IMPRINTS

Volume 22

2014 Edition

ImprintsLiterary and Art Magazine of the College of Central Florida

Copyright 2014 College of Central Florida and representative artists. No work may be reproduced in whole or in part without the written consent of respective artists.

College of Central Florida offers equal access and opportunity in employment, admissions and educational activities. The college will not discriminate on the basis of race, color, ethnicity, religion, gender, age, marital status, national origin, genetic information or disability status in its employment practices or in the admission and treatment of students. Recognizing that sexual harassment constitutes discrimination on the basis of gender and violates this policy statement, the college will not tolerate such conduct. College of Central Florida is an equal opportunity college and avows its belief in equal access and opportunity for all students, employees and guests of the institution.

When one dismantles the elements of poetry, art, and literature, all that is left are ink and paper. Similar to a Rorschach’s own construction the reader or viewer is asked to interpret what he or she sees and feels. The reader mentally and emotionally reassembles this ink and paper back into a unique experience that is relative to his or her own being. From blots of ink to beautiful stanzas and prose, Rorschachs and literature are intertwined. It is for this reason that Imprints chose to apply the Rorschach metaphor and theme to this year’s edition. Included in this work is a mixture of handmade Rorschachs from the Imprints’ staff. It is our hope that these pieces, along with the contents of this produc-tion, are a unique experience for each individual.

Sincerely,

Danielle Veenstra

Cat Desantis Nesbitt

Amanda Ingram

Cory Mikell

Editors' Note

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26-2734-35

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Table of ContentsLiteratureFor Less Than A Hundred Dollars/ Amanda IngramThese Things They Are/ Matthew VanamanSound/ Danielle VeenstraIgnorance of Play/ Danielle VeenstraBedroom Wall/ Tanya BiornRabbit Hole/Amanda IngramAll Sales Final/ Emilio NunezProper/ Danielle VeenstraFrom Fire to Flame/ Jessyca ThibaultDrinking Games/ Kristen PetzoldLeather/ Sarah GonzalesSeconds/ Matthew VanamanMODEL: HEAT h-3r/ Cory MikellCigarette Repine/ Catherine BoothView From A Bottle/ Jason TarltonI Saw a Picture Of Candles And I Liked It/ Kristen PetzoldA True Soldier/ Tanya BiornThe Shimmy/ Catherine BoothPuzzle Pieces/ Jessyca ThibaultMy Holden/ Catherine BoothBookstore/ Raina BarnettThe Trickster/ Neal Clayton Foote IIA Thought Process/ Dawn CooleyWindow/ Matthew VanamanThe Good Ole Days/ Sean Fraser59th & Columbus Circle/ Amanda IngramStaircase/ Eileen ‘Yelena’ Slattery

11151921232528293031374143

44-454749515253545561636769717475

art & PhotographyOndria/ Danielle VeenstraUntitled/ Katelyn JeanSelf-Portrait/ Rebeckah MerlinoDues Fugoris/ Ciara PierceHomefield Advantage/ Cat DeSantis NesbittKeasha/ Danielle VeenstraText Self-Gallery/ Katelyn JeanText Self-Gallery/ Stephanie HowardText Self-Gallery/ Tyler WhiteText Self-Gallery/ Alberto SemperRoyal Pain/ Stephanie HowardUntitled/ Tyler WhiteSkeleton/ Noelle IzzoSelf-Portrait/ Noelle IzzoVenus and Repose/ Cat DeSantis NesbittMonkey Love/ Dezaree SuarezUntitled/ Dezaree SuarezNon-traditional Gallery/ Katelyn JeanNon-traditional Gallery/ Michelle EttrickNon-traditional Gallery/ Kaitlyn HallNon-traditional Gallery/ Derek SvihulaBlack and White/ Griselle GonzalezNoodles/ Cat DeSantis NesbittSunday Morning/ Katelyn JeanBuddha/ Rory MacPhersonRingo Starr/ Jhonny SalazarA City Life/ Amber AcostaUntitled/ Jessica Wilkes

