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The Inkwell Literary Magazine

SWGTC Spring 2013 3



Managing Editor

Associate Editors

Arts and Photography Editor


The Inkwell Literary Magazine is produced at Southwest Georgia Technical College. The works herein are the sole property of the authors and artists.

Copyright 2013

Southwest Georgia Technical College 15689 US HWY 19 Thomasville, GA Submissions


Hannah Spivey Poem 6, Art 32, 36 Jennifer Clark Photography 7, 12,19, 47 Kelly Caroline Essay 8 Linda Fiddie Essay 10 Rachel Wiggins Photography 12, 25, 41 Kevin Cronin Fiction 13 Justin Logue Poem 20 Safare Horn Photography 22, Amber E Davis Fiction 23

Maria Sudebaker-Coppage Nonfiction 24, Poem 48 Caroline Weeks Poem 29 Eustace Cromartie Poem 30, Essay 34 Christy Gonzalez Poem 31 Herath Ekanayake Poem 33 Kimberly Lavender Poems 37, 43 Katie Owens Essay 38 Ginger Ryals Essay 41 Shakeria Williams Poem 44


Hannah Spivey

Fair trial

Justice. Honesty. It's easy to believe now, but walk into a court, it’s black against white. Who wins? Who's right? Fair trial. Disproven truths. Justice. Free the white man. Honesty. Honestly, tell them what you want. Because the truth is, no one is being honest; tell juries the truth, they will lie to themselves. The white man's rules are dominant. The black man is inferior. Fair trial. The white man wins. Justice. The black man is right. Honesty. I'm making my own choices from now on.


Jennifer Clark


Kelly Caroline

My Chihuahua, Chilli Peppers, walks in circles in the back of my kitchen. He is agitated. His lifts his little round head. Chilli’s ears perk. He can hear my brother and his merry band of misfits outside. Suddenly a shrieking bark sounds from his lungs. He paws at the back porch door, and his shrieking barks become shriller and louder. His whole body shakes with the force of his voice. The voices outside lower and Chilli begins to calm down. Chilli jumps up on top of his kennel and lays down. 5 minutes later the process begins again. I get up to get a drink from the kitchen. As I walk to the cabinet to retrieve a glass I hear a low growl. Chilli thinks I’m going to take his food like our other dog does. I poke his food bowl with my foot, and like a shot he is at my feet growling at my shoe. I poke him with my foot and he gets angry. He snarls at my foot and proceeds to attack it. I continue antagonizing him and then he hears my brother again. Chilli forgets about my tortuous foot and is jumping at the window beside his kennel. He is raging and looks rabid. He hears the engine of a car turnover and he gets even louder. My brother’s friends have gone and he is calming down. He no longer seems concerned about the people he most likely perceived as intruders. He goes to his water bowl and takes a long draught out of it. He is back to be a calm little dog.

a chipper babyish language. “hey Chibbers! Hello there my little Chibubbers. Oh look at you.” I take Chilli Pepper’s stuffed lamb and begin to play fetch with him. I toss it all the way across the kitchen and Chilli goes after like tom goes after jerry. He trots back to me with the lamb hanging out of his mouth. I reach for the lamb but Chilli suddenly push’s the front of his body down and growls around the lamb in his mouth. I wrench the lamb from his mouth and throw it again and the process begins again. After nearly thirty minutes of sitting on the floor and wearing my Chilli peppers out we both come to a consensus that play time is over. Chilli trots over to his kennel and hops onto the pillow on top of it. He walks in a circle two, three, four times before he decides to lay down. I walk over and scratch him behind the ears and then I scratch his chest. I say “goodbye Chibbers” and I go into my room.

