2008-2009

Volume 7

A journal of literary and visual arts Volume 7, 2008-2009 Rose-Hulman Institute 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 Crockett Phillip Rodenbeck Marketing Editor Annie Bullock Online Editors Robert Adams John-Paul Verkamp

Staff: Brandon Abad, Nickolas Easter, Angelica Patino, Bernadette Patino, Kelli Phillips, James Sedoff On the Cover: Sun-Kissed Hills by Molly Nelis Logo Design: Carlton Kenny

Editors Note
The editors wish to thank everyone who contributed to Ink, and to congratulate the artists whose work appears on the following pages. We would like to acknowledge this years best visual and written works: Michael Fergusons Mr. Myles Cranford and Noel Spurgeons Ether, respectively. Congratulations, too, to Molly Nelis for Sun-Kissed Hills, which graces this issues cover; to Kevin Richards, who won this years haiku contest; and to Carlton Kenny, for designing this years winning logo. This installation of Ink is special because it is the first student-produced issue. As such, we would like to thank our fellow student editors: Robert Adams, Annie Bullock, Janelle Crockett, Ryan Mendonca, Phillip Rodenbeck, Jacob Slifer and John-Paul Verkamp. Thank you to the entire Ink staff for all of their hard work and late hours. We also would like to thank the faculty advisors who facilitated the magazines production, Rebecca Dyer, Maki Hirotani, Mark Minster, and Corey Taylor, for their guidance. Without the superb efforts of everyone involved, Ink would not be possible. In addition, we thank Jeff Schoonover, the Elsie B. Pawley Fund, and the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences for their support.

Samuel Howell and Jessica Lipscomb

This years volume of Ink is dedicated to the Rose-Hulman students who recently lost their lives: James JJ Boyce Fatih Ilhan

Contents
Michael Ferguson Noel Spurgeon Jim Sedoff Kevin Richards Phillip Rodenbeck Anastasia Tarpeh Annie Bullock Emily Dosmar Michael Ferguson Andrew Kneller Angelica Patino Bernadette Patino Luanne Tilstra Molly Nelis Corey Taylor Ryan Mendonca Kelli Phillips Angelica Patino Jeanie Sozansky Andrew Carlson Chris Wlezien and Jeff van Treuren John-Paul Verkamp Evan Cornell Jessica Lipscomb Preston Pameijer Draconis Weldus Silent Scream Sacred Sunlight The Ofusu Family After the Flood ...and the fog rolls in The Game But first I had to discover that I am an invisible man! In Clips Entropy Tube Julian On Bob Dylans 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 Youre Dealt Two Grapes Hip Hop is Mr. Myles Cranford Ether Lotus 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

Charles Joenathan Evan Cornell Phillip Rodenbeck Preston Pameijer Nickolas Easter Kelli Phillips Robert Adams Sophia Percival Brandon Abad Benjamin Mann Chris Wlezien Justin Perry Preston Pameijer Bernadette Patino 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 :: The Dusk Devoured My Mortal Chagrin Sunset Nude Hidalgo One

27 28 29 30 31 32 33 35

Nemo Dance The Purging of Monday

36 37 37 38

Cloudy Mountains My Visit to a Castle Happy Emu White Chapel in Autumn Three Studies in Grays and Browns

39 40 43 44 45 46

The Lepidopterist Routine Octopus Yuletide Glow Golden Gate Bridge

47 47 48 49 50 51

Winter Reflections

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Mr. Myles Cranford

Best Visual Work

Michael Ferguson

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Ether
You were an absinthe drinker, Whiling away your days Through slotted spoons as The wormwood crept through your veins Solace in the madness, Subsisting 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 cant 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 first blush of dawn. Im no lotus-eater, honey. I dont forget. The shell is still there, Perfect as the day you left It empty and cold For your field of night-blooming Flowers.

