USCA | LITERARY ARTS MAGAZINE | VOLUME 43

Broken Ink endeavors to accurately and objectively feature the literary and artistic achievements of USC Aiken students and to raise awareness of the literary and visual arts

throughout campus and the community.

Mission stateMent

{Broken Ink}USCA’s Literary Arts Magazine

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

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editor’s note

Over the course of my time as Editor-in-Chief of Broken Ink I have been incredibly impressed with the artistic community at USC Aiken. Not only did the artists and writers on campus turn out a staggering amount of submissions for this magazine (over 200!), the quality of those pieces made for some stiff competition when it came to our final selections. I believe the result of our staff and review panel’s lengthy discussions of the pieces is a literary arts magazine that represents the breadth and quality of our artistic talents at USCA. Sadly, we were unable to include all of the amazing pieces we had the privilege of reviewing. On behalf of the Broken Ink staff, I would like to thank all the student artists and writers who make this magazine possible by submitting their creations. Others who have more than earned my gratitude this year are the staff of the Student Life Office, the English faculty, the Washington Group Award panel, the fine arts faculty, our proofreaders, the English and fine arts upperclassmen who volunteered to help on our submission review panels, and, for being a great mentor and friend, Karl Fornes— our faculty advisor. All of you have “got tiger blood, man.” For my fellow students on the Broken Ink staff, thank you for making my time at USCA filled with friends and creativity. As I graduate and leave the magazine in your capable hands, just remember one thing: you are all “bi-winning.”

Much inspiration to you,

Christina Berkshire

Broken Ink Editor-in-chief, 2009- 2011

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Contents

Silence Is...PietyHigher EducationCapes and TightsIlinxA Blessed DefloweringMy Inner LifeMatthew 5:42But I Forgot to Bring My Swimmin’ TrunksDreams of FallOf YouThe Unconquerable Quest for Rest: A Writer’s Untold StoryFamineHere are the Men with the Hoses to Hose the Place OutSide Effects of LifeMy PeopleAutumn EveningHaiku Contest Winners

Poetry

artAlice in MossLaundry TimeThree Moons on the RiverMary AliceDaily EssentialsHooperWaterCento IIUntitled IIWithered Tree of ColorCapelli LiquidoCommunicationNo CoverGalloping Through the WoodsLoralei with Teddy Bear

ProseThe Odyssey of DestinyThe Craftsman’s MythSunset

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James MockBrady MorrisLindsey HubbsRoy HudsonChristina BerkshireOliver FinnieEmily ShortAshley WilsonWilliam Blake Bolen

Andrew HasbenJoshua TruelAbe Kalsbeek

David WelcherUdge Kurbudkin

Eric RussellIsaiah CohnAshleah Hudson

Christina BerkshireMelissa WiseJeanine RodriguezMabry MacGregorBerrien ChidseyMaria LaRoccaAmy Martyn TurnerJeanine RodriguezTim SchmidtBerrien ChidseyDegan CheekMaria LaRoccaTrey WorkmanAnna BlizardSam Lobrano

Brent HooverBrady MorrisAndrew Hasben

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Washington group aWards

Sunset

Matthew 5:42

Andrew Hasben

Ashley Wilson

Prose

Poetry

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

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

This poem is about a boy named Matthew and the time we spent together.

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Golden.Why do we feel it necessaryTo fill the air with trivialSounds?

Listen.

Hear the breathing of the wind,As it inhales…exhales.Hear the weeping of the sky,As the weight she carries becomes too much to bear.Hear the land reaching up, beggingTo be kissed by the sun.

Why are we still making noise?Listen to what is being saidWhen nothing is spoken.

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

Silence is…

silence is...

James Mock

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

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The sky growls as I glance at the grey headstones, crumblingrectangles infested with lichen as greyand as old as the stone it consumes

Ahead, among the field of graves,sits the church, sovereign above the markers of the dead, its only congregation the wind that bows through the long-since shatteredwindows with incomprehensible reverenceand the rain that sometimes seeps through the rotted roof

I can hear that storm gathering above me,preparing to give way to that celestial downpourlike one more attempt to flood the filth awaybut, much to the chagrin of the righteous,it only serves to get us sinners soggy

It’s almost funny how just being near a church resurrects the sometimes-sacrilegious cynic in me,but this time the skeptic’s voice is subdued, half-hearted,as if it doubts its own words, instead of the preachers’

I’m unsettled at oncebecause I realize I’m unsettled,ill at ease with the fact that this place,this forgotten site,sends a shiver down the back of my neckThe ruin holds a power, unspoken ofin the super-churches and bible camps,a charge as if lightning struck here and never left,unearthly and forgottento men of cities and streetlights

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

to the half-opened door of the churchand peer withinThe smells of age are thick at the threshold;dust and decaying wood mix with the ozone of the approaching stormI can see light falling weakly onto ancient pews,between the doors that once stood openwide to the devout and the living,now between the realms

so I step away, unwilling to defile this place

Piety

Brady Morris

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

Sleek and brown with a busy kind of air,he darts expertlythrough the overhanging boughs, bestowingshame on those whomammoth him.Bright black eyes shine withvigilance, keen as he scuffles along, seeing An exodus of young scholars mere inches from his steadylaboring.If he could sing, he would vie with the most melodious of birds, running silent scales as he continues.Others pay no heed to him, offer him no reward; still he scurries, needing no approval.

