2008 by Broken Ink

B R O K E N I N K

FALL FALL F ALL 2007 2007 -- SPRING SPRING 2008 2008

BROKEN INK For the Students, by the students... since 1971 Literary and Art Journal

The University of South Carolina Aiken 471 University Parkway Aiken, South Carolina 29801

Staff Editor-in-Chief Lisa Heckrotte

Art Editor

Tara McGowan

Layout Editor Milledge Austin

Literary Editor Rachael Bond

On-line Editor Connor Leonhardt

Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Letter What is art? Is it the embodiment of political and religious views? Is it the expression of emotions and thoughts? Is it the symbolic representation of beliefs and standards? Yes, but it is also much more than that. It is whatever you want it to be and it is presented however you want it to be. It is a looking glass through which we can view this world and all the realms beyond. It is both ďŹ gment and reality. It entertains imagination and embodies free will. There are no limits and no boundaries. Thank you for taking the time to be interested in the arts. We hope that you enjoy this little peek at the creativity of students on our campus. Special thanks to all the students that contributed to this beautiful issue and to the faculty and staff that helped make its production possible. Thanks, Lisa Heckrotte Editor-in-Chief

Art Contents Glass #15 by William Steffey - Cover Take a Moment by Milledge Austin - pg. 4 Glass #6 by William Steffey - pg. 8 Little Girl by Milledge Austin - pg. 9 - 10 Tess by William Steffey - pg. 11 Praise by Milledge Austin - pg. 15-16 Joey by Michelle Visny - pg. 18 Lost in a Sunbeam by James Chidsey - pg. 19-20 Glass #16 by William Steffey - pg. 21 Joshua C. by William Steffey - pg. 22 DifďŹ cult to Guage by E. C. Hallex, II - pg. 23-24 Coming in for a Landing by Milledge Austin - pg. 25 Quiet Thoughts by Tara McGowan - pg. 26 One of Those Quiet Places by Tara McGowan - pg. 27-28 To Land Softly by E. C. Hallex, II - pg. 29 Camden Town, London by Bud North - pg. 31-32 Kitty Life by Tara McGowan - pg. 36 Diligence by E. C. Hallex, II - pg. 37 Riviera by Michelle Visny - pg. 38 Unexpected by Savanna Stephens - pg. 50

Literary Contents Poetry A Use for Time by Abe Kalsbeek - pg. 3 The Cherry Cola Distillation by Christina Dirks - pg. 5-6 Easy As Pie by Savanna Stephens - pg. 7 Hide-N-Seek by Rachael Bond - pg. 7 Rhetorical by Abe Kalsbeek - pg. 14 Karma by Savanna Stephens - pg. 17 Walls by Savanna Stephens - pg. 30 Euphoria by Abe Kalsbeek pg. 47 Ephesus by Kristin Acklie pg. 47 All the Worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a Stage by Rachael Bond - pg. 48 A Day of Remembrance by Savanna Stephens - pg. 48 Last Words by Abe Kalsbeek - pg. 49

Fiction Jamie by Christina Dirks - pg 12-13 Night Kitchen by Leslie Walters - pg 33-35 Lavinia by Lisa Heckrotte - pg 40-46

Washington Art Awards First Place

Second Place

“Joshua C.” William Steffey Vol. 40 Issue I pg. 22

“Thick as Thieves” Meghann Williams 2007-2008 Vol. 40 Issue I pg. 39

Third Place

“Tess” William Steffey Vol. 40 Issue I pg. 11

Group

Literary Awards First Place

“The Cherry Cola Distillation” Christina Dirks 2007-2008 Vol. 40 Issue I pg. 5-6

Second Place

Third Place

“Night Kitchen” Leslie Walters Vol. 40 Issue I pg. 33-35

“Jamie” Christina Dirks Vol. 40 Issue I pg. 12-13

Broken Ink would like to thank the Washington Group for supplying us with the prize money for the art and literature award winners. Special thanks to: Professor Al Byer, Dr. John Elliott, Dr. Michael Fowler, Dr. Stephen Gardner, Professor Ilona Law, and Dr. Matthew Miller for choosing the pieces to recieve the Washington Awards. We would also like to thank Professor Karl Fornes for giving our organization the guidance we need to produce the best possible journal we can. Most importantly, we would like to thank you, the student body of the University of South Carolina Aiken, for supporting our organization and submitting your pieces of art and literature for publication. You make it possible for us to say... For the students, by the students.

The Broken Ink Staff

A Use for Time By Abe Kalsbeek

Tumble with me, dear for I haven’t far to go; roll on hands and heel because walking is too slow. You don’t know how to do it? Plenty of time to learn; see, you get down like this… your company I do yearn. Fall on this grassy hill beyond that hidden knoll, past the broken bridge where the troll still takes a toll. Carefully through burning house and up the ﬂooded stair; watch out for shattered mirror… the evidence of despair. Follow me through wilting meadow, across a new cut lawn, tumbling all the way there from setting dusk to rising dawn. Maybe I made up this journey to spend more time with you; maybe I thought it funny to tumble all the way through. Now that you know the facts, will your faith in me crumble? Or will you keep going, now knowing how to tumble? Tumble with me, dear for we haven’t far to go; roll on hands and heel because walking is too slow.