Best Written Work

Noel Spurgeon

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Lotus

Jim Sedoff

Silent room broken A cricket guest mocks the host Only the laughing

Winning Haiku
Kevin Richards

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Two Grapes
Those roses dance like Alcatraz on goblets overflowing I plucked a petal yelping Free me! And devoured its soul So Im constantly alone I cannot begin to describe Like smooth brown stones snaked together in some perfect entanglement of viscous fire And as such, entwine To hell with Murphy The tigress has two grapes for eyes She stole from a demons prickly garden And we, in them, do clear reflect What precious love is left

Phillip Rodenbeck

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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 flares To the fly chicks across the street With that good hair. Hip Hop is the movement everyone felt No matter the color, race, or creed. She uses the compelling tongues Of emcees to send forth The pure message of justice and self-definition. Hip Hop is a lifestyle, the gospel of creativity, Putting souls on the grind Recording cassette tapes While pushing rocks Just to keep they H-E-A-D-U-P, If you dont know, now you know. Hip Hop is The boom kat of street dancers, The uh check it In round 1 of an underground rap battle, The scuffle 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 connections. Its the feeling you can be anything you want to be. Its having confidence and an innate swag Cuz if you didnt have at least a front Youd get hassled by dope boys. Its when you knew who were your friends, Who were your enemies, And who you wouldnt even let watch your bike.

Anastasia Tarpeh

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Hip Hop is a state Of simplicity and creativity, A state of revolution and innovation. It is the state of being Yourself.

Annie Bullock

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Emily Dosmar

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...and the fog rolls in

Michael Ferguson

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The Game
The yellow sun beat down on the field, warming the blue cap I wore on my head. The wind was blowing gently through the streets picking up a little dust as it wound its way toward the lake. The pungent aroma of freshly cut grass and moist dirt filled 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 field with him when I was younger. The crunch of peanuts and the snap of leather oozed through the stadium, surrounding and swallowing me, diffusing its way into my pores. The vendors were working their trade, fighting their way through ebb and flow of the crowd, searching out those too enthralled 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 Peanuts! 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 time ago I saw a pitch thrown in slow motion on this sports channel or that. Its a thing of beauty: arms bending in three places, legs up by their ears, the whole of their body working together, all muscles in perfect unison to put the correct velocity on the ball, and the hand and wrist putting that perfect spin on that wicked inside-out slider. All the while hes playing a game of chess with each batter, hiding the pitch till the last second changing speeds, changing locations, changing pitches. When they succeed their reward is the snapping sound of leather on leather as the ball finds its way past the bat and into the waiting catchers mitt. And who could forget the best reward of all? The roar of the crowd as the batter shrugs off towards the dugout. This was one of those times when the pitcher was winning and it didnt look like the other team could do anything about it. And yet, as the next batter stepped up to the plate, there was a glimmer in his eye. Id seen that look before a million times, its the same look a predatory bird gets right before it swoops down upon the unsuspecting mouse. Two down, one to go! cried the third baseman. The pitcher stepped on the rubber, and for a second 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 batter shift his weight onto his back foot. The pitchers knee came up to his face while drawing his arm back like a snake coiling for the strike and the batter brought his bat back starting a slow arc. The ball came forward as the pitcher stepped towards home and simultaneously the batter stepped towards the mound. The ball was silhouetted against the stands for a moment, the crowd a blur as my eyes followed the ball from the pitchers hand toward the awaiting glove. But suddenly, that bat appeared and took the ball squarely on. There was a loud CRACK! and the ball became silhouetted against the blue sky, a sinking feeling filled the stands. Silence filled 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 whispers of Its too high filling the air. The left fielder, upon the crack of the bat, turned and started sprinting back to the wall, the white of this uniform a blur against the

