Post on 06-Apr-2018
transcript
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On the Cover:
“Sun-Kissed Hills”
by Molly Nelis
Logo Design:
Carlton Kenny
A journal of literary and visual arts
Volume 7, 2008-2009
Rose-Hulman Instute of Technology
Advisors Dr. Rebecca Dyer
Dr. Maki Hirotani
Dr. Mark Minster
Dr. Corey Taylor
Co-Editors in Chief
Samuel Howell
Jessica Lipscomb
Layout Editors
Ryan Mendonca
Jacob Slifer
Submissions Editors
Janelle Crocke
Phillip Rodenbeck
Markeng Editor
Annie Bullock
Online Editors
Robert Adams
John-Paul Verkamp
Sta: Brandon Abad, Nickolas Easter, An-
gelica Pano, Bernadee Pano, Kelli Phil-
lips, James Sedo
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Editors’ Note
The editors wish to thank everyone who contributed to Ink, and to congratulate the arsts whose
work appears on the following pages. We would like to acknowledge this year’s best visual and
wrien works: Michael Ferguson’s “Mr. Myles Cranford” and Noel Spurgeon’s “Ether,” respec-
vely. Congratulaons, too, to Molly Nelis for “Sun-Kissed Hills,” which graces this issue’s cover;
to Kevin Richards, who won this year’s haiku contest; and to Carlton Kenny, for designing this
year’s winning logo.
This installaon of Ink is special because it is the rst student-produced issue. As such, we would
like to thank our fellow student editors: Robert Adams, Annie Bullock, Janelle Crocke, RyanMendonca, Phillip Rodenbeck, Jacob Slifer and John-Paul Verkamp. Thank you to the enre Ink
sta for all of their hard work and late hours. We also would like to thank the faculty advisors
who facilitated the magazine’s producon, Rebecca Dyer, Maki Hirotani, Mark Minster, and Corey
Taylor, for their guidance. Without the superb eorts of everyone involved, Ink would not be pos-
sible. In addion, we thank Je Schoonover, the Elsie B. Pawley Fund, and the Department of Hu-
manies and Social Sciences for their support.
—Samuel Howell and Jessica Lipscomb
This year’s volume of Ink is dedicated to the Rose-Hulman students who recently lost their lives:
James “JJ” Boyce
Fah Ilhan
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Contents
Michael Ferguson
Noel Spurgeon
Jim Sedo
Kevin Richards
Phillip Rodenbeck
Anastasia Tarpeh
Annie Bullock
Emily Dosmar
Michael Ferguson
Andrew Kneller
Angelica Pano
Bernadee Pano
Luanne Tilstra
Molly Nelis
Corey Taylor
Ryan Mendonca
Kelli Phillips
Angelica Pano
Jeanie Sozansky
Andrew Carlson
Chris Wlezien and Je van Treuren
John-Paul Verkamp
Evan Cornell
Jessica Lipscomb
Preston Pameijer
Mr. Myles Cranford
Ether
Lotus
Two Grapes
Hip Hop is…
...and the fog rolls in
The Game
But rst I had to discover that I am
an invisible man!
In Clips
Entropy
Tube Julian
On Bob Dylan’s Voice
Rust Bucket
Jolly Roger Strikes Again
The eye is not enough. One needs to
think, as well.
You Have to Play with the Cards
You’re Dealt
Draconis Weldus
Silent Scream
Sacred Sunlight
The Ofusu Family
Aer the Flood
1
2
3
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
21
22
23
24
25
26
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Charles Joenathan
Evan Cornell
Phillip Rodenbeck
Preston Pameijer
Nickolas Easter
Kelli Phillips
Robert Adams
Sophia Percival
Brandon Abad
Benjamin Mann
Chris Wlezien
Jusn Perry
Preston Pameijer
Bernadee Pano
John-Paul Verkamp
Kevin Collins
Corey Taylor
Annie Bullock
Noel Spurgeon
Chris Wlezien
Ryan Mendonca
Sophia Percival
John-Paul Verkamp
Brandon Abad
Jessica Lipscomb
No Night For Me
Pont du Gard
The Dawn Sin :: The Charred Skin :: TheDusk Devoured My Mortal Chagrin
Sunset
Nude
Hidalgo
One
Nemo
Dance
The Purging of Monday
Cloudy Mountains
My Visit to a Castle
Happy Emu
White Chapel in Autumn
Three Studies in Grays and Browns
The Lepidopterist
Roune
Octopus
Yulede Glow
Golden Gate Bridge
Winter Reecons
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
35
36
37
37
38
39
40
43
44
45
46
47
47
48
49
50
51
52
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Michael Ferguson
Best Visual Work
Mr. Myles Cranford
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Noel Spurgeon
Ether
You were an absinthe drinker,
Whiling away your days
Through sloed spoons as
The wormwood crept through your veins—
Solace in the madness,
Subsisng on ether.
Oh, to be the
Dreamer that you were.
But now you dine on asphodel,
A burnt out,
Neglected shade of a thing,
Searching for the door behind the curtain
And dissolving through the
Walls of reality,
Searching for escape.
I can’t save you
From the face on the shelf,
Dragged out of Hades
To have you perish in
The sunlight—
Mist and vapor that disappears
At the rst blush of dawn.
I’m no lotus-eater, honey.
I don’t forget.
The shell is sll there,
Perfect as the day you le
It empty and cold
For your eld of night-blooming
Flowers.
ink
Best Wrien Work
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Jim Sedo
Lotus
Silent room broken
A cricket guest mocks the host
Only the laughing
Kevin Richards
Winning Haiku
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Phillip Rodenbeck
Two Grapes
Those roses dance like Alcatraz on goblets overowing
I plucked a petal yelping “Free me!”
And devoured its soul
So I’m constantly alone
I cannot begin to describe
Like smooth brown stones snaked together in some perfect entanglement of viscous re
And as such, entwine
To hell with Murphy
The gress has two grapes for eyes
She stole from a demon’s prickly garden And we, in them, do clear reect
What precious love is le
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Anastasia Tarpeh
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Hip Hop is…
Hip hop is the loud mouthed lil girl
With long glistening cornrows
Swinging with bright beads on the ends.
