The Gallery Fall 2012 by The Gallery

the

allery

Volume 27, Issue 1 Fall 2012

Editor-in-Chief Katie Demeria Managing Editor Jenny Lee Copy Editor Dana Wood Art Editor Ashley Brykman Poetry Editor Connor Smith Prose Editor Libby Addison Advertising Manager Scott Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neil Staff James Beardsley Brian Croarkin Sam Farkas Kate Fleming Claire Gillespie Molly Norrbom Jill McLaughlin Danielle Weber

One Summer The Bones of Saturday Skylit Ballad Kristallnacht Artemisia, 1612

Jill McLaughlin Allister Nelson Sam Roth D.J. La Velle Sam Roth Jill McLaughlin

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A Constellation on Earth Go Seek The Thing from the Well Roof Class: A Film Treatment To Kill a Parakeet Home

Ryan Jiorle Sierra Barnes Allister Nelson Sam Roth Sarah Schnorrenberg Katie Demeria

6 12 14 32 34 42

Dandelion Seed In A Bottle Time Keeper Self-Reflection My Past Catherine Waiting Mountain Sunrise Through the Cracks Clarksburg, WV Cherry Blossoms Red Sunset Late Night Light Follow the Flowers American Spirit Morning Glory Cups and Pitcher Set Still Life With Matches Bright and Early Nesting Bowls I Am Not The Pills I Take

Marion K. Tudor Jonathan Roth Laura Brond Hannah Elliot-Higgins Ă ine Cain Laura Brond Laura Brond Jenny Lee Jonathan Roth Joanna Wang Ashley Irizarry Joanna Wang Laura Brond Faith Barton Jenny Lee Irenka Tete Marion K. Tudor Jenny Lee Irenka Tete Marion K. Tudor

5 10 13 19 20 21 22 23 24 26 27 28 29 30 31 33 37 38 41 46 3

And what became of that barricade? They tore it down to rust and chain, (All of the men with their silver spoons) put the dead grandfather clocks on the shelf with the dusty memories. In their grip the lonely music echoed down the beaches. In Rostok, the gray bearded man trawls the beaches. The tyrannical waves cannot force through the barricade of cement and limestone. He grips his cane, and his spectacle chain, looking for shells to place on his shelf but all he can find is glass, and a spoon. And at night he sits alone with his spoon that he salvaged from the wrecked beaches (the Nazis could only shelve his hopes, for a time hide them behind their barricade of cruelty). His time was once chained to a hazel eyed girl, but she fell in their grip and he watched as she gripped to life like the handle of a spoon. But they took her in chains as he hid in the dunes on the beaches. Now his mind forms a barricade, photos face down on the shelf, glass cracked and bruised on that shelf. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s proud: no longer in anyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grip, or anythingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. His name was a barricade, Joshua, that his mother had engraved on his spoons so lovingly, yet so dangerous on those beaches of his future. He bent them into chains

for disguise. Broad woven chains still lie covered on the back of the shelf. An occasional reminder of those beaches, not like the white beaches his feet grip now, as his memory-etched hands spoon the sand, scraping away the barricade of rocks and chains. He digs through the barricade, past the shelved pictures and hidden spoons from the beaches, past and present, that still hold him in their grip. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Jill McLaughlin

nthony Fiori was sitting at the bar of the diner, eating his late night meal on the counter in front of him. Having finished helping his father close down the family bakery for the evening, Anthony was tired, but not without appetite. His drooping eyes peered beyond his Roman-bridge nose and surveyed the rest of the diner. He realized that he was the only customer present, which was uncommon for a New Jersey diner—even if at midnight. Aside from him and the employees on the other side of the counter, the flies buzzing around the room were the closest things to life. The only sounds Anthony noticed were the sizzling of something in the kitchen and the occasional passing car outside. Suddenly, the bells above the door rattled, and Anthony whirled around on his stool to see who else might be stopping by tonight. The door opened, and he could have sworn that part of the night sky had fallen and was now entering the diner. A very short, olive-skinned man in a pure black suit stood in the doorway, but from underneath the nothingness of his attire came many little sources of light—some circular, some long and thin. Somehow, spots on the man’s body were glowing with a soft but noticeable shine. It was as if a constellation had dropped out of the cosmos to enjoy a nice midnight snack. Anthony stared at the man, simply awestruck at the sight in front of him. The visitor stood motionless, and his deep-set eyes glared right through Anthony’s stare,

