Literature Title Artist Pages I Am Guilty for Believing in Fairytales

Nathaniel Robinson

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Thoughts Unspoken Jonathan Higgins 8 Where We Don’t Belong Christopher Weiss 10 Recovering Jonathan Higgins 17 Essence Heather Reinblatt 19 Beauty of the End Amanda Ingram 20 My English Teacher Nathanial Robinson 22 Love is War Nathanial Robinson 24 A Black Hole JessycaThibault 25 Crazy Amanda Ingram 26 Discovery (OV-103) Sandra Brower 28

Imprints now online http://www.cf.edu/current/imprints/ College of Central Florida

Cristi James Tender Bliss Graphic Design

3001 SW College Road Ocala, FL 34474

An Equal Opportunity College Copyright 2013 College of Central Florida and representative artists. No work may be reproduced in whole or in part without the written consent of respective artists.

Love of my Life Andrea Andrade 30 Dangling Metaphors Sandra Brower 31 Ruminating Eileen Slattery 33 Mister Death and Destiny Olivia Hendricks 34 Breaking the Norm Jai Saville 35 It’s Ironic JessycaThibault 39 Acrimony Sandra Brower 40 Goodbye Andrea Andrade 41 What is Life Without Struggle

Mark Ross

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Show No Fear JessycaThibault 44

Lace Olivia Hendricks 23

Literature Cont-

Tri-Bloom Alexandria Jones 24

Title Artist Pages

Living or Existing? Rob Thompson 26

The Proposal Chris Mason 46

Self Portrait Karen Soucy 27

Haikus Alex Feliciano 47

Geisha Meagan Cryan 29

Confusion Andrea Andrade 48

Hoot Rebecca Flores 29

The Art of Abuse JessycaThibault 50

Longing Griselle Gonzalez 30

Sea, Sand, and Love

Sandra Brower

Impression of a Park

The Nature of Uncertainty

Kristen Koontz

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Alora Thompson

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Power Doug Henry 33 Fascination Procratination Rob Thompson 34

Artwork Title Artist Pages Model Ted Olsen 7 Stripes Savanna Woelfel 8 Glitz Jessica Nathan 9 Culvert Alexandria Jones 15 Regina Phalange Amanda Ortman 16 Baby Shoes Griselle Gonzalez 18 Ascension Josie Bosworth-Canner 18 Music Painting Judy Kemp 19 Observing Arlington Sandra Brower 20 On the Corner Noelle Izzo 20

Oblivious Sandra Brower 39 Staff of Insanity Sandra Brower 40 Destiny Jordan Futch 41 Neigh-bors Judy Kemp 42 Child of Misery

Elizabeth McConnell

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Skeleton Daniela Moreno 44 Two Face Griselle Gonzalez 45 Charmed Rebekah Merolina 45 Old Soul Rory Macpherson 47 God Save the Queen

Amanda Ortman

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Frustration Griselle Gonzalez 50 The Fallen Meagan Cryan 51 Sun on the Water

Ashley Kinney

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Woodland Oasis Kelly Dunn 55

Editor’s Note Throughout our lives the artist’s heart and mind travels through a boundless journey of observation resulting in various forms of positive and negative memories. We take these memories and turn them into the heart of our craft, Imagery. This heart involves one or more of the five senses: to see, to hear, to taste, to smell, to feel. If our craft is done well, all of these wonderful senses will stir inside the minds of the reader. They will hear the rain spattering onto vibrant Autumn leaves and smell the cracked dry earth softening from the moisture. They will see the air swirl from the flapping of a bird’s wings rising in flight from the bounds of a painted canvas. They will feel the heartache of a long-lived marriage dissolve or the longing of a student experiencing his first crush, crazy about his school teacher.

Her emotions are without the key,

The journey our staff has taken this year has led to endless paths of self-discovery. We have sweated through the trials of losing layouts and cheered at the joy of completing our very first campus-wide, student-only will provide a respite magazine. We hope, dear reader, that from the daily travails of your life. Maybe it will even serve as inspiration to delve into your own heart’s journey and find the boundless wisdom held within.

Because the truth is as the sun is important to life itself;

With warm regards, Sandra Lynn Brower Editor-in-Chief

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By Nathaniel Robinson

concealed in a steel cage, underwater surrounded by sharks. For her I’ll give my life swimming the deepest depth to gain her as a wife. What hurts is not receiving her love when I need it. My eyes might shut just waiting until she is ready. Ready to send away the death that guards her inner feelings; she is not prepared to accept the truth.

she is important to me.

Model By Ted Olson Acryllic Paint

So I suffer the pain of being alone to allow time to have its way. Knowing not the day or the time, when she will be convinced that love at first sight is not a waste of time. She knows that I am here, intrigued….perhaps deceived… head over heels…tumbling into her world. My stares paint pictures. Defying reality, I become an enemy of gravity for her aura lifts me,

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By Jonathan Higgins Thoughts unspoken, thoughts unheard

The heart that feels is the same as above.

they are real, shaken, not stirred.

Cry on my shoulder I do not mind

The words have formed, the thoughts planned out

just do not leave me behind.

now to speak them, that is my doubt.

Alone in the dark without a care of my own

Simple they are, clear and true

no burden to bear so how about a loan?

easy to pronounce, but impossible to do.

Give me a thought to clear my mind

Written they end up in the trash

to set things straight and nicely defined.

maybe even end up as ash.

