SPRING 2013 EDITION

University of New Hampshire at Manchester

Ink Blot

CAUTION: SOME WORKS MAY BE OFFENSIVE.

Table of Contents
Cover Art: EASTER EGGS, Yvonne Wheeler

PHOTOGRAPHY .......... PAGE 3 WRITINGS ................... PAGE 7 ONLINE TEASERS ..... PAGE 26 VISUAL ARTS ............ PAGE 27

Every InkBlot would not be possible without the submissions we have received - so, as always, we would like to thank the artists and writers who have shared their work with us, and now with the world. The worlds biggest high five to Jamie Saucier and Studient Activities for another fun and busy semester. Also, without that extra support from family and friends, we would be powerless. - Andres Reyes, InkBlot President

2013 UNH Manchesters InkBlot This project is coordinated by the student group, InkBlot, and the Student Activities Office. Disclaimer: These opinions, ideas and creative objects are the reflection of the individual artists and authors. The opinions reflected in this publication do not represent UNH Manchester, UNH Durham, InkBlot, the Student Activities Office and are those of the individuals. Also, none of the writing pieces, visual arts or photos are owned by InkBlot.

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PHOTOGRAPHY

Shadow Susie Sweetland

Bring Me to the Top Jennifer Harris

Morning on the Beach Joshua Powers

Baluga Adam Gerhold

Lake Sunset Christina McCann

X Marks the Spot Andres Reyes

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PHOTOGRAPHY

Gladiator Rays Jennifer Harris

Pick a Prize Ira Joel Haber

Subway Handstand Ira Joel Haber

Pantheon Adam Gerhold

Fall in Boston Joshua Powers

Gavin Rossdale: Contortionist Andres Reyes

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PHOTOGRAPHY

Fall on the Common Joshua Powers

Down the Road Susie Sweetland

New York State of Mind Ira Joel Haber

Roma Adam Gerhold

Lit Tree Christina McCann

Emerald Fuzz Jennifer Harris

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PHOTOGRAPHY

Fall in Northern New Hampshire Joshua Powers

The Locks Susie Sweetland

Pink Skies Hanging Over the Bridge Andres Reyes

Biking at Sunset Joshua Powers

The Evening Tide Joshua Powers

Cowboys Are Indians Adam Gerhold

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WRITING
20 Questions About Sexual Assault: A Found Poem Matthew Richards Is it a feeling? Is it warm? Is it man-made? Is it lifeless? Does it involve contact with other humans? Can you touch it? Would you use it daily? Can it be used for recreation? I am guessing you are thinking of a holiday. Do you know any songs about it? Is it outside? Can you find it in a house? Do you find it in the sky? Does it come in many varieties? Is it usually white? Is it colorless? Is it very large? Is it hard? Does it grow over time? Have you seen one in real life? Can you control it? I am guessing you are thinking of a shadow. I am guessing you are thinking of insomnia. I am guessing you are thinking of the truth. Pills Miranda Berube Go on: Raise your hands and shout. Coast on autopilot before the Creator. You can erase what youve done all week With one insincere gesture. Eat whatever you want And sit for hours. When you start to feel it catch up to you, Youll be fine--just take this pill. I have to tell you something. Church wont make you holy, Pills wont make you healthy, And lovers wont make you feel wanted, Oh, and dont worry about that self-loathing, Self-deprecating mantra you repeat to yourself in the mirror. It will all be worth it when youre hanging From the arms of some guy like a trophy. But we all think they will. We all think its perfectly fine to malnourish Your mind Your body Your soul. Just take a pill.