Would-be geniusesendlessly immobile, can’t learn from one so small. Sadly,it’s against the nature of such self-important researchers. Steadily,searching for synthetic slaves to drive and whip at leisure. Unfortunately,squirrels don’t possess machines for their work,relying instead on their own natural tools. Consequently, they do not warrant notice. Obviously,humans are higher beings who conquer such trifles. Honestly,who cares about a little rat in the straw?

HigHer education

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Lindsey Hubbs

Last semester in Dr. Geyer’s Intro. To Creative Writing class, I was required to write a poem in free verse. Up until this point, I’d always written poetry with some sort of meter or rhyme scheme, so this was a challenge for me. My inspiration was a squirrel scurrying around in the pine straw of our very own Quad, completely oblivious to the students walking around him.

Capes and tights, days and nights Out all the time fighting crime Super strength and laser vision Or just superior comprehension Aspiration, inspiration Funny looks over comic books But when duty calls it’s one for all Teflon vests and tear gas Or rubber coats and an ax Answering pleas or Retrieving cats from trees Ending a drug lord’s reign Protecting those who are sane Saving lives or just being a friend Real heroes aren’t always comic book super men But true role models, not for pretend

caPes and tigHts

Roy Hudson

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

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ilinx

The new moon blossomedin our irises as we tendedour garden of night.

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

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

To recompose weabandoned sightand soundto embrace our touchand smell.

We pressedour flower selvesinto the skyand splinteredinto stars.

Christina Berkshire

Ilinx is a category of games described by Roger Caillois which creates a temporary disruption of perception, like spinning in circles. This poem describes that feeling you get when you wake suddenly from a dream, feeling like you just tripped.

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Oliver Finnie

a Blessed deflowering

I plucked her from the field amongthe daisies and daffodils becauseshe stood out like a white rose surrounded by orchids.Her beauty was full as a bouquet picked from God’s first garden,and she was as innocent as the day before the first holiday of sin.Ooh… her skin was as soft as thegentle stroke of a lily, and her presence,the fragrance of a forest of gardenias.The taste of her lips were as sweet as the drips of honeysuckles. Her love captured me like a Venus flytrap.The corsage to my carnation, unmarredby temptation, we departed with God’sgood graces.She swayed to the breeze of my whispersas her thoughts meandered like dandelion seeds. When my tulips encountered hermagnolia, nectar flowed like a volcano’ssiege. Then there was sweet pollinationunder a honeymoon of violets.

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

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Emily Short

My inner life

my mother died when i was nine but stuck around and kept a bottle for a child, while all along this child nursed her,as i, the necessary obligation, faded from her mind.

so i, now mother to my self, naive about these ways and their permissions— none was needed— for anger turned inside-out then in, blanked out before the tomes of necessary know-how, yet fingered out the crevice in the stone and slipped through sideways.

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

My breath stopsas I pass the pinesthat you and I would hide in.

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

I walk through to find the oakwe laid on. My fingers trace the bark that tattooed my back.

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

But, the old womenquilting crossestaught me to alwaysgive to beggars.So I let you stay.

The broken zipperon my favorite jeansa symbol of my charity.

Ashley Wilson

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

But i forgot to Bring My swiMMin’ trunks

The cold weather brought a hard rainand the grey clouds that gave birth to it;My mind was midnight weary.

Venus was hidden from my viewAs well as every star.

I envisioned my favorite moon sleeping;Her chest rising and falling back into place.

No moon for me tonight, I thought – Drowning in the disappointment of the fact,but still rolling along with the roll of thunderAs it sang to me in a deep and heavy bass –

As a strange pressure began to crown –On whatever mental planeI was wandered around on at the time – A weak spot gave way to a jet stream Of uninhibited thoughtsand odd questions:Who am I?Where am I?Struggling with myself to find the answers.

A meaningless task;A fool’s errandWhich proved to grow more difficult,With every passing moment,To pull myself away from –Like a strong addiction to a hard drugApproaching its peak – The fog circling around me grew thickUnrelentingUntil everything was out of sightWas I out of my mind?Or in it?

There was nowhere else to go.In lieu of the cerebral stormThat I knew was brewing,I crawled inside,

I found a shovel proppedAgainst the wall under a signWhich read, “dig,”and I could think of nothing more logicalAs the storm grew more fierce around me(I felt threatened)

So, I drove that shovel downand as I dug into the fleshy depthsI foundThat the deeper I went, the harder it got.

The thoughts I had forgotten were buriedLong, long agoShot out at me like green smokeThe instant they were uncoveredWith ghastly force at blinding speed,

Blinding me with each explosive burst,and I failed to notice that the tunnelI so fervently hollowed was being filled With that mist of jaded thoughts.

Exhausted, I set the shovel aside and sat down to rest and with each passing breathI felt the strain increase with the next.