Start my heart worrying for you

Foreign they sound to another’s soul

it shows me that you care for me too.

foolish the sound to another’s heart best left unspoken and unheard (date unrecorded) Worrying heart the heart that worries is the heart that loves.

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Stripes By Savanna Woelfel Line Volume

Glitz By Jessica Nathan Photograph

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“But I changed. I’ve defeated my demons and casted them out.” To the four o’clock, the paper reads, “Destroys Families,”



By Christopher Weiss

and “Drugs” is at eight o’clock. “Now I have a wife and I’m happier than ever,” Hank said, before indicating to his assis-

The woman captured on the wall is deceased, but at first glance you would never theorize her untimely death.

tant, who sits at a computer in the far away corner. The last oval at the bottom of the page replaces the blood in my veins

A projector attached to the ceiling paints a picture of her thick, blonde hair, like a golden river, flowing down past her

with sulfuric acid. “True love can only be attained between one man and one woman,” Hank projected. “Don’t let anyone

shoulders until the bottom of the frame cuts it off. This is Tabatha.Her skin lightly tanned and blemish free. She could be

lie to you by saying otherwise.” “Pedophile” is written in the six o’clock position.The hand in which mother is holding the

a super model, or at the very worst a trophy wife. Tabatha’s lashes are caked with mascara, and her eyelids look smoky

fortune teller trembled, forcing the paper to wobble and snap at the air. She chomped at the skin around her fingernails

from eye shadow. Flip to the next slide. Tabatha is a meth addict. Her once magnificent hair is matted down, lifeless and

of her free hand while she scanned the page.

limp. Patches of white scalp peek through her declining number of roots that now barely reach past her ears. This is your future. Hank used the phrase “Meth head” to describe her. This is you in five years if you continue on.

The drive up I remained silent, as I’ve trained myself to do, and once inside the basement of the Church of



Hank struts up to me, his gangly arms flopping at his side, and asked to borrow my paper. I extended it out to

him and he snatched it from me briskly. He marched back to the middle of the basement and held the single piece of white paper up as high as he can, ten feet off the ground. Hank pointed to the center and said, “this perversion will ruin

Hope, nobody talked to each other. Silence filled the volume of the cement room, and shame flashed on the faces of

your life, and I can see that for some of you it already has started too.” A boy, in his late teens, must have caught Hank’s

every person there. The thin man known as Hank resembled a male version of Olive Oil; two skinny arms stretched out

eye because he asked him to stand up. The boy obeyed, and Hank asked him his name. The boy replied with Jason. “Well

from a slender frame, and his knuckles almost touched his kneecaps. The man said this is a beatable epidemic, and he

Jason,” Hank said. “How long have you been choosing to be a homosexual?” He dragged the syllables of that final word

will guide us to the correct path. “First, you have to understand the trauma that is heading your way,” Hank said. Hank’s

with anguishing length. “I’m not gay,” Jason said. His voice squeaked under the weight of nerves. It’s amazing how fast

assistant walked around the crescent moon of desks and passed each of us a single piece of loose-leaf paper. “I am going

the effects of fear can take place.Hank turned his body to the rest of the group and retorted, “Why are you here then?”

to show you the truth,” Hank declared. The paper only had writing on the front side; a web diagram exposing the truth

Beads of sweat had already begun to rain down from Jason’s perfectly straight hairline. “It was an isolated incident,” he

of what is going to happen to me in the months to come. In the center of the page the word “homosexuality” is written

said. “And it will never happen again.” Hank shifted his weight back to the boy’s direction and walked over to him. The

with a perfect circle drawn around it. My copy is in fact that, a copy, so the words are quite blurry. Spots in the ink make

paper was passed as evidence and was pushed into his face. “All of this will happen to you if you continue this sinful

the fortune-teller look unprofessional. The assistant handed the last paper she had to the woman at the desk next to me.

lifestyle,” Hank said. Jason quickly sat back down; attending this event was clearly not of his own free will.

“How humiliating, you’re the only one who brought their mother to the ‘Pray Away the Gay’ Bible study group.”



At first the boy sobbed quietly at his desk with his head nuzzled deep within the cress of his elbow. His shoul-

Four lines branch off the perfect circle and connect to smaller ovals that encircle five other words. “I chose to be

ders rose with each inhale and collapsed from tear filled exhales. Hank leansed over into Jason’s ear as if he’s about to

a homosexual for twenty years,” Hank said. At the twelve o’clock position the word “Aids” sits inside its own blotchy oval.

whisper, but when the words came out it was closer to a yell. “You’re right. You’re not a homosexual,” Hank yells. “No

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one is. You are choosing to be gay.” After hearing those words, Jason no longer tried to hush his crying. His sobs roared

herself and lowered the paper back down showing the world her red inflamed eyeballs; her fingers found their way to

out from his elbow, echoing in the eardrums of everyone in attendance. Hank smiled, feeling like his work was complete,

my palm. “Aids are an immune disorder caused predominately by homosexual intercourse,” Hank stated. The group in

and walked back to me. He laid the paper down, face up, at my desk, and told me to look at my mother. “She’s almost

the basement was a melting pot of mostly males; only two women were in attendance, not including my mother. The

in tears and that’s your fault,” he says. I turned to my mother; she took the copy of her document and hid behind it. The

pamphlet mother gave me said this session would only last an hour, and believe me, I kept count. “Let me show you the

compressed wood crumpled around her features, making a facial outline, and tears melted through the paper, showing

finish line of this path you’re all on,” Hank said, before nodding to his wife.