Spider

Claws

Bir

d

Hea

ds

Beetle Juice

temple

Dark

Deep

Crevice

Bir

ds

tw

o

Denial

Alien

Mask

intrigue

crabTrapped

hidden

dec

eptio

n

vulnerable Secrecy

iso

latio

n

loner

reveal

evasiv

e

dependentrefu

ge

10

For Less Than a Hundred Dollars

Amanda Ingram

She had a perturbed and troubling feeling the moment she awoke that day. Mornings were always rough for the rose-colored brunette. She could always count on the first half-hour of consciousness to be a war between her and the bed. “Stay and sleep,” it told her, cuddling her softly with its plush pillows and warm cocoon. “You don’t really need to go to class today, do you?” She contemplated. Do I? How many days have I missed so far? What are we going over? And then she remembered that it was the first day of Thanksgiving break. She slammed her hand down on the snooze button and turned over. And yet, she couldn’t seem to shake a feeling of dread weigh-ing in on her. Because of this, she decided the best thing to do was abandon her warm cocoon. She stumbled to the shower knocking her desk with her bony exposed hips. A tall pile of half-written stories fell down onto the floor, reminding her of all she had yet to finish. There’s nothing lonelier for a student than a college town during the holidays. A once vibrant and lively community of youth goes silent as the influx of temporary immigrants go back home. The locals loved the holi-days, eating fat off student profits while getting a few nights peace. (How rowdy and rambunctious students can be!) For Adaline Clare, the silence was loud. The thud of her slightly too-big boots reminded her each step that she was the only student in town with nowhere to go. And so, Adaline trudged through the colors of fall - red, yellows and browns - as she made her way to the campus library. She entered the library and looked up, realizing that she had walked the entire half-mile looking down at her clumsy black boots, and the different color leaves they had squashed. The library was quiet and lightly speck-led with other students. Adaline was clearly not the only student still in town. And, of course, she knew this. But why did she feel so lonely? And why did it not feel right for her to still be here? Adaline liked the way an atmosphere of progressive production hangs in the library air. The motivating smell of old and new books. The limited environment that allows her to focus in an ADD culture. Libraries stim-ulated the pro-active side of her. She had no plans of actually writing. No new words had come to her in quite some time. In her mind, when the sun set, and there was truly nowhere to go except for that lonely apartment… she wouldn’t seem as pathetic as she felt, since she had found the bravery that day to step into the world. A whole day inside can easily happen to one who feels down (and this made long nights longer). She spotted a welcom-ing corner in the back and sat down, pulling out her laptop. She opened Word and began to stare into the white page and the black blinking bar. She lost herself in the emptiness of the white screen, and began to remember a conversation she had with a close friend only a short week ago. They had met for coffee and Adaline expressed concerns about being alone the entire holiday break. Her friend had tried to console.

“When you’re alone, Ada, why don’t you make writing the friend that’s always there?” “It doesn’t work like that,” was all she could manage in response. He sighed. “All I know is how happy I’ve seen you after you’ve written something.”

Amanda Ingram | Fiction

11

Ondria | D

anielle Veenstra | Photography |

12

Adaline left the memory and came back to her blank screen and began to write.

It’s raining. Hard. There is a muddy cemetery leading up to an old-fashion, white church. Red door. Modest steeple. There is a woman emerging from the dense forest across the way. Her drenched hair is creating small waterfalls down the crevasses and curves of her body made possible by the cling of the black satin she is wearing. Mud is building up around her ankles. She is limping.

As she approaches the seven steps that lead up to the closed red door, she looks to the sky and utters three short words, “I’m so sorry.”

“The library is now closing,” said a voice over the intercom. “Holiday hours, ma’am. We close at 6 p.m.” Adaline looked up realizing she was being directly addressed. The library was empty. The bright morning out-side had gone to a twilight evening. The clock revealed 5:52 p.m. She looked at the screen and saw but a few paragraphs. Where did the entire day go? Adaline shut the laptop and gathered her things and made a hasty exit without once looking over at the librarian.

It was a lifestyle choice, the way Adaline always put headphones on whenever she walked anywhere. A way for her to “drown out your mind,” like Regina1 always sang. But the streets were so very empty. Desolate, with only a few dried-up, dead and wrinkled leaves scratching across the street every faint breeze. The cliché horror of it all made Adaline quickly aware that she should not be walking alone at night, much less, with blaring music in her ears. She would never hear an attacker approaching, she realized. Adaline dismissed the cautionary thought and continued to listen to her music.

A MAN IN A HOODIE!