Take a Moment... Milledge Austin

The Cherry Cola Distillation By Christina Dirks

Chemistry. 9:25AM We’re Picking people apart, Finding Oxygen, Carbon, Hydrogen, (trace amounts of elements worth 4 dollars, 50 cents). They’re all science experiments, Dissected, analyzed… Discarded when a theory won’t ﬁt. Specimen A Cardigan sweaters and chandelier earrings; (I’ve heard) she tries her hardest to be cherry-cola on prom night. “you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted, baby” said her boyfriend’s best friend. in a (sleight-of-hand) bid for her virginity. When we boil this specimen down, she will leave burnt sugar.

Specimen B This specimen will incinerate when we place her on the burner; her speciﬁc heat (unique to every substance) is drawn attention; pale, thin, she is paper, stapled to the classroom wall where no one reads her or needs to know her name. she used to have many more pages, like a novel, but at 451 degrees they were gone. Specimen C “I know you” the man in her speakers cuts deep with his truths into the lump in C’s throat (releasing, she can’t get it back). her lover can feel a pulse quicken in her lifeline as she puts her strength into being anything but ash-ﬁlled, soda-pop needing, wanting girl.

Easy As Pie

By Savanna Stephens Indulge me in your awkward silence. I don’t think I have had enough Unease in my companion, And misfortune’s just my luck. Pour me a glass of discomfort; I’ll watch it run over the brim. It puddles with the remainder of your honesty; I watch as you dive in. I’ll sail across it on your conscience. When you think you’ve ﬁgured it out, I’ll be back again for seconds; Let there be no doubt.

Hide-N-Seek

By Rachel Bond She smiles and I see you, and I remember the other times when you were here before me. Sometimes, your breath disturbs the branches outside my window, and you whisper to me through the leaves. You cry on my pane and I want to let you in, comfort you, but wouldn’t know how if I did. You like hide-n-seek, chasing us around, waiting to be found. Then, I see you again.

Glass #6... William Steffey

Little Girl... Milledge Austin

Tess... William Steffey

Jamie

By Christina Dirks

“ID please.” The man behind the counter had a smug look on his face, expecting something inadequate for the purchase being made. Jamie pulled her pink wallet from its leather purse home and flipped it open to her driver’s license. She’d been eyeing those cigarettes behind the clerk for the entire 9 minutes she’d been waiting in line to prepay for gasoline. She was trying to quit the habit, but the man in front of her counting out eighty-six pennies – which she speculated to be his age – did not help abate her craving for nicotine. The man behind the counter pulled back his peppery gray locks to get a better look at the piece of plastic standing between Jamie and her smokes. He squinted his eyes, extended a hand, and grumbled, “Lemme see,” with a grabbing motion. “I get this all the time,” she injected her voice with laughter to hide her annoyance with DJ, her fake ID supplier, and his substandard service. With a flourish, she extracted the driver’s license from its compartment. The grizzled man held it up and looked from the ID to the girl’s face and back to the ID. With a dismissive shrug, he tossed it on the counter before turning around. “So which ones again?” “Camel wides, please.” Smiling up from the counter in front of her was a vision of a slightly less blonde, older-looking Jamie. Her friend Derek Jay swore that the darker hair would make her seem older than her current age of 17. Date of Birth on the card said 05-01-1987. No one was about to look at her birth certificate for proof of age; that one line was all she needed. Her job depended on that one line, so patrons wouldn’t feel guilty about gawking while wives and children slept at home. Too bad DJ’s products were flimsy, almost like tag board, and lacked a clear background image like the legal versions. It made her situation precarious. Anyone inspecting it for just a second would spot it as a phony, and her income would be severely stripped. Looking down on it laying there, Jamie decided to have a talk with him. She waited until the clerk dropped the cigarettes on the counter, and she picked them up together. “That’ll be six dollars and ten cents,” he rang up her purchase. “Oh, sorry, I wanted to buy gasoline too.” “How much?” his eyebrows raised and his lips pursed in irritation. “How much will twenty dollars get me?” “A ten and twenty-dollar bill replaced the cigarettes and driver’s license on the counter. With three dollars and ninety-cents in his hand, the clerk looked Jamie in the eye and recognition seemed to wash over his deeply wrinkled face. She knew that look well; she received it from men all over town. Since the ring of the bell above the gas station door on entrance, she had recognized him from the night previous. A smile was tugging at the corners of her glossed lips as they came to an understanding. With