I’d forgotten that the world in whichI then existed was not the world In which I was bornand the smoke had nowhere to go.

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So, I sleptIn that abysmal bedFor what seemed an eternity, and I dreamt.

I awoke in the backseat of a French taxiDriven by a large Middle class Middle agedMan who couldn’t understand what I saidand didn’t know where I was going.We rode on in uninterrupted silence.

I stared out beyond the cityThinking about a dream I hadOn the flight overWhere I shoveled desperatelyThrough soft grey flesh to no end.

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

I glanced out through the window – Down into the infiniteThat was the great blue sea Below me; Waiting for me – Just wishing the captainFelt like taking us for a swim.

William Blake Bolen

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dreaMs of fall

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

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

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

A cold wind came, stirring colder tears to fall. It rocked and swayed the canopy so it groaned. Then, the leaves changed shades before my eyes, and fell in bunches like colored rain, till they layamongst me on the ground like withered bones.I scooped great bunches in my hands, but feltno life, only the stale, fading colors of death.

Andrew Hasben

A lot of the times when I am writing a short story, I will write poems from the perspective of the characters. I do this to put myself, emotionally, into their situations. This scene is similar to one that appears in one of my short stories, and I wanted to rewrite it in the form of a poem to express the character’s feelings.

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Joshua Truel

This was the summer we ran down fields of grass and slid into mudholes, screaming and whooping our battle cry – wild and free.

This was the summer we saw girls onthe computer and they stopped being annoying, and became scary, and mysterious our minds raced with red thoughts.

This was the summer we tasted ale,its dark, cold face twisted our youngminds, and made us wild, made us once more free, we cheated life with these days.

This is the summerI think ofwhen I think of you.

of you

This is a poem to someone that I have lost.

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Abe Kalsbeek

tHe unconqueraBle quest for rest: a writer’s untold story

It is three in the morning.Time to pull from the universeits all-encompassing creativitydashed with subtle hints of Oneness:the nutty flavor in your favorite dessert.I will draw the spirits out of it,absorb the cannibalistic hungerof forgotten souls through tense, tired skinand spit It back out, a loogieof black ink and chicken scratch,onto previously blank pages.

It is the rising sun that bothersno one save the insomniacs and the writerwho has inspiration, a pack of Marlboros,and a strong cup to call companion.I dare you to be lazy,to hit “Snooze” on the muse:an idea lost foreverin the universe of thoughtuntil another poor schmuckcan claim it when most inconvenient…on the toilet, splayed with a lover,in a meeting, burnt toast.And worse! Without a pento jot down the one linethat escapes you

the moment a moment is available.

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

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Maybe it’s Jesus, maybe Muhammad,Or that little gold fat guy, whoFeels compelled to feed the starvingWith this and that;Red words in whoever’s holy book – Might as well be black, or gray, or better,Blank pages to feed my will.Holy man, you sit upon your perch,Squawking at vacant faces, vacant minds,Vacant souls flocking towards whosever’s sonLike buzzing gnats swarming to the light;But somebody forgot to tell themThey’re on schedule for the cookout:A sauté of the soul, a stir fry of perjury,A crock pot of naked deceit; yet I’ll beseech youFor a loaf of bread, and happily, you’ll insteadPour red wine from somebody’s holy cookbookAs restitution for your avarice,As I try to stifle this bulimic onslaughtFrom within this thing you call a soul,This thing I call my starved body.

faMine

David Welcher

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

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In the silence of aether They come, They comeIn the silence and aether They come

Quiet!Quiet now.There is no time for weeping.For They are coming now,through the whitened, silent-tile hallsand I can hear the squeaking of Their rubber-coated boots.I can hear their fire and their water.

A man is laying supine, supineHe lies in a god-awful line.He spits up red blood, like a darkiron geyserknowing he should have been wiser.

In retrospect the dandelion spots on the maps,The weedy spots that tauntand lure and haunt and morethan anything else in the goddamned world—that’s right i won’t capitalize and why should i now where is he my penultimate breath come at last—tantalized him like the nacreous whorlsand swirlsof a rose that rose like Minutemen.‘Why would they be...’ He thinks.Special?Chosen?Untouched?

I am written on these bed sheets in coagulate scab,skin thick.I have seen the oasis in the desert.I have tasted the water.I waited for the rain, taken a peach.There was always time to reach.I might have been a dream for baby dreamers.I might have shown the wheels within the wheels.I wish I had the time to see the echoes of what I could have been—“I could have been...”.They are coming in their suits

Here are tHe Men witH tHe Hoses to Hose tHe Place out

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to erase the mistaken mistake.

Were the ocher sunsets on The Colorado so divine?Were the spirits of Champagne so fine?Did your calves ache before the thundering mounds of muscled flesh? In the living breeze?Did you find your Celtic blood?Did you discover something in the dripping, stone mouths of the darkest heart of life?Was it the darkness that drew you, you old bastard?The danger?The real danger?Chasing a dream, an adrenal thrill?Did you find your sixty year life in five?Oh, we will romanticize you.Yes, we shall.We must.

We race towards you, you old codger.We, with our gas nozzle lips;with Our bleaching kiss.We will bring you your rain.Your cleansing rain.Your burning rain.