Some while later my brother Michael comes into the kitchen. Chilli’s whole demeanor changes, Michael begins to babble in


Linda Fiddie

Loss of Innocence I was born in a rural community in South Georgia to parents who were raised on farms where they learned the value of hard work and the importance of honesty in everything they did. My Dad had a rude awakening to the world outside of this small town when he served in the U.S. Army in Europe during World War II, but my Mom was still somewhat innocent to the ways of the world. About a year after my birth we moved to Florida, to a small town called Sebring where my Dad could pursue better employment and make a living for his family. While there we welcomed another child to the family. I have very few real memories of these first years of my life. I believe most of what I remember is actually just what I have seen in pictures in the old family photo albums and the stories I have heard told and retold by my family. A couple of years later we moved to Tampa. The five or six years I spent there were probably the best years of my youth. While there I started school which I found to be both fun and challenging. There was just so much to learn and the teachers used their imagination to make it interesting and exciting. Students were actually rewarded for excelling in their work unlike today where the schools do not want to offend anyone because they did not apply themselves enough to become the best. I have many fond memories of my childhood. I always knew I was loved and always felt safe and secure even after more siblings were brought into the family and I was no longer an only child. My Mom did not work so she was always there when I got home from school. She was a homeroom mother and par-

ticipated in the PTA and other school activities. She also helped with most of my Brownie Scout activities. We did lots of things as a family. Usually these were simple, inexpensive things like a day at the beach or a picnic in the park. I always loved the long Sunday afternoon drives with my aunt and uncle just sightseeing. It was always an adventure. We ran and played outside. We flew kites and rode bikes. We enjoyed reading books together. I think this was probably the beginning of my love for reading. This was such a time of innocence and freedom from the trials and tribulations of the world. We did not even own a television until I was about 8 years old. I never remember seeing or hearing any news about the troubles or bad things that went on outside my own little world. This innocence has been lost with the youth of today. I think it is fantastic that we have all the modern technology now to access so much information and make it easier to facilitate all types of learning about everything in our fascinating world. Along with all this easy access to everything comes the exposure to all types of other things like the horrors of war, crime, and all sorts of sleaze like pornography and sexual exploitation. These things rob the youth of today of the innocence of youth which I experienced when I was a child. I think this loss of innocence is so sad. I wish we could prolong the days of innocence for the youth of today so they would learn how to experience the true joys of childhood love and security and the freedom from the stresses of the world. 11

Rachel Wiggins


Kevin Cronin

Clear – Equal – Clear

2011 as seen by one parent.

Clear. Equal. Clear. Plus. Clear.

The finger stopped a hair’s breadth above the calculator button, indecisive in its repetitive action. The action itself wasn’t very effective, but the mindless motion provided a distraction from the harsh reality that formed ordered rows on the papers before him. Time was an ugly morass swallowing his flickering hopes. He desired to toss the papers across the room and run away, fast away. But … the harsh reality was … his life lay dissected upon those papers.

Life had not been easy. His past challenges now seemed an unending blur, dates and specifics long forgotten in the deluge of memories. The twisted road of his life was littered with discarded teenage aspirations. Dreams were the domain of childhood, a place he could now view vicariously, but was permanently barred from visiting. His mind continued to tumble through the fantasies of his younger days as he watched his three children cartwheel through the living room. The frantic energy sizzled as each took turns tormenting and being tormented by the others. There was a strange harmony in the friendly teasing, an unspoken set of rules. The youngest squelched with pleasure as his older brother invented a game involving hair and belly patting. The play was simplistic

and the objective was discarded almost as soon as it was explained. In the other room, life exploded. In this room, death hovered.

His finger returned to tapping random keys as his eyes slide like molasses over the papers. A small voice presented the theory that if his eyes never focused on the numbers, then the numbers couldn’t be considered real. This was a pleasing thought. It was also a theory completely discounted by his creditors. No, the numbers were very real.

Time and time again, he attempted to juggle the different numbers. Like a skilled circus performer, pluses and minuses swirled in the air constrained by not so arbitrary dates. Unfortunately, the rising cost of food, gas prices, and healthcare premiums were anvils in the fluttering chaos. His right hand scrapped across his eyes and forehead, fingers brushing tears away from the edges of his eyes. Few would call him a simple man, as he was filled with many oddities unique to his soul, but his needs had always been fairly simple. He had never strived for wealth, just a loving family and a comfortable home. Somewhere between high school and middle age, his whispers had shifted to the hope of remaining out of poverty.