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WRITING
As I Lay Living Robert Ueda There he lay Broken Busted Confused Bemused Torn and Twisted Kin to the kinless In chains wrought of iron-clad thought Seamless, perpetually aimless Another cog in the two legged clockwork Tearing the universe apart one molecule at a time a l i v e Penelope Matthew Richards When Odysseus left, he chopped down an olive tree and Handed me a single branch, cracked down the middle, A wishbone Ive yet to tear apart. I watch it rot above my fireplace. Birds fly through my windows and perch on my mantle, Chirp hymns of twenty different ways hell come back. At midnight, I swim out as far into the Mediterranean As grove wine and fermented desperation will carry me. Poseidon denies me passage, leaves me a whale Beached in hourglass sand. I uncork the bottles that Wash ashore, pluck each syllable etched in papyrus. I wring the nectar from his words, stitch them Over faded patches of my wedding gown, And hang them on a clothesline over the Dying embers of a funeral pyre that Hasnt been lit. Widows wrapped in Smoked glass veils pass through my garden, Lay rose petals at the foot of my tombstone. Suiters come to peel my cornstalk And rob me from my husk. They caress my cheekbones, present me bouquets, Ask for the time-withered hand Ive pledged to another. I deny them. They enter my bedchamber without knocking. I lie stiff on olive wood as they force their fingers Up my marble thighs and paint me Medusa, A breathing stone monument to every woman Who hasnt been watered. This is how a man becomes a tumbleweed. This is how a woman becomes a thorn. This is where songbirds go to die.

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WRITING
How to Find Your Inner Hopeless Romantic Andres Reyes I. Exchange your optimism for a candle that will narrow your sights as to whatever is visible in the light in the darkness. II. Dont panic. Monsters are like bumble bees; they will only attack if they feel threatened. Just walk right past them. III. Make them a fluffernutter. Nobody can resist fluffernutter. Unless maybe if they are allergic to nuts... IV. Dont fear a public orgasm. If they gonna want some, Make sure to wear protection or a good pair of underwear. Shit happens. V. Carve the initials of your love on your heart, feeling their impact every day. Old Friends Susie Sweetland Over eggs she and I talk. We walk the boundaries of the world and memories, getting closer to the edge then is comfortable. We do not pray the way we used to. Soft light hides imperfections but I prefer daylight, seeing things truly in all their bright or horrid honest glory.

VI. Stop. Hammer Time. Or stop in the name of love. Or stop, collaborate, and listen. Recollect and forget; move on.

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WRITING
Dying For Spring Susie Sweetland A woman in front of me in line at the market says she is dying for spring. I smile at her slip imagining that on the other end of that phone is her sister, living in some far off land south of the equator where spring has an entirely different meaning. I wish others could understand and know the grief that accompanies a loss that is not quite a loss. Invisible to the naked eye. Hidden. Unapparent to those who havent wandered through it. But still quite solidly real and harrowing. Days come together like puzzle pieces. I connect them in interesting ways trying desperately to make something new. Needles and Ink Robert Ueda With needles and ink My body a canvas I bleed MY story An illustrators nightmare TwIsTeD Abstract Angst and art The love child Pierce the skin But not the veil See her hair, colors most unnatural FEAR her heart See his ink, twisted and masculine Steer CLEAR of his mind Piercings galore To... ...fill ... the gaps Modern war paint Cover-up for the SOUL Ebbing Eyes Desiree Nodes

Its in your eyes that I find myself lost. I could stare into them endlessly, being pulled along, our fingertips barely brushing passed one another; the color reminds me of the clear blue ocean of home, waves crash upon the shore like shattered topazes dusting over pristine snow fall, the warm salty breeze encases me in its gentle embrace, teases the heated naked flesh of my body and brings the coiling ecstasy to full eruption, exploding like a volcano, violent and abrupt overpowering and leaving my body ship-wrecked in the pools of your irises, broken and scattered along the coast; only to be reconstructed and dismantled with the constant ebb of the sea.

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WRITING
Homes Calling Jeremiah Walton I dont believe in God But I fear him His creations, his buildings beckoning His dawns splitting plastic landfills, hills hiding behind brown dew drops pressed against cold stain glass windows, smooth and cold Looked upon by aluminum eyes, pupils nervously pulsating under the stained shimmers Immense voids swigging colors gleefully Theyre looking for a reason to do anything Were looking. We cant say because anymore Ive grown up, Ill say No. Youre a coward, shell say Stumbling down hallways wearing your old mans t-shirts screaming about God knows what Words align with a cracked smile, a crooked smile Why is she smiling? God knows, I know, I know he knows Lets just run away to somewhere warm with beaches and cheap motels. Im not how I used to be, Ill say Lets pack our things and drive away. I have responsibilities. I need to take care of us. Fuck! shell say. Fuck responsibilities, fuck jobs, fuck your desk, fuck our future! Shell point to my paper smeared desk screaming, This will be your grave! A washed up poet no ones ever heard of. Your body, cold, will be buried absentmindedly by shovels caked in crusted dirt and lime rust. I know, Ill say. I know, I know, I know. Then lets run away! Dont you want me to be happy? Well take a vacation soon, I promise. Well go to Hawaii and sleep overlooking a purple ocean, waking up to slight glints of sun. Well watch fire eating and explore volcanoes, watch magma drip, islands forming. Shell scream, she screams You coward! You coward! Unresponsive, sunk into the cough, slouched, mouth half open, staring I need to stay. I need to stay.