By Ryan Jiorle surely etching an unforgettable image in the mind of the nineteen-year-old. As he started to approach the counter, Anthony quickly turned around and looked through the kitchen window to see if anyone else was witnessing this bizarre event. The living constellation walked up behind him, and Anthony could feel each individual star—each little galaxy—burning little holes in his back. The baker’s son began to tremble as the olive-skinned man sat down ride beside him at the counter. The man made a motion to the waitress to come and get his order, and he ordered a cup of coffee and some tiramisu. The man looked down at Anthony’s shaking hands, and then that stone face, which only seemed to possess moving eyes, spoke to the young man. “Ya alright, kid? Ya look a little nervous.” He finished off each sentence as though a fish hook were pulling at the side of his mouth, tweaking it up slightly. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Well, actually, let me ask ya. Are you one of the Gemelli brothers?” After that, he let out a short snicker. “No, sir,” Anthony stammered, trying not to make any more eye contact. “Well, that’s good for the both of us,” the man said, chuckling as his voice tailed off. “Say, what is your name anyway?” He leaned in closely to Anthony’s face. “Are you with any of the Gemellis?” The way that the man spoke that last sentence pierced Anthony’s ears. “Anthony. And n—No, sir. A baker’s son. That’s all that I am.” Anthony looked ner-

vously around the room, everywhere except the man’s face. He was sure this man was part of the mafia and was now likely to get Anthony in some sort of trouble. His panic started to rise until the man responded with, “Ah, good for you, Anthony.” Anthony, surprised, looked up and let out a “huh?” “Look, kid. I know what two things are on your mind right now. No I’m not here to recruit you or use your father’s bakery. And yes I will tell you about this.” The man pointed to all the little shining spots on his body. His countenance was now much more relaxed. Anthony saw the stone face relax and become slightly less alarming. “I was kinda wondering about that. I ain’t never seen anything like it in my life. Is that part of your suit or somethin’?” “Ha! If that was part of my suit, how would you explain this?” The man pointed to a long scar along his jawline which was glowing, just like the spots on the suit. It was just less noticeable since it wasn’t contrasted by the black fabric. “I used to go by Marco Ditalini. Now—needless to say—people know me as ‘Lights’ Ditalini.” Ditalini. Of course! Anthony knew that name was a big deal in New York City. The Ditalinis formed one of the biggest crime families in all of the five boroughs. “S—so, Mr. Ditalini, is it them lights that bring you to New Jersey?” The stone face quickly returned. “That is none of ya concern, ya hear that?” Anthony’s skin started burning from fear. “No, sir, Mr. Ditalini, sir. Of course not.” Lights Ditalini slapped him on the shoulder and started laughing. “Ha! That’s what I would have said to ya had ya

asked a few weeks back. But now, things are different, so I’ll tell ya.” Anthony barely forced a nod, still afraid to laugh—even at Lights’s joke. “In a way, these lights are bringing me to Jersey, or at least away from the city. And to be completely honest, they ain’t lights at all. As ya could see by my face, they’re all scars.” Anthony could see the demeanor of Lights Ditalini change drastically. His stone face was again soft, but this time, more troubled. The sweat on his forehead was shining like the grease in his slickbacked, dark hair. “So why do all your scars shine like that?” “Well that’s the thing, kid. There was a time when none of them did.” “Then what makes ‘em shine, Mr Ditalini?” “Well for the longest time I couldn’t figure out how it happened. It was up until a few weeks ago that I didn’t know why.” Lights lifted up his head so that Anthony could see the illuminated scar along his jawline. “This one has an interesting story, let me tell ya. I was at a bar with some of my men, and one of the other guys there had a little too much to drink. He started arguing with the man next to me, and things got a little heated. The man next to me didn’t take too kindly to the insults being laid upon him, so he pushed the drunkard away. Well this guy comes back with a broken glass bottle. Being so sloppy and uncoordinated, the other guy grabbed his arm mid-strike and knocked it away…right in the direction of my face. The glass came slicin’ down my chin and, luckily for me, didn’t catch my neck or any major veins, right? Luckily for them, my men had enough wits to hold me back and get me fixed up while those two gavones were thrown outta the bar.”