Looking at the income, it was hard to believe that both incomes were generated by individuals with college degrees, one as lofty as a Master’s degree. The student loan debts were a tragic reminder that the promised rewards of higher education had been over inflated. For two years, his beloved wife


Kevin Cronin

had sought gainful employment with her advanced degree. The very people who had once welcomed her into their field and praised

her eventual success, now turned her away, deeming her unqualified for lacking in experience. Experience. Over and over again, she had run into the same wall. She needed to be hired to get experience, but she couldn’t get hired until she had the experience. For some, it was easier. They had parents bankrolling their entry into the profession. They could work part-time for minimum wage. His wife could not. They had college bills to pay and mouths to feed. She now worked in a completely unrelated field and earned little more than the Federal Poverty Line. That figure never took into account the cost of debts from education, that pain generated when you lost ten percent of your monthly wages. No, it never took that into account.

He watched his wife navigate through the labyrinth of toys and twisted children. As if by magic, the youngest had disappeared from the belly/hair game and reappeared on his mother’s hip. A rattling cough shook his small frame causing the pacifier to unexpectedly launch toward the ground. Another visit to the doctor would probably occur within the next week or two, if that rattle didn’t clear up. He wasn’t sure where the money would come from, but it would be needed to make everyone feel better. Healthcare costs now consisted of over a quarter of their income. No, Healthcare premiums now consisted of over a quarter of their income. Those premiums barely paid for anything. Copays were growing and excuses were found to exempt almost all payments. One of the papers on the table was a hospital bill from the year prior. The procedure had been exploratory to determine the exact nature of some anomalous behavior. The hospital, doctor, and insurance had all stated that the procedure would be covered. When the procedure returned inconclusive, the

insurance had deemed the procedure elective and left him with extensive new debts. Just when he had hit the cap and insurance was supposed to cover the remaining costs, they stalled the new bills to occur during the next fiscal year. Thousands of dollars and all they could tell him was that his brain behaved oddly when he slept. The real symptoms, the muscle twitches, the sore muscles, the extensive pain that made the very action of breathing undesirable … those were unexplained and still untreated.

He took the copied information and began line iteming the budget. If he could just bring down the cost of specific areas by removing unnecessary items … that just might balance the books. He just needed to find eighty more dollars, just eighty. Haircuts would be given by mom again. That hadn’t changed. His birthday was coming up, that would be skipped. There just wasn’t the money for it. Even the five or ten dollars for the cake would be extravagant. The youngest child’s birthday was fast approaching too…. He sighed and figured that if he skipped lunch twice a week, that would save up $25 dollars for a birthday cake and some ice cream. It wouldn’t be much, but at least it could feel a little festive. Unfortunately, that didn’t solve the missing eighty dollars he needed for this month. He already skipped breakfast and lunch was usually sandwiches or cheap noodles.

A burst of cacophonous rage washed from the living room. Someone had hit someone or said something and the world was coming to an end. He should feel angry. He should feel perturbed. Why was that all he could feel was sadness? Before him were four angels, three small and one tall, and he couldn’t figure out how to keep his promise to provide for them. He had pared back everything and now … now there was no room left. It was all gone. Their last hope had been extinguished the week prior when the latest selection committee had passed over his wife for another applicant. It had been their last chance.


Kevin Cronin His fingers traced small circles through the faux wood-lines on the table, dreading the inevitable. Eventually, he would have to get up and tell his wife that their savings were finally gone and they were still shy their expenses. He tried to think of something, anything that might stall that crushing moment. As he sat thinking, a small hand crept up to the table waving a very disproportionate object. He turned to see his youngest holding a letter and looking very unsure. He smiled and looked up to see his wife at the door. “I just got the mail and your son wanted to help.” He looked down and exchanged the letter for a smile and whispered thank you. The small child’s face blossomed with pride and toddled off to play big kid games with his siblings.