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WRITING
Cursed Words Andres Reyes It can take three words to fuck up a friendship. I asked you if anybody has written anything about you.

Three words that seem to separate us farther than miles.

Three words that turned our worlds upside down. Three words that others would want to hear from somebody. I love you. Sure, the way it came out and how it came out was terrible. Hell, it wasnt even in my agenda to say anything like that to you, but what was in my agenda that night was to go for a swim, but not remembering that Im not a good swimmer.

I was going to write a beautiful poem about you to culminate my feelings into written words because doing things face-to-face I suck at. Instead, Im screaming this fucking poem, and its not helping me; it makes me feel worse. Artistic expression supplies an outlet for venting our emotions, but this treatment is killing me. This is supposed to be therapy, but pain sprouts; this is more like chemotherapy. I just cant seem to forgive myself. Can you?

Before I know it, I find myself drowning in pools of Livingston red wine. As Im drowning, Im battling between fading in and fading out As Im drowning, Im faded. As Im drowning, I suffer a power outageBLACK OUT.

You will feel better, but me - I gave this black cloud the right conditions to hang over me endlessly. Right now, Id love it if we were friends. I just dont want to lose you more than I already have. Im sorry.

If you have ever had a blackout, you would know how vulnerable youd feel, along with having in the pit of your stomach a strange feeling of regret. I will also admit this I was developing feelings for you.

If you do walk out, you can take my smile with you. I wont be needing it much.

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One in a Million Robert Ueda

Its a girl A newborn flower, born of love To gaze into her eyes Could pull tears from the heaven One in a million Thats what they said

Gentle and humble in youth Ever so agreeable, but innocent s Mother, I hate to see you cry Father, why so many pills? One in million Thats what they said A young woman now Heart of gold But oh how the sickness of man Has poisoned her soul So new to love Newer still to pain The flower desperately reaches To make the pain go away One in a million Thats what they said A grown woman now For innocence she weeps Long lost memories With Mother on the beach Playgrounds and parks Holding Fathers hand Afraid of the dark Young love and heartache A hopeless romantic An optimistic curiosity For obsolete semantics

Broken and torn Strange men at the door She cries out to her god Whats one more hit to a whore And she shed her last tear As the pipe hit the floor Always quick to love A stranger to mercy Would it be different If we told her she was worthy? One in a million Thats what they said Now one of millions Auction signs An empty bed

WRITING
Aortic Valve Robin Nash Exit the yawning car door to the kindergarten symbols painted on the floors and walls leading to bright lights and those whose hands play God Pass through the hospital maze To a world of harsh lights, stretcher with white carpet runway The I dare you stress test sentinel bike Whose computer painted scribbles Of blue, red, green and dots of black Will pass sentence on my aortic valve

tentacles of wire run to me like neurons through the brain Sticking and wrapping to bosom and ribs like a superglue kiss With sentinel now in control Sit upon the bike seat adorn the Clip on blood gass meter jewelry Embellish nostrils with clasp, cutting off natural breathing place its scuba tube between my teeth Skin weeps its salty river over the curvatures from cranium, to clavicle, to spine and the fleshy valleys, to tomb encased toes

volcanic knees and thighs plead to be free chest doing its best impression ofa billows on a dying fire eyes flutter like a humming birds wings images blur as if awakening in the sun arteries and veins fingers claw and pulse from the nape of neck Globe awash in oxygen deprivation Jolts of synapses fire their lightning Screaming As limbs threaten to leave the runway

Released from the clutches of the sentinel with Head drumming Stumble to the next body snatcher

The photographer of the heart The clear gel slobber becomes the ice rink for the Sonographers stylistthat probes between ribs, throat and sternum