Hip hop is the one
That rocks the hearts of B-Boys
That will be boys
When they break
To send up ares
To the y chicks across the street
With that good hair.
Hip Hop is the movement everyone felt
No maer the color, race, or creed.
She uses the compelling tongues Of emcees to send forth
The pure message of jusce and self -denion.
Hip Hop is a lifestyle, the gospel of creavity,
Pung souls on the grind
Recording cassee tapes
While pushing rocks
Just to keep they H-E-A-D-U-P,
“If you don’t know, now you know.”
Hip Hop is
The boom kat of street dancers,
The “uh check it”
In round 1 of an underground rap bale,
The scue of Nikes on the basketball court,
And the yells of double dutch girls,
“Cinderella dressed in yella!”
Hip Hop is the common goal
Of everyone for themselves
Yet help a brotha out
If you got connecons.
It’s the feeling you can be anything you want to be.
It’s having condence and an innate swag
Cuz if you didn’t have at least a front
You’d get hassled by dope boys.
It’s when you knew who were your friends,
Who were your enemies,
And who you wouldn’t even let watch your bike.
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Annie Bullock
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Hip Hop is a state
Of simplicity and creavity,
A state of revoluon and innovaon.
It is the state of being
Yourself.
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Michael Ferguson
...and the fog rolls in
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Andrew Kneller
The yellow sun beat down on the eld, warming
the blue cap I wore on my head. The wind was blowing
gently through the streets picking up a lile dust as it
wound its way toward the lake. The pungent aroma of
freshly cut grass and moist dirt lled the air around my
head, making my head feel light. I heard the people
around me buzzing with excitement and alcohol and the
most important in the throng of people was my father
next to me. It was a trip down memory lane to be there
with him, spending so many nights at the eld with him
when I was younger. The crunch of peanuts and the snap
of leather oozed through the stadium, surrounding and
swallowing me, diusing its way into my pores. The ven-
dors were working their trade, ghng their way through
ebb and ow of the crowd, searching out those too en-
thralled by the game or inebriated by spirits to seek out
refreshment and sustenance on their own two feet.
Their calls were simple, but all the more wonderful as a
result.
“Beer! Ice Cold Beer!” or, “Peanuts! Getcha Pea-
nuts!”
The crowd ignored them for the most part, too
busy socializing or cheering on the pitcher who was
working his magic on the mound. Once a long me ago I
saw a pitch thrown in slow moon on this sports channel
or that. It’s a thing of beauty: arms bending in three
places, legs up by their ears, the whole of their bodyworking together, all muscles in perfect unison to put the
correct velocity on the ball, and the hand and wrist
pung that perfect spin on that wicked inside-out slider.
All the while he’s playing a game of chess with each
baer, hiding the pitch ll the last second changing
speeds, changing locaons, changing pitches. When they
succeed their reward is the snapping sound of leather on
leather as the ball nds its way past the bat and into the
waing catcher’s mi. And who could forget the best
reward of all? The roar of the crowd as the baer shrugs
o towards the dugout. This was one of those mes
when the pitcher was winning and it didn’t look like the
other team could do anything about it. And yet, as the
next baer stepped up to the plate, there was a glimmer
in his eye. I’d seen that look before a million mes, it’s
the same look a predatory bird gets right before it
swoops down upon the unsuspecng mouse.
“Two down, one to go!” cried the third baseman.
The pitcher stepped on the rubber, and for a se-
cond from my spot behind the third base dugout I
thought I saw fear on his face. He went into the windup
and I could see the baer shi his weight onto his back
foot. The pitcher’s knee came up to his face while draw-
ing his arm back like a snake coiling for the strike and the
baer brought his bat back starng a slow arc. The ball
came forward as the pitcher stepped towards home and
simultaneously the baer stepped towards the mound.
The ball was silhoueed against the stands for a mo-
ment, the crowd a blur as my eyes followed the ball from
the pitcher’s hand toward the awaing glove. But sud-
denly, that bat appeared and took the ball squarely on.
There was a loud CRACK! and the ball became silhoueed
against the blue sky, a sinking feeling lled the stands.Silence lled the stadium, peanuts dropping to the
ground, the vendors craning their necks to see what had
happened. The crowd slowly rose to their feet with whis-
pers of “It’s too high” lling the air. The le elder, upon
the crack of the bat, turned and started sprinng back to
the wall, the white of this uniform a blur against the
The Game
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Andrew Kneller
green background. I felt the feeling of warm smooth
leather on my hand a cool wind on my face. I looked
down and I saw there a baseball glove, my feet running
across the grass. I looked over my shoulder and saw the
ball against the sky and below it the kids from my child-
hood out in the park playing a pick-up game of baseball.
I saw the dirt lled ineld, the small lump of dirt that
suced for a pitcher’s mound. I felt the ground become
undy, tall, thick grass under my running feet. I looked
forward again, knowing that I must be closing on the
rusty old fence enclosing the eld. Suddenly, a streak of
dirt appeared below his shoes and mine, kicking up a
dust storm as we went, our eyes never leaving that white
orb in the sky. Our knees bent further, and as we pushed
against the dirt, his glove came up with mine as though
trying to grab a hold of the sky. Feet le the ground and
up and up we went together, gloves outstretched, bodies
made as long as possible, straining for that extra inch.
Suddenly against the black of the glove appeared the
white orb with red stching. The gloves closed with a
snap, encasing the ball in a prison cell. The crowd erupt-
ed in cheers as he fell back to earth again, holding that
small capve ghtly in his glove. Everyone hugged and
high-ved, all transformed into back-slapping, beer-
spilling family members in that joyous moment.
All the while, I sat, the trance only partly broken,
taken back to the days of my youth spent on baseballeld and backyard playing with gloves, ball, and bat, or
scks and rocks. That is the magic of baseball; the mys-
cal game played by heroes and children; the magic of a
game that ignites the imaginaon of the masses. Looking
around I no longer saw fans of this team or that, business
men and construcon workers, men and women. I saw a
diving catch in the gap, I saw a stolen second base amid a
cloud of dust and the clamor of voices protesng and
praising, I saw a triple to right eld to clear the bases and
all of it taking place on patches of dirt using trees, n
cans, newspaper, rocks, and bushes for bases. I saw the
mean neighborhood dog that threatened anyone who
climbed aer a foul ball with a snarl and glistening fangs.