He turned the letter tentatively in his hands as he examined it. It was from his grandparents with whom regular contact was non-existent. He gingerly opened the seal and lifted the handwritten note from its casing. The parchment crinkled with his touch and the creases caused the letter to bloom upon release. His eyes absorbed the words contained there within. Life was difficult in the north, his grandfather’s health was failing. It seemed unlikely that they would make any trips south for a great while. In all likelihood, his youngest son would never meet the grandfather with whom he shared a name. Gingerly, the letter was placed on the table as if disturbing the ink might send ill luck to those who had originally put pen to the paper. Eyes desperate to do anything but return to the finances, examined the table once again. A flash of blue within the envelope revealed an overlooked check hidden within. The check is very unexpected, but not nearly as unbelievable as the amount. It had been years since he had received a birthday gift from his grandparents. This year, he held a check for a hundred dollars. Tears filled his eyes as emotions washed over him. This month, they would meet their bills.

But next month would be another story.


Jennifer Clark


Justin Logue

Love or Misery?

I give you my heart

All I ever wanted was you

I give you my soul

But you’re not something I can have

I give you my body

All I can do is help you smile

I give you my everything

As I die more inside

I give all of this and more

I will always love you

I give everything you could want

but you will never know

I give everything you could need

Your happiness is worth more

I give and give just to see you smile

Even at the cost of my own

I never ask for anything

I give you my heart

I never ever complain

I give you my soul

I never shed any tears

I give you my body

At least none that you have seen

I give you my everything

I give you my heart

I give all of this and more

I give you my soul

Just to see your beautiful smile

I give you my body

I can never have your heart

I give you my everything

But at least I can have your smile

I want what I can never have

I give you my everything and more

My feelings go unrequited

All just to see you happy

Seeing your smile fills me with joy

Maybe this is true love

But also breaks my heart more

Or maybe just true misery


Safare Horn


Amber E Davis

A Typical Sunday Morning

I wake up early one Sunday morning. I realize I am in my room alone. My significant other has gotten up early and went straight to the computer. I can smell the cigarettes burning in the living room. The kids are up and I can hear them fussing and asking for breakfast. When they do not get the answer they want I can hear them running through the house headed my way. I lay there with my eyes closed as they burst through the door. “Mama, can we have cereal now? We are all awake.” I open one eye and say, “I don’t care”. I slowly drag my butt out of bed and towards the kitchen. The whole time I am wondering why my husband did not feed them and let me sleep. I think up ways I can get him back. Maybe I will knock him up side his head with a bowl, or maybe I will wait until he goes to take a nap and wake him up with asking him to mow the grass. A slight grin moves across my face as I begin to pour the cereal in the bowls. I hear the kids behind me; each one begging for a certain spoon, and two wanting to eat it dry. I ignore them as I pour the milk into each bowl. I turn to tell them to sit down, and place each bowl in front of them. Off in the distance I hear my husband, “Baby, I was trying to let you sleep in”. Before he can finish the statement I can hear the gears turn in my mind. I am going through all the things that I would love to say to him right now. Instead, I turn and walk back into my room and collapse on my soft bed. I wrap myself up in the covers and grab the remote. I begin a long thorough search throughout all the channels for the perfect movie.


Maria Studebaker-Coppage

“Cookie Caper at Camelot’s Corner Farm” Just a few days ago as Kyle and I were in the barn with our two sweet grey horses, my CoolMoon and Suzy’s Joker, a funny event played out. Being the Barn Queen that I am, I was cleaning the stalls. Kyle was re-stocking the horse cookies into the plastic jar in the tack and feed room. CoolMoon was walking around in the barn paddock and Joker…well, he had caught the sweet smell of his favourite treats. Kyle was transferring the cookies from the big bag to the plastic jar, but unbeknownst to him Joker was paying careful attention to that bag of cookies as well. Kyle had the music playing and had stopped to do something else, laid the bag of cookies down, and had his back to the tack room door…which mind you was wide open. Enter Joker. I am still mucking out stalls and see Joker backing out of the tack room with something hanging out of his mouth. “Kyle,” I call. “Huh?” was my reply. “What does Joker have?” as I watch Joker walk quietly down the barn isle and out to the barn yard. “I don’t know,” replies my vigilant husband. I put down the stall fork and call to Joker. He looks back at me, sees I am coming after him as I figure out his “treasure,” and hauls horse butt out of the barn yard. Oh, crap. CoolMoon sees him and thinks there must be a reason to gallop and follows suit. They are both galloping down the backside of the barn, across the big pasture, and do not stop until they reach the front corner close to the driveway. ..with half of a bag of cookies still in Joker’s mouth. He drops the bag and he and his best buddy, CoolMoon, share a lovely afternoon snack of apple and oat horse cookies. All that was left was a tattered bag and too rather pleased horses. The great cookie caper of Camelot’s Corner Farm had been not only witnessed in full view, but these two greys have come to believe that crime DOES pay.