“So is that when it started glowing, Mr. Ditalini?” “No, certainly not. After it healed up, there was just the nasty scar, but no light. Well it turned out that a few weeks later, I see that same drunkard who had the glass bottle, right? I call my men over, and they’re sure it’s the same guy, too. So we took him out into an alley and beat him senseless. When all was said and done, we tossed him in the dumpster; I thought for sure he was dead, but he somehow made it outta there alive. Anyway, I woke up the next morning, a little slow from all of the drinking from the night before. “I went to the bathroom to wash my face, and I see the scar in the mirror. Only now it’s glowing with this weird light. Now I thought I was just seein’ things, right? Well that afternoon some of the guys in the family notice it and say ‘Marco, I think somethin’s wrong with that gash of yours. It’s startin’ to glow; I think that means it’s infected.’ Now I knew there wasn’t no way an infection made it glow like that, so I didn’t even bother going to the doctor. I was more confused than anything, so I just kept quiet.” Anthony’s eyes lit up as he blurted out, “So it started to glow right after you got back at the guy?” “Exactly. Although at the time, I wasn’t sure if it was a coincidence or not. Either way, it didn’t stop glowing, and I suppose that was a liability at the time. It turned out that we had beaten up one of the Rotinis’ associates, and he had no problem describing the 5’ 4” guy with the scar on his chin. The fact that it was glowing made me a pretty easy target on top of everything. They tried to ice me when I was walking out of a bar one night.” Lights pulled up his shirt and revealed two glowing circles on his abdo-

men that looked to be bullet holes. Anthony stared in awe at the iridescent scars. “Well that means you musta gotten back at the guys, huh?” “Oh sure, luckily a guy of mine saw who it was from across the street. One of Rotini’s boys of course. My men hunted him down while I was at the hospital. Needless to say, when I got out, we took him out to the river and introduced him to the fishes. And shortly thereafter, I had two little light bulbs now in my stomach. That’s when I knew for sure. “At first, I was kinda excited because it gave me a way to keep track of who I needed to be takin’ out. As the Rotinis and the Ditalinis went back and forth, I started to accumulate many injuries. And the more I avenged them, the more I started to glow with these scars. That’s when I became known as ‘Lights’ Ditalini. Sure it was nice havin’ my own persona; everybody knew me everywhere I went.” Anthony cut him off. “But ain’t that a bad thing with all those guys after you?” “Heh, ya got that right. And that was the problem. People had no problem finding me. Ya coulda asked any bum off the streets, and he would be able to point ya in the right direction.” Lights pointed to a glowing circle near his collarbone. “Ya see this one? Some babbo tried to pop me during a drive-by when I was on my front lawn. I didn’t even bother trying to figure out who this guy was; I felt like I couldn’t just let him off the hook, ya know? I had to think fast, so I pulled out my piece and shot back at the window. I musta got him right in the head because I saw the blood shoot out of the car. The driver just kept going, ya know, scared for his own life. But I knew the guy who tried to ice me was dead because I looked down at my shoul-

der and it was already glowing.” “Yeah, no doubt about it after that, huh,” Anthony said. “So how did you survive? Was anyone else there when it happened?” “Well my brother was visiting and came outside after he heard all the gunshots. He looked at my shoulder, both red and glowing, and says to me, ‘Looks like ya got him back already, brother.’ And then he sighs and says, ‘Another light for Lights Ditalini.’ So I says, ‘Yeah I got him as he was drivin’ away.’ But that’s when it hit me—to hear that kinda stuff comin’ from my own brother. Then I seen all the shiny scars on my body, and I felt like a walking Christmas tree. I hadn’t realized until then how many times I was just actin’ out to get revenge. Almost every time I did somethin’ it was off the record; I wasn’t helpin’ out the family at all anymore.” Lights paused for a good minute or two to start his coffee and tiramisu which had been sitting out during his narrative. His deep-set eyes seemed to sink even farther back into his head as his glowing jawline contorted with each bite of tiramisu. Anthony noticed the gray streaks of hair near his sideburns and the wrinkles in his olive-colored face. He seemed so old and worn out, although Anthony was sure he wasn’t a day over forty. Once Lights had finished his dessert, Anthony asked, “So I still don’t get what brings you to New Jersey. Did you get kicked out for causin’ all that conflict or somethin’?” The hardened Italian chuckled. “For what I done, kid? They don’t just rip up your membership card and throw ya on the streets. That ain’t enough for those wolves…well, us wolves. Nah, I had to get out of that city.”