Andrew Kneller

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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 childhood out in the park playing a pick-up game of baseball. I saw the dirt filled infield, the small lump of dirt that sufficed for a pitchers mound. I felt the ground become untidy, tall, thick grass under my running feet. I looked forward again, knowing that I must be closing on the rusty old fence enclosing the field. 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 left 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 stitching. The gloves closed with a snap, encasing the ball in a prison cell. The crowd erupted in cheers as he fell back to earth again, holding that small captive tightly in his glove. Everyone hugged and high-fived, all transformed into back-slapping, beerspilling 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 baseball field and backyard playing with gloves, ball, and bat, or sticks and rocks. That is the magic of baseball; the mystical game played by heroes and children; the magic of a game that ignites the imagination of the masses. Looking around I no longer saw fans of this team or that, business men and construction 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 protesting and praising, I saw a triple to right field to clear the bases and all of it taking place on patches of dirt using trees, tin cans, newspaper, rocks, and bushes for bases. I saw the mean neighborhood dog that threatened anyone who climbed after a foul ball with a snarl and glistening fangs. I saw through it all, sitting still, holding my breath, savoring 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 patiently throwing pitch after pitch, always the same words echoing in my ears: Keep your eye on the ball. I saw myself out on the infield, my father hitting grounders to me. Keep your eye on the ball. I saw myself in the outfield, my dad throwing pop -up after pop-up. Keep your eye on the ball. I saw him playing catch every night after work till 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 wasnt with the rest. I looked at my father there, and had to turn away pretending there was dust blowing in my 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 offered me that one piece of advice that has echoed throughout the ages from Father to Son for generations past and present. Son, he said, Keep Your Eye on The Ball.

Andrew Kneller

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But first I had to discover that I am an invisible man!

Angelica Patino

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In Clips

Bernadette Patino

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Entropy
I can develop the thermodynamic definition of entropy from an analysis of the Carnot Cycle. I can develop an explanation for why the empty milk jug never quite makes it to the recycle box. I can define the terms necessary to describe the statistical distribution of energy among available states. I can define the ever-expanding distribution of my childrens socks. I can justify the distribution of energy among available states as a measure of the entropy of the system. I can justify why the Easter decorations dont get completely put away until the fall. I can relate the Boltzmann definition of entropy to real systems and describe how that one equation allows us to predict and explain the direction of spontaneous change. Buteven after more than twenty years of researchI cannot relate my husbands inability to place the wine bottle opener back in its drawer to anything at all.

Luanne Tilstra

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Tube Julian

Molly Nelis

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On Bob Dylans Voice

I first 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 didnt match your 1960s recordings. I barely recognized All Along the Watchtower, even after you sang the opening couplet. I saw a hippie kid get escorted from the fourth row during Cats in the Well, chucking beer on a guy about your age on his way out. My buddy Judd got us tickets to the showsold outfor a hundred bucks. We saw the worlds greatest Bob Dylan cover band, fronted by Bob Dylan. I was disappointed. Still, I bought CDs like Slow Train Coming and Time Out of Mind. I listened, read, thought about the impressionism and narratives of your lyrics. I saw you next at a tiki bar in Wilmington, Delaware after 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, shuffling 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 Left Home You breeze through Mississippi You twang on Nashville Skyline You exhort on Infidels 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. Its probably trite, but as Im living the world is better for your singing.

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Rust Bucket

Ryan Mendonca

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Jolly Roger Strikes Again

Kelli Phillips

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The eye is not enough. One needs to think, as well.

Angelica Patino

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You Have To Play with the Cards Youre Dealt