Rachel Wiggins


Charles Allen

Ten Mo’ Rules Foe Living

1. Women should never date a man that looks better than them.

2. Whether you’re a man or woman, be leery of overweight women with good personalities. They have no choice. Let her lose some weight and then see how she acts.

3. If you’re a woman, be leery of men with baby dicks and no sense of humor. They’ll kill you. The only people more insecure are manly lesbians. “I thought you loved me?”

4. If you’re a man, and your woman ever tells you, “I need to tell you something and keep in mind I was young”, she’s probably in an extremely violent pornographic film.

5. It’s o.k. to laugh at a classmate who has become handicapped if they were a dick to you in school.

6. If you meet someone and they tell you they just got out of rehab, let it go. People are not “to do” projects. That is their problem.

7. Don’t be afraid to be honest with a couple with an ugly kid if they insist upon bringing them out in public gatherings. Now you have to pretend you don’t mind this ugly motherfucker drooling on your shirt.

8. It’s not gay bashing if you give a gay person constructive criticism. For instance, you see a 6’ tall black man with daisy dukes on and you tell him to put some pants on. That is not hating. And heaven forbid if he got high heels on. Cut it out cuz.

9. Be very cautious of a man who constantly feels the need to inform the people around him that he’s a man. Chances are he’s a punk. Those guys are usually tyrants at home. Terrorizing their families but wouldn’t swing on Barney Fife in a one on one fight.

10. If a strung out junkie takes time out of their schedule to give you advice, you are really bad and have been for a while. Crack heads have better things to do with their time than give out jewels of wisdom. You pull up at that corner store and you literally see a crack head crawl out of a dumpster and say, “Hey, let me holla at you.” You are shooting bad.


Mayra Barragan

1. I imagine the roots under my feet, giving life to whaat shades me on this sunny day.

2. Orange and yellow colors all around me, as I walk on what now blends in with the ground.

3. I hear the singing outside my window, as the light hits my face and feel the warmth of the day.

4. I hear the howling and the coolness hit my face, feel a drop hit my cheek and i know its time to go in.

5. I hear the rhythmic flow as I walk, the rocks begin to get wet the closer i get.


Caroline Weeks The Daughter I Used to Be To think, I used to be the nearest ashtray. When I was young, I was the knife that showed up to the gunfight. Even as I stood at the gates of heaven, you had me scared to death of hell. You used to cut me open with your words, just to see what a heart looked like when it skipped a beat. Your curiosity was sterile, insatiable it craved only the touch, not the feeling. It wasn’t until a boy with bright black hair and a grin in his voice came to plant one sweet, hard-liquor kiss on my speechless mouth that my soul was drained of your ink. To think, I was almost the lab rat who made you famous.


Eustace Cromartie

Thirty Seventh Chamber --after Courtney Pine’s Modern Day Jazz Stories

My silver beat box beats back my basic instincts to flee So I dive head first into the fearsome current of the cardboard sea With shoulder height waves of paperwork crashing down Organization is extinct I think I see the carcass deep under the surface Back stroke, breast stroke as I maneuver through floppy trees Deliberately pacing myself for later, the daily quota is 100 files of data I prepared medicinally months ago like Michel Phelps for Olympic trials Months of practice after Wall Street when up in a mushroom cloud Anxious and amped with dreams of qualifying for the rat race $11.25 an hour today, but permanence ensures at least a few dollars raise Suddenly comfy and floating I grabbed a shell and gave it an ear then heard honest admission As I saw my motivation in the distance sailing quickly into remission Save me beat box save me now! Or is the tide to strong The monotonous motions


Christy Gonzalez

Oh, still river Under the moon Beautiful reflections come of you.

