ever bestowed upon me was a goodbye kiss when I would leave. That is the last memory I have with him alive. Three days ago, I gave him a kiss goodbye in the hospital room at South Georgia Medical Center. He had no idea the family had come to say goodbye. He died later that night. I have never been to McLane Funeral Home. I still can’t understand why grandma chose to have his funeral service in Hahira, Georgia. They never came to Hahira. McLane’s looks like a house. There are classic wing chairs and davenport couches in each room, though no one is sitting. Grandpa’s service will take place in one of the large back rooms. As I walk in, I see the backs of the pews which are facing the front where grandpa is. The family seats are reserved for the first, three pews. They have opened a partition at the front where a smaller room sits off to the left of grandpa. They have placed folded chairs in this room with six on the front row for the five grandchildren and my husband. Grandpa chose to be cremated. I have never been to a funeral service where the person was cremated. I have nothing against it, but it feels so impersonal to me. It doesn’t feel like a funeral. When I normally go to a funeral and see the casket with the deceased body of someone I knew, it is a realization for me of what has happened. It is so final because you can see their deceased body. However, in this room, there is only a table at the front, where a casket would normally be. The table is covered with a black cloth. There are pictures of grandpa with different people on the table with the brass box cremation urn in the center. It has the Air Force seal on top of it with his

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name, Chief Master Sergeant Rayburn Wood. It’s astonishing to me that a three hundred pound man can be in a ten inch by nine inch box. Flower arrangements surround the table. Beside the table is a large painting of grandpa that was done before he retired from the Air Force. It is of grandpa in his military clothing. I have seen this painting often on my grandpa’s wall in his den. As I look around, my Uncle Mike’s second ex-wife, Heidi, makes her way to me. “Can you believe Mike brought Carol?” she asks, “She is going to sit in the family seating like she belongs there. I told your grandma that I am sitting over there since I am still apart of the family.” As I listened, I became so angry. My grandfather is dead and you are worried about where to sit? Heidi has never gotten over my uncle. He has been with Carol for five years now, but Heidi still thinks he will come around and go back to her. It is so pathetic to me. I finally interrupt her and say, “Sit where you feel you need to if grandma said it was alright,” and I walk off. My mom and step dad came out of respect for my brother, sister, and me. My parents have been divorced for thirteen years so they are accustom to getting along at functions. My mom has taken a seat behind the row of grandkids. My Uncle Mike’s first wife, Jennifer, takes a seat behind her son, my cousin, Austin. Jennifer, unlike Heidi has been remarried for seventeen years and doesn’t care where she sits. The pastor, Mr. McDaniel, begins the service. He is very short, with brown hair. He looks like he is in his mid-thirties. My grandparents do not attend church, so I have no idea where they met this man. Grandpa tried to stay clear of all religious functions. Hearing a complete stranger talk about my grandfather, knowing he didn’t know him, seems so incongruous to me. He introduces my grandpa as Master Chief. The people in the room who didn’t know grandpa are listening so attentively. Mr. McDaniel is talking about how loving grandpa was and how he enjoyed his family. Who is this person? I have not met the man he is so desperately trying to describe. I am starting to get upset. My grandpa was not happy and joyous like he is describing. He was a bitter and cynical old man. I glance at my father, and I can see the same look of confusion on his face. My grandma is crying and listening to every word. She obviously gave her own opinion of my grandpa, since it is now clear more than ever that Mr. McDaniel didn’t meet him. Mr. McDaniel then decides to talk about grandpa’s time in the Air Force. He is still only referring to him as Master Chief. Grandpa has