the web diagram on the other side. Hank pointed at one of the ovals and filled in the space with his thumb. He’s point-



ing to the oval with the words “Destroys Families” written in it. “Mothers are family, and your decisions are hurting her,”

the ceiling kicked on as he turned off the lights. Mother’s nervous fingers danced in the palm of my hand as if she was

Hank said. Mother’s silent crying erupted and became audible, and between her and Jason, the wailing choir grabbed the

trying to send me a message in Morse Code. A blue beam shot out from the lens of the projector and a boy appears on

attention of everyone in the room. Nobody wanted to look at them but they did, like the car crash you know is going to

the wall. This was Thomas. The boy wasn’t a day older than me.Thomas has stringy red hair and a mouthful of barbed

be terrible but can’t help but watch. The “Pray Away the Gay” seminar has become a pity party hosted by Olive Oil.

wire poking at his lips. Skip to the second slide. Thomas was sitting up in a hospital bed with purple hickeys stained his half-naked body. “This is what Aids does,” Hank said, as he watched us watch the wall. “And it will happen to all of you

Hank grabbed my paper again, and walked back to the middle of the room to tell us he’s not trying to scare us,

too.” The next picture had the stomach of someone; I couldn’t tell the person’s gender because the camera was in so close,

but sometimes the truth is scary.

but the exact same dark purple hickeys appeared up and down the unknown person’s abdomen. “These are not birth-

Cue the rolling eyes.

marks,” Hank said, “These are lesions.”

He pointed to another circle and said, “Does anyone know what Aids are?” Hank scanned over the crescent



moon of desks and picked a woman in her late twenties. The woman accepted his acknowledgement and stood up confi-

“Aids are a STD,” Carol said. “Correct. Do you know anything more?” Hank asked.



Fast forward past Thomas and the unclaimed belly. Fast forward past the lesions and the occupied hospital beds

of sickly teenagers. “This is your future,” Hank said. Fast forward past Tabatha and her overdose. “This is all of

dently to announce that her name is Carol.

Hank’s wife loudly fidgeted with the computer, in the blackness of the corner, and suddenly the projector on



“No,” Carol admitted. Hank shook his head, “I didn’t think so,” he said, as Carol took her seat. Mother had finally gotten a grip of

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you in five years.” Mother’s fingers were now gripping at my pant leg, and tears started to roll down her cheeks again, but this time she didn’t hide behind her already soaked paper. Fast forward to Hank’s family pictured on the wall. Hank and his wife have five kids. Five children from two parents, who met in the basement of this church at another, “Pray Away the Gay” group; five children from parents who are pretending not to be gay by being married and having kids. Hank and his assistant used their children as a mask, a cover up, to hide behind. Oh, I had five kids, look how hetero I am.That will throw the scent off the trail. Fast forward to the point of our session ending with a thank you for coming and he hopes to see all of us again on the Tuesday after next for part two. Mother and I were the first ones out the door. Outside the sky was black, and rain fell from clouds swollen with water. In the passenger seat of mother’s car I watch as the rest of the sinners and liars exit the front double doors of the Church of Hope. The clouds blew their noses with thunder as everyone walked with their heads hanging, eyes glued to the ground in front of them. Mother started the car and put in into drive. Hank appeared from the door side and hugged his assistant and wore a

Culvert By Alexandria Jones Implied Lines: Graphite Pencil

big traveling salesmen smile, and waved goodbye to everyone. As a child you’re told that you were lucky to be born in America. They tell you the rest of the countries are inferior and can’t provide you with the same opportunities. You’re told no dream is unreachable and you can be whatever you want to be. Then you grow up, you are attracted to your own anatomy, and when critical thinking develops, you realize someone somewhere along the line has lied to you. As Hank’s slender body shrunk to a speck in the rearview mirror, a traveling salesmen smile of my own sweeps across my face. A feeling of giddiness builds in my stomach knowing that in fifty years, Olive Oil and his way of thinking will

be extinct.



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By Jonathan Higgins

In my hands my heart is gathered the pieces of the organ shattered. I know the glue that holds it back one glance at her will make it crack. I know now she’s not meant for me but that isn’t what my heart can see. Regina Phalange By Amanda Ortman Graphic Design

I see her working every day our eyes meet and we look away. The cheerful smiles now are gone the silence when we talk is long. I sometimes wish there was a way to take back that horrible day. To stop the words of truth I said that made my heart now free. All dead my heart needs only to rest a while, to keep away from her charming smile, eventually with time it will heal

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only then will love it feel.

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By Heather Reinblatt Baby Shoes By Griselle Gonzalez Cross Contour Volume

The smell of freshly bloomed flowers wafts through the air, drifting cautiously. Blind eyes follow and curled fingers extend in reach. I cannot see where it has gone, but its presence is felt, soaked into the very fabrics of my life. It calls out soothingly. Music Painting By Judy Kemp Acrylic

Ascension By Josie Bosworth-Canner Implied Line

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By Amanda Ingram In the spring, we are born. And we are colorful,

Observing Arlington By Sandra Brower Photograph

magical, blooming with brand new life. In the summer, we are mature. And we are healthy, stable, prosperously enjoying the leisure of the season. In the fall, we age. And we are beautiful. In one season we express the entirety of our lives in vibrant reds, yellows, oranges, and browns.