Autumn has arrived With color at its side Bring joy to my eyes.

Brightness shines in my backyard Wolf is howling at the sky It’s a cold winter night.

Ole rusty bob wire fence Holding cows in my field Keep them from being a meal.

Mountains covered in snow Water turns to ice Spring will return.


Hannah Spivey


Herath Ekanayake

The White temple flower, floating down the river... Check with bunch of twigs.... Whether it can spend the night.....

Last leaf of an “Asathu tree�... Hugged by the autumn wind... and...dropped...

Headless Coconut trees... Children without parents... and.....TSUNAMI!!!!!!

Closed my eyes, For a split second.... Everything has changed!!!

A rolling, dew drop.... On a leaf..... Boundless......


Eustace Cromartie Beautiful/ Ugly

While passing time on Facebook yesterday I came upon and article. I had seen these types of post before. The sick or severely deformed dying children post or the kids with half their body mass a tumor. Normally I would mumble a curse at those that posted it. This post dared you not to cry and I accepted the challenge not knowing what the article was exactly about. The video shows a young Brazilian girl that was about four or five with a severe cleft lip. It looked like an inch of her upper lip was missing. But yet she was happy and smiling happily. She was beautiful. She was shy and she was using a doll to cover her face. The camera had a reversible display so they could flip it around and she could still see herself. When she saw herself she was not ashamed at all, just a little shy. Looking back now I can tell it was before surgery and she waved to the camera. Fade to black. The girl reappears sitting in a beach chair in the hospital waving a tired hand with bags under her large round eyes. It is the next day after her surgery. Her cleft is completely gone and she has a noticeable scare from her nose down to her lip that will probably never go away. So the camera gets close to her face to give you a good look at the change. Then they flip the display so she can see herself. Her eyes light up and she looks a little surprised, more intrigued than surprised. She gets closer to the camera trying to examine herself. She is smiling a little trying to fully take in her new look. She seems impressed but not amazed which is my favorite part. She knew she was already beautiful but was happy with the improvement. The doctor and the people in the room are smiling much harder than her. The video ends

who really can’t afford it. Beautiful is this little girl happy with herself before the surgery. Ugly was my reaction to what the article might show and my selfish wish to be spared these pictures that I might find depressing. Instead of thinking about how hard it is for some of the people in these pictures I was concerned about one of them ruining my happy mood. Ugly is the comments that some people made about this innocent child. Some said people born like this “should be put down.” How much ugliness must a person possess in their hear for them to express that out loud to other people? The attention this girl would have faced with her original cleft lip would have been really ugly. The looks and the comments by strangers as she got older and they judged her and called her names. What kind of ugliness would she experience form strangers as a teenager if she did not have this surgery. Would she still smile freely like she did in the video? Or would the ugliness of the world drain her confidence? Human nature is ugly. Our behavior is ugly. This girl will probably have a scar for the rest of her life and may still face ridicule from some, but it will be much less than it would have been. This simple video and comments display both sides of the spectrum. There is a undeniable ugliness in some humans and you can see it in the comment that they make, but there is also a miraculous beauty to be seen also. The beauty of the doctors giving away their service and talents to help improve this girl’s life and then you have the beautiful little girl that despite her different appearance seemed so happy. She was unafraid to share her imperfect beautiful smile.

with her waving with both hands and blowing a kiss to the camera. This is all beautiful.he Operation Smile project is beautiful these doctors devoting their time to better smiles for people


Hannah Spivey


Kimberly LavenNow She Dances With Angels

She has left us, unexpectedly so and immense grief is what we know but we have to think of better things that she's happy where she now is Cause now she dances with angels before the throne of the Lord she's passed through the gates of Heaven as an angel coming home Saved by the mercy of the Son her graceful wings she has won he sent his finest angel to bring another angel home now she dances with angels before the throne of the Lord she's passed through the gates of Heaven as an angel coming home We'll see her face in memories, so sweet and precious are they and when it comes our day she'll leave her dance with angels to lead us on our way cause now she dances with angels before the throne of the Lord and she's passed through the gates of Heaven as an angel finally come home