I saw through it all, sing sll, holding my breath, savor-
ing the taste of peanuts and polish sausage and overly
expensive colas. But most importantly, I saw my father
both beside me and years ago standing paently throw-
ing pitch aer pitch, always the same words echoing in
my ears:
“Keep your eye on the ball.”
I saw myself out on the ineld, my father hing
grounders to me.
“Keep your eye on the ball.”
I saw myself in the ouield, my dad throwing pop
-up aer pop-up.
“Keep your eye on the ball.”
I saw him playing catch every night aer work ll
the sun went down.
“Keep your eye on the ball.”
And in that moment, he leaned over to me and
asked if I was okay. My team had made a great play and I
wasn’t with the rest. I looked at my father there, and
had to turn away pretending there was dust blowing inmy eye. We talked a lot that day about school, golf, of
course baseball, and life. And as the day came to a close
and we got in the car to go home, he oered me that one
piece of advice that has echoed throughout the ages
from Father to Son for generaons past and present.
“Son,” he said, “Keep Your Eye on The Ball.”
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Angelica Pano
But rst I had to discover that I am an invisible man!
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Bernadee Pano
In Clips
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Luanne Tilstra
Entropy
I can develop the thermodynamic denion of entropy from an analysis of the Carnot Cycle.
I can develop an explanaon for why the empty milk jug never quite makes it to
the recycle box.
I can dene the terms necessary to describe the stascal distribuon of energy among available states.
I can dene the ever-expanding distribuon of
my children’s socks.
I can jusfy the distribuon of energy among available states as a measure of the entropy of the system.
I can jusfy why the Easter decoraons don’t get completely put away
unl the fall.
I can relate the Boltzmann denion of entropy to real systems and describe how that one equaon allows us to pre-dict and explain the direcon of spontaneous change.
But—even aer more than twenty years of research—I cannot relate my husband’s inability to place the wine
bole opener back in its drawer to
anything at all.
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Molly Nelis
Tube Julian
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On Bob Dylan’s Voice
I rst heard you live
in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania,
at an art-deco theater.
Thin with wispy curls,
you sat stage right at an electric piano, working its keys and not playing guitar. (Not once playing guitar.)
You blew that harmonica
through Marlboro Red smoke
and croaked, gurgled, transformed
your words.
But,
it didn’t match your 1960s recordings.
I barely recognized “All Along the Watchtower,”
even aer you sang the opening couplet.
I saw a hippie kid
get escorted from the fourth row during “Cat’s in the Well,”
chucking beer on a guy about your age
on his way out.
My buddy Judd
got us ckets to the show—sold out—for
a hundred bucks.
We saw the world’s greatest Bob Dylan cover band,
fronted by Bob Dylan.
I was disappointed.
Sll, I bought CDs like
Slow Train Coming and Time Out of Mind .
I listened, read, thought
about the impressionism and narraves of your lyrics.
I saw you next at a ki bar
in Wilmington, Delaware
aer my third year of graduate school.
You, again on a piano stool,
and your band played “Masters of War”
as sinister midtempo pop:
subtle keys, snaking guitars, shuing drums, stomping bass.
The voice was gravel, clear.
Rang out.
You sound old on The Times They Are a-Changin’
You sound young on Modern Times
You creak through “I Was Young When I Le Home”
You breeze through “Mississippi”
You twang on Nashville Skyline
You exhort on Indels
You are Robert Johnson Bessie Smith Woody Guthrie
Billie Holiday Pete Seeger
Corey Taylor
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Walt Whitman Allen Ginsberg
Midwestern Southern the High Plains the West
New York bohemian
Huck Finn
America.
Your voice soars
Your guitar dances
Your harmonica sears
***
Hey, hey, Bob Dylan,
I wrote down this poem.
It’s probably trite, but as I’m living
the world is beer for your singing.
Ryan Mendonca
Rust Bucket
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Kelli Phillips
Jolly Roger Strikes Again
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Angelica Pano
The eye is not enough. One needs to think, as well.
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We’re almost there. I sit in the back seat of the
van and peer out the window at the all too familiar sur-
roundings. I recognize the bends in the road, the barn on
my right with the huge red roof, the rusted sign for thegun shop. We’re in Eldred, Pennsylvania, making our way
down Indian Creek Road to my grandparents’ house. They
live in the country, nestled up in the hills and surrounded
by woods. Their house is a xed up shanty; it was the
house in which my grandpa grew up. My grandma and
grandpa have done some extensive remodeling, however:
the ceiling isn’t falling down anymore, the oor is mostly
level, the siding isn’t falling o, and the roof isn’t leaking.
But it’s sll the same house I remember spending Christ-mas in as a kid.
My family and I make our way into the house to
greet my Grandpa Karl and Grandma Jean. I’m the last
one to walk in. I hug and kiss my grandma and turn to do
the same to my grandpa. Grandpa doesn’t look the same
as he used to. He is walking a bit slower and he’s about
half his original size. But when he hugs me, I know it’s my
Grandpa Karl. His arms envelop me in a strong embrace,
the same one I’ve always known ever since I was a lile
girl.
We all chat about the trip and begin unloading our
things. It’s been a year since I’ve been here. Much has
happened since then, but at the same me, nothing has
changed. My grandpa and I sit down at the kitchen table
to play cards as usual.
We start up a game of Rummy. “So, Grandpa, how
are you?” “Oh, well, I’m ner than frog hair.” I stare at
him blankly. “And what exactly does that mean?” “Well,
have you ever seen hair on a frog?” I laugh out loud. Frog
hair must be prey ne. I guess he’s doing well.
We connue our game. Grandpa Karl is winning,
of course. He’s been playing since before I can remember,
so it’s no surprise. I look at his face, nocing the scar on
his chin from a long-ago serious car accident and the thin-
ning white head of hair he’s had since he was eighteen.
My aenon then turns to his now thin, fragile-looking
frame. This wasn’t my grandpa. My grandpa had a big
belly like Santa Claus and thick, strong arms and hands. He
wasn’t really fat, he was just solid. He looked tough. If you saw him in person a year ago, you would have proba-
bly characterized my Grandpa Karl as an inmidang,
white-haired old man with a surprisingly disarming smile
even though he’s only 5’ 5” and has false teeth. Not any-
more.