“Does that at least mean you got everyone back for what they did to you?” Lights smirked and pulled up both his pant legs, revealing one run-of-the-mill scar on each knee. “Not all of them; it took that shooting at my house and two broken knee caps from one of the many Gemelli brothers to learn my lesson. I guess I’m just tryin’ to get away from it all.” “Well how do you expect to do that? You can’t just leave your position; then you’d have two families comin’ after you. And New Jersey sure ain’t far enough away if you ask me.” “I suppose you’re right, Anthony. But in the end, it don’t matter where I run off to. When you live a life like this, everybody knows whatcha done.” Lights paused for a second and noticed a family crest on the boy’s bicep. “I see you got one of them tattoos on your arm, and I’m sure you got your reasons for inking your body up. These scars tell the exact same stories—only they cost years off your life and not bills out of your wallet. I guess somewhere along the way I decided that having the power was worth more than having the good health.” Anthony pulled up his sleeve and surveyed his family crest. “I don’t know; I guess I did it for my parents and grandparents…all they’ve done for me.” Lights smirked, that fish hook pulling at his mouth more than ever. “Yeah I think ya picked the right family, kid.” With that, he stood up, and all of the cosmic bodies were visible on this walking constellation. Marco “Lights” Ditalini looked down and ran his fingers over some of the shining scars. “I guess that’s the irony of becoming a made guy.” G

Sunday wears a coat of dusted dreams He creeps up like October wind, dirt and harvest in his palms, sprinkled lightly over Communion wafers. Come evening, he sleeps at inns, several inns, for he is many colors, and rain creeps in through cracks like snow melting seeps into the ground. A pitter-patter of his toe as he holds his vigil by firelight cheese and bread in hand and a smile of things forgotten. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Allister Nelson

By Sierra Barnes

2, 3, 4, 5. Here were the rules. One person was ‘it’ and they had to go stand behind a tree or something, somewhere where they couldn’t see the other kids, and then they would count, see, count to 100 or sometimes you could get them to count to 200, but no one actually counted that high they usually counted only to 20. He had found a really good hiding place. In the corner closest to the top, not too muddy that you got your feet wet and the awful brown slop wouldn’t get out of your socks for months, not too open so as to be seen right away. That would be awful. He was rather pleased with it, all things considered. It could not have been a better spot had he designed it himself—as if he had the time to do that. Fortunately, he had found it pre-made, still shored up like the rest of the line. He crouched, huddled in on himself, and flinched at every noise that sounded like it was close. 10, 11, 12. The other guys ran past him, shouting, squelching heavily through the mud. They didn’t know how to play the game, did they? Or they weren’t very clever at it. He hunkered down closer to the ground, breathing raggedly from the run from his spot to this tiny hole in the earth. He had fancied he could hear whoever was it counting, but over the distant booms it was impossible to know for sure. They probably weren’t counting. Not really counting. And they would count until they reached 100 or 200 or 20 and while they were doing that the other kids would go and hide, see, behind bushes and fences and wherever there were really good spots (the best were usually under the skinny kid’s mom’s house or by the rosebushes), and then the kid who was ‘it’ would have to go and find them. 15, 16, 17. The mud shook beneath him with the pounding of feet. He saw a man run by him, one he didn’t recognise, and he shrank back into his hole. He wanted to yell out to the others that it was coming, it had found where they were, but he kept his mouth tightly shut. That was against the rules. Besides, then it would find him, and it would be game over. In the game, he’d have to run back to the tree, hands behind his head, head drooped onto his chest, and then he’d be it. And sometimes you’d have to go to the bathroom when you were hiding and you could run out of your hiding place if you yelled “Olly-olly-oxen-free!” because then you were safe and they couldn’t tag you. More booms. His heart was tearing holes in his chest and the hand that grabbed the rifle was clenched so tightly his knuckles were turning white.