Her heart leaped to life as a jogger closely brushed passed. Narrow sidewalks. Fear. Relief. (How easily that could have been an ill-willed man!) Adaline turned off the music and began walking as if she had somewhere urgent to be.

Finally inside, Adaline threw her laptop down on the bed, and tossed her notebook back onto the dust-filled disarray that was her desk. She sat down on the end of the bed and took out her phone and began scrolling through her list of contacts… but who would she call? No one. Everyone was gone and busy. Adaline did not mean to have nowhere to go for the holidays. But one can only choose their friends and not their family. And she

1 Regina Spektor lyrics from “Eet” : You spend half of your life trying to fall behind, you’re using your headphones to drown out your mind.

Amanda Ingram | Fiction

13

had before spent holidays with the family of friends. However, these situations only reminded her so bluntly of what she did not have.

She was in the shower letting the hot water engulf and soothe all her worries when she heard the front door open. That’s odd, she thought, my roommate is out of town. She stopped all movement and listened with the only moment she was given. One Mississippi. Tw---

A masked man barged into the bath room and jammed a blade,

ONE! TWO! THREE!

underneath her ribs.

He then grabbed Adaline’s purse off the hook on the bathroom door and left as quickly as he came. As she slowly slumped down the shower wall, she heard the front door slam shut. She looked down at herself and saw the blood spilling into her hands. She would never write again, and this, this is what hurt Adaline the most.

And then Adaline Clare died for less than a hundred dollars.

The red doors opened as the last syllable of sorry left the woman’s lips. An orange Indian sunrise emitted from the doorway and even from the top of the stairs, felt warm to the cold and wet woman below. Lifting her left leg up to the first stair she begins to climb. By the second stair she could hear elephants trumpeting and the sound of old and young laughter. The third and fourth step brought the smell of baking peaches and the taste of cinnamon in the air. At the fifth, she heard a caring familiar voice call to her, “Adaline, my child, you are almost here and I’ve missed you so much.” The woman, hearing her mother again for the first time in so long, stood straight up and put equal weight on both legs and walked up the sixth and seventh steps and into the open doors.

Amanda Ingram | Fiction

14

Fickle things, they are.

When left alone they will have your head,

a chorus, electrons; your soul, otherwise.

Little things, they are.

So small indeed to feel you so dead,

a longing; creating for more, unrealized.

Giant things, they are.

So mountainously to overwhelm,

a paradox, so subtle, so well disguised.

Quiet things, they are.

Ever sneaking, seeking to disclose

a secret that you hide because it is wild.

Gentle things, they are.

Leading you from comfort, not others,

a selfishness, makes you too selfless and mild.

Vile things, they are!

Away with them and find you some peace,

a quiet, no worries, like when you were a child.

THese thingsthey are

Matthew Vanaman

Matthew Vanaman | Poem

15

Untitled | K

atelyn Jean| Pastel |

16

Asleep.

Weight lifted and worries

far away. Your face revealed

secrets that were hidden

from our critical eye.

Never was peace so

beautiful, or so quiet.

The little boy, with

blonde hair, stared at me

through un-open eyes.

He was there, and so was

I, and so was the sound

of silence so thick that

if you listened carefully

enough, dreams

could be heard. Where

was Peter now?

Take us away on a

magic journey;

far, far away, and

straight on till morning.

Sounddanielle veenstra

Danielle Veenstra | Poem

17

Dollarweed floats in a sea of green grass.

We pull them from the ground,

lick their flat veiny surfaces,

and stick them to our foreheads,

arms, cheeks, lips;

giving each other kisses.

Passing the mini lily pad back and forth,

the fairies protest their destruction,

but we shoo them away with a flick of the wrist;

not knowing what we tore.

the ignoranceOf playdanielle veenstra

Danielle Veenstra | Poem

18

My memories are covered with plaster and paint.

The woman calls them blemishes, she thinks

nothing of me. She hangs her own memories.

Her wedding day covers the hole

made by his fist. I still remember.

I try to quiet her tears, she gets so upset

when the children hear her cry.

I stand here still, never moving, never leaving.

I offer her protection; allow her to hide behind me,

but still she takes no notice.

Before she sleeps she watches the shadows

cast on my surface by the moonlight, but doesn’t see me.

I am present without presence.

I wonder what she dreams, and would she dream,

if I weren’t still here, never moving. Never leaving.