Were almost there. I sit in the back seat of the van and peer out the window at the all too familiar surroundings. I recognize the bends in the road, the barn on my right with the huge red roof, the rusted sign for the gun shop. Were in Eldred, Pennsylvania, making our way live in the country, nestled up in the hills and surrounded by woods. Their house is a fixed up shanty; it was the house in which my grandpa grew up. My grandma and grandpa have done some extensive remodeling, however: the ceiling isnt falling down anymore, the floor is mostly level, the siding isnt falling off, and the roof isnt leaking. But its still the same house I remember spending Christmas in as a kid. My family and I make our way into the house to greet my Grandpa Karl and Grandma Jean. Im the last one to walk in. I hug and kiss my grandma and turn to do the same to my grandpa. Grandpa doesnt look the same as he used to. He is walking a bit slower and hes about half his original size. But when he hugs me, I know its my Grandpa Karl. His arms envelop me in a strong embrace, the same one Ive always known ever since I was a little girl. things. Its been a year since Ive been here. Much has happened since then, but at the same time, nothing has changed. My grandpa and I sit down at the kitchen table to play cards as usual. are you? Oh, well, Im finer than frog hair. I stare at him blankly. And what exactly does that mean? Well, hair must be pretty fine. I guess hes doing well. We continue our game. Grandpa Karl is winning, so its no surprise. I look at his face, noticing the scar on his chin from a long-ago serious car accident and the thinning white head of hair hes had since he was eighteen. My attention then turns to his now thin, fragile-looking frame. This wasnt my grandpa. My grandpa had a big belly like Santa Claus and thick, strong arms and hands. He wasnt really fat, he was just solid. He looked tough. If you saw him in person a year ago, you would have probawhite-haired old man with a surprisingly disarming smile even though hes only 5 5 and has false teeth. Not anymore. My grandpa was diagnosed last year with ampullary cancer, which is a rare form of cancer that is found in the duodenum where the pancreatic and bile ducts open. He withstood months of unbearable itching and pain before having an eight-hour operation called the Whipple procedure that removed 1/3 of his stomach, of his pancreas, his entire gall bladder, 12 inches of the small intestine, and 35 lymph nodes. By the time he recovered from the surgery, he had lost about fifty pounds. He no longer had that Santa Claus figure, but he still had his jolly spirit. Your turn. I glance down at the cards in my hand. Im one card away from a win, but it looks like he is too. I lay down my discard and he reaches for it, saying, Thats the card I want right there. How did you know? We all chat about the trip and begin unloading our But I dont believe him, and sure enough, he passes over it and draws a new card. Our game continues. It seems so simple: me just sitting with my grandpa at the kitchen table playing an old-fashioned game of cards. But it is so much more than that. This is the time tells me stories and we reminisce about old times. He asks about my future plans and openly tells me what he thinks. So hows that boyfriend of yours? Whats his name, uh, Eric, Allan Very funny, Grandpa. Alex is dotwitterpated. Im getting tired of being on the backburner. Do you remember, when you were little, you said youd take me on all your dates? I didnt even get to go to

down Indian Creek Road to my grandparents house. They bly characterized my Grandpa Karl as an intimidating,

We start up a game of Rummy. So, Grandpa, how where I get to see the essence of my Grandpa Karl. He

have you ever seen hair on a frog? I laugh out loud. Frog He cracks jokes like none other too.

of course. Hes been playing since before I can remember, ing well. I miss him a lot Well thats because youre

Jeanie Sozansky

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prom with you, he says with a playful grin on his face. I burner. Youll never be. You see, there are two front burners: one is for you and one is for Alex. And nothing can change that fact. He beams and we share a laugh. father. I greatly admire him. Many grandchildren probably say that about their grandpa, but mine has a history ache, hard work, and humor. It started in the Fall of 1954. Karls parents were in a severe automobile accident, and the father he loved words, Promise me youll take care of your mother and he took his father very seriously and took on full responsibility. He cooked and cleaned and worked while taking care of his slowly recuperating mother and four-year-old sister, who further ascertained his new role: Brother, Daddys gone isnt he. I guess youll just have to be my daddy from now on. ly together. Hes always been that way, even when he started his own family. In fact, after 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 grandpas toughness and the fact that he always puts his family first. 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 dont 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. Howevdid something Ill never forget. Grandpa, color with me. Grandpa doesnt color, Jeanie. Grandpa, pleeeeeeassssse what color do you want? He sighs and cracks a chuckles to himself. Imagine a 200-pound, 5 5 man with hands similar to that of a gorillas, sitting down with a purhis four-year-old granddaughter. Priceless. Looking at him right now, as he sits in front of me, pondering what card hell play next, I cant help but marvel damaged but ever loving heart-of-gold beneath that tough best friend and his two sons. I see his scars from multiple accidents and ailments including congestive heart failure and the cancer. Yet, I still see the same Grandpa Karl Ive always known and loved: the definition of genuine, the toughest man with the biggest heart. Hes never had much in terms of money and material things, but hes alhard and loving much. No matter what cards hes dealt, he always knows how to play them. Rummy. My grandpa lays down his cards in victory. Hows that grab ya? Just fine, Grandpa, finer than frog hair. We laugh. Its not like its anything new. You beat me again, but I still love you. Well, I love you more. No, Grandpa, I love YOU more. But I loved you first! His eyes sparkle and he grins from ear to ear. You got me there, Grandpa. He shuffles the cards and deals the next hand.