No!Not yet!I can regain...I shall discover something lost!I will bloom again!Like lilacs!

You eccentric old bastard, you— with love and affection of course—Oh, the unfurling of a life lived...Is there anything sweeter than the retiring?The cutting into strips?So noble, so noble, and see how he was in the end?

Oh God! Here it is!The rattle! The knell!

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

In the silence of aether, They come, They comeIn the silence and aether, They come.

Udge Kurbudkin

This is a work that explores the concept of the ‘breaking free of the chains of society’ type motif wherein a man works for sixty years and finally discovers freedom only to realize after five years that he is really dying. It also deals with the concept of society allowing this break because, while it allows the idea of freedom, it also forces society to follow the rules for a longer time. This piece is inspired by “The Waste Land,” “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” Gravity’s Rainbow, and 1984.

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

Excessive use may result in mistakesfollowed by sleepless nights. Things of value will break,collapse under bright lights.

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

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

side effects of life

Eric Russell

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

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Quick, hurry, get up, do it fast!This is the night of broken glass,But trust me this is only the start,This will leave generations with broken hearts,Hurry, break his legs so he won’t have to go!No, no, no just hide him in the floor and don’t let them know!I heard that many had hid their things,Some even fled to Beijing,But what now? What for us?Hold my hand. All we can say is “In God we trust.”

I am sure things will get better,But I need more than a sweater for this stormy weather,But my sister, Sirel, they cut all her hair,She is a girl though that does not seem fair,And why are they taking that woman’s baby?They took the baby to the roof are they crazy?I was so nervous my heart began to pound,All I heard was “shoot it before it hits the ground!”Pain and tears were all around,But crying and screaming was the only sound.

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

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

My PeoPle

Isaiah Cohn

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

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Ashleah Hudson

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

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

Evergreen Azalea bushes, barren of flowers,Stand on line and dream of spring.And brown sprigs of grass peek through red clay,Dappled with leaves scattered over the ground.

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

autuMn evening

national day on writing

HALLOWEEN HAIKU

Soon the world will be

Overrun with the undead

Break out the chainsaw

Casey Wilson

Ate too much candy

I think I might just vomit

Hurh-Hack-bleh-gurble

David Hallman

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Vampires out at night.

But they sparkle in the light.

GTFO, noobs. Matt Yon

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

alice in Moss // cHristina BerksHire // digital PHotograPHy

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laundry tiMe // Melissa wise // digital PHotograPHy

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tHree Moons on tHe river // Jeanine rodriguez // acrylic on canvas

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Mary alice // MaBry Macgregor // acrylic

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daily essentials // Berrien cHidsey // digital Painting

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HooPer // Maria larocca // digital PHotograPHy

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water // aMy Martyn turner // digital PHotograPHy

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cento ii // Jeanine rodriguez // acrylic on Masonite

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untitled ii // tiM scHMidt // Pen and ink

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witHered tree of color // Berrien cHidsey // cHarcoal and ink

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caPelli liquido // degan cHeek // Pen, BrusH and ink

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coMMunication // Maria larocca // digital PHotograPHy

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no cover // trey workMan // digital PHotograPHy

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galloPing tHrougH tHe woods // anna Blizard // filM PHotograPHy

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loralei witH teddy Bear // saM loBrano // digital PHotograPHy

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From the journal of Christian Adkins…

I. The Last Dawn

The world had changed. We could never go back.Fire rained down on us from the heavens. The earth

was glassed over in the dead of winter. Not really a winter at all. Nukes started flying, and we ended up with a cold day in hell. The pale sky became black as night.

I remembered it all too well. Death waited for no one. My father, he told me this day would come. I never believed him…not that soon. I was there when the storm came.

World War III.Dawn broke. Tanks opened fire on my Renegade

Strike force. I ran through the fires of hell to free my people. I was the last of my kind, fighting a war I couldn’t stop. Of course, stopping meant death. No-man’s land was a living nightmare with barbed wire, blood and bodies. Screaming bullets swarmed us in every direction, skipping off the snow inches from our feet.

The fighting was horrific. Three of my men were lost in a matter of seconds. I never bothered learning their names; it wasn’t worth the effort. Adrenaline pushed my legs as fast as they could go. My backpack and body armor were weighing me down.

Concussions from shellfire whipped the back of our heels, always driving us forward like slaves to its will. Bad news was the constant garble of noise from our radios never changed. Air support wasn’t coming. We were on our own.

That was our exit. We dove into the trenches, cutting right through a ghost town. The tanks lost track through the fog of war. We wasted no time putting some distance between the war and us. Minutes later, we arrived at our objective.

Inside, the city was slowly burning. Buildings had been reduced to piles of rubble. The whole place was a cemetery, one mass grave. Skeletons littered the streets, waiting for us to join them. Human carcasses that once

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

This was once their home. Unlike my own, their families were now mingled

with the dead. I had never witnessed grown men cry in bitter agony. Fortunately, I couldn’t ponder. Stealth was our only key. We had minutes to get in and get out. War was sure to follow.