Bedroom Wall Tanya Biorn

Tanya Biorn | Poem

19

Self Portrait | Rebeckah M

erlino | Charcoal |

20

Rabbit holeAmanda Ingram

Upon the sound

of the wailing violin

I find peace

within,

The Rabbit Hole.

Tell me Music,

Is it wrong

I enjoy to Dabble

Dip my feet DOWN

Dance INTO

THE

RABBIT HOLE

They tell me if I go in, there are many, who do not come back.

Cats really do talk in Everything really is Un in

The Rabbit Hole.

(sometimes, its fun)

(then others, its OFF WITH HER HEAD)

Assumptions

of success

seem less

in The World.

Amanda Ingram | Poem

21

Deus Fugoris | C

iara Pierce | Copic M

arkers |

22

Time will tell if you did well

Before or after that transaction was final

A contract of blood, is it worth your soul

Accumulate your inner gold

Your diamonds in the ruff

Your value is more than enough

We all crave more and more

While others starve we feast

While we squander others survive

Hunters by nature, and Civilized by society

For our devil lies dormant inside

He awaits our call, through our sins

Alas rejoicing with a devilish grin

Another damned soul, I take with me

Traveling down the Archeron, under the black sea

As Askalaphos glares into your heart, no turning back now

Out comes a deathly screech, as the receipt prints.

All sales finalEmilio nunez

Emilio Nunez | Poem

23

Hom

efield Advantage | C

at DeSantis N

esbitt | Digital M

edia |

24

ProperDanielle veenstra

Crisp, clean, neat,

again and again they are said,

keep it straight, keep it narrow,

don’t you ever waver.

Sitting with the sun facing my back,

proper is as proper does,

with legs twisted like bow ties,

and shoes with glued on poles,

I sat and I waited for things to come.

The sun blew out,

dark,

the sun was changed,

light.

Many electricians came to fix the day,

but the pattern stayed the same.

I was the only one, who could fix it;

however, I was crisp, clean, neat,

straight and narrow,

not a waver in sight.

Danielle Veenstra | Poem

25

Keasha | D

anielle Veenstra | Photography |

26

Burning

Coughing up smoke

Fighting to breathe

Waiting to stop

Fighting to hold on

Waiting to let go

A constant battle

An endless war in the fire

The heat unbearable

Just a little bit longer

And then out of nowhere the fire dies down

The heat subsides

The smoke clears

I can see again, hear again, feel again

I open my eyes

Brush off the flames

I stretch my arms

Rise from the ashes

I spread my wings

Fly away

No longer trapped in the fire, the flames

I am a flame

As bright as the sun

From fire to flamejessyca thibault

Jessyca Thibault | Poem

27

Untitled | Tyler W

hite | Pastel |

Gallery: TExt self portraits

Katelyn Jean Portrait in 1000 Words

stephanie howard self portrait

tyler white self portrait

alberto semper self portrait

but

terfl

y

freed

om

light

sensual

Delicate

Flow

er

so

ftalluring

fres

h

brightromance

creativity

transformationjoy

Spirituality

gro

wth

inspirationSuperficial

so

cia

l

natu

re

beauty

34

DrinkingGamesKristen Petzold

Kristen Petzold | Poem

I hear his laughter bouncing off the plaster walls,

sinking into my skin as his eyes burn into mine.

His hands resting on my bare skinned legs.

I wonder if he can see the way my heart pounds

under the skin of my exposed breasts.

Our lips so often united across the steaming tub of water

and tangled limbs. I wonder whose labor made the wine,

delicious cheap wine from the grapevines of California.

The song of one man drinking games,

inspires a two man drinking game instead.

My laughter is the calling card,

both bottles gone too fast.

I’m not drunk but I can’t stand.

The wine and the hour make my limbs go heavy,

but this moment is so perfect, I don’t want to shatter it.

More laughter and another sip from the glass.

35Kristen Petzold | Poem

Stories traded back and forth with

yearbook quotes about disease and Ouija boards

in the slanted sunbeams of an abandoned trailer.

Strangers no longer strangers, naked

in more ways than one.

His voice like a drug,

intoxicating me more than a bottle of California wine

could hope to do on a sad day and an empty stomach.

Cool tiles against my back as the flickering candle flames

cast light against this last scene.

