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Georgia Southern’s Art Magazine


STAFF Magazines Editor-in-Chief ARIELLE COAMBES Editor ALANNA NAVIN Production Manager JOSE GIL Design Editor MATT VEAL Designer KATE RAKOCZY Designer RENITA RAVUTH Business Manager CHLOE DOUGLAS Distribution Manager BRADLEY YORK Distribution Assistant MANUEL GIBRAL Distribution Assistant MARCELO SANDOVAL


The Miscellany is copyrighted 2014 by Miscellany and Georgia Southern University, Statesboro, Ga. It is printed by South Georgia Graphics, Claxton, Ga. The Miscellany is operated by GSU students who are members of Student Media, a Georgia Southern student-led organization operating through the Dean of Student Affairs Office and the Division of Student Affairs & Enrollment Management. The magazine is produced three times a year by GSU students for the Georgia Southern University community. Opinions expressed herein are those of the student writers and editors and DO NOT reflect those of the faculty, staff, administration of GSU, Student Media Advisory Board nor the University System of Georgia. Partial funding for this publication is provided by the GSU Activities Budget Committee. Advertisements fund the remaining costs. Advertising inquiries may be sent to Office of Student Media, PO Box 8001, or by calling the Business Office at 912-478-5418. Inquiries concerning content should be sent to Magazine EIC at 912-478-0565 or by emailing All students are allowed to have one free copy of this publication. Additional copies cost $1 each and are available at the Office of Student Media in the Williams Center. Unauthorized removal of additional copies from a distribution site will constitute theft under Georgia law, a misdemeanor offense punishable by a fine and/or jail time

2 Spring 2014

EDITOR'S LETTER The Miscellany is a magazine that happily celebrates the creative endeavors of the Georgia Southern University community. There are so many creative and thoughtful folk on campus who come from all walks of life. I have never seen such a wide range of creativity! For this semester’s edition, we implemented an “early bird” free submission opportunity, as opposed to last year, when even the earliest deadline required a nominal fee. This change in the submissions process brought a monsoon of works that represented a large variety in content, and we are thrilled that the arts ommunity responded to that change.

ALANNA NAVIN Miscellany Editor

After that deadline, there was a small submission fee that quite a few artists took part in. For all of those still wondering about the benefit of having a submission fee, we want you to know that your money is going to a good cause. This cost of submission helps us host a fantastic release party that everyone and anyone is welcome to enjoy. It also helps cover the cost to the Department of Student Media to print a high-quality, well-bound publication. As this is my first semester as editor of the Miscellany magazine, I would like to give a big thank you to the artists and writers who daringly submitted their work to this publication. Without you all, there would be no such thing as the Miscellany. You all have really impressed me with the skill and thoughtfulness of your submitted works. I also want to give many thanks to the nine judges that took part in the panel and took the time out of their schedules to thoughtfully consider submitters’ art. Thank you for being so eager to take part in making the arts community at Georgia Southern thrive. This semester’s edition of the Miscellany is definitely one to remember and I hope that you find as much joy in it as I have.


Alanna Navin Miscellany Magazine of the Arts Editor



Focus Chelsea Brown, Senior Graphic Design Major Photography I am a senior graduating in May and I’m from Appling, Ga. I am passionate about my faith in Jesus, healthy living and being outdoors. You will often find me doodling, and I’m a big fan of taking photos. I love the challenge and beauty of capturing a moment in time and being able to keep it. The inspiration behind this photograph is that I was once challenged to do a self portrait, one that indicated a passion or characteristic of myself. In this particular shot I felt that, at the time, it reflected a passionate aspiration I had to explore my true self. In past years, I had fallen prey to culture’s popular standards, and making decisions based on other people. This photo displays the notion that not being your true self, not being who you truly desire to be, is like wearing a mask. Yes, you are in the world. Yes, you are walking around. But those around you never see you for the real person you are. This shot also highlights the power of the eyes, greater emphasizing the importance of how one sees. How one sees themselves, embracing who they are, is such a beautiful thing. 4 Spring 2014


Love Letter to a City Nadia Dreid


Be Bold. Be Beautiful Lauren Howard


Out of Time Courtney Bonacci


Ink Michael Conner


Pripyat Song Dustin Tilligkeit


Zetterower Blues Andy Morales


Fences Margaret Eighmie


Four Humors: Melancholicus Victoria Barlow


Morocco My World Jill Taylor


Lackluster Jessie-Marie Reese

14. Sails Sara Adams

President Keel Warping the Time Space Continuum on the Southern Express Andy Morales


Indirect Connection Toni Todd


Frozen in the Past Ananse Sasori


Provincial Andy Morales


Sleeping Beauty Ray Pettit


Youth Sara Adams


Blending in...or not Lauren Howard


Pink Dream Erika Jordan


After the Rain Courtney Bonacci


Center Brandon Warnock


The Forest Ray Pettit


Bubble Courtney Bonacci



Newspaper Wedding Dress Keyyanna Jones

Icarus Falling Dustin Tillgkeit


Rainfari Studded Clutch Keyyanna Jones


Turkish Bath Andy Morales



If the Shoe Fits Kiera Johnson


Family Matters Stanley Thomas


Black Still Life Courtney Bonacci

15. Eyebulb Lindsay DeBlasio


Reflected Mirrors Chelsea Brown

16. SOBER! (Son Of a Bitch Everything’s Real!) Riley Benko


Hilton Head Poster Haley Tam


Legacy Nadia Dreid

17. I Am a Poorly Thrown Bowl Augie Watson



Blitzkreig Alexander Smith


What would Jackie Do Editorial 36. Haley Tam


Feed the Beast Ryan Caronongan


Aging Courtney Bonacci Amid a Crash Arielle Combs


Anxiety Courtney England

20. Reflect Lindsey Oliver


Doodle 10 Alyssa-Rhae Navin


Pop Art is Murder Brenda Barbee


Dandelion Motion Toni Todd


Monstickers Ryan Caronongan


Schrodinger’s Overture


Mat Board Buildings Courtney Bonacci



Tunnel Vision Lois Harvey

Maiden’s Journey Honor Lind


Tru Blue Photo Book Haley Tam

Cady Ennis


3D Art Jeff Schmuki


2D Art Jessica Burke & Elsie Hill


Digital Art Jessica Hines & Santanu Majumdar


Fashion Ashley Newsome

54. 55. 55.

Fiction Theresa Welford Nonfiction Christina Olson Poetry Richard Flynn

2014 Roy F. Powell Award Winners 57. 60. 63.

64. 65.

The Trick to Knots Amanda Malone The Trouble With Water Sarah Fonseca [to my brown eyes left on the piano bench; hung like to many men] Cady Ennis Steal the Lines of Other Poets Cady Ennis Evening is Best Worn Off-White Cady Ennis MISCELLANY 5

Love Letter to a City By Nadia Dreid, senior Journalism major Poetry

tripoli, i cannot sleep, i have to be honest with you, tonight, i miss you like an ache i miss the way your streets cradled me, the way your wind whispered sweet-nothings in my ear, the way your ancient ruins romanced me. i even miss your gutters. power lines criss-crossing between apartment buildings, and the boys who lean against them, forgetting to lower their eyes i miss the way you smell, like my aunt’s perfume, sea water, open air and something i’ve never felt with anyone else i dream about your voice, soft and bustling, dispersed with sounds of cars and calls to prayer do you remember the weddings we went to? the ride home was always my favorite part, you’re so beautiful at night scarf clutched to face, windows down your radio would sing abdul-halim to me, i can’t help it my heart beats faster when i’m with you i miss your old city, and your gold shops, and your parks i miss your restaurants we’ve been apart too long, i’m beginning to seriously rethink this separation - was i wrong? for thinking i could leave you for longer than a year?