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WRITING
There upon the sonar screen the aortic valve dances Floating in heavenly grace In her reddish brown circle of light Rhythmic and serene Is she swaying with lifeis she telling me hello or Good-bye she telling me she knows she faces being replaced The lover about to be left Is she telling me we may die? Mind taken by her beautiful grace until the Photographer Clicks her into measurable peaks and valleys, looking more like erections than the angel

Aortic valve is terminalthe surgeon scalpel the assisted suicide of choice her replacement sings her praises and promises to keep me alive

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WRITING
Speak With Your Eyes Dave Ciampa When I look at your eyes, I see the innocence, the curiosity, and the wanderlust. When you close your eyes, I want to bring your head to my chest and keep you safe. When your eyes look at mine, I want to bring my face closer, so your eyes encompass my vision. When your eyes shed tears, I want to dry your cheeks and make the world a better place. When the dark of your eyes grows larger, I know your heart is beating faster. When you squint at me, I know you want to stay. When you want to stay, my eyes tell you Ill keep you forever. When you talk to me through your eyes, I understand them more than words can say. When Im looking back at you, I know youre hearing me too. Speak with your eyes. Show me what to see. When I cannot see your eyes, my eyes close. I can then see your eyes, the windows to your soul. I begin to dream, and I see us together and happy forever. No matter what, no matter how, I see into your spirit that you want me in your life as much as I want you. I can see this. I can see this because you talk to me with your eyes. They tell me you love me. Look into my eyes and know that I love you too. Anatomy of Everyday Life John Hoyt One day I realized I had never really had my ear to the ground, so if I were to make it anywhere life I had to take my head out of my ass. Maybe I should pick someones brain and not be such a yellow bellied numb nut, so I took my head out of the clouds and to my realization there was only one way to get my foot in the door. I had to break a leg. But unfortunately every time in my life I felt like jumping out of my skin or I was about to go belly up, someone was there to lend me a hand and my excuses were joined at the hip. So I realized when it came to everyday life I was dragging my feet and maybe I need a good kick in the teeth.

And there it was, like getting hit by a knuckle sandwich! I needed to be knee deep in elbow grease! No more greasing palms or worrying about losing face. It was about taking the foot out of my mouth and getting everything off my chest. Once the egg of life was removed off my face, I untied my hands and threw the heel back to Achilles I was up in arms, happily, because I knew now voting with my feet were OK. I washed my hands of my itchy feet so I could hold my head up high and be up to my eyeballs in real everyday life. A real life is a single one where you truly embrace risking life & limb

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WRITING
We Say We Dont Cry Chelsie Veilleux We are sitting on a bed; everything is a morning-song after you have the realization that life is so precisely deliberate and impossible not to suffer through. But we meet in little places of subtle being and bring out our battered self-images and lack of fixability, comparing all the things we could not say to everyone who never knew how to listen. You say you will pay me in silence and if I diagnose you it will all be better, like just knowing the size and brand of your particular sadness will make you a consumer of a slew of cures. But there is no cure and having the name is just making a lifelong friend: Hey, anxiety, lets stay in today and play house with the manic-depressive kitchen set, in fact why dont you start the laundry while I scold the sadness for still being in me when I woke up today. We are sitting on the edge of the world, looking into that great unfathomable abyss that eats us every day for breakfast, the constant look of sighing, silently throwing hands into the air confusion and apathy and unwillingness to think any further what will we do what can even be done. Why is it this way? Why words? Always, why words? Why did I have to be so acutely aware of the lack of everything, not the presence but what is always missing? But I know exactly how to hear everything, how to pair the right amount of disgust with the sincerest hopeless sigh, but not enough to make you think I dont want you to come back and not enough to know what to do next, either. Yes, I know exactly the right word to use at any given time to describe my position between winning and wading, the difference between languid and solemn, or surviving and a steady stagnant breathing which is, unfortunately, all we need to prevail.