My grandpa was diagnosed last year with ampul-
lary cancer, which is a rare form of cancer that is found in
the duodenum where the pancreac and bile ducts open.
He withstood months of unbearable itching and pain be-fore having an eight-hour operaon called the Whipple
procedure that removed 1/3 of his stomach, ½ of his pan-
creas, his enre gall bladder, 12 inches of the small intes-
ne, and 35 lymph nodes. By the me he recovered from
the surgery, he had lost about y pounds. He no longer
had that Santa Claus gure, but he sll had his jolly spirit.
“Your turn.” I glance down at the cards in my
hand. I’m one card away from a win, but it looks like he is
too. I lay down my discard and he reaches for it, saying,
“That’s the card I want right there. How did you know?”
But I don’t believe him, and sure enough, he passes over it
and draws a new card. Our game connues.
It seems so simple: me just sing with my grand-
pa at the kitchen table playing an old-fashioned game of
cards. But it is so much more than that. This is the me
where I get to see the essence of my Grandpa Karl. He
tells me stories and we reminisce about old mes. He asks
about my future plans and openly tells me what he thinks.
He cracks jokes like none other too.
“So how’s that boyfriend of yours? What’s his
name, uh, Eric, Allan…” “Very funny, Grandpa. Alex is do-
ing well. I miss him a lot…” “Well that’s because you’re
twierpated. I’m geng red of being on the back-
burner. Do you remember, when you were lile, you said
you’d take me on all your dates? I didn’t even get to go to
Jeanie Sozansky
You Have To Play with the Cards You’re Dealt
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prom with you,” he says with a playful grin on his face. I
chuckle. “Oh, Grandpa… you know you’re not on the back-
burner. You’ll never be. You see, there are two front
burners: one is for you and one is for Alex. And nothingcan change that fact.” He beams and we share a laugh.
It’s true. No one could ever compare to my grand-
father. I greatly admire him. Many grandchildren proba-
bly say that about their grandpa, but mine has a history
that I feel few can compare to in terms of adversity, heart-
ache, hard work, and humor.
It started in the Fall of 1954. Karl’s parents were
in a severe automobile accident, and the father he loved
and respected deeply, died in the hospital with the parngwords, “Promise me you’ll take care of your mother and
your sister.” Even though Karl was only thirteen years old,
he took his father very seriously and took on full responsi-
bility. He cooked and cleaned and worked while taking
care of his slowly recuperang mother and four-year-old
sister, who further ascertained his new role: “Brother,
Daddy’s gone isn’t he. I guess you’ll just have to be my
daddy from now on.”
My Grandpa Karl was the bond that kept the fami-
ly together. He’s always been that way, even when he
started his own family. In fact, aer my mother was born
and work was hard to come by, he would even go as far as
wrestling an orangutan, a real-live orangutan, for ten
minutes in order to get some money to buy groceries and
provide for his family. That strikes me as a bit out of the
ordinary and rather astonishing. I take pride in my grand-
pa’s toughness and the fact that he always puts his family
rst. When I was born, he sold his motorcycle, which he
loved, so that he could buy a video camera to record all
the memories of my childhood.
My grandpa just loves children in general, and
they love him. I don’t know what it is about him, maybe
the twinkle in his calming baby-blue eyes or his cheery,
funny grin or maybe his sweet, melodious voice. Whatev-
er it is, he is like the horse-whisperer of children. Howev-
er, this can also go in reverse. When I was a toddler, he
did something I’ll never forget. “Grandpa, color with me.”
“Grandpa doesn’t color, Jeanie.” “Grandpa, pleeeeee-assssse… what color do you want?” He sighs and cracks a
smile. “Burple.” I hand him a purple crayon while he
chuckles to himself. Imagine a 200-pound, 5’ 5” man with
hands similar to that of a gorilla’s, sing down with a pur-
ple crayon on the living room oor to color pictures with
his four-year-old granddaughter. Priceless.
Looking at him right now, as he sits in front of me,
pondering what card he’ll play next, I can’t help but marvel
at the life and character of my Grandpa Karl. I can see hisdamaged but ever loving heart-of -gold beneath that tough
exterior, how he hurts from the loss of his father and his
best friend and his two sons. I see his scars from mulple
accidents and ailments including congesve heart failure
and the cancer. Yet, I sll see the same Grandpa Karl I’ve
always known and loved: the denion of genuine, the
toughest man with the biggest heart. He’s never had
much in terms of money and material things, but he’s al-
ways made the most out of what he does have, working
hard and loving much. No maer what cards he’s dealt,
he always knows how to play them.
“Rummy.” My grandpa lays down his cards in vic-
tory. “How’s that grab ya?” “Just ne, Grandpa, ner than
frog hair.” We laugh. “It’s not like it’s anything new. You
beat me again, but I sll love you.” “Well, I love you
more.” “No, Grandpa, I love YOU more.” “But I loved you
rst!” His eyes sparkle and he grins from ear to ear. “You
got me there, Grandpa.” He shues the cards and deals
the next hand.
Jeanie Sozansky
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Chris Wlezien and Je Van Treuren
Draconis Weldus
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Silent Scream
Do you hear, the silent scream,
Of a thousand dying voices?
Do you hear the nal breath,
Of a thousand dying voiceless?
Do you see, the salty trace,
Of a child’s unshed tear?
Do you smell, the acrid stench,
Of an ancient, unmatched fear?
Do you know? Do you care?
One more voice could change the world.
Do you hear? Can you see?
How the future is unfurled?
Do you taste, this bier taste,
Of a life some are without?
Do you believe, the endless claim,
Of a choice correct beyond all doubt?
Do you dream? Do you wish?
Of a world united in one goal?
Do you care? Do you know? Who will pay the reaper’s toll?
Do you know the tale untold,
Of those dying, without life?
Do you judge, the innocent,
Of those free of joy and strife?
Can you see? Do you hear?
The echo of a silent scream?
Do you wish? Do you dream?
To know what it all does mean?
Do you support, life or choice,
As a belief, within us srs?