On the Corner By Noelle Izzo Glazing

Then winter comes, and we get old. The snow buries us renewing, purifying, beginning anew. Silence is prominent. We fade into death in a calm, peaceful end.

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In the spring, we are born again.

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Maybe because she’s so helpful. By Nathanial Robinson

Well, I’m hoping that she’ll help me with a helping,

I fell in love again on August 23; ENC 1101 is the class that it occurred in

It’s my duty.

I have to take this class, and this time I got to pass.

With that said, it’s not just your body; it’s your beauty.

Never mind that I have to pass because this time was on time, the professor was so fine, right down to the molecule a heavenly demon, I call her Ms. Diabolical. Though I am a student; I’m a man, so I persisted our dialect intertwines and our lingo lingers. Every word exchanged was like a kiss, moment of silence, bliss in the mist

I had questions, she explained each function. In her past, present, and future would suit her gladly seduce her then use her body for Karma Sutra. So gape into the eyes that gazed down Medusa when you’re done being my teacher, ma’am, could you be my tutor?

You are the apple that I would love to Snapple I’m sorry to fraternize, but I’m sure to be careful, It’s like I can’t seem to help it.

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Even though I don’t know you, I feel as though I do. So there is an urge to call you by your first name. This time, it’s a sure thing. Like I said, I’m here to help, and to congratulate you for thinking about yourself. You’ve become candy for my eyes as I admire your health, And, in such little time, the signs have become visible;

Lace By Olivia HendricksPhotography

see, we coordinate conjunctions along with the remainder of grammar

Forgive me! It’s not just your beauty; it’s your brain.

I couldn’t dismiss them; they are not admissible. Visibly, I know you physically. I would like to get to know you, ma’am, get to know you mentally. And that should be a ritual, because that’s the most critical. So cease being cynical.

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By Nathanial Robinson What are you doing to me? I seek but you say nothing is to be found. Something must be there, because the attention you give fuels my existence. I am unable to resist your fortune. I hunger for you like a society in need of change. Why are you doing this to me? Even though prepared, your soul seduced my spirit, just as the rivers that charm every curve of mother earth. Your lack of emotions feed on my heart. My actions prove me a fool. Could it be that only fools fall in love? To open your heart to invite one, coming and going as they please, acting as they see fit, such an act of valor. No different than jumping on a grenade, taking one for the team . An illusion I can’t fall for, not for a virgin nor the Fallen. Loving is far too painful. Love is war. Very rarely a compromise is met without pain, therefore, I must submit, deliver thy mind on a platter, one predator other prey, one devours, the other consumed. My perimeter breached, against my will, I was subjected to my biggest fear.

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Tri-bloom By Alexandria Jones Cross Contour Volume

By Jessyca Thibault A fading star, Destroying everything in your path. It’s what you were Even us, especially us, Once so bright, Ripping our world apart. Then slowly dimming. And still spinning, Then Dimming faster Then stopping to laugh and admire, Until you were unrecognizeable. Proud of your work. Dimming down to a faint pulse of light, We thought you were done, but we were Incadescent flickers every now and then. naive. But always dimming back down. The lull was just part of your game. Dimming down to a mere shadow of yourself, Again you spun. Until there was no light at all. More vicious, more violent, No flicker, Decimating whatever remnants were left. Dimming down until there was no star. Only a shadow. A black hole, A dark shadow. It’s who you are. No emotion, no remorse. A sinking ship. Just a bleak, black abyss. It’s who you became. Nothing left to destroy. Seeing the iceberg, No one left to hurt. And rushing towards it. The damage is irreparable. Addicted to the danger. Yet, it is still not enough for you, Hitting the icy surface hard. It’s never enough for a black hole. So hard you became ice yourself. You suffocate us with darkness. Became addicted to inflicting pain, Like the iceberg. Suffocate us so we can’t escape. You sank, but didn’t care. Suffocate us so we can’t call for help. You sank and took us with you. We lose hope, lose the will to fight, And you didn’t care. And that’s when you do it, Instead you hid the lifesavers. You swallow us up. A tornado, It’s what you transformed into. Spinning out of control. Spinning viciously, violently,

What are you now? What are you now?

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Self-Portrait By Karen Soucy Text Value

By Amanda Ingram

It’s in my blood to be Crazy. town

My father, he wandered from town to



With poison on his breath;



And ten extra pounds;



Up and thin;



Down and fat;



“Health in Happiness”



He might have always said,

But I have no, “my father always said” moments. I only know him through Crazy. And I hope so dearly, he knew me through Crazy too.

Living or Existing? By Rob Thompson Graphic Design

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By Sandra Brower The year was 1995, it was night, and you were blasting over our head. A miniature lad, clad in a blue Astronaut jumpsuit, held his hands over his ears blocking out the deafening sound produced by your red and orange fire. Swirling smoke spiraled out of your temporary rocket boosters. Child-like awe formed watching your ascension to the Heavens. Shivering in the balmy Florida air, my camcorder lost your profile for a few seconds; triggering my hasty zoom all over the sky with my lens desperately trying to find you again. Supersonic— your boom into the atmosphere reverberated within my entire body spreading joy into my heart. You were an amazingly complex and hard to fathom miracle. You, who carried brave men and women to places where only a few had tread. You, who tagged up with a heavenly station uniting the world only in that one place where all counties had to get along or become nonproductive. Now, in 2012, I watch you piggy backing on a super 747. You, the black snouted bird looking careworn and ancient. You have beaten all others, flying higher than anyone could ever have

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imagined and pulling in so many more millions of miles than your kind usually flies. You carried Satellites that enabled communication across the world, into our hands, into our ears and into our homes. Satellites that researched our atmosphere and spacecrafts that researched that ball of fire that produces our heat and light, which we loving call the Sun. You propelled the Hubble telescope the same year that my wanted-to-be astronaut was born.