chuckle. Oh, Grandpa you know youre not on the back- er, this can also go in reverse. When I was a toddler, he

Its true. No one could ever compare to my grand- smile. Burple. I hand him a purple crayon while he

that I feel few can compare to in terms of adversity, heart- ple crayon on the living room floor to color pictures with

and respected deeply, died in the hospital with the parting at the life and character of my Grandpa Karl. I can see his your sister. Even though Karl was only thirteen years old, exterior, how he hurts from the loss of his father and his

My Grandpa Karl was the bond that kept the fami- ways made the most out of what he does have, working

Jeanie Sozansky

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Andrew Carlson

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Draconis Weldus

Chris Wlezien and Jeff Van Treuren

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Silent Scream
Do you hear, the silent scream, Of a thousand dying voices? Do you hear the final breath, Of a thousand dying voiceless? Do you see, the salty trace, Of a childs 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 bitter 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 reapers 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 stirs? Do you dream, of the chance, That the child could be yours?

John-Paul Verkamp

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Sacred Sunlight

Evan Cornell

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The Ofusu Family

Jessica Lipscomb

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After the Flood

Preston Pameijer

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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 beautiful 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 centipede 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 still 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 Still 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 stillness 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 flash 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 Waiting for the tender touch of many souls Wandering in the wilderness of my mind I wait and wait until the signal of life I know now there is no night for me.

Charles Joenathan

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Pont du Gard

Evan Cornell

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The Dawn Sin :: The Charred Skin :: The Dusk Devoured My Mortal Chagrin
The sky awake and thus I quake Such brightly brimming brilliance With morning arrows angels shake The cold and black resilience The dewy giants find compliance Drifting orange and deep port-wine And angel amber in alliance As lovers hands and hues entwine :: The sky awake and thus I quake Before such tempest morning The birds are screaming dirge of dawn To fish in ocean boiling The sun presiding oer 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 pretty leaves that float aflame Drape ash on hills so bald The sun is high upon the sky Consumed in strakes of cirrus fire 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 fire From wreathing wretched eyes Upon the blackened earth I crumple Raising palms to sky ablaze Around me pours the flames of heaven As ember winds wail and raze I bow my head in agony Despairing and afraid Withered hearts in conflagration Mortal debts are paid The sounds of hooves and horses snort Circle round my mind I lift my head inquisitive

Phillip Rodenbeck

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Four horrors do I find The sky does burst with penance thirst Cast shadows dark and daunting A blazing sword that struck my neck My corpse is limp and haunting Unto ash my body billows On dark and fiery gales The solar serpents raping Earth Recede vermilion tails The sky slept and thus I wept At heavens pearly gate The angel sings that heaven brings Redemption 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 fiery jaws Those orange and red face devils sink Betrayed by black and starry claws

Sunset

Preston Pameijer

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Nude

Nickolas Easter

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Hidalgo

Kelli Phillips

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One
A deep, rhythmic throbbing penetrates the body of rooms sole occupant. Inhalation of years-worth of dust buildup and this slow, mesmerizing pulse consume the young man. His attention is diverted, as if the room was a smaller part of a larger sentient entity, demanding his recognition 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 mans people depend. Down in its core, where he finds himself now, its heart beats, pushing the energy and information, the nutrients, out to its various compartments, its body. This member is very unlike his own, which sat in an inactive state many chambers above him. It seemed more of a malfunctioning being, connected to but not deriving strength from the system around it. This seems a very Alas his mind becomes a grudging host, stifles the realization 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 invulnerable. Usually sicknesses target the individuals of the swarm, and the rest of the swarm work together in bringing that member back, or on isolating it. This disease is new. It thrives by turning the strength of many against themselves. Each member that connects to another in an attempt 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. He goes back to work, but not before an inkling of a thought slips unnoticed into the back of his head. As he works, slowly conquering the enmities 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 interruption. No higher Most of the others have engaged in synthetic-aided unconsciousness, or deep meditation. But the young man -precedence swarm process pushes his to the side, no human exchanges halting input to the non-swarm memodd, weak concept to the man. Still, the man considers, this weakness has allowed this individual to still function where the swarm has failed. But, he quickly counters, is this even worth considering functioning? This decrepit ancient has proven frustratingly simple, unable to give him even a glimpse of the raw power of the swarm. But the swarm is sick. had work to do. He knew the keepers of the ancients, the caregivers of those structures on which the life sustaining entity survives. Down to this isolated room he was led, words practically 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.