Do you dream, of the chance,
That the child could be yours?
John-Paul Verkamp
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Evan Cornell
Sacred Sunlight
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Jessica Lipscomb
The Ofusu Family
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Preston Pameijer
Aer the Flood
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No Night for Me
There is no night for me
Through your eyes I watch the faintest stars
With myriads of colors like never before
One speck of life in thousand breaths
Wondering where life would take me
Blackness is beauful in this colorful world
With its ever prevailing pressure
Is it dark? I never know
So there is no night for me
I can feel the faintest of touches
The touch of endless souls of spirits
Oh! There is no night for me
I can sense the faintest walking of cenpede And deep into my soul it wanders
Yet I know not if there is light or not
As I sit alone with glazy eyes
My inner world is sll with senseless storms
Yet I do not know if there is light or not
There is no night for me
The tender touch of the wind of passion
Curdles my blood and weakens my heart
Sll I can see no light but what is light?
I sense that there might never be a night for me
The sleeping souls within the earthen pots
Feels warmth in the cold wind
And seeks shelter in the shadow of my dreams
I squeeze my eyes and open them wide
In the darkness I feel the sllness
Yet there is no light for me.
Not even a single streak of ray for me
My pupils stretch far and my eyes open wide
Yet no streak of light nor a ash
I know for sure and forever
There will be no night for me or a day for me
All blended into one as I sit lonely
Waing for the tender touch of many souls
Wandering in the wilderness of my mind
I wait and wait unl the signal of life
I know now there is no night for me.
Charles Joenathan
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Evan Cornell
Pont du Gard
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The sky awake and thus I quake
Such brightly brimming brilliance
With morning arrows angels shake
The cold and black resilience
The dewy giants nd compliance
Driing orange and deep port-wine
And angel amber in alliance
As lover’s hands and hues entwine
::
The sky awake and thus I quake
Before such tempest morning
The birds are screaming dirge of dawn
To sh in ocean boiling
The sun presiding o’er the sky
Is searing seething red
Streaming waves of ancient wrath
Twist above my head
The grass and trees that shade my knees
To char and dust are scald
Such prey leaves that oat aame
Drape ash on hills so bald
The sun is high upon the sky
Consumed in strakes of cirrus re
My feet are black upon the soot
My skin from sprays of pyre
Ignite the earth and singe the land
The solar slayer cries
Raining drips of dismal re
From wreathing wretched eyes
Upon the blackened earth I crumple
Raising palms to sky ablaze
Around me pours the ames of heaven
As ember winds wail and raze
I bow my head in agony
Despairing and afraid
Withered hearts in conagraon
Mortal debts are paid
The sounds of hooves and horses’ snort
Circle ‘round my mind
I li my head inquisive
Phillip Rodenbeck
The Dawn Sin :: The Charred Skin :: The Dusk Devoured My Mortal Chagrin
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Preston Pameijer
Four horrors do I nd
The sky does burst with penance thirst
Cast shadows dark and daunng
A blazing sword that struck my neck
My corpse is limp and haunng
Unto ash my body billows
On dark and ery gales
The solar serpents raping Earth
Recede vermilion tails
The sky slept and thus I wept
At heaven’s pearly gate
The angel sings that heaven brings
Redempon for my fate
::
The sky slept and thus I wept
As heaven closed its eyes
Those orange and red face devils crept
Across the evening skies
But angels wink at devils pink
As hell opened the ery jaws
Those orange and red face devils sink
Betrayed by black and starry claws
Sunset
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Nickolas Easter
Nude
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Kelli Phillips
Hidalgo
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A deep, rhythmic throbbing penetrates the body of
room’s sole occupant. Inhalaon of years’-worth of dust
buildup and this slow, mesmerizing pulse consume theyoung man. His aenon is diverted, as if the room was a
smaller part of a larger senent enty, demanding his
recognion as such. In a short philosophical burst most
unusual for the man, he releases a snort at these
thoughts. But his mind is not used to solitude, and thus
gives these musings lodging. The construct of this room is
but a micron of a larger structure, on which this man’s
people depend. Down in its core, where he nds himself
now, its heart beats, pushing the energy and informaon,
the nutrients, out to its various compartments, its body.
Alas his mind becomes a grudging host, ses the realiza-
on and refocuses. He puts his eyes to the ancient
screen, its archaic symbols something out of a picture
archive. But the swarm is sick. No one knows yet what
disease is ravaging the swarm, but no member is invul-
nerable. Usually sicknesses target the individuals of the
swarm, and the rest of the swarm work together in bring-
ing that member back, or on isolang it. This disease is
new. It thrives by turning the strength of many against
themselves. Each member that connects to another in an
aempt to group against the disease instead spreads it.
But that is all they have found. The swarm is sick, the
man must work with the ancient.
Most of the others have engaged in synthec-aided un-
consciousness, or deep meditaon. But the young man
had work to do. He knew the keepers of the ancients, the
caregivers of those structures on which the life sustaining
enty survives. Down to this isolated room he was led,words praccally old enough to be considered lore,
“debugging console”, “largely self -automated”, and
“rarely needs tweaking”, spouted out at him from the
caregiver, a man just as archaic as the structures around
him. Whatever these ancient terms meant, they enabled
him to work with a swarm member.
This member is very unlike his own, which sat in an inac-
ve state many chambers above him. It seemed more of
a malfunconing being, connected to but not deriving
strength from the system around it. This seems a very
odd, weak concept to the man. Sll, the man considers,
this weakness has allowed this individual to sll funcon
where the swarm has failed. But, he quickly counters, is
this even worth considering funconing? This decrepit
ancient has proven frustrangly simple, unable to give
him even a glimpse of the raw power of the swarm. But
the swarm is sick.
He goes back to work, but not before an inkling of a
thought slips unnoced into the back of his head. As he
works, slowly conquering the enmies he holds for the
structure, this inkling grows, tapping long unconscious
elements of his mind. With each obstacle overcame, he
lavishes in the silence, the lack of interrupon. No higher
-precedence swarm process pushes his to the side, no
human exchanges halng input to the non-swarm mem-
Robert Adams
One
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ink 34
ber. The thought expands to feeling, one of sasfacon,
and of oneness. This word states deep in the folds of his
consciousness, “One is weak.” But the feeling, unbound-ed by condioning due to its rarity, swells up within him.