18, 19, 20. More men ran by him, shouting in a language he didn’t understand, and the one with the spike on his helmet that had cut through the cloth covering and gleamed in the sunlight caught sight of him and stopped. He froze, every muscle in his body tightened in fear. The German stepped forward, raising the muzzle of his rifle with the bayonet fixed bloody upon it. The man in the hole looked up at the German and let the rifle fall from his trembling hands. “Olly-olly-oxen-free,” he whispered. G

An excerpt from

n the snoozing town of Pipper-onStruck, just past the first bloom of day, something came out of the well. Many things went into it- pennies, pails, the occasional unlucky fly- but not many things came out. It had bottle blue eyes, red cheeks, and a mouth set askew by confusion. First, rosy red fingers appeared, gripping the mossy stone. Then the thing hauled itself up, quite wet and dressed very strangely. It rested by the side of the well. Down a rocky path past the meadow, sunrise strayed over the lake. A girl under hawthorns lay dreaming. The ashes of a fire dotted the silty bank. Her footprints were eaten slowly away by the water. She had danced herself into dreaming under silver moonlight the night before. The late tarrier in Pipper-on-Struck may have caught an odd whiff of woodsmoke and sage coming from the woods. He would have dismissed it as nothing. No one strayed into the forest. It simply wasn’t done. John Button was a proper young man. He had indeed heard a song in the gloaming. But as proper young men ought to do, he tucked curiosity into bed with him, alongside good sense and sore hands. In his hayloft, he fell promptly asleep. He did not stray into the woods. Had he ventured there at midnight, he may have lost his heart to the girl in gypsy skirts. But the farmhand did not see the stranger as she danced in the light of the moon. John Button’s heart had plenty of time left to wait. You have only one heart

By Allister Nelson to lose, after all. It may have been today or tomorrow, but life moved just the same. Pipper-onStruck seemed immune to the passage of time. A farmer might tell you the harvest was worse than last year, or the frost came a Sunday too late. The minister ever feared for his townsmen and the fate of their immortal souls- a matter which rarely concerned Struckians. Children grew up, grandfathers died, and old wives criticized daughter-in-laws’ cooking: “The rhubarb pie was too tart, son. Back when I was young, we knew the true meaning of dessert. But times keep a’changing, and so does the of quality wives. At least her teeth are straight.” What mattered stayed the same. The forest around Pipper kept things out, or perhaps it kept them in. There was the occasional merchant caravan or wandering band of troubadours. The annual fair brought people from Dinksley and Ploughmutton, who came with enough lamb to drown a kingdom. But for the most part, there was the village, the farms, and not much beyond worth knowing. A man and his family might come from the forest on occasion and move into Pipper quietly. Those folk kept to themselves, and rarely spoke of beyond the woods. No Struckians ever asked. The thing from the well knew none of this. Not who stole Bill Witherson’s bull, or how Old Nan, bless her heart, was moving a bit slower at the pub. It knew many things, none of which helped its current situation. Even things like it

sometimes found themselves at a loss for what to do. So it sat, wide-eyed as before, trying to make sense of it all. Just as John Button had done the night before, staring up at the barn’s dusty beams. But John, of course, would never let anyone know his mind had strayed from proper, sensible things. He was a man, after all, of proud Struckian stock. They never wondered about the old stone circles that capped the barren churchyard, or spied upon the ghostly figures that were seen winter nights near the graves. As Old Nan said: Strange things don’t churn butter. They’ll only curdle milk. The cock crowed in Nan’s chicken coop. John awoke, bleary-eyed. The thing dried out in the sun. Old Nan fixed John eggs and porridge after his morning chores. She noticed his faraway eyes. “Indigestion, lad?” she asked. “Wossit my stew last night?” “No, ah coursen’t, Nan. That stew was a might of good.” John poked a runny egg with his spoon. He remembered the song from the gloaming. “I just woke on the wrong side o’ the bale.” Old Nan clucked, something she was fond of. She asked her usual question: “Find yourself a wife yet? Will ya finally leave my farm?” John gave his usual answer: “You’re the finest girl in my life, Nan. I don’t need no woman but you.” Nan Button whistled loudly. “The pluck of you, my boy! I can’t stand the sight ah ya. Find one today, you rascal, and get the diggins off my property.” John Button mulled over her demand. “But who would run the farm?” Old Nan chuckled. “The fairies, lad, and goblins. They do a might fine job than you.” John Button smiled. “Minister Dan