I paused to catch my breath from the horrific carnage. My squad, cut in half, had collapsed in despair. There were so few of us…no one cared if we lived or died, not even me.

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

“Scouts! All fours!” I shouted, trying to break through their emotional trauma. I pulled the private nearest to me off his knees. His tear-covered face was trembling.

“On your feet, son,” I whispered. I imitated my father as best as I could.

War had taught me how to bury my humanity. As I lifted the private upright, my recons finally deployed as ordered. Honestly, I didn’t want to know what we were looking for. No one ever told us.

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

Hopefully, fate would spare us that long. I had already accepted what this mission was: a one-way ticket to hell.

I slung my rifle over my shoulder and proceeded with my digging. I didn’t realize how desperate we were. Most of my men scoured the piles of bodies, digging for their loved ones. What a way to spend your last moments, I thought.

I had all but given up on our mission when I heard the rustling. Apparently I was the only one who heard it. It sounded like tapping around us. Or more like beneath us. Life hadn’t abandoned this town just yet. I dug faster,

tHe odyssey of destiny

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my gloves black from soot. There under a layer of broken concrete pieces was a

back door. The hinges were jammed to keep anyone out of the makeshift bunker. I figured this was it. I glanced at my wristwatch.

Two minutes left.The battle was getting closer. I whistled a signal to

the squad. They sprinted over to my side. I pressed my ear against the cellar. A lone thud vibrated through the earth beneath me. Someone was alive down there.

We kicked into action, rifles aimed at the bunker. I flicked my gun’s flashlight on. Better to blind anyone thinking about ambushing us. I mouthed the words. Three, two, one, go! Two of my men on each side pried the bunker open. The doors swung free with a creaking gush. I saw them.

Children.They were trapped behind death’s door. Fear had

taken hold. They cried out horrific screams within the dark. An older one in the shadows hushed them shut. She had her arms around them fiercely. She reminded me of my mother. Instinctively, I lifted my hand, signaling a halt.

“Hold your fire!” I whispered harshly. We dropped our combat stances, not sure what to make of the situation. Who the hell would leave them behind? Most of them were still toddlers. I had to give the older girl credit. She was brave enough to stand her own.

“My God…” I muttered hopelessly.Was this why my father sent me here? As far as I knew, he was dead. Why should any of us be any different? This place was all we could call home.

I didn’t have time to think. War found us. The bombardment restarted. The tanks had given up on targeting. They blasted everything in sight. My ragtag scouts responded with guerrilla fire, buying us extra time. I appreciated the support.

Shrapnel and building blocks flew around us, taking two of my guys with them. The rest of my squad swept toddlers into their arms and out of harm’s way. I could hear the treads grinding as enemy tanks pushed through the streets. These kids wouldn’t last. My men had bloodlust and revenge in their eyes.

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

the enemy. I brought my sniper rifle around and shouldered the

massive, long-barreled weapon. I pressed my body against what was once a street corner, angling myself for a perfect shot. I scoped my targets carefully, waiting for the last tank to pass.

The gunner on top of the vehicle was spraying death on anything visible with his thrashing machine turret. He was in for a rude awakening.

I fired. The gunner was dead on impact. Killing never got easier. The super-sonic crack could be heard for miles. The recoil tried to throw me into the wall, but I kept the fifty-caliber steady. I only had one more shot from this position.

Rule of war: never fire twice. I figured I’d try my luck. I aimed for the tank turret’s backside and fired an armor-piercing round. The tank blew apart, incinerating its trapped crew. I blotted out the screams of those men burning alive. Move!

I got away in the nick of time. Artillery shattered the street corner. A piece of metal snagged me in the kidneys. My body armor took the brunt of the force, saving my life but left me bruised. That was the price for taking risks. I had to find my team. Evacuating the civilians was the only thing on my mind.

I crawled most of the way back. My squad wasn’t faring any better. Or what was left of them. I could still hear at least one scout shooting at the enemy. I spotted the rest, weaving their way through a side alley.

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

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

Their alley wasn’t an emergency exit. It was a trap. A tank cannon sounded off along with short-lived screams. I was glad I didn’t see it. The result was pretty obvious.

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

There was no escape. I took one last look around.I saw her.The older girl was there caught in the crossfire. She

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

Exhaustion was setting in. My men and the other

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

I was her human shield, her protector.“Why?” she cried, “Why did this happen?” I didn’t reply. Death spoke for itself. A-bombs dropped,

followed by blinding flashes of light. Nukes and mushroom clouds covered the horizon.

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

Some first meeting… I closed my eyes, and together we waited on top

of the dunes for death’s touch. Minutes went by in silence. The end never came.

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

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

I never forgot the faces I saw that day. No one should have to bury toddlers. Then again, no parents were left to bury their children. I didn’t save them. Their souls would forever haunt this place and plague my dreams. Some memories should never be forgotten.

It was always the innocent that suffered for our sins.

Brent Hoover

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

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

Coell, his heart touched by the man’s generosity and sincerity, heard his prayer. And so Coell did appear before the craftsman, and spoke “I will hear your plea, my child.”