Robert Adams

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ber. The thought expands to feeling, one of satisfaction, and of oneness. This word states deep in the folds of his consciousness, One is weak. But the feeling, unbounded by conditioning due to its rarity, swells up within him.

Like a brilliant arc of electricity will connect the swarm members to the grid in greedy anticipation of their resources, something arcs in the mans head between a word formed in the lower levels and his working conscious. Emboldened with the old language as a weapon

He soon finishes his task, but he finds himself not wanting to leave. A test vocalization into the relevant corridor prompts no reaction aside from a significant, empty echo. He is alone. One. Hours, necessities of the human swarm members, find their meaning slighted, as empty as the mans 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 finds this language is not so hard to understand. The concept of oneness comes with the acquiring of this old language, the latter formed in a mindset of the former. The word remains in the background, but its roots have found fertile soil.

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 hesitation. As the penetrating throbbing slowly diminishes, the room around him dims and finally unleashes a total shroud of darkness. In the sudden lack of light and sound, a single utterance defines all of reality from and to the man.

One.

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, delivers a powerful lesson. Quickly, or so it seems to the man to whom hours have been lost, a realization comes to the man. The swarm is not sick. It does not have a disease. The swarm is a disease. This cure that has been unleashed above him has released him of a disease, the disease of many. A disease that thrives, consuming individuals.

Robert Adams

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Sophia Percival

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Nemo

Brandon Abad

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Dance
one two three one two three just be free dance with me ill be me youll be you ill be rich youll be fair right and left perfect pair one two three one two three clasp our hands shut the doors ill be me youll be you beautiful 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

Benjamin Mann

The Purging of Monday

On the wings of human hands, a tube light flies through the air Like a crumbled office building in a freefall A ray of sunlight reflects off 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 beautiful cloud of white mercury gas As if it were melting right into the ground Dissolving right into the concrete of this empty lot At first it stood erect But when it finally 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 insatiable mongrels, hungry for more

Chris Wlezien

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Justin Perry

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Cloudy Mountains

Preston Pameijer

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My Visit to a Castle
After two days, I left my uncles home in metro Manila, Philippines, for a different world: my great grandparents ancestral home in the rural town of Capiz province called Panitan. My grandfather, whom I call Papa, built the home as a gift for his parents for their fiftieth wedding anniversary. It picked up the nickname rose to the rafters with the summer heat. Everyone feasted on four varieties of crab and joked that Ling-Ling, the wall-climbing, decade old, possum-sized rat that lived on the second floor, had found a new friend. Fatima always tip-toed four long strides from the room we shared all the way to the bathroom, but Ling-Ling proved to have impeccable timing. 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 regretted it the same instant. The smell of dead fish never quite left that bathroom; it lingered probably because of the stagnant puddle of water that appeared whenever someone would flush the toilet. Lola Dada, the only daughter of my great grandparents that never left Panitan, didnt have enough money to fix 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 five tubs of stale water, all of varying sizes and colors, and a bucket with a handle that fit 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 tile from the left. Victorian-like portraits of my great grandparents, Lola Agripina and Lolo Tomas, hung on the concrete walls of the upper floor, framing the entrance to the master bedroom. Even though the colors dulled in the worn paint, they still looked untouchable. Rat droppings lined