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WRITING
Never To Be Read Jeremiah Walton Im aching for the innards of her, her soul, stomach, bowels Im aching to value lead more than gold, to study alchemy to transmute this lead to gold Her tongue, shy, hides in a cavity Ive only imagined immigrating into Customs are strict The Governments desire for safety rejects the foreign to bordering seas There I shall impatiently wait To participate in messing limbs giggling, gaggling, cooing, playful compassion keep me ignorant of her land, the world is yet to lie around me Speak truth. Heavenly flesh, innocent hands, chaste tongue, lovely hair braided over Pocahontas eyes, breasts glorified peaks, mountains rising from a blooming valley soft I form a church with her hands for mine to enter and praise Amen to prayers we never uttered, never will Sainted Flesh, you are the true Holy Land to I, the ignorant immigrant Let me bathe in your rivers and hold trifle of the most useless objects as memoirs My lungs anger you crying black Im not sorry. Im eternally grateful to have traced along your landscapes, my feet bare, the ground soft and white and red, toes massaging the grass soft But You I leave, the most wondrous country loses luster with time and You are no exception to these torments Continental shift gongs ring in my ears during departure I have left you to be raped by years passing Hold me holy as I held You Fear no wars, fear no people forming revolution Fear me. Holy Unity is chewable. Teeth, fingers with forks that enjoy feeling soft skin splitting precisely, trailing the scissor point Tongues pinky promise this Unity. Your childhood is never ending, as it is always occurring Your Nation is full of Children, the Moon a man, the Sun a gracious host, parents are bastards unconditional Your Gods are not omnipotent, but all loving Your ignorance is sugary, sweet to taste, chewable Breaths, gusts of winds curdling fires of autumn Rotten smell of fresh leaves in my gut Stands of grass coil around sunlight, snakes slithering between toes. Your rivers crystal, no drugs, lungs a heathen healthy pink Your Prisons hold few, few Ive never met, few I never will Summer takes you away, gone Your Fire brings a murderous day Starvelings knead their stomachs with pinball knees Flesh theyve fed on But heart theyve not

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WRITING
The Nomad John Hoyt Day 1 I rummage my way through a forest of steel and concrete. I cant seem to get anything done. But I am always busy? My suit, my tie, are restricting my mind and motions. Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7

I woke up and entered the jungle of machines, sweat, and sheep. I engaged like all the other sheep. I was just like the rest of the herd. The sweat helped me feel free. When the adventure was over I went back my electronic shackle. When awoke I heard birds and saw sunlight, not a loud beeping. I engaged my morning meal as such, not as a ritual. I realized my imprisonment. I went for a run. My herd master tried to lure me back this morning. I had tasted freedom; I no longer had my tracking device. I continued on my day and started to see again. My perception is finally coming back Where had I been all this time?

I look around and I am confused. The people around me function as if they are under a spell. They look strange to me. Trying so hard at meaningless things. Im a nomad wandering the land where I belong. Im back with the earth, no suit, no tie.

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WRITING
See Through the Grave Desiree Nodes You see straight through me like Im nothing but glass, a figment of your imagination one youve forgotten, from your childhood. Winter Days Susie Sweetland Darkness comes so early I dont know what to make of nights and days. Time passes oddly. Slowly and then suddenly.

I mask the hurt and longing behind my words, in hopes that one day youll read these unloved wishes and remember the little girl, from your dreams. The lights went out one by one and left me stranded in the dark, a shadow around the corner inevitably bounded by chains, from your fantasies. Never once did your eyes land upon my porcelain face, smooth and delicate a soft caress full of love, from your hands. Ive carried on with life and challenged myself, to be better than invisible waiting patiently to be seen, from your eyes.

I dance beside my lover on the night of our wedding, a smile upon my face but tears in my eyes as you watch, from your grave. On Love Robert Ueda

I write in bed under soft lamplight instead of repotting the plants in my bare feet. I sit beside a lamp at my work table, sawing over ink and copper with a color so warm that I almost warm my hands by it. Yesterday I paid a man to stick needles in me. I suppose we all have to believe in something. Brains are private places, generally, but sometimes I like to invite someone into mine.

To be in love is a commodity, a luxury. It is not necessary to be subservient to another, nor is it convenient. Only fleetingly pleasurable. Immensely so, perhaps the greatest indulgence conceived, but costly still. Happiness is not defined by it. To know when to allow yourself the privilege and when to let go is to be comfortable and confident in self, to allow affection to be a necessity is to be an addict, in the most mundane of ways. Testament of a cynic. Battle cry of the hopeful.