It’s slipping away all too soon, but still

with trembling fingers I hold tight to my nearly

empty glass, bite my lip, and use my influenced senses

to soak him in. If only I could memorize us.

36

a piece of leather ripped and torn from use

once strong and new

now soft and flimsy

like a saddle that no longer has a sparkle

been used for riding much too long

once pretty and grand

and smelled like new

now that is all but a faded memory

looks all dirty, tattered and torn

with multiple shades of color

is it stronger now or more delicate?

delicate like a baby bird that just learned to fly

LeatherSarah Gonzales

Sarah Gonzales | Poem

37

Royal Pain | Stephanie H

oward | Ink |

38

I’ve got a problem

Exponential

There is potential but it’s problematic. Though emphatic: an attic

I’m an addict, an attic

an addict I say.

Right gets more wrong by the day.

Out go the candles, out go the candles,

out go the candles

Smoke rings strangling!

Large flames mangling

the stairs,

disappearing in pairs! fours!

Forget it, forgot.

Fret not.

Reform tomorrow.

Sorry Ms. Morrow

SORRY Ms. Morrow!

I’m late because I BORROW

Joy is a pain and clean is a stain.

SecondsMatthew Vanaman

Matthew Vanaman | Poem

39

It’s a catch-22, I can work my way through.

Happy holds a smile

and the truth is denial

A computer has a file

but a flame ain’t no game.

It’s awful, it’s fruitless

I’m absolutely truthless

I’m well aware

a flame ain’t no game

Evil’s my aim

forever the same

Matthew Vanaman | Poem

40

It’s mind was a blast furnace of ideas. Who’s digits and limbs buckle and break conventional material. A homogenous complexion, with stream lined features. A new engine, built with bricks of Wollstonecraft, it’s combustion honed by Plath. It’s previously conservative shell adorned new textiles of various color and length. It came equipped with various skirts, girders, and Rosie rivets. Coal-burnt hair, scaffolding off haphazardly, It was a new machine, the modern female. Her gears would roar and reach.

M O D E L : HEAT h 3rcory mikell

Cory Mikell | Poem

41

Untitled | Tyler W

hite | Ink |

42

Oh, how I miss those interludes, with your mouth.

Burning so hot, every inhalation my fatal essence permeated you.

Each mating you felt exhilarated, as I’d steal your breath.

Our partings came with dread, reducing me to simple ash.

Patiently, I’d await your return, your steadfast need always frantic.

Your faithfulness was an illusion. Twenty years coupling ended… coldly.

Cigarette RepineCatherine Booth

Catherine Booth | Poem

43

Skeleton| Noelle Izzo | A

crylics|

44

Self-

Portr

ait |

Noe

lle Iz

zo |

Paste

ls |

45

46

You’re white girl wasted

Smelling of puke and regret

Mother would be proud

View from a bottleJason Tarlton

Jason Tarlton | Haiku

47

Venus in Repose | C

at DeSantis N

esbitt | Digital M

edia |

48

Candles burn, wax paper melts, words fall to the floor,

disappointment cloaks itself around a lone figure in an empty bed.

Dirty sheets from sweat and late night thoughts,

make for a lonely bed.

Candles like those that flickered around a tub that night,

as it filled with warm water, clear and transparent as I was to his eyes.

An open book that longed to be read as porcelain skin

dips in and empty fingers long

for the neck of a bottle,

the weight of a cigarette,

or maybe just your hand.

Candles show the intoxicated mix of desire and exhaustion in my eyes

as your hands, those lovely hands with a glint of gold

that stings me to the core of my cravings.

Water runs cold and bodies emerge.

Our story is always

written this way.

I saw Pictures of candles

and i liked it Kristen Petzold

Kristen Petzold | Poem

49

Monkey Love | D

ezaree Suarez | Linoleum R

eduction |

50

A true soldier cries not only for the lives he lost, but for those he took.

He is proud to carry the title, but prouder still to do the job.

He feels passionately about his missions, but shares details with no one.

A true soldier fights for a reason, and loves for no reason at all.

She set out to prove herself to others, but cares only about what she’s proven to herself.

She neither tries to go it alone, or get others to go it for her.

True soldiers are not an army of one, but one of an army.

They are a family, a brotherhood, and leave no one behind.

They do not forget like so many do, those we have lost.