13 a swift flick of her hips she was out the door, the bell sounding again in her wake. Once she returned to her red 1973 Maverick, a flick of her Zippo brought one of her newly bought cigarettes to life. Her eyes roamed across the sign that yelled, “NO SMOKING,” as she took a deep drag into her lungs and exhaled into the air. The gas pump was ready to be useful, and her gas tank received twenty-dollars worth of gas. Halfway through her cigarette, Jamie slid onto the black leather driver’s seat, flung her matching purse onto the passenger’s side, and conjured up a deep, throaty growl from her engine with a turn of her key in the ignition. Inside the gas station, the clerk was still puzzling over the identity of the girl he’d just sold cigarettes to. The other station attendant slapped his shoulder, jolting him out of the trance he’d been in. “What’s up man? You look stoned or somethin’.” “Nah,” he smiled at the younger man. “Nah. I don’t do that no more.” “Then what’s wrong?” “That girl who just came in,” he pointed out the window where Jamie’s car had just took off towards the highway. “Did she seem familiar at all?” The younger clerk ran his fingers through his curly black hair. “No man, just another rich, white chick to me, sorry. You know her?” “Not really. I think she gave me a lap dance last night.” “Oh yeah? Go to some crazy party?” He was eager for details. “No, the strip club,” he laughed a bit at himself as it dawned on him. “I put thirtydollars in her garter belt. It was all I had in my wallet.”

Rhetorical

By Abe Kalsbeek How come, when itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sleepless nights, all one thinks about is past mistakes? Not only that but how to correct the one thing that cannot be corrected? Why not think about the future and learn from the past? letting sleepers dream? Cannot one sleep in peace without worrying what or who will come next? Is it worth the grief and pain to look at the past for helpful advice? Or is it better to block out memories and have continual failure? Is it better to replace memories with false ones to improve outlook? Are opinions as valued as society wants when one speaks and the other does not listen?

Praise... Milledge Austin

Karma

By Savanna Stephens Round, Circular, Like life: Birth leads To death; Death leads To birth again, An endless cycle. What is fair, What is just, Each rotating On spheres, Sizes varying From seconds And minutes To weeks And months; The good and bad Right and wrong JustiďŹ ed; A fate That makes No promises; A timer That matters Not in how long But rather In the long run. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a comfort For the victim And a conviction For the crime; A rotating scoreboard, And all it takes Is time.

Joey... Michelle Visny

Lost in a Sunbeam... James Chidsey

Glass #16... William Steffey

Joshua C... William Steffey

Coming in for a Landing... Milledge Austin

Quiet Thoughts... Tara McGowan

One of Those Quiet Places... Tara McGowan

To Land Softly... E. C. Hallex, II

Walls

By Savanna Stephens Invisible blood drips from my ﬁsts; I’ve punched the non-existent walls Of my mind repeatedly, Thanks to you. After this, Gaping holes in my imaginary room Give me no satisfaction. I hurl a vase into nothing; It shatters. I let the sheet rock suffer my pain It’s sad to think I’m taking out my anger On a fantasy, But I am. I rip open the door of my paper house And let my feet pound the pavement Of my world of pretend Over and over and over again Until my shoes beg the forgiveness Of non-existent sin, And before I know it, I’m screaming “I hate you” at the top of my lungs To no one, To you. There is nothing I can do. Outside, I am alone; Inside my thoughts, I am at home. Never free From the rage handed to me, Never satisﬁed For very long Then, it’s forced up again To the surface To my nightmares And my daydreams. Dry heaves wreck my composure, And it’s still just make believe.

Camden Town, London... Bud North

Night Kitchen

By Leslie Walters

Dear Friend, Certainly, you must remember something of the kitchen in the trailer where my family and I used to live. You, Benny, and the kids came to visit us one Christmas while we lived there. I remember that I was pregnant because there is a picture of the two of us standing at the sink washing dishes. You know, I never minded washing dishes when we lived there because of the window over the sink. There is something soothing about watching the world go by while your hands are in soft, soapy water, and it was especially so in that trailer since there were the tall, brushy pines right outside the windows, which housed the wind and the whippoorwills. I am confident that you can’t possibly remember all of the fabulous details, which were afforded to us by living in that trailer. The kitchen could barely be called a room (the aforementioned window being its only redeeming feature). It was more of a spreading out, which occurred as you walked through from the living area to the back bedroom. Most of my impressions from that kitchen must inevitably come from all of the hours I spent cooking. I cooked more in that crazy little space than I ever have at our nice, new kitchen. I cooked dozens of casseroles when I was pregnant and had them labeled in the freezer: Turkey Tetrazinni, Zucchini Hamburger Pie. And I’m sure I told you about the blueberry pies I made the day I came home from the hospital. Still, there are some images which have clung to my mind simply because they became entangled with that night—the night a canyon sprang up between us, too wide to yell across anymore. For instance, I can still see the cheap wood-like particle board that comprised our scanty cabinetry so clearly. What’s more, because of that night I can remember the way they looked from the bottom. How is such a thing possible? Did I lie down while twisting the oldfashioned phone cord around my hand nervously? The thick, black handles on the drawers were coated with something indefinable – perhaps former lives – which, despite my best efforts at cleaning, never came off. There were faded orange stripes and brown flowers, which flowed down the creamcolored wallpaper—or is it just called “wall” in a trailer?—and all was lit by the light over the sink. I never used the main light in the kitchen because of its crispy globe, which seemed illsuited to its purpose. The light over the sink was, thankfully, blessed with a cut-glass globe. In my figurative mind, that light is the thing that gave a strange cast to the scene in my memory. My logic knows that it was the phone call and its ugly repercussions which tinged the scene, but nevertheless, the culinary quadrangle remains lit on an angle, which brightened one side and plunged the rest of the blue-carpeted living space in absolute darkness. I was alone; the kids were asleep; my husband at work. The phone rang; surely, I didn’t call your husband, Benny, although I really don’t remember the actual onset of conversation. It wasn’t actually during this call that I found out about the stormy night; you must have been separated for quite some time because I had already heard (his story, of course) about how