6 Spring 2014

i can’t get work done. i keep daydreaming about your streetlights, this isn’t healthy whirlwind romances weren’t supposed to take up so much of my time i hear you’re busy now. you’ve changed a lot, aren’t the same city you were before maybe you don’t have time for old names and rekindling flames, but i miss you i don’t know how to put it more simply than that. i don’t know if you want me back. but i’m coming for your rooftops, and your orange sands, your bazeen, and your adhans i’ll see you in the summer, right when you start to become unbearably hot, because like it or not, you’re my first love, and i just can’t let go that easy but for tonight, i’ll settle for dreaming of your shores, your souqs and stores, your sands and your skies, and i’ll close my eyes and pretend it’s your waves rocking me to sleep tonight. love, a girl from tripoli

Be Bold. Be Beautiful. Lauren Howard, senior Psychology major

Digital Art, Photography

Out of Time

Courtney Bonacci, sophomore Studio art major

Digital Art, Photography


Ink By Michael Conner, junior Writing and linguistics major Poetry Black blood spilled over white sheets folded neatly atop of each other, pale and tattooed with symmetrical strings, to be riddled with liquorish and either suckled or spat out of caves. Where dwell angels and demons waving a spear for love or destruction, until empires are risen out of deserts or nations are trampled by beaten horses. Rivers of tar slithering in serpents biting their tongues, piercing through

softer windows, with muffled silhouettes of sleeping butterflies splintering glass, if only to shatter the deafening silence. The populace of residing octopi with soft arms to hold in gentle affection, or tentacles and malice to blind with ink and devour our prey, in black holes to the terrifying unknown. Syringes instilling cure or venom by counterfeit doctors and fellow gardeners, who burn coal or plant shrubs to be exhausted of muscle and breath, until plastic wells have been bled dry.

Pripyat Song Dustin Tilligkeit , senior Writing and linguistics major Poetry The crumbled face peers over gray pine trees, The worn cement walls with thin cracks like tears. Graffiti’s a language, aged and unclear. Life covers death, halting it with ease. Creatures now build a home, completely free Of man’s control. In death, man is not near. And Earth is free from Man’s control, her fear. Birdsong is left, music fills the empty.

8 Spring 2014

What strange, yellow eyes peer out from darkness? They watch over abandoned bricks and dust, Hold what was once ours, to them surrendered. Echoed in these rooms are whispers, deathless. Concrete tombs, tributes to an age now rust. Yet gray asphalt husks find life remembered.

Zetterower Blues

Andy Morales, senior

Fashion design major Abstract acrylic/enamel painting


Fences By Margaret Eighmie M.Ed student in counselor education

The first time I can remember thinking about doing it was in 1996, a few months after my eldest daughter, Loren, was born. Being the efficient person that I am it occurred to me that it would make more sense to do it in my husband’s Saturn Sedan than in my Dodge Caravan. The interior of his Saturn wouldn’t take nearly as much time to fill up with the deadly invisible vapors as would the interior of my van. One day I shared these thoughts with a nurse at the Naval Hospital during one of my post-natal follow-up appointments. In hind-sight I probably should have thought that through a little more. One minute I was exchanging niceties with the overly-chatty nurse while she went about her business of taking my temperature and blood pressure. Then suddenly I was being urged into a wheel chair and escorted to the Psychiatric Ward on the 4th floor. The way I remember it there were bells and alarms going off as if the hospital had gone into lockdown mode. Looking back, I am fairly confident that the bells and alarms existed only inside my head. The hours that followed were spent trying to convince the posse of white coats that had formed a circle around me to let me go home. The insightful hospital staff concluded that I was suffering from

10 Spring 2014

post-partum depression and distributed the requisite medications. That was the first time I was made to sign the absurd, non-binding Safety Contract by which placing my signature on the random dotted line I swore and promised by all that is sacred that I would not physically harm myself. So far, so good. What separates a thinker from a doer? Is a person always on one side of the fence or the other? Can a person decide to jump over or can she be pushed off the fence? I have known three people throughout my life who were doers. When I was a child and too young to understand, I overheard my parents talking about a friend of theirs that did it. His name was Frank and as the story goes, he had actually dated my mother before she met my dad. I recall my parents talking about how Frank was sitting at the dinner table with his wife and children. When dinner was over he just got up, walked into the bedroom and did it. His wife found him, hanging there. The next time I thought about it was in 2000. Nine days into the New Year, my husband Hugh announced with minimal fan-fare via a telephone call that after 15 years of what I thought had been a happy marriage, after two beautiful, healthy children, and after me supporting him

emotionally and financially through law school, he was no longer happy. Her name was Monica, I would later discover. Happy fucking New Year! Once again I found myself sitting across the desk from a mental health professional. The green leather arm chair was rigid and cold. The walls felt as though they were compressing around me. I stared at the sun slicing through the dust in the air. Outside the door I could hear my three-year-old daughter Loren and five-month old Lily cooing and laughing as their grandmother kept them occupied. Dr. Balkunas listened dutifully to my wavering voice as I sobbed my way through the details. How pathetic I felt, pausing every few words for fresh tissues. When I finished babbling he stared at me, but said nothing. I was sure that the good doctor was trying to contain himself and not laugh out loud. Self conscious, I focused on the brass clock above his head, imagining the hands winding around the digits as in the Bugs Bunny cartoons. “Say something!” I screamed at him, if only in my head. Finally he rose from his chair and moved from behind the excessive desk. He sat in the matching green leather chair next to me. He reached for my hand; obediently I tucked the wet wad of tissues under my thigh and placed my hands in his. When he lifted his gaze from my hands his eyes locked onto mine. He took a deep breath, I suspect for effect, and spoke softly. “You should know that the leading cause of depression among adults is the loss of a parent when they are under the age of nine.” My skin felt like transparent sheets of thin glass. The faces of my two beautiful

daughters rippled through my mind like a pebble tossed into the middle of a placid lake. With that one sentence he had taken away what I saw as my only option. Inevitably, the wise doctor called it situational depression and prescribed an anxiety cocktail of pharmaceuticals. Out came the damn Safety Contract, again. After that it became just something to think about, something to fantasize about, kind of like winning the lottery. Fantasize about it though I did. I had many variations on the theme. First and perhaps the most dramatic was the scenario where I would drive the seven hours from my refuge in Statesboro, Georgia to Wilmington, North Carolina where my lying, cheating, soon-to-be ex-husband still lived in our little blue house. Dressed in my wedding gown, which I probably could no longer zip up, my plan included finishing off my medication, washing that down with whatever alcohol I could find in the house, and then lying down on our marital bed where Hugh would find me and naturally be completely devastated. The flaws of this plan, although clearly visible now, did not occur to me then. For example, I failed to consider the possibilities of my chickening-out during the seven-hour drive or the ghastly possibility of home-wrecker Monica being the one to find me, instead of my beloved Hugh, and thus her stealing my thunder as well as my husband. My fool-proof plan, though, is a work of pure genius, if I do say so myself. The beauty of this plan is that I can do it and make it seem like an accident. Another aspect to this scenario that I particularly like is that it seemed to come to me through divine intervention. It happened one night while driving back from Colum-


bia, the half-way point for dropping off and picking up our children on his weekends. Hypnotized by the blinding discs of the oncoming headlights, it suddenly occurred to me that a simple turn of my wrist could find the steering wheel, and consequently my van, headed into traffic and preferably into an oncoming eighteen-wheeler. That’s how I would do it, if I were a doer. My cousin Drew did it. It was the late 1970s and I was in middle school. Drew lived in another state, so we weren’t terribly close. He was older than me, in high school. At the time, everyone referred to it as “Drew’s accident.” His mother, my aunt, found him in their basement. Later, when I was older, I had a revelation. What I discovered was that Drew was a gay teenager attending a Catholic School in a very small, conservative Pennsylvania town where his parents were born and raised. My aunt still refers to it as “Drew’s accident.” I suppose she will never truly be able to reconcile her son’s actions. The last time I thought about it was probably yesterday. It doesn’t matter when you are reading this; I can pretty much guarantee that I thought about it at least once yesterday. It may be because I had a tough day or maybe I have come upon an interesting new method. For example within the past few days I considered the logics of being electrocuted while in a bathtub full of water. I concluded that most certainly in order to be thorough I would want to pull in several electrical appliances simultaneously. Additionally, I decided it would be very important that I be fully clothed. There is no rhyme or reason to when or why I think about it. Sometimes I will find myself at such a low point that it seems to be the only relief available and I can spend hours trying to rationalize doing it. There are also those rare, special oc-