Katie Owens

It’s hotter than five hells outside. Anger is something that I do not frequently deal with, but when I do encounter anger, it is something serious. It feels like a fire has been lit on the inside of me. Gradually, my face turns red and my hands perspire and become clammy. My body is hot. I have to breathe slowly in order to “cool” myself down. The fire is dancing around the logs and through the wind. The crackle and snap of the flame echo into the dark woods. As though the fire almost seems evil at its uncontrollable aspect, the white, fluffy, delicious marshmallow calms the fire storm. The marshmallow rests at the end of the stick, begging to be roasted to the perfect crunch. Anxiously, it waits to be placed between the smooth and creamy Hershey chocolate resting on a graham cracker. The hottest place on earth: any desert. Chances of survival in the desert are slim to nothing. With temperatures surpassing one hundred degrees, water is scarce and the land is dry and arid. Life in the desert is vague. Water boils at two hundred twelve degrees Fahrenheit. I learned at a very early age the ovens are hot. That is fact. I reached in while it was preheating and instantly the skin on my hand was charred. The hottest day of my life was two years ago during the summer. Being the good sister that I am, I agreed to attend my brothers’ baseball tournament in Quitman. I have never sweated so much in my entire life. I was practically wearing nothing: my denim shorts and tank top. We had tents set up to divert the powerful rays of the sun from directly beaming down on us. Also, we had portable, battery-operated fans hanging on the fences keeping a light breeze blowing past us. I remember lounging across the cheer just wanting to go to sleep so I would not be aware of how hot I actually was. The water I drank quenched my thirst like no other. Your heart is colder than ice.

I have been through a cold time in my life where I was depressed, confused, and hurt. The death of one of my best friends Savannah Singletary really flipped my world upside down. A freak accident occurred on a jet ski in a lake that left the most beautiful girl I knew dead. Our whole town felt the impact of this accident. It was gloomy. For the longest time, I could not comprehend why it happened but now I know that she is in the most perfect place and I have the best guardian angel I could ever ask for. I grab the glass out of the cabinet and walk toward the refrigerator. Thirsty, I open the refrigerator to find a drink to refresh me. I grab the tea pitcher out and set it on the countertop. I place my glass into the little cubby on the side of the fridge and give it a little nudge. I hear ice maker moan as it sends ice cubes out of the shoot into my glass. The clinks the ice cubes make inside the glass remind me of the coldness of the ice. Occasionally, I stick my tongue in the glass with the fresh ice to see if it will stick to my tongue. The coldness of the ice clings to the warmth of my tongue. Antarctica is one of the coldest places on Earth. Penguins and polar bears reside there due to the low temperature climate. Winter is typically the coldest season of the year. Some areas have heavy snowfall and blizzards. Water freezes at thirty two degrees Fahrenheit. My family travels out west every other summer. One of the most memorable times during these trips was when I thought my feet were going to freeze off. There had been a heavy snow fall one night and we went to an open snowy spot off the side of the road to play with our new sleds. I made the mistake of wearing Crocs out in the snow. Quickly, my feet went numb. To make matters worse, I stepped in a soft spot of snow that sank under me. I was in snow to my waist and my shoes had disappeared. I finally got out of the snow and made my way to a log to stand on until my brother found my shoes. I returned to the car and sat my feet by the vents so the heat could thaw my feet out.