he took you to court to get child support for the kids. It is strange that I failed to grasp the magnitude of what you had done. You, who had never stood up for yourself with anyone before, had left Benny, who possesses one of the most domineering personalities that I have ever come across. Perhaps my inability to appreciate this feat was aided by the distance, which had crept into our relationship, both literally and figuratively. When Benny had called to inform us of your leaving, I didn’t picture the real you—the one that cringes from confrontation and breaks so easily when someone you love has hurt you again. I pictured the you who had grown large and interesting in my imagination—a vampish girl whose forbidden affair with Jerry had been going on for two, maybe even three years. I assumed that your need for Jerry had caused you finally to break ties not only with your husband but also with your children. If the white hot thing which had sprung up between you and your brother-in-law had caused this kind of familial forsaking, I conceded that you must no longer be the friend I had known. And of course I heard nothing from you. The silence roared in my ears. To return to that notorious phone call, I really haven’t any idea as to why Benny had called me that night, unless it was to continue to manipulate his image, using the miles between our families to his advantage. I can’t believe I could have forgotten the Benny of old, the one who would hide your books when you were right in the middle and laugh while you looked for it. Of course, now he painted himself in the most heroic light possible, slyly confessing his devotion to his new task as a single father. I sat on the floor of that yellowish kitchen, holding that strangely out of place corded telephone with my shoulder. I traced the slick, brown lines on the vinyl floor, which were included, I guess, to give the impression of tile. I only remember my finger going over and over it again and again as I struggled with the information that I held to myself. I reasoned that perhaps if Benny knew the cause of the separation, he might be able to do or say something to bring you back. I wanted you to be the same person I had known for so long. There had been so many wild, secret things between the two of us which arose from those brief, formative years. I didn’t know if I could break this to Benny—even if it did mean helping you in the long run. Eventually, I did tell him in a short, violent eruption of a phrase: through seven simple words, which would alter the course of your life for quite some time. “Do you think it’s because of Jerry?” Any and all of the denseness displayed by your husband up unto that moment (and I suspect there had been an abundance) was obliterated by my saying that one name. Can you imagine the lightning flash chain-reaction, which must have raced through Benny’s brain? He surely pictured the two of you listening to the same music, taking the kids to the same parks, working in the same restaurants, while he and his sister were played for fools. I immediately wanted to get off of the phone. Once the blinders were removed, he

wanted—demanded!—explanations. Your husband, whom I never even really liked, wanted me to explain all of the things that had gone wrong between the two of you. Many years later, you and I would discuss this night in detail. You would relate the sequence of events from your point of view. Jerry’s wife who, until then, was one of your tight-knit circle of family and friends, called you at work, threatened you with any matter of violence. You told me about leaving work. You held your car keys in your hand and tried to crank your little Honda, yet even this simple task became impossible in your trembling hands. Then you told me about the [aforementioned] wife showing up and making good on all of those promises of violence. You told me that you took it; you felt that you deserved it. On that very same night, I stood in the comfort of my back deck which was brown and splotchy grey from the rain, smoking cigarette after cigarette. My phone continued to ring. Benny left countless messages demanding that I pick up, but I could only stand on the porch waiting for him to quit calling, wishing I had never seen his desperation. I thought you would call, but of course, that isn’t you. You stayed where you were, hurt by someone you love again and alone for a while. I never heard from you, and even all of those years later, I never heard what I expected: “Et tu Brutes?” I inhaled deeply of the menthol-ﬂavored humidity as the phone began to ring again.