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WRITING
Poem Written on the Backside of a Brownie Matthew Richards Yeast cake, yeast cake in my lungs swiveling like war. Like sex, like war, like war-like gender, like war, like war likes war. Yeast cake in my trachea, I grew a garden there, where? Where a garden grew my spinning mouth, wear a garden in your mouth until it spins. Until it opens like the sky, a sideways sky, a sigh weighs sideways in the sky. What does size weigh? The slip n sigh grows psychic sigh wings sideways, sliding through the sky hole, pulling through the yeast holes, pulling through the bubbled-over molding culling me from sleep. I tried to sleep, but sleeping sneezed, but sleeping sneezed until dropped me. I tried to sneeze, but yawning caught me, and yawning caught me grawning in the grizzly graw, the grizzly grawning maw of war, and war yawning, and war yawning like war-like war. Pro queer parkour, por pavor. Pro quip for pro quo for war-like hardcore status quo. Quid por quo, I felt war itch, I felt war grow, I itched like war was growing and I slept. This itch in my lungs, these lungs in my itch, my itch is shouting, my itch is shouting even in my sleep. My itch is growing a garden, and it spins in my head until it shouts. And I spin in my head untit I shout, until the head in my head shouts, until the garden of shouts in my head itches like a Call Me Maybe burrito, like maybe I am hungry like maybe my hunger repeats itself. And I grew a castle there, and I grew a castle in the garden of my hunger until it stopped itching, until even my sighs began to shout. They shout and spin like war, like God, like war, like war-like God.

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WRITING
Hollywood the Heartbreaker Andres Reyes Amanda Hollywood puts on her favorite fire-red skin-tight dress after taking a soothing shower to cleanse herself of another long day of mindless, non-constructive labor. Carefully, she slithers across her nails matching red polish. While they dry, Amanda applied the darkest eye shadow to insinuate her lovely blues, which appear like a blue sunshine two suns you cant hurt your eyes from staring for so long. After, she gets her eyelashes erect and bold with the perfect touch of mascara to define the sun rays. Hooray for puberty the duckling that grew into a beautiful swan. Amanda Hollywood is the personification of fiery lust.

You play with fire, expect to be burned. Grizzled Youth found out the hard way.

Lust Robert Ueda Lust After me? After you For all our greater intellect what more do we reach for? Fiends, one and all how I want what I dont need Like the talk-of-the-town is to a mother A lover is to another I dont want to taste your thoughts but Id love to get under your skin Heartstrings hold the Great Marionette The manipulator a thing of sex The hand with red lips and full hips To make the human race dance

Foundation and blood red lipstick follow suit towards her face. She puckers her lips, and purses them onto the lipstick. Smack, smack, and the color fills in. Her grin grows into a smile, revealing the cutest tooth gap. Then, a spray or two of Playboy perfume, she slips into her heels; the driver is now in the vehicle. Ignition on. Fasten your seat belts: This little red Corvette is going out for a wild spin through the streets of Manch-Vegas. She goes where she pleases, and she pleases where she goes.

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WRITING
A Diminishing Grief Dale Johnson, Jr. Dearest friend remember me, Our time and cherished camaraderie; Rest assured Ill keep your torch Blazing from our memorys porch.

What is death that we await While knowing there, beyond that gate, Communes the souls weve loved and lost, For whom we would have borne deaths cost? Rejoice! Rejoice for those weve loved! Let not this hour rue the beloved! Tell the tales and recur those stories; Ner shall they fade, these Morning Glories!

I cry out to the bitter and ruthless world that bury the wise Beneath the debris of ashes and time, They shall arise! For every waking morn there shall spring as perennial seed, From my earthen heart, lifes blossom oer dying need. Blessed be Whom we have known Blessed be With whom weve grown; Pall-bearer, pastor, family and friend; Carry the memories beyond our end!