“Brilliant one,” the craftsman spoke in a trembling voice, “my wife is dying, and no mortal can cure her of her illness. Please, I beg of thee, save my beloved.”

Kindhearted Coell, taking pity on the man, went to the craftsman’s wife. Yet at once he was filled with sorrow, for Coell saw that Death itself was upon her, and he knew that even the sun’s glory must one day fade. Sadness echoing in his voice like a thousand thunders, Coell told the craftsman that though his wife would pass from this world, she would be reborn in the next. The craftsman’s shoulders fell as Coell stepped into the flames and was gone.

The craftsman did not wait for long, however, before he stood once more, gathered his remaining offerings, and continued down the trail. Soon he came to another shrine, this one to Seruta the Mother, Goddess of nature and the earth. Prostrating himself, he offered his second sacrifice so that Seruta would listen to his plea:

“I lay before thee, Eternal All-Mother, as your lowly petitioner. Oh, divine Seruta, I offer you the tools and supplies of my trade that you may hear my humble plea. May these tools, crafted of the trees and stones you birthed, serve to grant me your favor.” Setting his tools upon the stone, he prayed with all of his might.

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

“Eternal one,” the craftsman spoke in a trembling voice, “my wife is dying, and no mortal can cure her of her illness. Please, I beg of thee, save my beloved.”

Wise Seruta, indulging her child, went to the craftsman’s wife. Yet, as she smelled the reek of rot

A tale is told on the streets of the eastern cities, among the poor and the desperate.

Many centuries ago, there lived a craftsman in the city of Deiros. Young and talented, he had recently graduated from journeyman to master, with his own shop and tools for his trade. It was a time of peace and prosperity, and the craftsman’s skills brought him many customers and much wealth. The man’s greatest blessing of all was his young and beautiful wife, whom he loved before all things and who loved him in return. Life was bright and they lived in happiness.

Alas, for such times never last. War brought turbulence and chaos to the kingdom, and business for the craftsman grew scarce and intermittent. The craftsman and his wife had to sell their ancestral home and move to the slums, which were dirty and cramped. Days would often pass when the craftsman would not eat so his wife, now thick with child, would have enough food. Despite the difficulties and hard times, their love was strong and they made one another happy.

But Fate’s cruelty is unrivaled, and the craftsman was struck another sorrow. His beloved wife fell ill. A dozen herbalists, doctors, and alchemists could do naught to assist her. Death itself desired the young and beautiful woman, and the arts of mortals were too weak to intervene. For three days, the craftsman could do nothing but weep by her side as his beloved wife slowly and painfully wasted away before his eyes. Yet on the third night, the craftsman resolved for a final attempt to save his beloved. He gathered his remaining wealth, his tools, and anything else he thought he could offer, and then left to petition before the very Gods for his wife’s life.

First, the craftsman went before a shrine to Coell the Protector, God of the sun and hope. Bowing, he offered his wealth and valuables as a sacrifice so Coell would listen to his plea:

“I bow before thee, Mighty Light-Bringer, as your lowly petitioner. Oh, divine Coell, I offer you what little silver and copper I have that you may hear my humble

tHe craftsMan’s MytH

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only thoughts were of his poor, beloved wife. Gathering his last remaining bit of strength, he pushed himself to his feet and began the long walk home, determined that his wife would not die alone.

Night fell, and moonlight guided the weary craftsman’s feet as he returned to the city of Deiros and turned down the alleyway to his home. Even with the light of the full moons shining down upon the city, the alley was dark, and the craftsman had to walk slowly over the uneven ground.

The craftsman stumbled back in fear as he nearly walked into a tall figure standing just outside of the entrance to his home. Wearing a black, concealing cloak with the hood drawn up, the figure seemed to be merged with the shadows. The craftsman trembled at the sight of the imposing figure, who had the height of a man but the presence of a God. The figure reached out and steadied the stumbling craftsman with a strong grip that chilled the craftsman to his core.

“Worry not, for I am a friend,” said the figure in a quiet, male voice resonating with divine power.

“What do you wish of me, spirit?” whispered the awed and terrified craftsman.

For a moment the figure stood silently. “This,” he spoke, gesturing to the hovel, “is your home, correct?” To this, the craftsman nodded. “And within, the woman, she is your wife?” To this, the craftsman also nodded, his limbs shaking from weakness, fear, and anticipation. “A most terrible malady consumes her,” the figure spoke quietly.

“Death itself has come for my wife,” despaired the craftsman, “and even though I sacrificed my wealth, tools, and youth for their blessing, not even the Gods themselves could save her.”

“The cruelty of the gods is unsurpassed,” spoke the figure, “for though they had power enough to save your wife, they chose to let her die.”

“How do you know this, stranger? You hold knowledge of the gods?” the craftsman said bitterly, tortured by the truth in the stranger’s words.

“Yes, my friend. I have watched as you beseeched the Gods for their help, as they stole your offerings and returned nothing. No negotiation, no compromise. They took from you, cheated you from that which you offered.

and saw the wasting flesh, her face became cold and indifferent for Seruta saw that Death itself was upon the woman, and she knew that Death was as natural as air and must come to all things eventually. Resolute that the woman’s fate was set, Seruta told the craftsman that the Balance had to be maintained. The craftsman’s heart sunk as Seruta took his offering and returned to the earth.