Kitty Life... Tara McGowan

Diligence... E. C. Hallex, II

Riveriera... Michelle Visny

39 Thick as Thieves... Meghann Williams

Lavinia

By Lisa Heckrotte

The biting rain lacerated the landscape into sharp diagonals. He grasped the reins of his horse tightly as the wagon wheels churned the road beneath him into thick, red mud. The wheels of the wagon creaked ominously until a clap of thunder momentarily silenced them. The sickeningly fleshy smell of the wet leather morbidly reminded him of his tanner’s shop, the warm embrace of his wife, and his four beautiful children. “I shall never make it to town this night, not in this downpour,” he mused to himself. “I be already late for that.” A flash of lightening illuminated the world before home with a ghastly haze. A tree branch in the ditch ahead of him glowed white for an instant and looked like a withered man’s hand…like one left to rot by the highway men that wandered these roads on nights like this… His search for refuge among the towering cypress trees proved futile. The wagon leaned precariously to the left as he rounded a curve. Each tree became inhabited by some unearthly haunt before his eyes. His heartbeat began to race as his terror was fueled by superstition and lightening, each following the other in rapid succession. Finally, in the distance, a great white house appeared like an apparition of the fog. “Six Mile Inn,” he repeated to himself. “Woah,” he called to his team. They did not hear him, and he did not know if the abating storm had drowned him out or if he was merely too shaken to ellocute loudly enough to be heard. He repeated the command again, and this time the horses obeyed. He veered them into the yard of the inn. A few lanterns lit the porch of the establishment. The paint on the house was chipping and revealed the gray wood beneath. Deep shadows ran into the yard and showed the lantana and bougainvillea that were already in violent bloom. Kudzu and wisteria claimed much of the building’s façade in a dilapidated and charming way. “Hello the house!” he called in a deep Southern drawl. He was just about to call again when a tall, willowy figure stepped onto the porch carrying a lantern in his outstretched hand. The meager light created shadowy black orbs where his eyes would have been. He soundlessly descended the steps to the front drive. He took the slippery reigns and motioned for the traveler to enter the house. The traveler acquiesced, and with a nod of appreciation, made the journey to the front door. He shook the water from his back and bent hat and removed his oil cloth coat. Once he stepped in the door, he placed these articles on the carved hat stand, removed a dirtencrusted handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the grease and rain from his sun stained face. The sudden rustle of satin startled him. He looked up to see a young woman standing before him. She was young, perhaps French, and her dark hair lay in loose curls around her face. She deliberately paused and smoothed the deep rose fabric of her gown before saying a word. “Hello good sir, I am Lavinia. I presume that you’ve met my husband Mister John Fisher?” “Yes ma’am, he took my team to yer barn. My name’s James Peeples, ma’am.” “Take a seat, I’ll bring you out a hot plate and a glass of port directly,” she instructed in a sweet soft voice as she gestured to an oak bench near the fire.

“Thank you kindly ma’am.” James looked into her eyes and bowed at the waist. “Believe I’ll do just that thing.” After the woman took her leave of the room, James crossed the ornately woven rug and sat on the bench near the fire. It was warm and humid for an April night, but the rain had been cold and chilled him to the bones. As the warmth of the fire began to penetrate his flesh, he shivered slightly as the last of the chill was released from his body. He closed his eyes and allowed the sweet smell of the burning pinewood to fill his nostrils and relax him. He was not sure if he had fallen asleep near the fireplace or not, but he felt startled and a little disoriented as he heard Lavinia’s voice call him from the adjoining room. He rose and spanned the distance between himself and the carved dinner table. “Please do sit where you would like.” “Thank you ma’am. What hour is it?” “’Tis half past 10.” “I suppose I’ll be retiring soon then.” He walked to the side of the table, noting the loud hollow sound that his wooden sole boots made on the plank floor. As he sat down, John saw the willowy man from earlier standing at the other end of the room. Mister Fisher gave a slight nod to acknowledge the houseguest and seated himself at the end of the table. Lavinia removed the lids from the pewter serving dishes and sat them aside. The air was soon filled with the smell of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and beans. John had known that he was hungry, but the odor of the food made the craving to eat even greater within him. “Serve yourself first, you look famished,” came the voice from the corner of the room. The screeching of the chair indicated that Lavinia had taken her place at the middle of the table. Etiquette dictated that he decline this invitation, but desire to satiate his hunger commanded otherwise. He picked up the spoon and served himself a heap of potatoes followed by a thick piece of chicken. After a brief period of silence punctuated by the sound of silver utensils clinking onto fine china, Lavinia began conversation. “Mister Peeples, what is it that you do for a living?” “Well ma’am, I trap animals and sell the furs. I’m running my winter load to Charestowne. I kin normally make that trip in a day and then lodge in the city, but, well ma’am, the weather out there isn’t so friendly tonight.” “Where is it you’re…” “John dear, let’s not bother Mr. Peeples with our questions,” Lavinia cut in. Silence settled over the table like a thick cloth. “Would you like some more port Mr. Peeples?” “Oh, yes ma’am, that would be right nice.” Lavinia unstopped the cut glass decanter and refilled James’s glass. “Thank you.” With his hunger now beginning to subside, James began to focus more on his surroundings. He reached for the spoon and helped himself to more beans and potatoes. He was a little amazed that the spoon was so heavy. “Has to be real silver,” he mentally concluded. The plate looked expensive as well. Quite expensive to belong to the owners of a roadside inn. He looked up towards Mister Fisher. The bottom half of his face was obscured by the candelabra that adorned the center of the