A soldier is a warrior, but a true soldier is human too.

a true soldierTanya Biorn

Tanya Biorn | Poem

51

Untitled | D

ezaree Suarez | Lithograph |

non-traditional Self Portraits

Katelyn Jean Self portrait in chocolateChocolate sauce on mcdonalds wrapper

michelle ettrick caffeinated coffe on muslin cloth

kaitlyn hall self portrait mixed media

derek svihula self portrait etching on a jeep door

rivers

protectorgaurd

fier

ce

canine

wo

lfpath

raw

primitive

Ag

res

sio

n

hostility

inst

inct

Betrayal

victorY

obsessionShado

w

Addiction Valo

r

GraceAlp

ha pack

mo

on

survival

mysteriousConfidence

58

1shim·my noun \ˈshi-mē\ : a jazz dance characterized by a shaking of the body from the shoulders down

(right foot) Tap, tap, tap, pas de bourre`e. (left foot) Tap, tap, tap, pas de bourre`e. They begin their ballet routine trying to stay in unison. The music is a preschool song, “Buzz, buzz.” Each of them wears an adorable bumble-bee outfit. Look at her, my beautiful baby girl, all of four years old. It is her very first recital, and she shows no fear.

Buzz, buzz, buzz-shimmy. The music starts; the crowd breaks into a roar of laughter. All five girls shake their bodies or “shimmy” as Ms. Debbie, their teacher, calls it. I’m amazed how small they are. Their tiny pink and leather clad feet moving through the movements. Their black and gold, striped leotards sparkle. The wings on their backs bounce and jostle with every movement. My focus returns to my daughter. Would I have been able to get on stage in front of so many? I look around; there must be 200 or more people. I grimace and marvel again at her bravery.

Buzz, buzz, buzz-shimmy. Like the crowd, I cannot contain my laughter. I look down at the red program in my lap. I search for the name that belongs to the sweet face on stage. There, Cassidy, meaning curly-headed. How apt that name is. I look back up and take notice of her beautiful, brown curls escaping the tight bun we had painstakingly created. Suddenly, all five girls come to a screeching halt. They look from one to the other. Each hoping desperately, that one might know what is next. The crowd starts to emit nervous giggles. My breath stills, for her, for them.

(right foot) Tap, tap, tap, pas de bourre`e. (left foot) Tap, tap, tap, pas de bourre`e. It is Cassidy. I watch with intense pride as she restarts them. The girls follow along, assuming she is right; she isn’t, but they are moving again. Her denim-blue eyes sparkle with excitement.

Buzz, buzz, buzz-shimmy. They give their little bodies a good shake. There is no doubt we will laugh. It is as funny now as it was the first time, two minutes ago. I look to my right and smile at my husband. He smiles back. Our expressions are reflected in each other’s; it is pride with a great deal of amusement. We share a wink and continue to watch. We must look ridiculous, the two of us. You would think we were watching The Royal Ballet, instead of a handful of four-year-olds that barely know six correct ballet steps.

I realize all the girls have come to yet another pause. I would giggle if I wasn’t holding my breath. Each cherubic face was frightened. They look from one to the other; hoping one knows what to do. I notice Andrea seems to be trying desperately to get off the stage. She gets closer and closer to those red, velvet curtains. Just a few more feet and she will make good on her escape...

Plié (they all bend at the knee) turn right, Plié, turn left. Crisis diverted. I expel the air I had trapped in my lungs. This time it is Savannah that rescues them. One by one they return to their routine. Everyone claps for

THe ShimmyCatherine Booth

Catharine Booth | Non-Fiction

59

them. We are all, of course, very happy they remembered; we also hope to give them a burst of encouragement. Natalie, the smallest, mistakes our praise. She stops dancing, comes forward on stage, and then shakes her little finger at the crowd. She is telling us “No.” She tries desperately to tell the crowd, “We aren’t done.” This makes the crowd laugh harder. Savannah comes to the rescue again. She pulls her friend back in line. Natalie frowns, unsure. She decides to trust her friend and starts dancing again. You can tell she is ready to intervene if the crowd makes such another grave error.