12 Spring 2014

casions when I can be going about my day and suddenly an idea, like the day when I realized that I could legally purchase a hand gun, will occur to me out of nowhere. A friend of mine, his name was Troy, he did it. It’s been almost seven years. I still get chills every time I drive by the apartment complex where they found him. Unlike my cousin Drew or my parent’s friend, Frank, I had felt Troy’s breath on my cheek two days before his ex-wife found him. We were both going through painful divorces. Deanna, a mutual friend had introduced us. I suppose she was tired of listening to our sad stories and thought we could both use someone to commiserate with. He smelled of beer and cigarettes when I answered the door, but I could tell that clearly he needed a friend. Two days later Deanna called to tell me what Troy had done. I was left standing there holding my unanswerable questions like a sad, empty trick-or-treat bag on November 1st. I often wonder if they ever made Troy sign the Safety Contract. Everyday I straddle that fence. As I walk across the tree lined campus or through the busy aisles of the grocery store I look into the eyes of the strangers. I wonder how many others straddle the fence. I am pretty sure I would never jump off of the fence into my mirage of greener pastures. Still, l wait for that elusive push. Sometimes I envy the doers. I want to know what went through their minds in that last moment. Is it desperation or resolution that describes what a person is feeling when they just decide that they have had enough? I have read that the friends and family of people that have done it report that the person seemed happier, almost at peace. That seems about right. For now I resolve myself to enjoy the view from up here on this fence. So far, so good.

Four Humors: Melancholicus Victoria Barlow

senior, Fashion design major Fashion

Morocco My World Jill Taylor

senior, Apparel design major Fashion MISCELLANY 13


Jessie Reese senior Journalism major Poetry I come from the curls of a stranger, twisting and turning my soul until it’s covered in colors too complex for humanity to comprehend. I come from light bulbs burnt out, broken. Never reaching full potential, the wires no longer connect. I come from a heavily leaved tree, too unkempt and untidy. Its’ branches carry mutated water Running thick through my veins, carrying monsters that squeeze

and stretch, making it hard to breathe and then nothing’s left where there was something before. I cry from green eyes placed in my skull by a mother who tries, but doesn’t see the green that I see. I come from do-ers who don’t understand a thinker like me. I come from dull sparks and I blew them into flame.


Sara Adams senior 2D Art major Poetry Time will soon curtail Barely holding on We are not perfect We are sails

Sky growing colder in hue Pushing us out We are not contained We are sails

Gliding across the surface Holes forming We are not faultless We are sails

Falling beneath the wind Torn to fragments We are not infinite

14 Spring 2014

We are sails


Lindsay DeBlasio

3D Art major Ceramic and acrylic


SOBER! (Son Of a Bitch Everything’s Real!) Riley Benko

Psy.D graduate student, 2D Art Acrylic on canvas

16 Spring 2014

I Am a Poorly Thrown Bowl It Couldn’t be So - I Augie Watson senior Nutrition and food science major Poetry I am a poorly thrown bowl. Dropped on a wheel, centered and spun I was ready to be what you needed. It couldn’t be so. Your hands weren’t sure and swift. I could feel they knew what they wanted. They wanted a vessel. A vessel to hold, and to be held by. It couldn’t be so. Spinning faster and taking shape, My walls became taller, uneven. Taller and thinner until you thought I was ready. I was ready to try. Left in the sun to dry, There was time to reflect My shape was there, texture too. Yet my structure was weak I knew how things would end. You didn’t. My rough exterior was glazed. Dazzling sky blues, and deep sea greens reflected off my sides. Almost, could I believe it would work? It couldn’t be so.



Alexander Smith junior, Graphic design major Digital Art

What Would Jackie Do Editorial Haley Tam

senior, Graphic design major Digital Art.

18 Spring 2014

Feed the Beast

Ryan Caronongan

senior, Graphic design major Digital Art MISCELLANY 19

Reflect By Lindsey Oliver Fiction

Barsad is pulled from sleep by voices around him that he recognizes as news anchors on the radio. Their American English is heavy on his ears today, which is unusual—he normally likes accents—but not unexpected. The dream about his wife is too fresh within him and he turns the alarm off quickly. In his dream, it was his wedding day. An absolute lie, he knew instantly, because he was marrying Fatima with proper ceremony. He sat with her on a thick rug in the center of the ordeal. There were many witnesses, many of her relatives and relatives of his own he knew existed but never once met, yet were somehow present. There was an imam, a respected elder and not the drunkard he actually paid to marry them in secret. His mother was in the dream with them, looking happier than he ever saw her in life, her light grey eyes wet with tears; his father next to her, unsmiling as ever, but looking to be in good health for once. He can see no sign of her father or brothers in the crowd, which is fitting: when her father found out about their marriage, he threw Fatima out on the street, called her a whore and Barsad a dog, vowing revenge for the insult. He is aware of the truth of their marriage and does not wish to indulge in fictions even while sleeping, but when he turns his head to look at Fatima she is smiling at him, smiling her shy smile that she only used with him, and he cannot tear himself away, all he can do is stare. Her face uncovered but he can’t see her beautiful hair and he wants to kiss her; she blinks and takes his hand like she knows what he’s 20 Spring 2014

thinking. Her hands are intricately painted. Barsad could see the whole of their life together in the dream-Fatima’s eyes. He could see the tragedy which marked the end of her life, her death and the death of their child—an ugly, utterly unremarkable murder by her father’s relatives eager to avenge their sullied name. He remembers the dead infant more than he remembers the sight of Fatima’s corpse. When he thinks of her, he does not see her alive and smiling but cannot picture her death either. The babe he remembers—a little girl with the strangest red hair that Fatima had said was good luck, and had come from him and his pale skin and brown hair. He could have looked away, focused on the fantasy of their gathered relatives, of the past made right, but he did not, only stared at his dead wife and waited to wake up. This night will be difficult. He can feel it in how heavy his bones are as he swings his legs to sit on the side of the bed. Normally he goes for a run before showering and reporting to the hospital, but as it is all he can do to make it across the room and select a pair of scrubs, he dismisses the idea of a workout. He bathes and dresses. The idea of a meal is repulsive, so he leaves his apartment early and makes his way to the train station. It is seven PM. Mrs. Lee is there ahead of him, firmly planted on the edge of the platform so as to be the first on the train when it arrives. She gives Barsad a look that would peel paint, eyes small but hard and beady, like onyx pebbles. Barsad would be offended by her glare if he were the kind to take offense at anything; even if he were, he would have to admit that she does it to everyone, so