Geisha By Meagan Cryan Colored Pastel

Emotionally, I watch you fly over our Nation’s capital; the same building that cut the funding that created your demise. Melancholy envelopes my heart not only for you, your kind and those who have nurtured, feed and flown with you but for change. The change that may or may not stifle innovation, the change that your demise has created for the State of Florida and the change that is growing more prevalent everyday just in my own family. No longer is that little astronaut clad lad looking up to the sky wondering when it will be his turn, he has moved on just as it seems the nation has and that in of itself is cause for concern. In the immortal words of one of NASA’s own astronauts Jim Lovell, “I look up at the moon and wonder, when will we be going back, and who will that be?”

Hoot By Rebecca Flores Print Making Reduction Linoleum

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By Andrea Andrade

Love of my life, you’re perfect for me. One day I hope you’ll see me like this.

My inspiration for poems, these silly rhymes, they come from you, they love you too.

I dream of these feelings being published, Longing By Griselle Gonzalez Etching

then maybe our feelings won’t be demolished.

More than a crush more than just lust I want all of you, my heart beats for you.

Let’s stay together, you and I

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and drive into that trip we get lost in.

By Sandra Brower They hung like spider webs in my mind those little collectives of alphabet lettersseparate they were just sounds together they were the food to my soul. The first words were babbles, next came the emotion creatorslove, mama, papa, hug then the words that broke free dangling like diamonds in my heartthe words of a story book, the magic healing of a garden overpowered the senses.

“sparkling like the waters of some lovely bottomless lake,” was the key that opened up my imagination. Sounds flew off the page— The angry quick chirps of a robin; rippled laughter from an invalid the first time walking. Fragrances rambled round rainbows of roses. Like a rainstorm on the moor, the “nice, fresh and damp [smell] of th’ good rich earth.” saturated through my skin. These words have never been shelved gathering dust. Reverberating through my soul they live

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By Eileen Slattery

The death of innocence came to me in increments, A little here, a little there until my eyes Power By Doug Henry Monotype

were opened and I could see ...betrayal

The death of innocence came to me

yet unprotected

in yearnings,

begging for normalcy

not well understood

and feeling so

love, lust

...alone

tangled together Impression of a Park By Alora Thompson Mural

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and I could feel

The death of innocence left it’s mark

...corruption

rewarding me, with burdens much too

The death of innocence came to me

large, unfair

in helpless cries,

carried on my shoulders

a child who was close

and I felt ...strong

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She sat in a cell,  with two for company.  A man named Death,  the other Destiny. 

By Olivia Hendricks “You’re broken love, a lost and helpless girl.  Trust unto me,  and you shall have the world.” 

She looked down at her hand,  upon its palm a harsh black sign. “Now I’ll be yours forever,” Death said,  “and you shall be mine.” 

One man seductive and dark,  alluring with desire.  His sinister smile a dream,  eyes gleaming with fire. 

In his words she found solace,  a comfort so unknown.  Seeds of lust for his presence had quickly been sown. 

He walked to the door,  and pulled out a key. Only one last look,  did she have of Destiny. 

The other was plain and bright,  his spontaneity a curse.  With eyes so vast,  they held the universe. 

“In me you’ll find peace, i’ll always be on your mind. Destiny comes and goes,  so he’s rather hard to find.” 

His face was grim and somber;  he let out a faint cry. “If you would have waited for me,  I could have shown you how to fly.” 

Death beckoned her closer,  while Destiny stood still.  Death an eager fiend,  destiny a man of will. 

She was anxious, tired,  and completely drained.  “But, if I choose to go with you, it is my life that you have claimed.” 

From then on she continued,  with one for company.  A man named Death,  and Death alone, never Destiny. 

“You can trust me, love, that would always be your choice. I’ll just be there when you need Death swayed her with his words,  me  claimed her in his grasp. let you hear my voice.”  She suddenly felt he knew her,  her present, her future, her past.  He outstretched his pale hand held it out into the air. She then looked to Destiny, “Just take a hold of me,  his face a mask of concern.  you are almost there.”  He outstretched his hand, but When her skin graced his, Death caused there was a moment of ecstasy.  her to turn.  Fire and ice ran through her,  and then, hollow melancholy. 

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Charlie Hayes sat in the farthest seat in the back of the classroom, her binder on the desk in front of her. ‘Honors English Composition’ and ‘Ms. Preston Block 6’ was in calligraphy across the front of the binder. Two pens, one black and the other blue, sat perfectly straight and parallel to the binder. Charlie was chewing on her bottom lip, in an anxious nervous manner. The chairs surrounding Charlie were empty. Nobody wanted to sit there. They were all afraid to ‘Catch’ what she had, though it was not contagious. Ms. Preston took her time passing back the classes latest essays. The essays were supposed to be about something that defined them. Most didn’t take the assignment seriously, writing about their diets and how they spend their time. When she got to Charlie’s, she smiled. Ms. Preston handed Charlie the essay and whispered, “Very well written, Miss Hayes,“continue the good work.” The teacher moved on to the next student but paused to look over her shoulder. Charlie had a look of astonishment on her face. As if the young girl was expecting a horrible grade and didn’t receive one. Ms. Preston smiled again and turned back to continue returning the essays, “Mr. Hicks, writing about how pizza is the most important food to you does not define you. Please stay after. The rest of you are dismissed.” The students in the class started to gather their things to leave. Ms. Preston spoke a little louder, “And don’t forget to read the next chapter in your textbooks! Now get out of here, except you Mr. Hicks.” Charlie sat still in her desk, she could hear her classmates leaving but she was still frozen over the results of her paper. On the top of the paper Ms. Preston had written in a fine red cursive, “This must have been a very difficult topic for you to write about. It is very courageous for you to choose this specific topic. You have a very good way with words, continue on writing! A+”