castillo, the castleat least, thats what a two-story, six-bedroom house seems like amongst a sea of bamboo nipa huts and one-room, iron-scrap shanties. My mom still remembers how everyone on Papas side of the family chose to go to the housewarming party instead of her high school graduation. Castles like this appeared only once every few decades. When Papa died, I visited this castle. I stepped out of the air-conditioned taxi and the let the heat crawl up my arms and legs. I blinked a few times and opened my eyes to a dirt road that led into half -opened green gates, tinted red from the rust. The metal sheets covering the concrete walls of the house formed a checkerboard pattern with the bamboo. San Miguel beer bottles and cigarette butts at the feet of five 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 floor balcony. It tilted to the left so much that I imagined it crashing onto the heads of the people below waving hello. From behind me, my mom said, Were home. Being there didnt feel like homethe adjustment phase lasted longer than I anticipated. Fatima, my faint-of-heart eldest sister, shrieked for the second time we arrived that afternoon. Laughter from the kitchen

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the floor under the Lola and Lolos faint smiles. If you looked closely enough, Ling-Lings lair stood three feet from the entrance, just above the stairs. On the same wall, photos unraveled the forgotten history of strangers. Graduation portraitsa lawyer, two judges, a dentist, a doctor, and a nuncaptured a youth now hidden under wrinkles of women and caskets of men. Next to these hung framed letters written in an unfamiliar language, but all those exclamation points! The letter must have had three heart attacks before its envelope was opened. A hand written letter and another one with NASAs logo shared the same frame. Everyone knew about Lolos obsession with Neil Armstrong, the moon, the cosmos. More than a dozen framed newspaper clippings adorned the wallLolo Tomas and the town mayor shaking hands, stories about the successes of his children in the States. Papa didnt have any newspaper clippings and was absent from the family portraits. He moved to Manila for work right out of high school. He stood in a rice field 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 coffee table below the photosold souvenirs from weddings thirty years past, miniature Jesus statues, and unwashed ashtrays. Feeling a sneeze creeping up my nose, I opted to go downstairs. The top of Papas bald head became visible. 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 little lower yet, the gold cross pinned to

the lid of the coffin. If I stayed too long, I couldnt take my eyes off his face. Id question my memoryhis lips too puffy, his jaw too low, his skin too powdery. The embroidery of his white borong looked immaculate amongst the dirty wall behind him and the brown tile below him. I wondered what his graduation portrait would have looked like for the sake of comparison with what he looked like through the glass of the coffin. Following Filipino 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 parties and wedding receptions, also housed the body of Lolo Tomas, Lola Agripina, and Papas brother Lorenzo some decades back. The screen door to the left of the room led to the outside, where the people who once danced now lowered their wrinkled faces in prayer. The high vapor pressure from the mixture of aromas filled the air nonstop, starting at eight in the morning every day. The food seemed to replenish itself; never was the kitchen table empty the entire time we were there. Its four legs should have collapsed under the weightbesides 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 shed come in and out of her room. Her large belly protruded from her small frame. Eight months pregnant with her second child, she still cooked meals to feed fifteen. During my first 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 finished the fifth grade. Her half sister in the States, three years younger than she, just graduated from the University of Nevada in nursing. They didnt know each other existed on behalf of the pride of their father. Sometimes I would make eye contact with Shiela when shed carry the pancit molo or puto with diniguan to the table. Salamat, po, Id tell herthank 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 roasting on the fire 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 bottom. Little 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 Immaculate 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 Agripinas blue beaded rosary still rested in St. Peregrines outstretched hands. Lola Dada told me of how Lola Agripina never missed the 5 AM mass at the start of every day. Shed walk the dirt roads, and when it rained, she would change her muddy dress when she returned home. A photograph, sitting next to the statues, depicted in black and white the Panitan Cross. It stood atop a hill a few miles westthe destination of Lolo Tomass mini pilgrimages. He hiked there on the weekends with

his sons, sometimes against their will. It was there at the Panitan Cross where Papa found him when he refused to attend 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 center of our room where my mom and sisters attempted 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 left side of the room, the same hospital bed that Lola Agripina used when she was sick. The little lizards that crept on the walls all over the house kept to themselves, except at night. They gathered atop the windows, the males singing to attract mates. Their circadian-like buzzing kept me up. Perhaps the status of castle was appropriate for the house, with all of its poor plumbing, rodents 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.