he will not consider her dislike personal, but universal. He nods at her but cannot manage a smile, and she says something at him in dark-toned Korean. Barsad turns his attention to the people around them. He resists the urge to check his wristwatch. The train will arrive when it arrives. When it does pull to the stop, Mrs. Lee barrels in, shoving exiting passengers away as she crams herself into their midst. Some look annoyed, but Mrs. Lee clearly does not care. Barsad can only sigh and wait for the doors to clear before he follows her. They both get off at the same station nearest to the hospital, departing with a crush of people headed home from work. The entryway is filled with staff and patients, not the busiest Barsad has ever seen, but not slow either. The hospital is cleaner than any Barsad worked in before in Syria, but he supposes that, to Americans used to the bright shine of newness on all their buildings, the place would seem a little dingy or dispiriting with its old linoleum and buzzing florescent lights. Mrs. Lee heads to the maternity ward to resume glaring at her daughter-in-law, possibly hoping the poor girl will give birth if she is put under enough pressure. Barsad, having only been subjected to Mrs. Lee’s unique presence for short periods of time, worries for the unborn child, who will likely be exposed on a constant basis. He reports to the emergency room. The work is good, the work distracts him. He prefers overnight shifts in this hospital because it is centrally located, so he is kept busy. In the following hours, Barsad loses himself in the blur of activity. He stitches knife wounds, treats an unexpected food allergy, diagnoses an early case of the flu, and treats a burned cook. A woman is rushed into the emergency

room with severe abdominal trauma where her boyfriend has kicked her repeatedly; Barsad is performs a diagnostic peritone al lavage to confirm bleeding and sends her to surgery. He is used to doing much more with less. This sort of work, though stressful, is familiar. He is at home in trauma rooms and by the time his shift is over, he is exhausted enough to allow himself to relax. He signs out but stays to complete paperwork, and by the time he leaves the hospital, the day is bright with sunlight and he’s realized he has nowhere else to go. He stands on the sidewalk, dithering, and someone moves and stands beside him. “It never ends, does it?” asks Andrea, a nurse who talks to Barsad even though he is not always the best about answering. “No,” he says. “It does not.” He likes Andrea. She’s forgiven him for mistaking her for a man at first: with her military-short hair and boyish shape, Barsad, still new to the country and confused, had called her “sir”. Andrea seems to hold no grudges. She says, “You’re almost done, right--with your residency? Then you can practice in America, right?” “Yes.” “I don’t think it’s fair that they make you do part of it over, y’know? You’re already a doctor.” “It is important to be assured of my qualifications. I have learned a good deal,” he tries a smile but thinks it probably comes out a bit twisted. Hopefully she’ll forgive him again, or won’t notice. “I have had a lot of help.” She pats him on the arm and goes her own way, walking under the changing leaves, the reds and yellows brilliant against a blue sky. Barsad watches her go, thinking of his dead daughter, and finds a small comfort in the brisk, smoky smell of the autumn air. MISCELLANY 21

Pop Art is Murder Brenda Barbee

Freshman, Anthropology

22 Spring 2014


Ryan Caronongan, senior Graphic design major Digital Art


Mat Board Buildings Courtney Bonacci, sophomore Studio art major 3D Art, Mat Board

Tunnel Vision Lois Harvey, senior 3D Art major 3D Art, Ceramic sculptor 24 Spring 2014

Indirect Connection Toni Todd

3D Art major 2D Art, Charcoal



Andy Morales, senior Fashion design major Digital Art


Sara Adams, senior 2D Design major Digital art, Photography. 26 Spring 2014

Pink Dream

Erika Jordan, junior 2D Art major

2D Art, Tissue paper, outlined with black marker



Brandon Warnock, junior 2D Studio art major 2D Art, Charcoal


Courtney Bonacci, Sophomore Studio art major 2D Art, Prismacolor pencils

28 Spring 2014

Icarus Falling Dustin Tilligkeit Senior, Writing and Linguistics

I’m shoved into the small airlock at the end of a long corridor. I can’t say that I don’t deserve it, but what a way to go. It’s a bright, white room with smooth walls. Built into the walls are cabinets containing air masks and extravehicular suits. All the cabinets are locked, though, because what would be the point of putting me in here, if I would live through it. An alarm begins to wail as the air is pumped out. I take several panicked breaths before I realize that I might live a few seconds longer if I can just relax a bit. Beneath the sound of the alarm there is a hissing sound, something I’m keenly aware of, knowing that it’s the atmosphere being channeled out of the room. I sit there, trying not to think of the blood boiling from my every orifice before I freeze solid. I know the door will open soon, and I’ll be pulled into nothingness. I begin to feel dizzy, drowsy, giddy. I know it’s the lack of oxygen getting to my brain. I try to stand, I want to jump when the door opens, prove that even though my death is certain, I will face it without reservation, unafraid. My toes are numb and a tingling is moving up my ankles and wrists. I look out the small window and see blackness. Even the stars are invisible to my eyes, blinded as they were by the bright lights above. I notice dark shadows creeping into the corners of my eyes and refuse to surrender to the void beyond the thick metal door. The alarm is barely audible when I hear the scrape and hum of the door mechanics. A whistling sound began as a thin sliver of black became visible through the crack of the airlock door. I hang onto

a handle built into the wall, even though I can no longer feel my fingers, numb from both the cold of the vacuum and the lack of oxygen to my brain and muscles. The door was open partially, a meter square of inky darkness beyond the safety of our space station, before I felt myself pulled from the lock into space. My leg collided with the door as I was jettisoned, a final pain of a broken leg before I lost consciousness entirely. I fought hard to stay conscious, but I was so tired. I tumbled through formless darkness, seeing the white living module suspended before me. My eyes adjusted and I saw the stars, those tiny lights that I had marveled at as a boy. It was their fault I ever came up here. Just to be a little closer to those magical lights in the sky. That’s the true motivation of any astronaut, alive or dead. We all just want to see the stars. I flip and feel the incredible pain of all the fluids in my body evaporating through my skin. My vision flickers as I see her one last time, her magnificent blue-green glow, wreathed in white clouds. I think, if only I could reach out and catch some of that air, I might live. But it’s too late. I’m falling and I’ll be dead long before I reach the Earth’s atmosphere. My last thought as I close my eyes is that I will be a miracle to someone down below. Perhaps some star-hungry child will see me glow as my flesh is seared away by friction. Perhaps it will draw them as the stars once drew me and they will learn from me. Don’t fly too close to the sun, little children, for your wings will melt and you will fall from the heavens. At least my death will be beautiful, a flash of light against the darkness, unlike the ungraceful demise of so many below. MISCELLANY 29

Turkish Bath Andy Morales

Senior, Fashion Design

30 Spring 2014

If the Shoe Fits Kiera Johnson Senior Still Life Painting/ Oil on Canvas


Family Matters Stanley Thomas

Junior, Mechanical Engineer

Sobriety around them never happens Even as a kid Spades would be played around Henny and beer Isley brothers and Marvin Gaye drowns out the laughter Even the angry shouts of trash talk or about the life they did live Or how great their kids are in school and athletics With bottles of beer and wine on the table, With a smell of pungent cigars and cigs A notebook full of paper used as a scoreboard to take bids and amount of books. Moments full of joy, full of harmony A time that is reminiscent like the promised lands See this family matters more than any problems of daily life Even with our own problems, Divorce, fights, complications Nobody’s family is invulnerable to problems It’s how your adapt and grow from them Family is who you have when the people who just want what you have leave When the world is against you When life has knocked you down They’ll be there, cheering you on, bringing you back on your feet Because when you’re family everyone matters, no matter what It never has to deal with blood or kin because sometimes your closest family are your friends. See this family that I have matters to me more than time does a clock They’ll never be able to tick me off to a point where I’ll stop Family is Forever attaching many incredibly loving youth

32 Spring 2014

Black Still Life Courtney Bonacci

Sophomore, Studio Art

Reflected Mirrors Chelsea Brown

Senior, Graphic Design


Hilton Head Poster Haley Tam

Senior, Graphic Design

34 Spring 2014


Nadia Dreid Senior, Journalism major your father sowed a restless seed in you. migrating fingers, curling tongue, you were born fidgeting. how did he manage to weave his inconsistency into your dna? it isn’t fair that you were born into your mother’s arms a wanderer, the soles of your feet itching. i don’t know how to teach you to stay.