Fascination Procrastination By Rob Thompson Acryllic and Graphic Design

“I am here for you, child, in your time of need. Accept me in your life,  in me you can believe.”

By Jai Saville

Charlie jumped and turned to look at Ms. Preston’s hand on her shoulder and her teacher leaning towards her with a concerned look on her face. Charlie thought she must have really have been out of it if she didn’t hear her teacher approach, or even hear the ever loud Brad Hicks stomp out of the classroom. She then realized that Ms. Preston was speaking to her and still had her hand on Charlie’s shoulder. The young girl jumped up and stammered,” Th-th-thanks Ms. Preston but I gotta go.” She quickly gathered her things and fled the class. She walked rapidly towards the exit of the school, weaving through the students who pretended she didn’t exist. Once she made it to her car, she realized that her teacher

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had placed her hand on Charlie’s arm. It’s been so long since someone other than my mother touched me or even tried to pass on comfort, she thought. Charlie pulled out the essay she had just gotten back and started reading what she had put so much effort into writing.

“Breaking the Norm” By Charlette Hayes

“What is normal? According to Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary normal is “According with, constituting or not deviating from a norm, rule, or principle; conforming to a type, standard, or a regular pattern.” I am not by this definition normal. I do not follow the rule or principle and I most definitely do not conform to the regular pattern. The Merriam-Dictionary defines transgender as, “of, relating to, or being a person (as transsexual or transvestite) who identifies with or expresses a gender identity that differs from the one which corresponds to the person’s sex at birth.” I am not normal because I was born Charles Alexander Hayes on October 3, 1995. As a young child, I never felt right. My father kept pushing trucks and hot wheels at me when all I wanted to do was play with my mother’s make up.When I was 8, my father snapped. He had had enough of me being a “prissy boy” and told my mother to find me a doctor that would fix me or he was leaving. My mother took me to the family doctor. Doctor Waxler checked my vitals and talked to my mom out in the hallway. A few minutes later he came back in the room with my mother. My mother had a worried look on her face as the doctor started asking me questions as to why I didn’t want to play with all of my toys. I remember telling him I didn’t want to play with them because they were boy toys and I wanted to play with girl toys. He nodded his head at me and wrote a name on a piece of paper, telling my mother that this ‘Doctor Tina’ could help me better than he can. It turned out that Doctor Tina was a psychiatrist. After a few months of sessions with her, she told my mother and I what my prognosis was. Doctor Tina thought I had Gender Identity Disorder otherwise called GID. She explained that GID is the medical field’s way to diagnose those who are Cisgender or other gender-variant people. She went on to tell us that some consider GID to be offensive but it’s just some really smart people trying to label and explain everything in a smart way. Doctor Tina put in plain words that I was born male, but I was really female. She said through therapy, hormones, and even surgery, should I want surgery in the long

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run, could correct this. My father did not accept this. He said I was born a boy and would stay a boy. He took me to do manly things, like work on cars and go hunting, neither worked. I did not like getting dirty from the cars and I cried when he shot the deer. My father yelled and cursed at my mother, so sure it was her fault. I was hiding under my bed crying, when he left. My mother came into the room, pulled me out and just held me. She said, “Let it out Charlie. Tears don’t make you weak, as a boy or girl. It’s the holding them in that makes you weak.” She hummed a lullaby and told me we don’t need my father, we will be so much better without him. On August 10, 2005 I started the hormone blocking therapy. On October 3, 2005 I legally became Charlette Elizabeth Hayes. The moment my mother signed the documents legally changing my name, she smiled at me and uttered these words, “now you are legally the daughter I always knew I had and wanted.” We chose my name together. I still wanted to be called Charlie and my mother was born in Charlotte, North Carolina. We got Elizabeth from my eccentric great Aunt Murial Elizabeth. I had to change schools that year. The kids at my first school had taken to endlessly picking on me, calling me the cruelest of names. This pattern followed me throughout all of the schools I have gone to. The older I got the harsher and more creative the other students became. They were no longer happy with verbally being mean, and started to push, trip, tip my lunch tray all over me. I quickly fell into a deep depression, much like others like me. I eventually stopped taking my pain internally and started to push it externally. I started wearing long sleeves to cover the cuts. I acted cheerful and happy. I couldn’t have my mother knowing what I was doing. I felt the only way I could handle my pain was to make the emotional turmoil physical. Like the self-harm made me the master of my pain. It quickly down-spiraled, I started cutting deeper and deeper more desperate for someone to notice. My mother did, when she walked onto me slicing my wrist in my bedroom. She rushed me to the hospital and demanded I get treatment. The hospital almost didn’t treat me, due to my being transgender, but my mother threatened them with a huge lawsuit. I believe on some level she knew the lawsuit would never really go far but parents will say anything to save their children. Once I was admitted, the hospital not wanting to take a lawsuit chance, my mother began researching treatment centers. Immediately after I was released from the hospital, I went into the treatment center. There I met Luke. Luke changed my life. He taught me that gender didn’t matter to those in love. He didn’t care I was transgender, he just loved me. We talked about everything. I learned about better ways to handle my pain. Instead of hurting myself I would write in a journal. After we both left the treatment center, we tried to continue our relationship long distance. I got better, Luke didn’t. Almost 6 months after we got out of treatment, Luke took his step-