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been retired from the Air Force for twenty-nine years, and in those twenty-nine years, I never heard anyone refer to him as Master Chief. He was simply, Ray. It is becoming clear to me that this service is for grandma, not anyone else. Nothing that this man has said has been enlightening as to who my grandfather was. Maybe that is how grandma wants it. Maybe she wants people to believe he was happy, and caring. Maybe in some strange way, she needs to hear that to be able to cope with his passing. I keep trying to tell myself that to make me feel better. I feel hurt. I have to deal with losing my grandfather, extended family drama, and a stranger’s unintentional mockery of his life. I am ready for it to be over. When Mr. McDaniel finishes the prayer, people start to disperse. Grandpa’s ashes will be laid in Jacksonville, at the Jacksonville National Cemetery in two months, so we are not having a grave side service. Thank Goodness, I think to myself. The sooner I can get out of here, the better. My dad walks over to me and says snidely, “When I die, if you paint me to be anything other than what I was, I will come back and haunt you.” I chuckle in agreeance. My dad has always been one to say exactly what he feels in any situation. My mom and stepdad say their goodbyes and leave. My grandma is thanking everyone for coming. As I make my way to the door, I stop and look at grandpa’s picture. I remember who he really was, and I think maybe that is all that matters. It is not what others say about him or even what they believe. It is what he was to each person. Maybe it is like that with any family who loses a loved one. They want to remember different things about them. I know he loved me, even when he was stubborn and impolite. That is what I will remember.

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Caroline Weeks Southern Winter The sharp chill of the wind reaches deep into my skin – nothing new, but something that has returned to me at last. The darkening sky is a shock of sudden, cloudless azure. A flock of quail bursts from the dim, shuddering woods, frozen for a moment in the beams of my headlights. The cotton gin, a rumbling creature, moves through the fields with its commanding enormity in the silent sprawl of the fields. Its warm yellow eyes light the way to my door. The cold air smells of the earth and the newly picked cotton, dry and sweet. As dusk settles in, the first star blooms, small and luminous, above the black outlines of the spindly pine trees. I have only ever seen a handful of snow, but on a night like this I would not trade it for the sturdy softness of cotton I can rub between my fingers.

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Nicole Kelley i love you. As you caress my cheek Like my stretch jeans caress My voluptuous thighs, I Lean forward and whisper in Your ear “i love you.” I can hear the Echo of my admission In the room. I Smile genuinely, pull You close, hold you. “It’s okay,” I say. I am your secret. I cannot be told.

“i love you.” As I repeat those three words, I gaze Into your eyes and see A man whose heart is worndown, Beaten, bruised; a man who is Constantly wondering if she knows. “It’s okay,” I say again, kissing your cheek. I will stay your secret. I will not be told.

“i love you.” You say it, I don’t move. I lean back, and you Stare into my brown eyes. As my world comes together And your heart is opened to me, a single tear slides down my cheek. You pull me closer, our Hip bones happily meeting, Kiss my lips softly, just For a second…then You pause. I will be your secret. I won’t tell a soul.

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Stephen Abel Jack Russell Terrorist Why am I so angry, When I see other dogs? Well he did pee on my bushes, And pretty close to my log. Why am I so angry, When I hear the door bell ring? Oh that was the TV? Whatever I’m still the king.

Why am I so angry, When you take me to the vet? Well hey if someone tried to neuter you, You’d be angry too I bet. Why am I so angry, My life is pretty good. You know what, I’m not angry. I’m just misunderstood.

Why am I so angry, When someone goes near my bone? You’re actually getting too close right now. Back up and leave it alone. Why am I so angry, When I see a flash of light? Whenever I catch that damn thing, Oh we are so going to fight. Why am I so angry, When my owners give me a bath? When you finish behind my ears, You are so getting the wrath. Why am I so angry, At the men cutting the grass? Well they are interrupting precious nap time. So no, they will not get a pass.

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Katelyn Strickland Without You I wanna be those eyes, That take your breath away. Your sadness slowly dies, whenever you look at me, so you never want to leave. I wanna be that hand, the one that you hold. Like our names in a tree, a symbol of how we feel. For the whole world to see. I wanna be those lips, that press against yours. Your hands on my hips, pulling me ever so close. Pushing away any distance. I wanna be that girl, who you show off to everyone. With not a care in the world. So what do you say? I'll follow you anywhere. I wanna be that love, the one you never forget; everything we talk of, we'll make come true. The one who changed your life. I wanted to be your girl, the one you loved and cared for. You would be my princessand I would be yours. But now, I wanna let you know; I am fine without you. Without your lips or words. Without your promises or embrace. Without you in my life‌I am fine.