table. “Where is it you are from again Mr. Peeples?” Asked Lavinia in her honey voice. “Georgia, a couple of hours south of here.” “Do you have family there?” “Yess’m. I got a wife and four little ones back at home.” “I suppose that they will miss you if you are gone too long won’t they?” “Yess’m. My Annie’ll worry. She’s like that.” The light from the candlestick sent a warm glow over the table and created gentle shadows over the lace of the tablecloth. James was now warm and full, and the difficulty of the trip began to catch up with him. He could feel the wheels of his mind slow from exhaustion. “Four little ones,” began Lavinia. “That is a lot of mouths to feed. You say that you trade furs?” “Yess’m, that’s my living. Me an’ my eldest do all the work ourselves. It’s hard work, but it’s honest.” “How much do you think you’ll fetch on this load? Enough to take Annie, that was her name right, something back?” “Might be ma’am. Might be.” “My apologies for my wife Mr. Peeples; we just haven’t had guests in a while, on account of the winter.” “Oh John, don’t be so serious. It’s just good conversation, and that’s what I need more of. We should go to town again soon. You haven’t taken me since autumn.” She turned her attention back to her guest at the table. “So you said that you think your furs will fetch a good price at the market?” “Don’t know that I know ma’am. Those town people are good at whittling the price down to what they want to pay for my things.” “Eh, that they do,” said the slender figure at the head of the table. “Oh, so you’ve made yur money in the market then Mister Fisher?” “Well, gentlemen, let us not complicate dinner with business. Would you care for another glass of port, Mr. Peeples?” “Now that I will, ma’am.” Again, the distinctive sound of thee cork being removed from the bottle was followed by the swirling sound of the liquid as it poured into the glass. The decanter glittered in the flickering light of the fireplace, and for a moment, the glass looked like amber, and the alcohol in the bottom of the bottle looked thick and deep burgundy. James eyed the glass a little suspiciously and told himself that his mind was merely playing tricks on him. He took a few tentative sups and relished the taste of the liquor in his mouth before he swallowed each one. Lavinia broke the silence but did nothing to efface the tension when she asked, “How does it feel to know that all of that rabbit fur will line your pockets with gold by this time tomorrow?” He could not shake the feeling of being ill at ease with the situation, these people, and

the questions. James again reminded himself that he was merely tired, and perhaps a little drunk. “Well ma’am, I suppose it feels right good, but I must say it’s eleven and I should be retiring.” “Very well then, I shall show you to your room.” She grabbed the lantern that had been discarded at the end of the table by her husband and lit it with her agile fingers. She replaced the hurricane vase with a clink and held it in front of her as she led James up the stairs. A few aging portraits lined the staircase. He stopped to admire one for a moment, and noticed that it had the same piercing eyes as the woman before him. “My father,” she remarked without passion. The eyes of that painting looked as real almost as if the canvas had been cut away and a real man peered out from behind it. They saw without seeing, and even after he had turned to follow Lavinia up the steep stairs, he could feel them boring into his back. He sensed that these eyes knew… in spite of the fact that they had never had the blessing of being alive. After what seemed like a decade of walking, they reached the top of the landing. “Mr. Peeples, this is your room. Do you find it satisfactory?” Lavinia again lit a lantern and placed it on the dark wooden desk. “Yess’m, this is fine.” “Would you care for something to drink before bed? More port perhaps?” “No thank you ma’am, I believe that I’ve had enough for the night.” “Some warm milk then?” “No thank you ma’am, I believe that I’ll just retire. I gotta rise early to make the market. ‘Specially if I want to get home by nightfall.” “All right then, rest well.” With that, she turned in a flurry of satin and went towards the door of the room. Before she had shut the door all the way, she turned inward and looked at him again. “Good bye, Mr. Peeples.” The door shut with a creak, and he could hear her footsteps as she retreated. Lavinia’s husband was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. “Lavinia.” He spat out the name like it was spoiled milk, as if he loathed the very thought of the word. “What in the name of the Lord were you doing out there!? Did you want him to be suspicious?” “Do not speak to me like that again, John, I won’t have it. Besides, he is exhausted and half drunk. He will be asleep in no time.” “Lavinia, he’s just a poor man. Is it really worth it this one time? Didn’t you hear that he had a wife?” “Of course, I heard. I have the capacity for that you know. And why do I care if he has a wife? Tell me, has that ever prevented me before?” She slammed the lantern down at the foot of the staircase and flounced toward the fireplace. She picked up the poker, began to shove it deep into the blackened logs, and revealed the glowing red hearts inside of them. “Lavinia,” he said, this time not as a curse, but as the plea of one who is on the verge of folding their hand. “Lavinia, it’s just that his wife will worry. He said that she’s that type.”