He soon nishes his task, but he nds himself not
wanng to leave. A test vocalizaon into the relevant
corridor prompts no reacon aside from a signicant,
empty echo. He is alone. One. Hours, necessies of the
human swarm members, nd their meaning slighted, as
empty as the man’s echo. Thus what would be described
as their passing, make a minimal impact on the man as
he and the machine become a micro-swarm of their own.
It speaks an old language, but the man nds this lan-
guage is not so hard to understand. The concept of one-
ness comes with the acquiring of this old language, the
laer formed in a mindset of the former. The word re-
mains in the background, but its roots have found ferle
soil.
With the old language coursing through his system, this
man delves deeper into the constructs of the ancient. In
turn it wraps him in oneness. A teacher long ignored, de-
livers a powerful lesson. Quickly, or so it seems to the
man to whom hours have been lost, a realizaon comes
to the man. The swarm is not sick. It does not have a dis-
ease. The swarm is a disease. This cure that has been un-
leashed above him has released him of a disease, the dis-
ease of many. A disease that thrives, consuming individu-
als.
Like a brilliant arc of electricity will connect the swarm
members to the grid in greedy ancipaon of their re-
sources, something arcs in the man’s head between aword formed in the lower levels and his working con-
scious. Emboldened with the old language as a weapon
recently acquired, the man speaks to the ancient. He asks
it for a favor; a simple one, but quite demanding. This
ancient, long used to serving the human system, obeys
without hesitaon. As the penetrang throbbing slowly
diminishes, the room around him dims and nally un-
leashes a total shroud of darkness. In the sudden lack of
light and sound, a single uerance denes all of reality
from and to the man.
“One.”
Robert Adams
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Dance
one two three – one two three –
just be free – dance with me –
i’ll be me – you’ll be you –
i’ll be rich – you’ll be fair –
right and le – perfect pair –
one two three – one two three –
clasp our hands – shut the doors –
i’ll be me – you’ll be you –
beauful – tried and true –
just the light – pain no more –
one two three – one two three –
just be free – dance with me –
let me see – you for you –
let me show – me for me –
dance with me – set me free –
The Purging of Monday
On the wings of human hands, a tube light ies through the air
Like a crumbled oce building in a freefall
A ray of sunlight reects o of the smoky white glass
Just as if it was pouring out a river of angelic radiance
But Newton knows what will happen now
The tube shimmers and spins, tumbles and plummets
It whirls as it falls and then it meets the earth with contempt
It collapses into a beauful cloud of white mercury gas
As if it were melng right into the ground Dissolving right into the concrete of this empty lot
At rst it stood erect
But when it nally was rendered into a liquid
The smoke cleared and all of its banality became apparent
But almost in spite of this, there is an uproar from the crowd of spectators
Cheering and jeering like a pack of insaable mongrels, hungry for more
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Chris Wlezien
Benjamin Mann
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Preston Pameijer
Cloudy Mountains
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Aer two days, I le my uncle’s home in metro
Manila, Philippines, for a dierent world: my great grand-
parents’ ancestral home in the rural town of Capiz prov-
ince called Panitan. My grandfather, whom I call Papa,
built the home as a gi for his parents for their ieth
wedding anniversary. It picked up the nickname
“casllo”, the castle—at least, that’s what a two-story,
six-bedroom house seems like amongst a sea of bamboo
nipa huts and one-room, iron-scrap shanes. My mom
sll remembers how everyone on Papa’s side of the fami-
ly chose to go to the housewarming party instead of her
high school graduaon. Castles like this appeared only
once every few decades. When Papa died, I visited this
castle. I stepped out of the air-condioned taxi and the
let the heat crawl up my arms and legs. I blinked a few
mes and opened my eyes to a dirt road that led into half
-opened green gates, nted red from the rust. The metal
sheets covering the concrete walls of the house formed a
checkerboard paern with the bamboo. San Miguel beer
boles and cigaree bus at the feet of ve lawn chairs
framed the entrance. I looked above the gate. A plaid
house dress and white wife beaters rustled in the sun
from the second oor balcony. It lted to the le so
much that I imagined it crashing onto the heads of the
people below waving hello. From behind me, my mom
said, “We’re home.”
Being there didn’t feel like home—the adjust-
ment phase lasted longer than I ancipated. Fama, my
faint-of -heart eldest sister, shrieked for the second me
we arrived that aernoon. Laughter from the kitchen
rose to the raers with the summer heat. Everyone
feasted on four variees of crab and joked that Ling-Ling,
the wall-climbing, decade old, possum
-sized rat that lived
on the second oor, had found a new friend. Fama al-
ways p-toed four long strides from the room we shared
all the way to the bathroom, but Ling-Ling proved to have
impeccable ming. No one appreciated it at 3 AM, but I
always thought that Ling-Ling tried to save her from a
greater horror: the actual bathroom. When I closed the
door behind me, I regreed it the same instant. The
smell of dead sh never quite le that bathroom; it lin-
gered probably because of the stagnant puddle of water
that appeared whenever someone would ush the toilet.
Lola Dada, the only daughter of my great grandparents
that never le Panitan, didn’t have enough money to x
the pluming, but she beamed when she told us that she
managed to change the toilet seat. On the other side of
the curtain stood ve tubs of stale water, all of varying
sizes and colors, and a bucket with a handle that t in the
palm of your hand. I promised God I would pray all four
mysteries of the rosary (even with the Novena at the
end), listen to all of my great aunts’ stories, and walk to
the corner sari-sari store just to buy the candy for the
kids with my own money — that is, if the roaches would
stay on that third le from the le.
Victorian-like portraits of my great grandparents,
Lola Agripina and Lolo Tomas, hung on the concrete walls
of the upper oor, framing the entrance to the master
bedroom. Even though the colors dulled in the worn
paint, they sll looked untouchable. Rat droppings lined
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the oor under the Lola and Lolo’s faint smiles. If you
looked closely enough, Ling-Ling’s lair stood three feet
from the entrance, just above the stairs. On the same
wall, photos unraveled the forgoen history of strangers.