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William Collins Legends Henry is an elderly man who enjoys sitting in the park watching as the children played. On this day he is sitting on his favorite park bench looking out across the park, watching as children run playing. A couple sits on blanket, while others around the park walk their dogs. It was one of those almost perfect days with fluffy clouds floating in a bright blue sky. The gentle breeze rustled the trees giving a refreshing feel to the warm day. The sounds of the city off in the distance were almost drowned out by the birds singing, as the children ran laughing with each other. This day, Henry was feeling very tired and weak, as he rubbed his left arm. A slight burning pain was starting in his chest as his breathing seemed to be getting a little harder. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a small bottle, removing the cap and placing a small white pill in his hand. Henry placed the little white pill under his tongue, before putting the bottle back in his pocket, knowing he would start to feel a little better soon. A young man about 28 years old walked along the park path, holding his hand was a cute little girl about 7 years of age. She wore her long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail that bounced as she skipped along in her little pink tennis shoes. She was dressed in shorts and a cute white top with colorful flowers around the collar. The young man squatted down in front of her, smiling as he talked softly to her. She giggled as she jumped up and down. He pulled her close giving her a big hug and a kiss on her forehead. As he released her hand, she turned and ran to play with the other children in the park. Henry smiled as he watched the little girl and her father. The young man was tall just over six feet in height, with a tan athletic build, a head full of dark brown hair, and green eyes. Standing back up, he watched her as she ran to play with her friends. Henry smiled at the man saying, “She’s precious”. Smiling back he looked at Henry for a minute sitting alone on the park bench before walking over to sit beside him. “Hi” the younger man said, extending his hand “I’m Steve … How are you?” “I’m fine … Henry … my name is Henry”, Henry said smiling as he shook Steve’s hand before turning back to look out across the park. “It’s nice to meet you Steve.”

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“No!” Henry said in a short voice as his smile faded. “Ok … You just out to enjoy the day?” Steve said trying to be nice “It’s a nice one.” “I’m looking for them,” Henry said “They’re hard to spot … but they’re out there.” Steve looked puzzled for a few seconds before asking, “Who …. Who are you looking for?” “You don’t know do you?” Henry said as he glanced over at Steve. “Know what?” Steve asked. “I didn’t think so,” Henry commented, “Most people don’t even have a clue as to what is around them.” “I’m sorry I don’t know what you’re talking about” Steve said as his smile started to fade “Are you alright?” “I’m fine … you have no clue what today is … no clue … that you’re not fine” Henry told him. Smiling Steve said “But I am fine … I never felt better in my life.” “You don’t have a clue as to what your life is … if you did it would scare the hell out of you” Henry said glancing back at him. “Why don’t you enlighten me then,” Steve snickered, thinking this guy is crazy. “You really want to know? You won’t like it.” The old man said, “Let me tell you a story of what people call … monsters”. “Sure … go ahead tell me” Steve said sarcastically. “Fine … but once you know, nothing will ever be the same again” Henry said looking at Steve as he shifted on the bench to better face him. “Forget everything you think you know about monsters … all the fairytales you we’re told as a child … none of that crap is true or the way they tell it … some of it is but most of it is crap.” Steve laughed as he smiled. “Ok … I’m listening.” He said trying to humor Henry. “You think you know everything … ask yourself this” Henry said as he cleared his throat “Everything about monsters is based on legends told for hundreds of years … right?” “Yes … I believe all legends start from somewhere.” Steve said “Some people’s wild imagination with superstition got them started.” 41