The fire was now gently blazing again, and filled the room with warm orange light. She rose and turned to face her husband again. The light flickered off her dark eyes, and illuminated her fine features. “We will give him an hour. Do you think you can last that long?” “Of course I can. I’ve done it before.” “But only when I force your hand.” Lavinia had clearly had enough of this and retreated to the alcove that contained her brilliantly polished piano. She began to play lightly at first, as if the keys were precious glass and the intrusion of her fingers might break them. After she more comfortably settled into the chair, she seemed to become sure of herself and released a melody that was thick, rich, and bold. James Peeples lay restlessly in his bed for a while. Sleep evaded him. The music from the parlor below reached through the solid floorboards and filled the air. He reached in the pocket of his vest, crossed the room to the desk with the lantern, and read the time. 11:30. “Well, I should attend to my ledger if I’m not going to sleep.” He sat in the curved chair in front of the desk and noted that a pen and inkwell had been left there. After testing the ink, he was pleased to discover that it was still usable and began to write. The crackling of the fire and the scratching of the pen soon filled the room with soft and soothing sounds that rivaled the piano in volume. “Aye, I should fetch a good price for this lot at the market,” he remarked as if the inkwell were animate and could hear him. The muted sound of footsteps on the rug outside of the bedroom stirred up the feeling of discomfort again. Lavinia’s sweet voice floated through the heavy door, “…John, it’s the only way…” After a few failed attempts at rationalization, he found that the terror in his heart did not subside. He silently traversed the room, mounded the pillows under the downy comforter of the bed, and went back to the desk where he blew out the lamp. Once again, he found that he had inadvertently dozed off within this house. He awoke with a start as the door opened as if of its own volition. The drapes were open, and the clouds had cleared, allowing the light of the three-quarter-moon to infiltrate the room. Just as suddenly as the door had opened, it gently closed again. The music was gone and was replaced with hushed voices that radiated from the hall. “That man is in there fast asleep, he’s not moving at all. I told you it was the right thing to give him all that port at dinner. Drunkards never stir.” “Lavinia, must we do this?” “Must you be so yellow livered?” “No, I’ll do it. It’s just that…well…we cannot continue to do this forever. Do we not have enough already?” “Honestly John we do not. You lack ambition, and that is why you go nowhere in life.” “Very well then.” James sat upright in his chair like a soldier at attention. The tall angular man apprehensively entered the door again. Fear entangled James’s vocal cords and held them tightly so he could not scream even if he wanted to. The blue light of the moon glinted on something for a moment. James’s pulse began to quicken at a rapid uneven rate, and he sank back into the chair as if he

could disappear into it and that would somehow shelter him. Mister Fisher retreated to the hallway again. “You pussle gutted bastard,” hissed the gently voiced Lavinia. “Give that to me. I’m going to do it myself.” James could not see anything through the deep shadows of the hall. His mind raced as he could not figure what course of action would be the best for him to take. His thoughts did not show signs of slowing as he saw the curvy form of Lavinia enter the room. She crept over the bed, and for a brief second, she stood perfectly still. The moon shone on her in full force now, and James could see that she was half smiling as she eyed the lump in the bed. She raised her arms above her head. In the moonlight, it became apparent that she was carrying a large axe. “See you in hell sweet gullible bastard.” A small laugh escaped her throat as she relished in the joy of her intended intercourse of blades. With that she let the axe slam into the bed. James watched in horror as the feathers from the quilt began to rain down. He eased to his feet in preparation to flee this cursed place and was just about to run through the door when Mister Fisher again entered the room. “Lavinia! Are you blind? Can you not see that he’s not in there? Maybe he left already.” “You imbecile! Are you blind? I told you to watch the door!” James took this as his cue to leave and ran down the boundless staircase. His fingers slipped on the glossy handle of the door as he tried to open it. The shouting upstairs had escalated, and he swore that he could hear footsteps behind him. On the third try, the latch gave way, and the door opened to the world outside. He quickly ran to the barn and jumped onto one of his horses. The night came alive with the hoots of owls, crickets, and Lavinia’s cries of “Get him you sorry fool!” He pushed his horse toward town. The darkness seemed even more foreboding now than it had hours earlier in the pouring rain. The tree limbs glowed with a garish blue haze in the light of the moon. The dirt stuck to the hooves and created a rain of its own as it was flung to the ground behind him. After what seemed an eternity, James could see the lights of Charleston in the distance. The hooves of his horse ricocheted off the cobblestone pavement and the grim edifice of the slumbering city. His mind had begun to clear, and he got the impression that he was, in fact, alone. He continued down the endless sea of cobbles and past the market to the sheriff’s office. James almost did not wait for his horse to stop before he jumped off of it. The animal was heaving and foaming about the mouth, but there was no time to attend to that. He ran the last few steps to the front door of the office. “Sheriff!” he screamed as he pounded on the door. “Sheriff!” James was pounding with all of his force on the door. When the sleepy figure of the law officially finally opened the door, James almost fell inside. In a rushed voice, he related the entire tale to the sheriff. The morning light had already begun to spring over the marshes and through the trees when the sheriff and his party reached the Six-Mile Inn. Smoke lazily drifted up through