doesn’t fancy the fairies.” “Well Old Nan doesn’t fancy the minister. And the fairies don’t fancy him neither.” Old Nan was right, after all. Pipper-on-Struck had little time for strangeness. That was why she’d adopted John, the babe who’d crawled out of the woods. If the minister was strange, John was stranger, with his eyes like green gooseberries. They belonged on vines, not men. Mr. John Button, may he sleep in peace, had found the strange babe chortling on a molding stack of hay some time between dusk and evening seventeen years ago. His hound Braxton had sniffed him out (in Pipper-on-Struck, the animals had fancier names than men, in the hopes they’d be fancy themselves. Bill Witherson’s bull had been Winnipeg. Struckians themselves stuck to plain names: it didn’t do well for a man to take on airs.) Braxton’s howling at the edge of the farm woke elder John from his sensible sleep. So he trundled out with a lantern to find his hound being rode by a babe. Elder John swore the child, not more than nine months old, had saddled himself on the dog and led Braxton in trots and leaps over the hay like a horse. He gurgled all the while in something that resembled language, and even winked at Mr. Button. But such strangeness could not do. Even the goblins were better behaved. The Buttons took the boy in. Childless since their marriage, they may have regarded him as a miracle, if Struckians believed in such nonsense. They named him John Button, after the dozens of John Buttons before. When the elder John Button fell asleep for good, the gooseberry-eyed child became John Button in his own right. He was all of five winters at the time. His strangeness fast disappeared. More

than anyone else in Pipper, he tried to be reliable, steadfast, and plain. There were whispers of his origin, even accusations that he wasn’t sensible. How could he be, when he’d sprung like moss from a bale of hay? But John, though kind, would hear none of it. John worked the farm by day, served Nan’s pub by night, and spent the rest of his time hunting. The only odd thing about him was his dreams. When Struckians lay down to sleep, they sunk into a peaceful blackness. Struckians never dreamed. Everyone, that was, except John and Minister Daniel. John was one of the half-dozen people that attended church on a regular basis, which was considered unusual, but not strange. He asked one day after service. The minister’s eyes lit up. “You’re receiving messages from God, son.” An idea entered the minister’s head. “Tell me, John Button. Would you like to be a preacher? I need someone to carry on the church after I’m dead.” Daniel Johnson came from a long line of Minister Daniels, but to his misfortune, he had only girls. And his daughters, six winters old, were more concerned with baking and flower-picking than the glory of the Lord. His hopes for a Minister Daniella waned. John Button considered his offer. “I don’t think they’re from God, sir.” He didn’t dare mention the fairies, not in the minister’s presence. Minister Dan didn’t believe in what he couldn’t see. No Struckians really saw fairies, anyway. None but John, that was. So the minister gave up hope on John, Pipper-on-Struck changed not a whit, and Mrs. Button became Old Nan. Young John of the gooseberry eyes became John Button of the dashing looks, with eyes like lucky clover. His friends envied the attention he got from the ladies, and the ladies

of Pipper-on-Struck envied John’s friends, for John seldom let a woman get close to him. None but Old Nan, that was. There was a girl in his dreams, however. But he’d never tell you that. Like wishes tossed in a well, some things are best kept secret. The sunrise did not promise anything out of the ordinary. Birds called just the same. Old Nan took John to fetch water, just like she had a thousand times before. She’d carried him in her arms then, and he’d watched the puffy clouds float by. Now, he almost carried her. They talked as they always had. It was Nan’s favorite part of the day. Though steadfast and faithful, even Struckians are sometimes unable to fulfill a promise. The reliable sun over Pipper (that never failed to rise) made no promises. But the townsfolk suggested it did: strong light in the morning, and a strong day ahead of you. Weak light and clouds, and the cows will cause trouble. No sunshine at all, and it’s promising rain. Minister Dan talked of how the sun was like the face of the Lord to whoever bothered to listen. They grew tired of his talk and made him the weather forecaster. He spent most of his days writing sermons and gloomily watching the weather vane. The sun did not promise strangeness. But it made no promises otherwise. The two arrived at the well, nestled at the edge of their property. It was tucked down a long path that led to the lake, the farthest a Struckian would ever go, and Old Nan’s bones smarted from the trip. John Button walked lovingly slow. He tried to repress the ghost of the song that haunted the depth of his brain. The thing from the well hummed a tune. He paid the Buttons no notice. John Button discussed the grain.