His plea twice offered and twice refused, the craftsman’s mood was somber as he wondered if no one, not even the Gods themselves, could save his beloved wife. Still hopeful, he stood once more and continued on, his arms bare of offerings but still having one left to offer. Soon he came to a third shrine, this one to Sar Darkal the Emperor, God of law, tyranny, and the Blood Imperium. Kneeling, he offered his final sacrifice so Darkal would listen to his plea:

“I kneel before thee, Mighty Emperor-God, as your lowly petitioner. Oh, divine Sar Darkal, I offer you my youth and strength that you may hear my humble plea. May my skills and talents serve you with unflinching obedience and loyalty.” Placing his palms upon the altar, he prayed with all of his might.

Sar Darkal, his interest piqued by the man’s offer of subservience, heard his prayer. And so Darkal did appear before the craftsman, and spoke “State your request, mortal.”

“Potent one,” the craftsman spoke in a trembling voice, “my wife is dying, and no mortal can cure her of her illness. Please, I beg of thee, save my beloved.”

Dominating Darkal, looking to gain the man’s eternal loyalty, went to the craftsman’s wife. Yet, as he looked upon the craftsman’s wife he sneered in disgust for Sar Darkal saw that Death itself was upon the woman, and he knew that even Gods have their own loyalties. Loath to have wasted his time upon the man, Sar Darkal told the craftsman that Death had its own rules that could not be broken. The craftsman collapsed as Sar Darkal took the craftsman’s youth and vitality as payment for his time, and vanished.

His plea a third time offered and thrice refused, the craftsman lay long on the cold earth, his hair now white and his limbs weak with undue age, as every gift he had offered had been taken for naught. Too weak to even curse the Gods that had abandoned him, the craftsman’s

47

Brady Morris

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

That is not how an agreement works.” “True or not,” said the craftsman, “your words are

empty. Let me pass, that I may die alongside my beloved and pass from this wretched world.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The craftsman felt the figure smiling in the dark. “I am Pazari, the Bargainer. Do my bidding and your gifts will return to you. And forget not, for I shall return in ten years.” With that, the figure stepped away into the darkness and was gone.

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

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“I thought you were gone for good this time.” Cedar’s eyes were focused outside the car window. Her hands were in her lap. She picked at her fingernails nervously.

Rider didn’t know what to say. He glanced over at her, but looked away just as quickly. He played a drum pattern on the steering wheel with his restless fingers. “I just—”

“—needed to get away for awhile, I know.” Cedar rolled her window down. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail but tresses of it were free and they flew wildly with the air that poured in through the open window.

Rider kept his head facing forward, but he glanced at her every now and then from the corner of his eyes. Her hair was vibrant in this light, a medium-brown with hints of dusty red and orange strands. Her skin glowed deep bronze in the dying sunlight.

Cedar pulled back tresses of her hair against the wind and tucked them behind her ears. She stole a glance in Rider’s direction. The light from the early evening sun had illuminated the brilliance of his hazel eyes. She watched him for a time, only breaking her gaze when she thought he might resume the conversation, but he didn’t. “So, where’d you go this time?”

“Nowhere important.”She sighed and leaned her head back against the headrest.“I was at a friend’s place.”They were approaching a stop sign. He brought the

car to a stop, checked for traffic, and drove the car forward across the intersection. He looked over at Cedar to see if she was listening. Her eyes were closed. “I just had some thinking I had to do.”

She opened her eyes. “I get it.” She lowered her window further. The air felt good on her face, sweeping lightly across her like the touch of skin against skin. “You should slow down. The speed limit is thirty in here.”

“I got it.” He answered more gruffly than he intended to, and then thought about apologizing, but he didn’t. He glanced over in her direction. Her eyes were focused on the world outside of the car, watching the trees and houses pass by into nothing. Her golden-brown eyes watched the

scenery in silence. His eyes softened. She was radiant. He looked away, but he had memorized her almond-shaped eyes and sculpted features, which were accented by high cheekbones slanting down to an even jaw, and finishing into a slender neck. It was almost an unnatural beauty. She began to hum. He didn’t know the tune, but he liked the sound of her voice. She was the reason he had come back. She was the reason he always came back. “What are you thinking about?”

Cedar could feel Rider looking at her. In the time he’d been gone, she’d almost forgotten him. Now, her insides flew with the motion of the car, uneasy and rough. It was too much, seeing him again. It made her head hurt. She wished he hadn’t come back. She let her hair down and ran her fingers through it several times. She glanced over at Rider. He was still waiting for her to answer. “What makes you think I’m thinking about anything?”

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

She stopped humming then, and sighed. They passed a couple whose tire had gone flat. “Remember when we first met?” She turned towards him.

He smirked and nodded.She leaned her right arm against the door and began

to play with her ear.He checked his rear-view mirror. “You’re upset.”She shook her head. “No.” She placed her hand in her lap.“What do you feel then?” “I don’t know.” Her voice sounded hopeless, lacking

life. She twisted a strand of hair around her finger.A traffic signal up ahead turned from yellow to red.