Graduaon portraits—a lawyer, two judges, a denst, a
doctor, and a nun—captured a youth now hidden under
wrinkles of women and caskets of men. Next to these
hung framed leers wrien in an unfamiliar language,
but all those exclamaon points! The leer must have
had three heart aacks before its envelope was opened.
A hand wrien leer and another one with NASA’s logo
shared the same frame. Everyone knew about Lolo’s ob-
session with Neil Armstrong, the moon, the cosmos.
More than a dozen framed newspaper clippings adorned
the wall—Lolo Tomas and the town mayor shaking
hands, stories about the successes of his children in the
States. Papa didn’t have any newspaper clippings and
was absent from the family portraits. He moved to Ma-
nila for work right out of high school. He stood in a rice
eld with the old house in the background, its coconut
hide roof and bamboo walls covered by the shadow of a
passing cloud, in the only picture of him on that wall. A
sea of trinkets stood on a coee table below the pho-
tos—old souvenirs from weddings thirty years past, min-
iature Jesus statues, and unwashed ashtrays.
Feeling a sneeze creeping up my nose, I opted to
go downstairs. The top of Papa’s bald head became visi-
ble. If I moved my head an inch lower, I could see the
with the wisps of his grey hairs sprawled across the white
cushion, and a lile lower yet, the gold cross pinned to
the lid of the con. If I stayed too long, I couldn’t take
my eyes o his face. I’d queson my memory—his lips
too puy, his jaw too low, his skin too powdery. The em-
broidery of his white borong looked immaculate amongst
the dirty wall behind him and the brown le below him. I
wondered what his graduaon portrait would have
looked like for the sake of comparison with what he
looked like through the glass of the con. Following Fili-
pino custom, his body stayed in the living room of the
house for a week before the funeral. This same living
room, once the place of birthday pares and wedding
recepons, also housed the body of Lolo Tomas, Lola
Agripina, and Papa’s brother Lorenzo some decades back.
The screen door to the le of the room led to the out-
side, where the people who once danced now lowered
their wrinkled faces in prayer.
The high vapor pressure from the mixture of aro-
mas lled the air nonstop, starng at eight in the morn-
ing every day. The food seemed to replenish itself; nev-
er was the kitchen table empty the enre me we were
there. Its four legs should have collapsed under the
weight—besides being at least half a century old, I doubt
it had to hold up so much before. Shiela, the girl who
lived in the room behind the kitchen, cooked the food. I
could catch glimpses of laundry folded on a bed in front
of an open window when she’d come in and out of her
room. Her large belly protruded from her small frame.
Eight months pregnant with her second child, she sll
cooked meals to feed een. During my rst dinner in
Panitan, Lola Dada whispered to me that Shiela tried to
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go to school once but hated math. She never nished
the h grade. Her half sister in the States, three years
younger than she, just graduated from the University of
Nevada in nursing. They didn’t know each other existed
on behalf of the pride of their father. Somemes I would
make eye contact with Shiela when she’d carry the pancit
molo or puto with diniguan to the table. “Salamat, po,”
I’d tell her—“thank you”. She would just look at me with
her best “what the fuck” look and go through the screen
door to the kitchen to tend to the next round of food
roasng on the re outside. Maybe my accent was all
wrong, or perhaps our silence stood in the shadow of
something much greater than a language barrier.
In the dining room, a tapestry of the Last Supper
covered the wall behind the table from top to boom.
Lile lizards common to the Philippines slithered out
from under it. The alter stood behind this wall, adorned
with statues of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immac-
ulate Heart of Mary next to the statue of St. Peregrine
(the patron saint of cancer) that my mom sent from the
States to Lola Agripina when she was diagnosed. Lola
Agripina’s blue beaded rosary sll rested in St. Pere-
grine’s outstretched hands. Lola Dada told me of how
Lola Agripina never missed the 5 AM mass at the start of
every day. She’d walk the dirt roads, and when it rained,
she would change her muddy dress when she returned
home. A photograph, sing next to the statues, depict-
ed in black and white the Panitan Cross. It stood atop a
hill a few miles west—the desnaon of Lolo Tomas’s
mini pilgrimages. He hiked there on the weekends with
his sons, somemes against their will. It was there at the
Panitan Cross where Papa found him when he refused to
aend the wedding of his youngest daughter, Margarita.
On most nights, everyone fell asleep around 4
AM because of jet-lag. A king-sized bed stood at the cen-
ter of our room where my mom and sisters aempted to
share an orange blanket. A twin-sized bed stood at the
other end of the room, where my uncle and Derrick
snored in unison. I got into the twin-sized bed on the le
side of the room, the same hospital bed that Lola Agripi-
na used when she was sick. The lile lizards that crept
on the walls all over the house kept to themselves, ex-
cept at night. They gathered atop the windows, the
males singing to aract mates. Their circadian-like buzz-
ing kept me up. Perhaps the status of castle was appro-
priate for the house, with all of its poor plumbing, ro-
dents scurrying about, and personal chef. Its walls told of
the histories of the people who lived here, every crevice
revealing more than any family crest.
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John-Paul Verkamp
Happy Emu
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Kevin Collins
White Chapel in Autumn
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I.
The land
spreads vast and oppressive,
grass scorched by frigid air
from Canada.
Drab lile hills and muddy shallow ditches.
Fields are speckled with
barns, billboards,
rusted Ford pickups and trailers.
The sky
is a thin sheet of
slate smoothed across space
to hold back the sunlight. On
the horizon,
the dead colors embrace. Their touching
can be seen
even at eighty-seven miles per hour. Even at
that speed,
the human eye cannot help but noce the
monochromes of ground and air. The
interstate, too:
Cracked and crumbling asphaltworn down
to concrete.
II.
In the city
every building wears a carapace
of tanned brick or rusc
wood. Exoskeletons of businesses
and apartments, stripmalls and half -century-old
houses.
The dun facades
stand beside bombed-out-looking
parking lots of
stone. The square edices with
triangle roofs grow from mercury streets like
arteries.
Dull cars race by.
The government oce
is tarnished sterling jewelry worn upon
the earth’s wrist.
It faces the wrong direcon,
pung its backside to a lthy, freezing, old
river.
III.
A deep brown tree, leaess,
rooted in at farmland
under a snow-gorged canopy
of gray.