Rachel Wiggins


Ginger Ryals


“What’s the phone number? What is it?!... 229.***.5164,” repeating it to myself, dialing this number. I know he isn’t breathing but I still hope it it’s not too late. It’s summer time, a beautiful day. Sweat trickles down my face, the sun is overbearing today, it’s a solid 95 degrees. However, it was a perfect day for a ride, and since my family from Jacksonville, Florida was in town for Branden’s summer vacation, why not have some fun? The kids are piled into the back of the mule and Branden is up front with me. He stands up, he jumps out, he’s bleeding. Concussions may be caused by numerous factors, just as the side effects and outcomes differ with each case. Typical studies show that bleeding from your ear isn’t only uncommon but that it could also be lethal. “It is estimated that a head injury occurs every seven seconds, and hospital emergency rooms treat 1 million people for brain injuries every year. Currently about 5.3 million Americans live with disabilities resulting from such injuries. (Gargollo and Lipson) Death: The action or fact of dying or being killed; the end of the life of a person or organism. Why does everything have to be such a blur? It’s almost like something you see in a movie. Your heart starts pounding and your face becomes flushed. Sound is erased from the memory; the only thing that remains is each vivid, visual detail. Imagine being twelve

years old and being told that you may have possibly “killed” your cousin, though you had nothing to do with his impulsive decision. Imagine being on a miniscule line and there are only two directions to go, one being death and the other being survival. This miniscule line between life and death, sometimes, is the only thing that gives humans hope in such hopeless circumstances. “You killed him, he’s dead!” Guilt submerged itself within my mind. I had to wash the blood off of my hands; I couldn’t stand to look at it any more. I rock back and forth in the summer’s bright, green grass; I wept continuously. The phone call I received shortly after the incident was one of which brought hope, in a time of turmoil; he’s breathing. Some see death as a challenge, for me, death is a battle, a continuing, ever growing race. Death is undefeatable, undeniable. We were born into a world that accepts life and only deals with death when the time has come. To truly live, mustn’t we comprehend and accept death, the way we do life? We are, in fact, only born to die. Survival: The state or fact of continuing to live or exist, typically in spite of an accident, ordeal, or difficult circumstances.


Shakeria Williams

Re-evaluating the notion of wishing on someone else’s star, I now Realize no matter the situation people are just who they are

Occasionally we dream of how our lives should or could have been, dwelling on change on other’s lives instead of anticipating change within

We humbly give 100% in disrespectful relationships where all the trust is gone and wish upon a falling star instead of brightening up our own

We fall short by allowing our happiness to lie unfaithfully in the hands of another, giving them the power to do as they please and the pleasure of watching us struggle

It’s not that we’re so gullible that we don’t see the obvious sings of neglect, it’s just that we love so deeply that we give instead of making them earn respect

We bend over backwards, never turn our backs, and our life is one big twist, yet the only time they change positions is to give us their ass to kiss

No longer am I performing to their satisfaction because in life it’s give or take, so I’m taking my, placing it with God, and gracefully stepping out on faith.


Kimberly Lavender Silent Reverie of Broken Dreams I stare up at the sky all day and night thinking about everything that means something to me then I realize, every time that they're nothing but shattered dreams People look at me, and question just who I am; they don't know that I'm not like them at all cause my reality is a silent reverie of broken dreams everyday, dreams shatter in front of my face and everything is taken away and people wonder why I stare out into space they just can't see that it's my silent reverie of broken dreams They don't understand me and I don't expect them to I've lived my life in seclusion since the first dream shattered in unison with the sound of a gun a silent reverie of shattered dreams that's what reality is for me everyday a silent reverie of broken dreams becomes a part of me


Kimberly Lavender

Don't try to avoid the inevitable it won't work any how just take it from me and my silent reverie of broken dreams


Jennifer Clark


Hannah Spivey


Maria Studebaker-Coppage

“Poetry This.� Poetry this. Poetry that. What are these words to be? Phrases and commas Stops and starts And meanings not easily seen. Can it be read? Can it be said? Does it stir something deep inside? Will the words really matter As the go all a-splatter On the canvas we call our minds.


Name of Artist


Name of Artist


Contributor’s Notes

Charles Allen Hannah Spivey Mayra Barragan Caroline Weeks Kelly Caroline Racehl Wiggins Jennifer Clark Shakeria Williams Maria Studebaker-Coppage

Eustace Cromartie

Kevin Cronin

Amber E Davis

Herath Ekanayake

Linda Fiddie

Christy Gonzalez

Safare Horn

Kimberly Lavender

Justin Logue

Katie Owens

Ginger Ryals





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