Courtney Bonacci Sophomore, Studio Art


Amid a crash Arielle Coambes

Writing and Linguistics, Senior

A large dining room table, mahogany with a deep cherry stain, sat in the middle of the room. A lace table cloth was draped over it, leaving only the bottom of the legs visible. Two children were secluded from the adults and unnoticed at the end of the table. They whispered to one another, both of their eyes darting from wrinkled to aged face, avoiding being overheard. “How worried do you think they are?” Mabel asked her cousin Liam with wide eyes. Liam said, “They can’t suspect anything. And she may still show!” Both looked at Aunt May’s empty seat near the head of the table at the same time. Someone had pushed the empty bowls onto her place setting, out of the way. Just that weekend the children had been enjoying Aunt May’s home, running in and out of her spacious closet and through her long rows of frilly dresses, pretending they were explorers weaving through hanging vines in the Amazon. 36 Spring 2014

Their play led outside, up the hill, around the fountain, and into Aunt May’s garage. Her antique silver Volvo sat shiny and casting flecks of light into the children’s eyes. It was the first in a row of the family’s expensive things; there was Uncle Marvin’s boat, and next to it was Grandpa’s fixer-upper, the ‘59 Chevy painted cherry red. The children climbed the trailer’s tires trying to reach the deck of Uncle Marvin’s boat. But even standing on tiptoe, they couldn’t quite pull their weight over the edge, so they snagged the captain hat before settling into Aunt May’s Volvo. Each pretended to steer while wearing the hat. Liam tugged a metal stick under the wheel until it came loose. He pointed it to the horizon, bellowing “Land ho!” as Mabel steered. When Liam tried to put the stick back, though, it hadn’t quite fit right. Liam and Mabel hid it in the back seat and hoped that no one noticed they had been in the garage at all. At the dinner table now, neither

remembered the Amazon or the vast ocean of their play. “What if the stick was important?” Liam asked. “Do you know what those are for?” Mabel, eyes large and scared, looked at Liam for a long moment before whispering, “Was it the emergency-” Just then, a loud bang echoed through the house, followed by a crash and a window breaking. It sounded as if it came from the foyer, which created echoes of echoes because of its high ceilings and marble floors. Every head in the room snapped toward the noise. Uncle Marvin was the first to get up, mustache bristling and glasses askew after his six-inchhigh flinch. His small, round face was red with confusion and his caterpillar eyebrows met as one. “What the hell was that?” He appeared to be asking the noise itself, yelling toward it. He then blundered through the dining room, knocking Grandma’s hat rack to the floor. After Uncle Marvin’s reaction, the room realized they all were being incredibly rude and helped pick up Grandma’s hat rack. Each person grasped a piece; Aunt Lilly lifted from the top of the thin rod, Cousin Americus held fast to the dainty base, and the rest of the family lifted somewhere around the hat rack’s midsection. All hands were on deck as Grandma sat orchestrating the effort from her chair. After it was upright once again, the family returned to their seats at the large table. “Where has Marvin run off to?” Cousin Americus asked the room as he straightened the second fork in his row of silverware. Grandma’s guest, an old friend from charm school who wore pink glasses to match her pink tweed jacket, disapprovingly said, “He seems

apt to address such a disturbance.” She tsked the rude noise -- or maybe she was tsking Uncle Marvin. Uncle Marvin’s wife Aunt Lilly stood unnoticed by the hatrack, looking aghast at those seated at the table. She cried, “Well, does no one want to follow Marvin?” Silence followed, punctuated by her husband’s cries of “Unbelievable!” and “Shocking!” from the next room over. She flung her arms in the air before walking in the direction of what sounded like falling of rubble. The children sat staring at their family, each of whom were pressing their lips together into a thin line. For a moment, Mabel was entertained by thinking of a tightrope walker balancing across an invisible string that the family members were suspending with their offended lips. The pink-bespectacled guest opened her mouth, dropping the tightrope walker to his doom. She said, “I wouldn’t waste my time on matters that demand attention so impolitely. A bit like giving in to a child’s tantrum, don’t you think?” “Quite right indeed,” was the prompt consensus. The uncomfortable silence returned. Uncle Marvin ran back into the room, covered in sheet rock dust and with a car’s antenna in his hand. “May’s Volvo has just crashed into your home, Mother!” He said to Grandma. His glasses now hung comically off of one ear and he had a streak of sheet rock dust across his cheek. It looked like football paint. Grandma rose, then asked Grandpa to call the insurance agency. She addressed the rest of her guests and family. “We must’nt trouble ourselves. Let us continue into the den for cake, shall we?”



Courtney England senior Art major

38 Spring 2014

Doodle 10

Alyssa-Rhae Navin Senior Multimedia Communications/ Theatre


Dandelion Motion Toni Todd

40 Spring 2014

Schrödinger’s Overture Cady Ennis Senior, Writing and Linguistics

If I could wear you like the fabric of the universe, outline the hum of your atoms shivering in the cores of my pores, unstitching my skin, mapping my molecules into a purer, polished me, surely, the soliloquies of stars would fall faster to our unfolding eyes-eight minutes packed, trembling into one. The moon, seasick of gravity would make apples soar like satellites against the celestial, buttery spread upon cosmic loaves, and the tide would forget to hurl itself at the shore. We, you and I, us--with all the Darling’s in between-would Create only what Mattered. Somewhere, surely, in a window parallel to ours, We are yielding to shared chemistry balanced only in one another’s embrace, where your love-song palms never doppler away into the dusk, because you never leave. Maybe one day, in this universe too, absolutes will become absolutely true, and we could disrupt the Heavens. Still, I Prufrock at the brink, Do I dare? Do I dare? Can a concert of my muscles and bones lift but a corner of that box to see if Pandora sleeps or thrives inside?


Maiden’s Journey Honor Lind

Studio Art Major

42 Spring 2014

Tru Blue Photo Book Haley Tam

Senior- Graphic Design


President Keel Warping the Time-Space Continuum on the Southern Express Andy Morales

Senior, Fashion Design

44 Spring 2014

Frozen in the Past Ananse Sasori Junior Sociology

Every promise, dream, joke and memory, I wrote down. The paper was white and crisp. As I scribbled notes about what could be, it crinkled and dulled. It looked beautiful against the night air. All orange and grey with passion and purpose. The words radiated my nostalgic desperation. Through the haze as I watched the stars sizzle sans sparkle, I felt an unusual feeling. This cleansing I had thought to do through ink and life was not working. As I suffocated my newborn fire with beer, you were still there. The hole that could have been filled was still imploding. My future, which no longer could be, had been immolated. But this ash is still left in my soul... and on my porch. I watched a paper go up in smoke today. I watched our love burn.