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father’s gun and shot himself, his depression too much for him to handle. My mother was very worried that I wouldn’t handle his death very well, that I would relapse into my selfharm. I almost did, but I remembered Luke telling me that I was too beautiful to have scars. So I wrote in my journal and I remembered my mother’s old advice and cried until I couldn’t any more. I get stronger every day. I am not normal. I was born outside of the pattern and I deviate from the normal rule of gender. I hold my head up high because I am above the discrimination of others. Life will get better. One day I will finish my journey and become a full woman, until then I am happy just being Charlie.” By the time Charlie finished reading her own essay, she was almost in tears. She could see tear stains where her teacher must have shed her own. When Charlie looked on the last page of her essay, she saw another note for Ms. Preston, “Please keep writing, you have a real talent. And remember, never change who you are, because who you are is beautiful, Ms. Preston.” Catching glimpse of Ms. Preston’s second note had Charlie’s tears flowing. There was a knock on her car window, causing her to jump. Charlie looked up to see a girl from her English class looking in at her looking worried. She rolled down her window and asked, “Can I help you?” The girl just smiled at her and replied, “Oh you looked upset, I thought maybe you’d want to talk it out,” she held her hand out to Charlie; “My name is Lexie. What’s yours?” Charlie looked at Lexie’s hand and back to her essay. She smiled and took the other girls hand, “I’m Charlie.”

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By Jessyca Thibault Irony, so small a word yet so much depth packed. Irony, so few letters yet so big an impact… It’s ironic how the good die young, while the evil live on and on. It’s ironic how those that need protecting are the first to defend everyone. It’s ironic how the pain is strongest, for those with no bruises. it’s ironic how you lost the game, but, she’s the one who really loses. It’s ironic how the sun is up, but I’m fumbling in the dark. It’s ironic how even when you say no words your silence still leaves a mark. It’s ironic how those that need help are the ones that do not ask. It’s ironic how the biggest hearts are the ones that give out fast. It’s ironic how people say “I do,” when they really don’t. It’s ironic how we believe in our heart they’ll try when we know in our head they won’t. It’s ironic how the stars guide the way but not the way to get there. It’s ironic how I cannot breathe when my lungs are full of desp(air). It’s ironic how the clock doesn’t stop

Oblivious even when you feel your world has ended. By Sandra Brower It’s ironic how there’s still a hole Photography when fences have supposedly been mended. It’s ironic how when there’s no sound your ears do nothing but ring. It’s ironic how when you fall down not falling through is the hardest thing. Irony, so small a word yet, so much meaning within. Irony, so few letters yet who knows where to begin…

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Should I believe you will soon go find me?

By Sandra Brower

Or forget the love, and the times you had me? He sits in brooding

Notwithstanding the

silence.

coldness that clamps

Could this have been a summer fling?

Frustration

around her soul

Or a forever-love kind of thing?

permeates the air.

she feels lighter, grateful for the break

This feeling I get when I see you by yourself,

The flow of his scorching

her two legs

is quite different than when I catch you

words burn into her

have given by walking out the door.

with someone else.

heart; why should she really care?

It goes from love to pain, I feel the jealousy all through my veins.

Her mind spews words that don’t flow out of the vehicle

Destiny By Jordan Futch Photography

By Andrea Andrade

that could speed into the traffic of his presence. Rather than wound

but it’s too hard to let you go. Very soon I will be gone from down the street it will all be done.

Irrevocably

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Staff of Insanity By Sandra Brower Photography

she walks away.

Time goes by, it’s time for me to go,

I can’t because I love you so much, but they were right,

The laughs we shared those summer nights, weren’t enough to keep us tight.

the first one hurts the most.

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By Mark Ross What is life without struggle, what would it be? Would it be a game that most win all too easy? Would it be a rush of great sensations? Would it be something unimaginable? Life is a perception of you multiplied by others Let you be what you want to see in others Your perception of you is Life unseen The struggle is your strength

Child of Misery By Elizabeth McConnell Printmaking

and your love is your accomplishments. Teach and be teachable and perceive Greatness. What is Life without struggle? It would be uneventful and not meaningful. But when one encourages others they encourage themselves. Neigh-bors By Judy Kemp Glazing

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Put you first in others and you will be first every time.

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By Jessyca Thibault Face of stone Show no fear Eyes of glass Show no tear Ears alert All they hear Head spinning Thoughts unclear Voice silent Words that sear Losing grasp Breaking is near Afraid but must Show no fear

Two Face By Griselle Gonzalez Linoleum

Skeleton By Daniela Moreno Acryllic Charmed By Rebekah Merolina Charcoal

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By Chris Mason Is it possible to write to one, or have I lost to the multitude?

He won’t let me fall

Trying will render these words to your heart.

Though I stumble and stagger

Would you love in old age when all sparks and kindling are gone?