“Woss that? All wet and nonsense looking, with that bit ah junk on his head?” Nan interrupted. He followed his foster-mother’s gaze. “Why, I don’t know. It looks a tad like a... a...?” Old Nan nudged the thing with her cane. “Wot are ya?” she asked. The thing from the well yawned loudly. “I’m a prince, madam.” “Wossit? A prince?” Old Nan scrutinized him with her one good eye. She whispered to John Button quietly. “Never got one ah those before. Maybe Minister Dan’ll know wot it is.” “It looks a pinch like a man,” said John. “It has two eyes and everything. Mayhaps it’s a foreigner?” Old Nan clucked. “And I’m God’s marching band! A foreigner climbed outta the well? John Button, of all the speckled eggs. Wot I tell you about sleeping on the damp part of the hay?” She tapped the pail by John’s side, leaning on her cane. “Go, lad. Fetch Old Nan some water. We’ll leave the thing to be.” John Button did as told. Old Nan carried on about the weather. Satisfied, they left. Neither paid a glance to the thing. The thing, partially dry, followed them. “Actually, madam, I did,” it said, expecting their attention. “Climb out of the well, you see.” It motioned to the damp spots on its clothes, then fixed her with a winning smile. “And I was wondering if-” Old Nan cackled at a joke John Button made. The thing found itself ignored. It frowned, unaccustomed to such treatment. “What strange folk,” the thing muttered. “No worries.” It smiled, then followed them home. The bit of junk on its

head shone brightly in the sun. The sun floated lazily across the sky. The strange girl slept by the lakeside. It was a vast, primal lake, but no Struckian ever strayed more than a few yards from the shore. Except the fishermen, but they were a daring lot, who it was best not to marry your daughter to. The thing settled in at the Buttons’. They made a point not to notice it. Braxton, unfortunately, failed, and made quite a barking ruckus. Old Nan locked the hound in the shed. That night, John dreamed of a river. Minister Dan tossed and turned in his sleep. His dreams were somehow askew. Just like the smile of the thing. For the first time, Struckians dreamed. They didn’t remember upon waking, but there are only so many dreams one forgets. They would remember their dreams, in time. The girl danced by the river. The ghosts and fairies danced with her. Goblins stoked a bonfire. Gypsy music rang through the sky. The sun never speaks. But the moon makes promises. It waxes and wanes. Minister Dan never watched it, but Old Nan did. Tonight, it was gibbous. It swelled with possibilities. She kept the bar open late, after the last men left and John Button retired for the night. The thing, enjoying its new invisibility, raided her liquor store. Old Nan watched the moon rise. Winnipeg the lost bull lowed. And the folk from beyond the wood? They cowered by their hearth sides. Waiting. But the thing had already come. G

To read the rest, go to the Gallery’s website at wmpeople.wm.edu/site/page/gallery 17

This tree has contentedly curled its roots down, down, down into a dirty bed of false comfort for decades. It has watched life, yet seen the seasons change with its eyes closed to the injustice of man. Still, it grows with skylit joy, and still, it gives of summer sun and fall air, winter dark and spring rain to remind those that walk below it of the childhood climbing still still searched for by those who walk below it and bite and tear and break the hearts Of trees. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Sam Roth

By Sam Roth From “Indonesian rail authorities use concrete balls to deter train surfing” by Ian MacKinnon

ULYANTO waits for a train. Signs in Indonesian are posted above his head that read (in subtitles) “No train surfing.” A train pulls into the station, doors opening. The train compartment is completely full, and as a few people still try to get inside, they are pushed out. MULYANTO looks at the train compartment, shaking his head. He reaches for the train window, pulling himself up onto the roof. A few other men are already there, and they nod at him as he settles himself. The train begins to move, wind blowing his hair back. MULYANTO smiles. He waves to some small children running alongside the train. His body suddenly jerks. He falls back on the train roof. The other men around him scramble for cover and put their hands up in front of their faces as they are covered with red paint sprayed by men at a railway crossing. A montage begins: MULYANTO runs from a snarling dog and authorities at the train station. The train begins to leave. He barely manages to catch the window ledge. His leg dangles and the dog snaps at his foot. MULYANTO limps, a bandage wrapped around his foot. As a train pulls into the station, he goes to pull himself up onto the roof. He encounters barbed wire and winces, pulling one hand away and almost falling before he catches himself and climbs to the roof, sitting cross-legged. A man in a headscarf holds his hands out beseechingly to a crowd of men who yell and shake their fists at him. He blocks them from the train. MULYANTO stands at the front of the mob, simply watching the other man with a thoughtful look on his face, moving as the crowd does. There are bandages on his hands. The men around MULYANTO shout and edge closer, but the man with the headscarf does not move. Then the man next to MULYANTO breaks free of the crowd and knocks the man in the headscarf down. The crowd races for the train, MULYANTO with them. MULYANTO rides on top of the train, looking behind him. As he turns to face forward, a concrete, grapefruit-sized ball strikes him in the head and he falls backward. Caught by the man next to him, he is laid down, bleeding profusely on the