Sleeping Beauty RAY PETTIT

Freshman, Graphic Design

46 Spring 2014

Blending In..Or Not Lauren Howard

Senior Psychology

After the Rain Courtney Bonacci

Sophomore, Studio Art



Freshman, Graphic Design

Newspaper Wedding Dress Keyyanna Jones

Senior Fashion Design Major

48 Spring 2014

Rainfari Studded Clutch Keyyanna Jones

Senior Fashion Design Major


Judges spotlights

50 Spring 2014

Judge spotlight

Jeff Schmuki 3d art judge Jeff Schmuki was born in Phoenix Arizona and lives in Statesboro, Georgia. Schmuki has completed projects at the American Academy of Rome, Seoul Art Space Geumcheon in South Korea, and the Goethe Institute of Cairo, Egypt. Schmuki’s work has also exhibited in many group exhibitions including, Terra-Cotta, Primitive Future (2011) at the Clayarch Museum in Gimhae, South Korea; Lift Off: Earthlings and the Great Beyond (2011) in the Paul Robeson Galleries at Rutgers University in Newark, New Jersey; Foodture (2014) in the Elaine L. Jacob Gallery, Wayne State University, Detroit, Michigan. His work can be found in collections of the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C., Incheon World Ceramic Center in Incheon, South Korea, and the Museo Internazionale delle Ceramiche in Faenza, Italia. Schmuki is the recipient of grants from the Pollock-Krasner (2007) and Joan Mitchell (2006) Foundations and is cofounder of PlantBot Genetics, a collaboration with Canadian artist Wendy DesChene.


Judge spotlight Elsie hill 2d art judge Elsie Taliaferro Hill is an Assistant Professor of Foundation Studies and Painting in the Betty Foy Sanders Department of Art. Originally from Savannah, Hill earned a B.F.A. in painting from the Rhode Island School of Design and worked as a commission portrait artist for 12 years. Hill received her M.F.A. from the School of the Arts at Columbia University in the City of New York where she lived and worked as an artist for six years. During that time she was represented by the Nabi Gallery and participated in several solo and group exhibitions. Hill was recently commissioned to paint the official courtroom portrait of the Chief Judge of the Georgia Court of Appeals, the late Hon. Charles B. Mikell. Hill’s accolades include Second Place in the Armstrong National 2-D Competition, Armstrong Atlantic State University; Natural Resource Defense Council Environmental Art Award Finalist; D’Arcy Hayman Scholarship and Agnes Martin Fellowship, Columbia University.

Jessica Burke 2d art judge

Jessica Burke is an Assistant Professor of Art and Director of the Foundations Program at Georgia Southern University. She maintains a small, but productive studio in Statesboro, Georgia. Her work has been collected in both public and private collections in the United States as well as Japan and Mexico. It has been shown regionally, nationally and internationally in the United Kingdom, Korea, Holland and Italy.Please visit her website for more information and examples of her work www.

52 Spring 2014

Judge spotlight Jessica hines digital art judge Artist and storyteller Jessica Hines, uses the camera’s inherent quality as a recording device to explore illusion and to suggest truths that underlie the visible world. Hines began to cultivate her creative disposition early in life and her love of the arts led her to attend Washington University in St. Louis, where she earned a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. Continuing to pursue her interests, she studied photography at the University of Illinois at UrbanaChampaign where she received a Master of Fine Arts degree. Jessica Hines’ work has been widely exhibited and published in North and South America, throughout Asia, Europe, and Oceania. This includes her most recent award, the 2013 PDN Photo Annual for best Personal Photography, NYC, NY, as well as The Kolga Award for Best Experimental Photography, 2012, Kolga Tbislisi Photo in Tbilisi, Republic of Georgia, and Humanitarian Documentary Grant in the WPGA Annual 2010 Pollux Awards.

Santanu majumdar digital art judge Since the last decade, Santanu have lived in India, England and USA. During this time, he worked with designers, craftsmen, engineers, architects and professionals of all these nations. Santanu gathered experience in exhibition design, retail design, packaging, signage system design, interactive design, short films, game design and print production. At present his interest has grown to technology based communication design. The last few years have given him exposure to different work cultures, languages, local customs, learning styles and political perspectives. Santanu speaks four different languages. English, Hindi, Gujrati and Bengali. Santanu has received several national and international awards, which makes him recognized as a successful designer. He has worked professionally for well-known organizations like the United Nation, UNICEF, United Nations Development Programme, Help the Aged, Design C, JWT, Tesco, Londis Super Markets, Day Lewis Pharmacy, Government of Madhya Pradesh, India, and Government of India. MISCELLANY 53

Judge spotlight Ashley Newsome fashion judge Ashley Newsome earned a Master’s of Fine Art degree in Fashion from the Savannah College of Art and Design and a Bachelors of Art degree in Design/Apparel Technology from the North Carolina State University College of Design and Textiles. Study in the areas has directed her interests towards apparel design, manufacturing, and textile development. She is currently a visiting instructor of Fashion Merchandising and Apparel Design at Georgia Southern University, teaching courses in fashion design, theory and development. She is passionate about the advancement of craft culture as well as the implementation of sustainable practices in the fashion industry. She views her works of wearable art as a marriage between historically inspired techniques and modern aesthetics. Outside of teaching, she creates apparel and fiber art collections and conducts research on the sociology and ethnography of dress. Her work can be viewed at

theresa Welford Fiction judge Theresa Malphrus Welford, whose PhD is from the University of Essex (in England), has taught at Georgia Southern for over two decades. She teaches English 1101 and 1102 and Creative Writing classes, including Writing for Young Readers, Writing the Undead, Everyday Creative Writing, and Intro to Creative Writing. She has published poetry, creative nonfiction, book chapters, academic articles, and two edited collections of poetry. She is currently writing several books for children and co-authoring two textbooks. Theresa and her husband, Mark Welford, happily share their home with more than a dozen rescued animals (cats and dogs). Theresa enjoys reading, from serious literature to cheesy fiction to irreverent picture books. Her taste in movies is similarly wide-ranging. A passionate traveler, she has now been to thirty-one countries. She is also a long-time vegetarian, a totally unabashed tree-hugger, and an ardent animal-rescue volunteer.

54 Spring 2014

Judge spotlight richard flynn poetry judge Richard Flynn is a professor in the Department of Literature and Philosophy. He is the author of a critical book, Randall Jarrell and the Lost World of Childhood, a collection of poetry, The Age of Reason, and of many articles about contemporary poetry and literature for young audiences. Recent and forthcoming work includes “Elizabeth Bishop, Randall Jarrell, and the Lost World of Real Feeling” in the Cambridge History of American Poetry, “Words in Air: Bishop, Lowell, and the Aesthetics of Autobiographical Poetry” in Elizabeth Bishop in the Twenty-First Century: Reading the New Editions, and two autobiographical critical and creative essays: “My Folk Revival: Childhood, Politics, and Popular Music” in Time of Beauty, Time of Fear: the Romantic Legacy in the Literature of Childhood and “Like a Cactus Tree: Coming of Age with Joni Mitchell’s Music” in Gathered Light: The Poetry of Joni Mitchell’s Songs.

Christina Olson creative nonfiction judge Christina Olson is the author of Before I Came Home Naked, a book of poems. Her poetry appears inThe Southern Review, River Styx,Gulf Coast, Mid-American Review, Puerto del Sol, Anti, Gastronomica, Passages North and Hayden’s Ferry Review, among other publications, and was selected by Gerald Stern as the winner of The Dirty Napkin’s Poetry Prize. Her creative nonfiction appears in Brevity, Black Warrior Review,The Normal School,Wake: Great Lakes Culture and Thought, and was anthologized in W. W. Norton’s The Best Creative Nonfiction Volume 3. She is the poetry/nonfictioneditor of Midwestern Gothic, and lives both in Georgia and online at www.


Named for the first creative writing teacher at Georgia Southern, the Roy Powell Awards for Creative Writing are offered by The Department of Writing and Linguistics to encourage and recognize excellence in creative writing.  The competition is open to all Georgia Southern University students, both graduate and undergraduate. 