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“Right … people think they know how a lot of these legends came to be … vampires, werewolves, fairies, all things that go bump in the night.” Henry said raising his hands in a grand gesture “Funny thing is … some of them got it right,” Henry paused propping one arm up on the back of the bench he leans forward in almost a whisper “but the stories changed over the years … do you want the real story?” “Ok … this should be good,” Steve said “Yea … tell me what you know.” Henry leaned in closer, “Things move all around us in the world … everything seems to be normal. Unknown to us is the world we don’t see looming right in front of our eyes … a place where real legends of monsters live … strange beings … this is where the stories started and have changed over the years.” “So you’re telling me that there are monsters right in front of us, but we can’t see them?” Steve asked “So tell me this … how is it, you know all about them?” “I can see them,” Henry said in a low voice “I can see them, I know what they are.” “Ok … how is it you see them and nobody else can see them?” Steve asked playing along with Henry’s story. Henry shifted on the bench as a big smile came across his face. He turned his head a little to the side looking around, “Because … I am one of them.” Steve laughed and smiled. “The legend of the vampire … believed to have drank blood … not true,” Henry said sharply “You see the legend was they lived on the life force of humans … people believed this to be blood … but they were wrong.” “So you’re telling me you’re a monster?” Steve laughed “Ok then … what kind of monster are you?” “Me … I’m old … very, very old monster.” Henry said “I am one of the oldest monsters … one of the few that’s very hard to kill or destroy. We do not think of ourselves as monsters, just as you do not think of other humans as monsters.” “I had not thought about it but I can see where what I would think was a monster to me would not be a monster to it … so if you’re some type of monster, then why are you telling me this?” Steve asked. “Because I have lived for so long … there are few of us left and I am running out of time … you see I am dying.” Henry told him, “I’m sad that people around me die all too soon and I keep on living … it hard and pointless to make friends … I am from the legend of the vampire.” “Vampire?” Steve said with a smile, “Your telling me you’re a vampire … don’t you 42 know the sun is out … or is that a myth too?” Fall 2013

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“We are not like the vampire’s you know about … or have read about in books or seen in the movies.” Henry told him as he slid his right hand across the back of the bench near the young man’s back. Henry raised his left hand pointing out across the park drawing Steve’s attention to look where he was pointing. Henry placed his right hand on the back of Steve’s neck. Steve let out a low faint gasp as his eyes turned to look at Henry. Steve felt a sharp pain at the base of his neck as a needle like object forced its way into the back of his neck logging into his spine. Unable to move, or to cry out for help, Steve could feel the sharp object piercing deeper along his spine. He was helpless, gripped with fear as Henry turn back looking at him strangely now with cold dead eyes. Henry smiled as if in ecstasy, as tear formed at the corner of Steve’s eye. Steve could feel the ripping of his flesh being torn by the object reaching deeper, attaching its self into his spine. Steve understood the object that had entered his body was the creature attaching its self, integrating its self into Steve’s body. “You see Steve, it’s a myth that vampires bite you and drink your blood … no … we want something else … we want you … what makes you, you … your body … your soul … this body is coming to an end and I need a new one.” Henry explained “There is no place in your body for you. I feed just like you do, but when I … I guess you can call it … bite you … I will attach myself to your brain and simply feed on you … after everything is gone then I become you. I will have all your memories and I can live out the rest of your life.” Steve twitched again trying to move. “I’ll let you in on a little secret … sunlight does kill us … but as long as we’re not in the light we don’t die. We have to be outside a body for that to happen.” Henry took a deep breath and smiled, a soft sound of fulfillment escaped his lips. “Bodies do age so we have to find new ones, but if the body dies so do we. Good thing is we don’t get sick and we can heal quickly.” Henry breathed deeply again holding for a few seconds before letting out a small sigh of pleasure. “I’ll enjoy being you … I did tell you there are monsters in this world you just don’t see us as we see you.” Henry smiled “Your body will last me a few years or until I want to move on … or I hunger for a fresh host … all that you know I’ll know.” Steve twitched again as he felt more needle like objects piercing the lower part of his brain as it attached its self, trying to learn how everything worked in his body. A single tear rolled down Steve’s cheek as his eyes fixed on his little girl running and playing off in the distance. Steve was starting to have a hard time seeing as the light was starting to dim.