the chimneys and joined the downy clouds in the sky. The men dismounted and left their horses on the front lawn. The sheriff authoritatively marched to the front door and knocked. He had expected the Fishers to have left town already and was surprised when Lavinia opened the door. “Good morning Sheriff Potts. Can I get you something? A cup of tea perhaps?” “No, ma’am. We are here to search your property. A man came by the office this morning and said that you had tried to kill him.” “Oh, now you don’t put much faith in that, do you? You know how these transients can be.” Mr. Potts did not answer her question. “Miss Fisher, we are going to search your place.” He stepped inside and motioned for his men to do the same. The entryway and the living room did not look suspicious, but upstairs the mangled bed told a different story. Lavinia looked at the sheriff and gave a surprised look. “But surely you don’t believe him.” “I’m putting you under arrest Miss Fisher. Where’s your husband?” When Lavinia feigned muteness, he sent some of his men to search the remainder of the property. He descended the stairs and was about to exit the front door with Lavinia in tow. He turned to look at his prisoner and asked, “Where’s your cellar?” “Out back Sheriff.” A small smile played with the corners of her lips. The front door closed behind them with a bang. The scent of flowers was strengthened by the previous night’s deluge, and the morning light was beginning to fill the air with evaporated rain. The group made its way past the lantana and bougainvillea and to the rear of the house. The paint at the rear of the house had been almost completely obliterated by the elements. Two gray warped doors covered the entrance to the cellar. “Samuel, open those and have a look for me.” A young man with a shock of blond hair responded. The doors moaned loudly but offered no physical resistance. His plump frame disappeared into the dark opening in the soil. “Samuel, what’s down there?” “It’s just a powder.” Lavinia quaked with laughter. The sheriff eyed her for a second. “Are you sure, son? How about you look again.” “Dear God, there’s bones in here!” came the response from the bottom of the cellar. “But of course there are. Those are the ones that you can do nothing to save,” said Lavinia with obvious amusement. “I cut them up myself. John was too fragile to help me. Then, I covered them in lye and lime. Genius really.”

Euphoria

By Abe Kalsbeek It was there in sunrise we met your lovely body amid the ﬂower, and there we would be ‘till sunset treasuring each precious hour. Promises weren’t made to forget as we said them true to our heart, to each other and our silhouette that we would never be apart. With sun slowly fading away, we held close so as not to fret as the night became of this day, and today, we remember it yet.

Ephesus

By Kristin Acklie Submit not! you wives to your husbands, Unless he likewise submits to you. “A woman although,” you are human too. Earth and Liberty are women and proudly stand; You can do more than live for man; You have the right to choose. If not, you have only yourself to lose. Housewife, teacher, doctor, or astronaut: You are endowed with independent thought.

All the World’s a Stage By Rachael Bond

“All the world’s a stage and all the people merely actors” – Shakespeare Love: The realization That someone else is Real, No longer a character In the drama of life But ﬂesh and blood Standing next to you, Willing to watch The show By your side.

A Day of Remembrance By Savanna Stephens

The song in my head Pulls my past to present; I let go, Falling into a pool of precedent, Soaked by the memories of a yesterday I didn’t realize I’d forgotten. The familiar chill rushes over me, And the reminiscence in my head Hits like a hailstorm in mid-summer, Unforgivingly beautiful, Relentlessly painful; The tears come with no warning, And I succumb To the regret and the remorse. And just when I think it’s over, It reminds me that it will never Let me go.

Last Words (3rd place at 2007 Liberal Arts Festival of USCA) By Abe Kalsbeek

Deliberating, delegating contemplating, correlating which words to choose, simple phrases to say, in the minute moments mere seconds from the final farewell. Gasping for oxygen to fill the lungs full for a statement worth hearing from a young dying soul. “To confess to a Love which I never had or to give prayers and thanks or give my opinion of who’s good and who’s bad? To give away secrets, some his, some mine, too personal to share when I Did have the time? Or maybe a lie, a great lie, to be sure, of singing and dancing sitting close, next to her? A quote of some sort told many times before or maybe a new phrase that comes straight from the core? Without restrictions or limits these final words I express may be lost or forgotten; these lines, I detest… But before I could say anything crazy or sane, I died on that floor too much Thinking, I blame. A new thought occurred to me before I reluctantly passed: “would it be better to have no one there and all the words said to last?”

Unexpected... Savanna Stephens

BROKEN INK Literary and Art Journal

The University of South Carolina Aiken 471 University Parkway Aiken, South Carolina 29801