56 Spring 2014

The Trick to Knots By Amanda Malone

Katherine’s parents had decided to wake up early on Saturday and get a

through a large black trunk. He turned around and smiled at her.

head start on cleaning out the attic. She

Hey sport, he said. Wanna see some of

ate breakfast in the empty kitchen and

my old stuff?

listened to all the noise they made up

Katherine went over and looked at

there, stomping around. They’d started

the clutter in the trunk. There were some

arguing again, though their voices were

cases of carefully organized baseball

muffled and she couldn’t quite under-

cards, vinyl records, an autographed Pa-

stand what the problem was. When she

triots football, and a bent picture of her

finished eating and went down the hall,

mother from younger years. He pulled

Katherine found the attic door open and

out some of the records and smiled as

her mother climbing down off the ladder.

he went through them.

There were a few trash bags on the

I got most of these when I was

floor. Her mother picked them up and

much older than you. Probably around

struggled to carry them by herself.

seventeen, he said. Bruce Springsteen,

Coming through, she said to Kath-

Ram Jam, AC/DC – you’d love these.

erine as she passed her and went down

This one, he said and turned the album

the hall. Katherine climbed up the ladder,

over to read this song list. This is Billy

stopping on the second rung. Her father

Joel. Your mom and I danced to one of

was sitting in the corner, rummaging

his songs on our first date. I never really


liked any of his stuff before, but your

sat on the steps of the back door, resting

mom helped change my mind.

her chin in her hands and staring out at

Katherine reached inside the trunk

the empty yard behind her house. The

and found a small black box held shut by

upward slope of grass was yellowing in

a metal clamp at the front. She held it

patches and lead to edge of some woods.

out to her father and said, what’s this?

Whenever it snowed, Katherine and her

Let me see, he said, taking it and

father would drag their sled to the top of

working on the fastener until it popped

the steep hill and stop just at trees before

open. Lying inside was a dull-gold neck-

sliding all the way down. But she hadn’t

lace with a birthstone threaded along

gone any farther than that.

a thin chain. I gave it to your mother a

There was a faint buzzing sound fol-

long time ago, he said. Must have been

lowed by a hornet that flew past her nose.

thrown in when we moved, just after you

She flinched, then looked up and saw a

were born, he said and picked up the

whole nest in the roof overhang. Its grey

necklace, which had become knotted

paper walls were partly torn, exposing the

and tangled. He started pulling at ran-

chaotic mass packed inside. Their angry

dom pieces of the thin chain. There’s

humming was growing louder.

always a trick to knots, Katie, he said.

She moved away slowly before

To undo it, you gotta find that one piece

making her way up the hill and into the

holding everything together. You take

woods. Fallen trees were randomly

that out and everything else comes free

scattered across the forest floor next to

in no time. He continued tugging at

stumps left jagged from violent sepa-

the necklace but nothing happened. He

rations. Not far ahead, she could see a

dropped it back in the box and handed it

huge boulder sitting in a small clearing.

back to Katherine. Maybe you’ll be able

The underside of it was covered in moss.

to untie in a bit, he said.

She reached out and felt the cold stone,

She nodded and closed the box before

running her fingers along the sides as

stuffing it into her pocket.

she circled it. Once behind it, she plant-

He continued to go through each

ed her feet and pushed all of her weight

of the items in the box and the stories

against the mass. When it didn’t budge,

behind it. She started to get bored.

she began testing ridges along the

When her mother finally came back and

sides. She found her footing and started

started fussing about how nothing was

climbing. The stone grated against her

getting done, Katherine took the chance

skin and left angry red marks across

to excuse herself and go outside. She

her palms. She tried pulling herself up

58 Spring 2014

but lost her grip and slid down the side,

What’ve you got there?

landing facedown in the dirt. She felt

Katherine offered the box. Her

a searing pain and bit her lip against

mother pulled the necklace out and ran

a scream. She got up slowly, brushed

her fingers over the links. Oh, I remember

some of the dirt off and started back for

this, she said. Your father gave it to me.

the house.

I was allergic to the metal though. Gave

Slipping in through the back door,

me a horrible rash whenever I wore it

she made her way to the bathroom down

for too long. It’ll probably turn your skin

the hall. She passed the hatch door to

green. You should throw it away.

the attic, which had been closed. She

She dropped the necklace back in

made sure to close the door quietly

the box and gave it back to Katherine.

behind her. Under the sink she washed

Maybe it’s time to go back outside, she

the dirt from her hands and face before

said and got up from the table. She

pulling off the ruined fabric to inspect

smoothed some of Katherine’s untidy

the damage. A long scrape ran down

hair before going back down the hallway.

her right side, the skin ripped in uneven

Katherine did as she was told. She

patches. It had left a large red stain on

made her way back to the boulder and

the shirt. She grabbed first aid supplies

sat on the ground, leaning against the

from the lowest shelf in the closet and

cold rock. She pulled out the box and

got to work on the damage.

turned it over in her fingers for a moment

After changing and stowing the ru-

before taking out the necklace. She ran

ined shirt, Katherine found her mother in

her fingers over the links, gently working

the kitchen. She was sitting at the table

some of the slack into loops. Some of

with a glass of water, leaning her head

the gold began to rub off onto her fin-

against one hand. Her mother didn’t no-

gers. The metal looked as though it had

tice her until she was on the other side

been burned.

of the table. Hey, her mother said. She forced

She slid her thumbnail between the taut strands in the center and tried to

a smile and tried to wipe her puffy red

widen the gaps between them. As the

eyes. Did you play outside today?

knot loosened, a piece slid out and fell

Katherine said, Yeah but I fell and

into her lap. A lump grew in her throat.

got a scrape. I fixed it myself though,

She carefully pulled at the knot again.

she said. She felt something digging into

Two more separate pieces came free.

her leg and pulled out the necklace box

She twisted them between her fingers,

from her pocket.

feeling where the thin links had been

That’s good, her mother said.

stretched and disconnected.


The Trouble With Water By Sarah Fonseca

a truth about water

“Yes, you nearly drowned when you were a baby. Rolled right off of that orange floaty and into the lake. When your daddy found you, you were blue,” my mom informed me whenever word of a boating accident on Lake Thurmond made local news headlines, or when a neighbor went missing during a bankside fishing trip. I remembered that I’d nearly died, but not what that felt like. It became easy to fear the water, the unknown depths, their contents.

a truth about water

My father could have taught me anything: the difference between a carburetor and a radiator, how to speak Spanish, or how to draw my mother with nothing but precision and colored pencils. But I remained seated in the backseat of the family’s steady stream of used cars. Rs never rolled out of my mouth in a ripple, and my small hands

60 Spring 2014

remained preoccupied with wordsnever line contours or shading. Instead, my father tried to teach me to swim. Water against our brown skin was more of a legacy than the tongue I couldn’t speak, the things I was unable to repair or create with my hands. Several decades before my birth, he’d treaded the 300 saline miles between Florida and Cuba with limb and oar. With each stroke, the communist island receded further and further into his past. I am the sole Fonseca heir. A lake in a conservative (yet ultimately benign) southern town should have been an easy nautical starting point for me, the daughter of a man who once conquered the Atlantic. We waded into Lake Thurmond. I hopped onto my father’s shoulders at his beckoning, arms wrapping against the overlabored muscle that contracted and bulged. He treaded water until we were four feet out, five feet out, six feet; wellover my head.

When he deliberately shrugged me from his shoulders and into the water, I promptly gurgled and sank to the bottom, as if my body was reenacting the tale of me nearly drowning in infancy.

mother’s funeral in Kentucky. Mama took MeeMaw Pearl’s stiff white hand in hers, leaned over the matriarch’s casket, and sobbed.

a truth about water

Sadness was not unique; the women before the women before me cried plenty. MeeMaw Pearl’s husband’s jon boat capsized in McNeely Lake in Kentucky around 1950. Her husband attempted to swim for the bank, inevitably exhausting himself to death. MeeMaw survived because she clung to the side of the boat until a fisherman found her. When MeeMaw Pearl finally made it home, some eager body willing to lend a helping hand made the critical mistake of reaching for her late husband’s discarded shoes. MeeMaw proceeded to pitch a glorified Louisville, Kentucky fit. The shoes would remain there until she was good and ready. I do not know if she was ever good or ready.