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Steve screamed but there was no sound, he was now trapped inside his own mind. He could now hear another voice inside his head. “The human body does not last … we wear it out after a few years … I can stay in a family longer because I can move into your wife one night while she sleeps. I can also stay longer because you have children.” Steve felt himself slipping away as things continued getting darker. He could feel he was being eaten alive one memory at a time. A moment later Steve took a deep breath as he smiled, looking over at the body of the old man, that now sat limp on the bench. Henry looked as if he was asleep just taking a nap on a park bench. Standing up Steve stretched out his arms and ran his fingers through his hair. Walking over to the edge of the park Steve called out “Sara, it’s time to go.” The little girl told her friends bye and came running to her father. Steve took Sara’s hand as he glanced back at Henry’s body sitting lifeless on the park bench. He smiled and in a low voice said “It’s good to be young again.” “What daddy?” Sara asked. “Nothing darling … nothing at all … lets go see your mother!” Steve smiled as they walked along the park path. Alternate ending “Vampire?” Steve said with a smile “Your telling me you’re a vampire … don’t you know the sun is out … or is that a myth too?” “We are not like the vampire’s you know about … or have read about legends in books or seen in the movies.” Henry told him as he slid his right hand across the back of the bench near the young man’s back. Henry raised his left hand pointing out across the park drawing Steve’s attention to look where he was pointing. Henry placed his right hand on the back of Steve’s neck. Steve let out a low faint gasp as his eyes turned to look at Henry. Steve felt the small needle like object forced its way into the back of his neck logging into his spine. Henry gasped as he tried to remove his hand “No” he cried out “No”. Steve tilted his head back smiling at Henry “What’s the matter?” he asked “Have you not seen one of us before? Yes I think you know what I am now.” “No … no … let me go” Henry pleaded as a look of pain came across his face. 44

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Henry pulled his hand back as hard as he could, but the creature that had lived inside Henry was slowly being pulled out of Henry’s body and into the body of Steve. Henry’s face turned red as the veins in his neck started to protrude as his face became distorted with pain. Henry let out a small gasp as the color started to fade from his face and a blank stare took over his eyes. Henry’s hand fell away from the back of Steve’s neck as his body slumped slightly forward as if in a resting position. Steve whispered to Henry “Yes Henry I know all about monsters, but you lived to long. You forgot you’re not at the top of the food chain … but we are.” Steve adjusted Henry’s head so he would appear to be sleeping, then smiled as he stood up. Walking over to the edge of the park Steve called out “Sara it’s time to go.” The little girl told her friends bye and came running to her father. Steve took Sara’s hand as they both glanced back at Henry’s body sitting lifeless on the park bench. He smiled, shook his head and in a low voice said “He never saw me coming.” “Daddy?” Sara asked. “Yes darling!” Steve said softly as they walked along the park path. “Did you get him?” Sara asked. “Yes … yes I did sweetheart.” Steve smiled. “Are we going to eat him when we get home?” Sara asked. “Yes we are!” Steve smiled as he felt the creature struggle inside him, knowing there was no escaping what was to come. “Let’s go see your mother.” Sara looked up at her father, smiled, and said “Thank you for taking me hunting today.”

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Benjamin Garderner Wherefore Art Thou God in All Thy Grandeur Wherefore art thou God in all thy grandeur In thy Word as spoken me by my pastor In the vaporous mists of morningtide In the bald fury of an infant’s cry From thy hallowed heights to my canyon depths From glorious triumphs to base regrets For flowers to flower and leaves unfurl For fruit to be fruitful and worlds be whirled The conundrum for sinners wanting proof Is that only ones faithful know your truth So, this shepherd asks whilst tending parture Wherefore art thou God in all thy grandeur Mayhaps that the elect will be aware Eyes truly given see thou everywhere

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Inkwell fall 2013  

Southwest Georgia Technical College's Student run Literary Journal, publishing poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and art from the Thomasville, Gr...