He eased the car to a stop. Rider opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He looked out his window. Everything was still. The car behind them honked. He looked up. The light was green. He slowly accelerated.

Neither of them spoke. Cedar focused her attention on the sky. She watched

as the sunset began to bleed across the horizon. The highest portion of the sky was a deep blue, fading down

sunset

49

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

They drove on a strip of road that was bordered on his side by a wall of tall trees. Long shadows were cast across the street by the sunlight, and Cedar watched the breaks of light dance across Rider’s face. In the shadow she could only see hints of brown and green in his eyes, but when the light hit them they glowed with the spark of an amber flame. They simmered like dying embers. There was a fire hidden behind his stoic expression. At that moment, she wanted to kiss him. She hated herself for wanting to. “Why did you come back?”

He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to see you again.”

“Why?” He didn’t know how to answer. Instead, he focused

on driving. He liked the feeling of being in control of the vehicle. His thoughts shifted to Cedar, and his body tightened. With her he had no sense of direction and it made him feel weak. It was like falling. Yet, he was drawn to her; and no matter how long he stayed away, he always came back.

He glanced at her now, and she caught his eye. They fell into the moment, and in it, became one, almost. Rider looked away, shifting his gaze back towards the road. Cedar smiled. His face flushed a soft red.

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

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

Rider reached over to pull down her visor. She reached up too. Their hands met in mid-air. Cedar felt the heat from his skin before Rider pulled his hand away. It warmed her for a moment, but she couldn’t hold on to it. Like the heat of the sun, it slipped away. She placed her hand down on the center compartment.

When they reached another stop sign, Rider looked over at her. Her eyes were blank. She looked directly ahead. She wouldn’t look him in the eye. He placed his hand on top of hers. She looked at him, then.

Their eyes met and they fell into one another again. There was the desire for a kiss in his eye. Cedar saw it through the colors that shone like gold, and she waited for it. There was a moment she thought he might, but something drew him from her. He looked away, and the kiss fell from his eye. He kissed her hand instead, and held it tight in his. When he turned onto the next street, the light in the car dimmed into shadow.

They approached another traffic signal situated at the heart of the crossroad. The traffic was heavy. There were choices regarding which direction to take.

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

Cedar’s breath caught in her chest. Her body felt tight.Rider held her hand tight. “It’s going to be okay…I promise.”

They heard the truck roar before it hit.Cedar remembered falling sideways. She remembered the feel of his hand in hers.

Andrew Hasben

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

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ContributorsChristina Berkshire

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

anna Blizard

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

William Blake Bolen

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

degan Cheek

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

James Chidsey

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

isaiah Cohn

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

oliver Finnie

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

andreW hasBen

Andrew Hasben is an English major, currently in his final semester at USC Aiken. He has always had a passion for writing fiction and poetry, and plans to pursue a career in creative writing. His favorite poets/authors are: Ernest Hemingway, Lucille Clifton, John Keats, and Kate Chopin, among others.

Brent hoover

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

lindsey huBBs

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

ashleah hudson

I transferred to USCA in the fall of 2008 from Aiken Technical College. I am now a senior at USCA and will be graduating in August. I am majoring in English with a concentration in Writing. With my ultimate goal being to teach in a university setting, after graduation, I

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

roy hudson

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

aBe kalsBeek

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

udge kurBudkin

I enjoy Modernism and Postmodernism. I’ve always liked the concept of writing. Writing is a therapeutic thing for me and allows me to share my thoughts.

maria laroCCa

My interest in photography began my first semester at USCA when I started taking a black and white film photography class. Since then I’ve learned more than I ever expected I would about the field. In the future, I hope to continue to learn more about photography and with that knowledge, tell stories that need to be told.

sam loBrano

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

maBry maCgregor

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

52

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

James moCk

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

Brady morris

I’m a fantasy aficionado, and hope to someday be a successful fantasy author. In the meantime I’m kept busy with school, working in the Writing Room, and practicing escapism.

Jeanine rodriguez

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

eriC russell

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

tim sChmidt

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

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

emily short

Pursuing a career in media.

amanda tietze

I have always had a passion for art, but I really got into it when I started college. After a few sculpture classes, I found my way into Graphic Design and 35mm Photography, and fell in love. I plan on attending graduate school in 2012 for Graphic Design and Photography.

Joshua truel

I am a Junior English major who very much likes to talk about himself. Consequently, I enjoy writing, playing music, and drawing immensely, though infrequently, and am an avid reader of a wide variety of poetry and prose. Before moving to South Carolina, I lived in five different countries, and a couple states. As a result, I speak a few languages, and maintain an array of useless recreations; an array which is only broadened by the fact that I am a sufferer of chronic and incurable procrastination.

martyn turner

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

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

david WelCher

My life focus is to bring the shattered, distorted parts of history into the light. I am driven by my wife and son and a deep sense of hope that people, when given the unaltered truth, will rise up and return humanity to the world.

ashley Wilson

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

melissa Wise

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

trey Workman

Senior, Fine Arts Major

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

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