According to Matthew 14:2233, Jesus walked on it.

a truth about water

I sank plum through it.

a truth about water

I was fifteen. My best friend’s mouth was wet against mine, the marching band bus’ window was wet, my body was wet; Jennifer’s chest became wet as I dragged my palm, dripping with the window’s wintery condensation, across her ribcage. When I returned home and my mother asked how the football game, our halftime show, and the long journey home from Johnson County had gone, my answers were drymouthed and short. I was gone. Jennifer joined the Army a year or so later. She spent a summer elbowing her way through mud pits roofed with barbed wire, returning home void of interest in me and full of tall tales. I wanted so badly to believe that her newfound interest in boys was one of them. I spent my lunch periods behind my high school’s automotive shop, seated on the rusted John Deer mower hidden in the overgrown boxwoods, eyes watering the evergreens and inspiring more rust.

a truth about water

Sadness was not unique; the women before me cried plenty. My mother did so in 1996 at her own

a truth about water

a truth about water

At times, it does not exist. When dissected into its two root originsfonte and secathe Fonseca surname can be readily translated into English: Dry fountain. It is all too easy for me to grow complacent with being a vessel out of touch with its own function, its desires. One never thinks about what she is missing when she is in the throes of drought. For the first six years of the new millennium, every headline was about oddeven lawn watering days and Georgia fighting with Florida and Alabama for control of the Peach State’s dwindling water supply. The absence of rain and Lake Thurmond’s dry bottom didn’t


evoke so much as an afterthought. I have never told my father that there was one thing that he did with his body that I also wanted to do with mine. I never deflated his dreams for me, aside from the one about swimming. I never even thought to.

a truth about water

I was twentyfour and I was sweating; that was how I met Chelsea. I managed to drag a damp paper towel across my brow and torso in the coffee shop’s restroom before meeting her. It had done little good. Despite being momentarily sheltered from August’s sun, my nerves insisted upon working overtime in place of it. Coffee did not help either. The dating culture surrounding caffeinated drinks proved just as faulty as the one surrounding their boozy counterparts. There is no such thing as social lubricant. There was only longing. Longing for her to keep talking and touching on the pertinent (and never stop touching), Longing to be so understood that my palms felt like anthropological dig finds. Whether a beverage in a glass intermittently quells that voicethe one that knows you have something to losematters so little. Not to be mistaken for too much coffee, it was still there, humming along kneebone cartilage and the fingertips that nervously pushed through my hair: She could very well be this tremendous thing to you. As we sat at an outdoor table, my hair began to feel heavy. I cupped the sky in my palm above my head; it was beginning to rain.

62 Spring 2014

“Is this okay? Sitting here?” I asked. “Yeah. It’s totally fine,” she answered.

a truth about water

It often shifts shape. I returned to the same coffee shop in February following a substantial winter storm, the first of its intensity to hit Georgia in many years. The steel outdoor tables and chairs where I’d sat with Chelsea that previous summer were packed with layers of ice and snow. When she kissed me for the first time a month prior, I was frozen, stubbornly thawing as I realized that my body was worthy of acknowledgement, let alone capable of response. And all of the legends were right all along: I was nearly dying I was surrounded by unknown depths, I sobbed, I was gone, but I was good, and I was ready.

a truth about water

It has been suggested by etymology enthusiasts that the cliché “blood is thicker than water” might very well be a misinterpretation of the saying, “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” It’s plausible that we’ve been placing too much emphasis on kinfolk and not enough on those who come into our lives by chance, by the luck of the body’s draw.

a truth about water

I still cannot fully submerse my head in the bathtub without pinching my nose. I still cannot hazard more than a dog paddle. These things no longer matter.

By Cady Ennis

[to my brown eyes left on the piano bench: hung like so many men]

to my brown eyes left on the piano bench: hung like so many men. to my brown eyes: hanged like the gasping throats of coats on pretentious hatracks. I say this: ball up like paper basketballs and peachpits. retreat: squint past the raspberry love affairs gliding across his keys. and such fingers! such hands could. could they? fluff pastries. ruin figures with their sweet, sweet, oh! sweetness. look away, eyes. it’s too much. he shuffles his sheet music. I wrangle my pupils back to the bistro table: back to the watermark herds of so many coffee mugs. back to the sweet, safe prison of the wood grain. back to his apartment. he’d most certainly own bookcases. and flaunt the hipster cliché record collection. I’d try not to get naked: what if I played coy? what if I don’t laugh too hard. what if I tease him for reading national geographic? pretend I don’t think his coffee table’s sexy? his almost certainly turkish rug is sexy? his couch that could have most certainly wooed so many girls but didn’t because he’s classy and has been waiting: hoping for a girl just like me? the bell at the coffee shop rings the entrance of a lady in red. why didn’t I wear red? She kisses him across the piano. holds those sweet sweet hands. I reign in my eyes and sell every last bookcase. and unpatriotic turkish rug. and sickening record I’m sure he must have.


Steal the Lines of Other Poets By Cady Ennis Get used to being derivative. Get used to selling out your mother’s antiques on Saturdays. Buy the reddest ground chuck because your father said so. Shave your legs with Gertrude and Ernest and F. Scott because it’s sexy. It’s smooth. Paint your tongue with borrowed jazz. Why don’t it mean a thing [ask yourself politely] if it ain’t got that swing? Shall I sheathe myself in stolen shirts and forget the bra so that pieces of me might poke through if it’s chill enough. [Am I real enough?] Lick the silver from the spoon. Get used to being derivative. Get used to borrowing your neighbor’s sugar. Get used to calling your neighbor Sugar and surfing rooftops to steal a few crystals. Shall I burn Prufrock to string wreaths from the ashes. I’m not easy. I’m moved by mountains for mountains never move. I met a porn star at my birthday party. He taught me how to sell tiedyed shirts on the internet. Does the flower take rouge from her grandma’s purse? I stole haunts from the ghosts at the old meat packing plant.

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Use and get used to being derivative. Dab your wrists in thriftshopped sunsets, and if nabbing umbrellas from drinks, and if biting his nails to keep in a little box moves the immovable mountain, and if the handmedown overalls sag, and if the wise man’s voice creaks like overrented hotel beds, squeeze enough [is it ever enough?] pulp from you, from me, to fill the gaps, to bridge the moment, to cover the rock song, to grease the joints, to flex your ankles behind your head. Wash your hands in the Mona Lisa and fingerpaint a new tomorrow. Blink in the subleased muse. Wash in the rented inspiration of the Earth. Leave lip prints on the glass. May I pickpocket the stars from your eyes and shimmer in their dust? I am a thief who welcomes thieves. Get used to being derivative. Get used to building.

Evening is best worn off-white By Cady Ennis I trim the chrysanthemums and hush the monster in the lullaby loch, brush the river, the ferns, the howling rush, I am the castle guard in the garden guarding ardent hollows, lost compartments, daffodil boats, I part the arches of the unsung harp, and parting the arches caught the unspoken hope, coddled the hollows, hushed the river, parted hope, and guarded with poise and Merlot. I love you, endure you, douse your brows in lilac, your arms in the shimmer of ardent lullabies in the hush of the night, the bristle of the unbrushed river, and send your heart in chrysanthemum ships to the heart of the loch to part the hollows of the monster’s lullaby lips and lock you away in the center of the loch in the center of the garden I watch, guarding.


66 Spring 2014

Miscellany Digital Edition, Spring 2014  
Miscellany Digital Edition, Spring 2014