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Corey Taylor
Three Studies in Grays and Browns
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The Lepidopterist
I have spent a lifeme
Cataloging, classifying, describing--
Mounng specimens in shadowboxes
To realize the secret of myself.
But each day, I discover some new buery of the soul,
Beauful in its promise
Of something le to seek.
ink 47
Noel Spurgeon
Roune
I look up into the mirror
And I see everything the world already knows
The hairs of my brow and the white of my teeth
Staring back at me,
But my eyes have no soul
And I have seen it before, the toll the world takes
When one has no true goal,
A single tear leaves a glimmering tail
And it drops into the sink basin of light blue, mouthwash nted water
I divert my gaze to the reecon I found in that cobalt pool
The ripples propagate, bending my face and bringing me home
Lately I have been living in a haze
Dazed and confused, like the 6 AM alarm hums
I am too tough to be scared and too independent to ask for help
So I am waing in the haze, for a storm to blow through
To clear my vision once again
Chris Wlezien
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Ryan Mendonca
Octopus
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Sophia Percival
Yulede Glow
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John-Paul Verkamp
Golden Gate Bridge
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I am a child
Stuck in a body older than my mind In a world too big for me
I am lost
With no parents
no guide
no mentor
no one to follow
Finally on my own
I am a boy
Surrounded by men
They tell me that I must beStrong
Condent
Brave
Do not ever show weakness
I am a girl
Surrounded by women
Told that I am not prey enough
that I must be like the rest
that I am not good enough
Condence lies with those who conform
I am a kid playing an adult game
I spent 18 years being taught the rules by
Parents
Men
Women
Adults
Told that winning is more important than anything else
I will be a child who will follow his conscience
a boy who puts his loved ones before himself
a girl who is unique
a kid that cares more how he plays the game than if he wins
I refuse to grow up
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Brandon Abad
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Jessica Lipscomb
Winter Reecons
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ink 53
Ink 2008-2009 Arst Biographies
Brandon Abad hopes they put the bios in alphabecal order. He has a passion for dancing.
Robert Adams is a second-year student majoring in computer science.
Annie Bullock is a junior biomedical engineering major.
Andrew Carlson is a junior soware engineering major.
Kevin Collins is a freshman Mechanical Engineer from Evansville, Indiana. Kevin has been involved in photography
since the summer of 2008. He is secretary of the Rose-Hulman ecient vehicle team and a member of Pi Kappa Alpha
Fraternity.
Evan Cornell has received instrucon from Darrell Moll, a professional photographer in Norwalk, Ohio for several
years, and connues to shoot whenever he nds the me. Evan will graduate with a degree in electrical engineering
from Rose in May, 2012.
Emily Dosmar enjoys popsicles, glier glue, genec abnormalies, and belly-buons. When she grows up she aspires
to be a mover and a shaker. She would also like to thank whoever “borrowed” but then returned her printer ink.
Nickolas Easter is a senior chemical engineering major.
Michael Ferguson bought his rst camera, a Konica Minolta X-370n, almost three years ago. He had been fascinated
with photography from a young age but it was only aer he got that camera then that he could focus on making imag-
es. He hasn't looked back since!
Charles Joenathan is Professor and Head of Physics and Opcal Engineering.
Andrew Kneller is a senior chemistry major.
Jessica Lipscomb is an electrical engineering major.
Benjamin Mann is a senior Chemical Engineer from Butlerville, Indiana. He has been wring poetry since high school
and this is the second me he has had his work make it in to Ink. He is very excited to once again be able to make a
contribuon.
Ryan Mendonca is a senior mechanical engineering major.
Molly Nelis is an EE/ME (Exigent Energec Masochisc Eccentric) with a minor in the math-magics. She is impressed
that her computer is sll alive aer rendering 529 fractals for a total of over 3,000 hours. Visit deepbluerene-
gade.deviantart.com to collect them all.
Preston Pameijer is a sophomore chemical engineering major.
Angelica Pano is a rst-year biomedical engineering major.
Bernadee Pano is a rst-year physics major.
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Sophia Percival is a senior biomedical engineering major.
Jusn Perry grew up in Salem, IN and is a junior in the Civil Engineering department, focusing on transportaon. He
recently took up photography, but feels like he improves every me he picks up his camera. He’s always willing to try
new perspecves for good, interesng shots.
Kelli Phillips is a rst-year computer engineering major.
Kevin Richards is a freshman chemical engineering major.
Phillip Rodenbeck is a junior ME, music lover, poet, and all-around fan of creavity. His favorite poet is William Blake.
Jim Sedo is a senior ChE. When he wasn’t swamped with homework, aending nearly every department seminar un-
der the sun or going to club meengs, he took some pictures. One of those pictures appears in this collecon.
Jeanie Sozansky is a simple girl with an endless imaginaon. She loves culture, music, art, and science, and intends to
become a doctor. She is a happy person and likes to make people smile. =)
Noel Spurgeon is a freshman mechanical engineering major and a compulsive collector of hobbies. She likes good
sandwiches, music, nger painng, and reading anything that’s not nailed down.
Anastasia Tarpeh is a Cincinna, Ohio nave and is in her sophomore year studying Mechanical Engineering. She was
the Parliamentarian of the Naonal Society Black Engineers for the 2008-2009 school year and is a member of the
Track Team. Ms. Tarpeh enjoys listening to music, trying new things, traveling, languages, wring poetry in what lile
spare me she has, and her favorite color is blue.
Corey Taylor decided to write poetry, instead of analyzing it, for a change.
Luanne Tilstra joined the Rose-Hulman faculty (Department of Chemistry) in 1992. Two years later she took on a se-
cond full-me job when her son Victor was born; this posion was made more challenging with the birth of daughter
Chrisne in 1998. Dr. Tilstra lives in Terre Haute with her husband (Phillip Smith), two children, and a dog.
Je Van Treuren is a junior mechanical engineering major.
John-Paul Verkamp is a junior double majoring in math and computer science.
Chris Wlezien is a Junior ME from Chicago. He is very interested in design-based engineering and spends most of his
me working on the Student Design Project and the Human Powered Vehicle Team. Some of his hobbies include ice
hockey, guitar, and driving very fast!