He is my savior.

Could you learn to love the young man, but to love the older man that will one day be before you?

-Alex Feliciano

I hear them tuning Excitement begins to stir The show has begun -Alex Feliciano

Sincerely, loving you is as genuine as I am being, for you are a part of my soul. But to love you with a love that is so deep it reaches to the very recesses of your soul; That is worth all the power my being can form.

To show you the new found glories that can appear so they take the place of the old dreams that did not come true; well, that is the goal!

Trying is my humble servant’s heart before you.

Old Soul By Rory Macpherson Line Volume

It flies by my head I stay focused on the job Semper Fidelis -Alex Feliciano

I live to love and to serve you. For what is love without effort? What is life without you? I sing this to persuade you, I kneel to you a humbled man. Accept my efforts and make them yours.

Or have I lost you to the multitude?

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By Andrea Andrade Confused mind, Confused soul, They don’t know which path to go.

The old path, I’ll always miss. The old path, I’ll always love. He waits for me to be together, anywhere, despite the stormy weather.

Yet closer to me, on a daily schedule, there is a boy, in sunny weather. Tall and shy, he likes me too.

Oh, what should my dear heart do?

Confused mind,

God Save the Queen By Amanda Ortman Graphic Design

Confused soul,

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they still don’t know which path to go.

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By Jessyca Thibault Just words They were just words They didn’t mean anything “I’m sorry” Those are just words too And they mean even less Just a push It was just a push I didn’t mean to A shove It was more like a shove And I hit the ground Just a bruise It’s just a bruise It’ll heal A scar It’s a scar that I’ll carry on my heart Forever

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Frustration By Griselle Gonzalez Implied Line

The Fallen By Meagan Cryan Charcoal

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By Sandra Brower The waves hit the flattened tan shore like dolloped whip cream on a pie. She was soothed by it’s sounds. In her heart she screamed for warmth instead of the icy coldness penetrating through her soul. He walked ten feet in front of her. How was she supposed to break through the brick wall he had erected around himself? She walked quickly, grabbed his hand, Then was rejected. Instead of working through it she focused on a sandpiper skittering along the water’s edge; its needle-pointed beak jabbed

at the sand for food, reminiscent of the words that had come out of his mouth not more than 15 minutes ago. She let it all float away out of her heart like the water carrying shells and sea plants back out into the surf. Skipping along the foam she wished he’d take off his sneakers, join in the fun­­­,. He was such a stick in the mud never thinking to join her. This is her life, the tide of happiness receding in and out against the soft or rough sands disappearing in the blink of an eye.

Sun on the Water By Ashley Kinney Photography

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By Kristen Koontz

My long, deep black pants dip into the stream. The calm rapids

into Fear, yet allows my

Soul to flee from me. The air is completely still, while the brook’s song provides enough air for me to Breathe. Why does this tree tease me so? With its playful branches brushing my sleeves, Poking, tingling, caressing my skin. Why does it tell me to run along; to continue my Journey, While it knows that my fate is inches away? Or perhaps it’s

, the way that no one has in all my Life. No friend in my life, But,

Also, no foe. Perhaps having a foe would be better; For someone

in their thoughts.

Woodland Oasis By Kelly Dunn Photography

This rock, here, beneath my bare pale feet,

, as long as I am stable. To welcome its company is my own prerogative. How it must be thrilling, for a tree, a rock, a stream Not be owned. To continue to Grow, or stay the same, No one to judge or persuade them. Why, I must be a part of this, but my own love is,

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To be loved. , oh sweet nature, what is my Destiny?

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I m p r i n t s

Acknowledgements On behalf of the Imprints Staff we would like to award something that is important to us, a page. A page is a template to which we create inspiration; it is a piece of ourselves. Without these people we could not have this magazine. We appreciate the effort and time sacrificed. Therefore, we would like to acknowledge these invigorative people, so that one day we can aspire to have their tenacity and know the true meaning of Imprints.

Tyrus Clutter is an artist professor at CF. Mentor of Design and Art Connoisseur. Lois Brauckmuller & Kathy Morse from Public Relations mentored us in advertisement and design placement. Rob Marino supplied Imprints advertisement space to promote our magazine. Mae Sands, ourTaskmistress, guided and directed the formation of this year’s edition. Rosalyn Wilson without her we could not have gone in the imprints room, our key to the door, the gatekeeper.

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Awards For 21 years, Imprints has been recognized for excellence among college literary magazines, consistently placing among the top there at the annual Florida Community College Press Association Awards Conference, and in 2005 winning best small magazine in the southeast from the Community College Humanities Association. In 2007, 2008, 2009, Imprints won best in state for general excellence as well as best poem and best group of poems, best fiction, best non-fiction, and best cover. In 2011, Imprints won best poetry, best non-fiction, best fiction and best cover among other awards. Three student poets have won the esteemed Debra Vazquez award for Excellence in Poetry (2005, 2007, 2009, and 2012).

2011

2012

3rd in General Excellence (Division A) 3rd in General Excellence (Division A) E. A. Weatherly Inner Circle Award 1st in Poem 1st in Fiction 1st in Poetry 1st in Non-Fiction 2nd Artworks 3rd in Contents Page 2nd in Design 3rd in Staff Page 2nd in Fiction Honorable Mention: Editing 2nd in Illustrations with Text 1st in Cover 3rd Art Individual 3rd in Cover Honorable Mention- Editing

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