Bernadette Patino

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Happy Emu

John-Paul Verkamp

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White Chapel in Autumn

Kevin Collins

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Three Studies in Grays and Browns

I. The land spreads vast and oppressive, grass scorched by frigid air from Canada. Drab little 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 notice the monochromes of ground and air. The interstate, too: Cracked and crumbling asphalt worn down to concrete. II. In the city every building wears a carapace of tanned brick or rustic 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 edifices with triangle roofs grow from mercury streets like arteries. Dull cars race by. The government office is tarnished sterling jewelry worn upon the earths wrist. It faces the wrong direction, putting its backside to a filthy, freezing, old river.

III. A deep brown tree, leafless, rooted in flat farmland under a snow-gorged canopy of gray.

Corey Taylor

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Annie Bullock

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The Lepidopterist
I have spent a lifetime Cataloging, classifying, describing-Mounting specimens in shadowboxes To realize the secret of myself. But each day, I discover some new butterfly of the soul, Beautiful in its promise Of something left to seek.

Noel Spurgeon

Routine
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 tinted water I divert my gaze to the reflection 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 waiting in the haze, for a storm to blow through To clear my vision once again

Chris Wlezien

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Octopus

Ryan Mendonca

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Yuletide Glow

Sophia Percival

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Golden Gate Bridge

John-Paul Verkamp

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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 be Strong Confident Brave Do not ever show weakness I am a girl Surrounded by women Told that I am not pretty enough that I must be like the rest that I am not good enough Confidence 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

Brandon Abad

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Winter Reflections

Jessica Lipscomb

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Ink 2008-2009 Artist Biographies

Brandon Abad hopes they put the bios in alphabetical 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 software 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 efficient vehicle team and a member of Pi Kappa Alpha Fraternity. Evan Cornell has received instruction from Darrell Moll, a professional photographer in Norwalk, Ohio for several years, and continues to shoot whenever he finds the time. Evan will graduate with a degree in electrical engineering from Rose in May, 2012. Emily Dosmar enjoys popsicles, glitter glue, genetic abnormalities, and belly-buttons. 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 first camera, a Konica Minolta X-370n, almost three years ago. He had been fascinated with photography from a young age but it was only after he got that camera then that he could focus on making images. He hasn't looked back since! Charles Joenathan is Professor and Head of Physics and Optical 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 writing poetry since high school and this is the second time he has had his work make it in to Ink. He is very excited to once again be able to make a contribution. Ryan Mendonca is a senior mechanical engineering major. Molly Nelis is an EE/ME (Exigent Energetic Masochistic Eccentric) with a minor in the math-magics. She is impressed that her computer is still alive after rendering 529 fractals for a total of over 3,000 hours. Visit deepbluerenegade.deviantart.com to collect them all. Preston Pameijer is a sophomore chemical engineering major. Angelica Patino is a first-year biomedical engineering major. Bernadette Patino is a first-year physics major.

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Sophia Percival is a senior biomedical engineering major. Justin Perry grew up in Salem, IN and is a junior in the Civil Engineering department, focusing on transportation. He recently took up photography, but feels like he improves every time he picks up his camera. Hes always willing to try new perspectives for good, interesting shots. Kelli Phillips is a first-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 creativity. His favorite poet is William Blake. Jim Sedoff is a senior ChE. When he wasnt swamped with homework, attending nearly every department seminar under the sun or going to club meetings, he took some pictures. One of those pictures appears in this collection. Jeanie Sozansky is a simple girl with an endless imagination. 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, finger painting, and reading anything thats not nailed down. Anastasia Tarpeh is a Cincinnati, Ohio native and is in her sophomore year studying Mechanical Engineering. She was the Parliamentarian of the National 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, writing poetry in what little spare time 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 second full-time job when her son Victor was born; this position was made more challenging with the birth of daughter Christine in 1998. Dr. Tilstra lives in Terre Haute with her husband (Phillip Smith), two children, and a dog. Jeff 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 time working on the Student Design Project and the Human Powered Vehicle Team. Some of his hobbies include ice hockey, guitar, and driving very fast!