Rear Wheels No-End-To-Eldorado (Tumblr)

I can feel the rear wheels spinning round and round, In my mind. And digging a hole deeper and deeper, Throwing the sand and the dust around, Until it ricochets off the inside of my skull. And this tiny car is wearing itself out, The engine cant stand much more. Speed has achieved nothing, And now it hasnt got the power to dig itself Out of the ground. I can keep it quiet and keep it hidden, Most of the time. But occasionally the engine screams too loud, And the headlights pour out of my eyes and mouth, And I tell you exactly what it feels like. And in that moment its all a disaster, An apocalypse and a perfect storm, Leaving carnage in its wake, And I feel like shit. But theres a purity in the agony, A clarity in the pain, And just like the water rushing over my body, I emerge reborn once again. But also hung over.

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WRITING
Dont Forget to Remember Me Desiree Nodes I want to forget the way you smiled down at me and the way your hand glided over my bare skin, the way your tongue danced with mine in a forbidden ritual that ended with sacrifice. I want to forget the silver words that ravaged your mouth with ease, the careful glances of certainty filled with bliss and reprieve.

I want to forget how you told me any man would be foolish to give me up, how your precise fingers brought me to the edge and your thrusts tore me into oblivion. I want to forget how you made me feel like a stranger I had never met before, who whispered against the stars in the sky each syllable caressed by cigarette smoke.

I want to forget the feeling of acceptance that you presented to me through the days, the simple conversations that make me laugh out loud as I read what you said. I want to forget hurt and anger as you said things wouldnt work, spite and distaste replace original intuition weaving through clenched fists. I want to forget the tears I cried over your insignificant importance, the drunken escapade that followed and left me with a migraine. I want to forget how you pretended to be my friend afterwards, how you thought it changed nothing when it changed everything after all.

I want to forget the smiles I put on your face and the laughter I produced, the special time we shared but dont forget to remember me.

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WRITING
Femme Fatale at Heart Anitra DeLorenzo She keeps chilled Prosecco in her magick cabinet History is a cyclic poem written by time Just like Percy Shellys rhyme A built in remedy Like a Shakespeare comedy Sprinkled with honest love by Gandhi At anytime an invitation You cant decline Absinthe & Opium Infusions made with a little europium Femme Fatale at Heart Shes a bad girl Tattoos and pearls T-N-T with a magick wand Guaranteed to cast a spell upon beau monde Anytime To avoid a tangle of webs She never hangs out with over exposed celebs In conversation she politely nods her head Using her eyes of infrared Perfume came naturally from Europe As for others opinions she could care less Shes educated and punctilious Absinthe & Opium Infusions made with a little europium Femme Fatale at Heart Shes a bad girl Tattoos and pearls T-N-T with a magick wand Guaranteed to cast a spell upon beau monde Anytime A lick and a promise is as Devilish as her mysterious tick She has no need for the in-crowd clique Temporarily out of gas Whilst she primps in the looking glass To absolutely drive you mad, mad, mad She has a suggested retail price Insatiable times thrice She will be your only vice Absinthe & Opium Infusions made with a little europium Femme Fatale at Heart Shes a bad girl Tattoos and pearls T-n-T with a magick wand Guaranteed to cast a spell upon beau monde Anytime Wanna try? Le sigh~

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ONLINE TEASERS
The following pieces in their entirety were not able to be accomodated in the space we have for the publication. However, you can view the completed pieces at www.nhinkblot.org under Writings.
We Were Never Happier Adam Gerhold Hello, Don said as he answered the phone. Hello, Don? Its Steve.

Steve was Dons best friend since college and his best man at his wedding. Recently they had lost touch because of some issues between Don and his wife. Dons wife, Sue, was leaving him again. Not bad, yourself? Steve asked. Well, you know. The whole thing with Sue and I. Shes leaving again. Yeah, I know. Listen Don Don cut him off. She already got another place and shes been coming and going grabbing her things. I think this time its for real. I dont know what to do anymore. I think shes been seeing someone too. love her but I cant do this again. . Perception Robin Nash The brute lures modern chariots To rest in its chalk outlines Looking like a crime sceneMultiple shiny victims Disciples race toward their glinting hollows Horde themselves like drunkards to a whorehouse Lured by the light like swarming locusts

Steve! Whats going on brother? How have you been?

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VISUAL ARTS

Notebook Collage Ira Joel Haber

Fun at the Beach Yvonne Wheeler

The Pond Yvonne Wheeler Internal Ira Joel Haber

Grandfather and Grandson Yvonne Wheeler

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