Buzz, buzz, buzz-shimmy. The crowd roars. Yes, three minutes later it is still funny to watch them twist their little bodies down to the ground. As I sit here, I realize the gambit of emotions just watching my daughter find her feet, literally, has produced. (I laugh in my head at my own joke.) My hand in my husband’s; my cheeks hurt from smiling. That was my pride. My chest is hard to expand from the breaths that I have held. That was my fear. My shoulders are quite sore. Although, I would be hard-pressed to tell you if this was from tension or the uncomfortable chairs. I ask myself, how will she remember this experience, with fondness? Or will she be scarred for life, because it wasn’t quite perfect? Here comes fear again. I zero in on her. That smile is blinding. I now add relief to my emotions. I lean closer to my husband and lay my head on his shoulder. I begin to wonder as I watch them conclude, how many of these recitals will I see as my daughter grows? How graceful will she become? Will these recitals go from funny and adorable to poetry in motion? Ha! There is another emotion, hope.

Plié, turn right, plié, turn left. Tap, tap, tap, pas de bourre’e. They stop. They completed their very first recital. The audience erupts in deafening claps of thunder. Parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, and friends all stand and clap. The little ballerinas all huddle together with their bee-suits shimmering in the bright lights; they take deep bows, loving the applause. In unison, they shimmy one final time.

And that ladies and gentlemen is still funny.

Catharine Booth | Non-Fiction

60

Puzzle PiecesJessyca THibault

Jessyca Thibault | Poetry

Puzzle pieces Don’t always fit Too big, too small Stuffed in a box that is not their own Shoved in a space that is not theirs to take Tossed aside, unwanted Kicked under a bed, forgotten Left to collect dust in the shadows Never to find their place Never to be where they truly belong

61

Black and White | G

riselle Gonzalez | Figure G

round Shift |

62

Challenged, handicapped, retarded, special, Autistic

Son, baby boy, firstborn

So many labels, so little explanations.

The doctor said, “Infantile Spasms.” I only understood seizures and brain damage.

What could have been? What might have been?

I will not know.

Neurologists, Cardiologists, Nephrologists

are what he knows.

Occupational, physical and speech therapy is play time.

Why can’t it just be bikes, swings, trampolines, and tag?

Other parents await milestones: driving, prom, graduation, marriage and grandchildren.

I await 5 word sentences, a voluntary hug, a non-violent day.

Other children want video games, phones and cars.

He is the happiest with a handful of M&M’s, watching Barney.

24 years have gone by, there is no what might have been or what could have been,

just what is.

Society displays colorful puzzle pieces to raise awareness for individuals like him.

Yes, he is a piece of something,

My Heart, My Holden.

my holdenCatharine Booth

Catharine Booth | Poem

63

Noodles | C

at DeSantis N

esbitt | Digital M

edia |

64

I am in a different world When I am in a bookstore The fresh, crisp scent of a million pages smothered over with clean pressed ink

Invigorates my nostrils, revives my mind

The countless possibilities open up

This is a place where ideas thrive

Ingrained into my life

Ever since I was a child

The colorful array of children’s books

Makes me smile as I remember

Bedtime stories pleading “Don’t make me go to sleep” Staying up in secret, flashlight reading instead I imagine a friendly furry creature instead of a monster under my bed

I imagine that I was a princess

With a purple crown upon my head Here I am slowly past aisles of quivering spines

Each book is an adventure from holy books To the “Life of Pi”

the bookstoreRaina Barnett

Raina Barnett | Poem

65

I have driven out of time

Relaxing in my notions

Religion partakes in the liquid light bulbs

Succumbing to the droplets on my face

It rains forever in this place

Collecting chants to verify unity

Contradicting myself to emancipate my Mind

Pushing back on reality for this moment

I won’t live past, I won’t be future

Isolated in the graffiti on this monument

Grateful in the Self I take

Losing the ego I create

Often enough a flame

Signaling hope, I am not a name

Only faithful to my shape

Solidified inside my position

I am a shadow to all I am given

The tricksterNeal clayton foote ii

Neal Clayton Foote II | Poem

66

Deep inside my brain

Ideas beckon to be called

Paper, SPLAT, Success

a thought processdawn cooley

Dawn Cooley | Haiku

67

Sunday Morning | K

atelyn Jean | Graphite |

68

She looks from the window,

Though miles away I can see the expression clearly on her face.

I stared at that window,

Wondering why I don’t dare stray from my gracefully occupied space.

A startling case,

Unclear motives, a star-spangled gaze

All the right laughs on all the wrong days.

A mouse in a maze,

Wander in circles for seven days

At the Earle, I’ve too many stays.

She courts me through pardon,

Though curious still is the swallowing of the most bitter of pills.

We stand in the garden,

We would have embraced if only the two of us had twice the wills.

My inhibition.

Systems broken, more than malfunction

Sparks fly away without solution.

I have young wisdom,

Eyes see through sorrowful pollution

Please hurry in, un-realization.

window

Matthew Vanaman | Poem

Matthew vanaman

69

Buddah| Rory M

acPherson | Etching |

70

I remember the good old days,

hanging carefree from a golden swing,

nestled in a waistcoat pocket

and pulled out when one needed the time

or wanted to seem important.

As the years went by,

the swing and pocket went away,

and I was relegated to the wrist

surviving the elements and the occasional

dent from a doorjamb.

But now my life is ruined

as a bright new face has replaced me,

telling the time and the date

with the ease of a swipe and

stored in my old pocket.

Now I lay in rest

In the drawer of a dresser,

smiling only at ten till two

even though no one

looks at my face anymore.

the good ole dayssean fraser

Sean Fraser | Poem

71

Ringo Starr | Jhonny Salazar | Ink |

72

A noisy serenade,

A square full of faces.

“hotdogs! hotdogs!”

A city smell lingers,

Lingers lustfully on the tongue.

Bare, dirty, young feet

A child sleeps,

cold homeless nights

under all the pretty city

lights.

Sudden taxi honking,

Cement against skateboard wheel

scratches along, a fly in your ear.

Foreign languages drift by,

Halal food wafts in the air,

French fashion drapes the mannequins.

59th & ColumbusCircle

amanda ingram

Amanda Ingram | Poem

73

a different country within America,

no passport needed, only heart.

Click, click, click, click

Her high heels click clack by.

Red underneath, that’s money.

A circle within a square.

Steps leading up and up and up

to the false prophet that came.

The never-ending rectangle looms

just in the distance, opposite of the

giant odes to man that never cease

to try and reach to

the heavens above.

Amanda Ingram | Poem

74

A C

ity L

ife |

Am

ber A

costa

| Ph

oto

Col

lage |

75

Untitled | Jessica W

ilkes | Trash Collage |

76

On entering the vestibule

smell of green bell

peppers frying and

onion sautéed

creating a safe place.

Grandmother’s apartment

on the second floor.

Sanford and Son, laugh tracks

as I hold you up,

guide your feet.

You hold my arm

it is cool, smooth

with lemon-oil shine.

I caught you from a child,

wandering, wondering who

lives on the third floor,

and do Slinkys really walk?

staircaseEileen 'yelena' slattery

Eileen ‘Yelena’ Slattery | Poem

77

The steps on my rubbery, gray runner

you tried so hard and failed,

no magic!

Sit on this

my 1940’s linoleum landing,

peeling, worn to watch the

Puerto Rican boys play

stickball

with your pink phone, giggling

the cord wrapped around

my polished wooden bars

like psychadelic Christmas

garland. You ran down

me when Luis shouted,

“Come play!”

Eileen ‘Yelena’ Slattery | Poem

danielle veenstraDesign editor

Cat Desantis nesbittDesign editor

amanda ingramwriting editor

cory mikellwriting editor

staff page

Senior Editors

Danielle Veenstra: Design EditorCat DeSantis Nesbitt: Design EdiorAmanda Ingram: Writing EditorCory Mikell: Writing Editor

Junior Editors (Not Pictured)

Dawn Cooley: Writing EditorAllison Welsh: Art Editor

Special Thanks To

Mae SandsTyrus ClutterRosalyn WilsonLois BrauckmullerKathy Morse

3rd in General Excellence (Division A)1st in Poem1st in Poetry2nd Artworks2nd in Design2nd in Fiction2nd in Illustrations with Text2nd in Two-Page Spread3rd in Poetry3rd Art Individual3rd in CoverHonorable Mention- Editing

Awards 2012 & 2013

Special Project

Also, keep a look out for a special CD version of this year’s Imprints.

There are two options when submitting to Imprints. You can submit via email at Imprints@CF.edu or through the MyCF web portal. We are constantly taking submission and hope to see your work in it. We take submission throughout the fall and early spring, and the final deadline is the beginning of Feburary. Whether you are an artist or writer, please submit.

Submissions