“ ” They’ve tried everything to keep us from riding ... in the end we always win.

train roof. MULYANTO stands in line for a ticket. He has a black eye and a bandage wrapped around his head, still a little bloody. He pays for a ticket. He stands at the side of the tracks for the train to come. When the train arrives, he waits until the rush of people has ended, and climbs up to the roof. He settles himself and smiles as the train begins to move and the wind pushes his hair back. Words come up onscreen: “They’ve tried everything to keep us from riding ... in the end we always win. We like it up there. It’s windy, really nice.” –Mulyanto, 27, train-surfer. G

By Sarah Schnorrenberg

“ ” Cannibals tend to get a bad reputation. Most people will shriek and run away when faced with a cannibal, which is really quite insulting.

he first time Barry saw her he knew. But, this isn’t what you think. When Barry first saw her, he didn’t know this would be the girl he would court and someday marry. That part came later. No, when Barry met Sally, he knew that this was the girl he would one day eat. You see, Barry was a cannibal. And not just any cannibal you find on the streets—you know the type, the ones who are either escaped mental cases or rebelling teenagers, who can’t even name the most succulent cut of hamstring or the best way to prepare intestines (fricasseed with a little bit of pineapple thrown in). Barry was from a long line of respectable cannibals. Cannibals tend to get a bad reputation. Most people will shriek and run away when faced with a cannibal, which

is really quite insulting. Barry’s family was quite normal. His father was a surgeon and his mother was a mortician, and he had two older siblings. They were just like any other American family; they played ball in the park, they bickered, they went to school, they ate barbecue. The only difference was that their barbecue was made from the remains of a random person they kidnapped the day before. But I digress. When Sally walked into the pet shop, Barry was in the middle of picking out the most suitable parakeet. Barry heard the bell ring as she opened the door, but was too engrossed by the curious resemblance to Margaret Thatcher that the bird droppings made. It was not, in fact, until Sally walked up and began examining the same pile of bird droppings and

commented, “Rather wrinkly looking, hm?” that Barry looked up. And at that precise moment he knew. Sally was not fat. She was not skinny, but she wasn’t fat. She had curves— curves that were a tad lumpy, but were still curves and not rolls. She was athletic too; Barry could see from her backside that running or swimming or whatever sport had left Sally with quite nice legs. Nice for eating, anyway. And that Sally was: the perfectly edible human being. One of the first things that a well-raised cannibal learns is how to spot the best suspect, who will feed a family for at least a week. Fat is no good, and lean isn’t any better. But Sally was just right. “So, are you going to buy that one?” asked Sally, who was batting her eyelashes furiously. “Do you have something in your eye?” Barry didn’t like eating imperfect specimens. Sally quickly stopped batting her eyes. Barry was getting really hungry. So he did the only reasonable thing. “Hey, Sally, would you like a free massage?” Sally said yes like any normal person. And in only a half hour, Barry was rubbing garlic and olive oil into the back of a slightly moaning Sally in the middle of a water-damaged and rather dilapidated basement. The lately acquired parakeet was singing away on a stand in the corner of the room. As Barry rubbed the olive oil into her neck, Sally sighed. “That’s the spot. You’re really great at this.” Barry nodded. “Your back is nice and tender.” Sally didn’t say anything more but let out a loud groan. Barry worked in silence for a few

minutes longer, pausing only to preheat the oven. But just as he was about to humanely draw and quarter Sally, she exhaled loudly, and Barry jumped, accidentally dropping his pruning shears. As he leaned down to pick up the shears, Sally said, “Do you want to go out with me?” Then Barry paused. None of his prey had ever asked to go out with him—but usually it was because they were too busy cowering in the corner to think of those things. He had thought once or twice what it would be like to kiss one of the more attractive people he had eaten, but it was always because their lips looked delicious. His mother, of course, had always taught him not to play with his food, and he was twenty-five, so he had passed the rebellious teenage period. The oven was on, and it seemed a waste to let Sally go after all the effort he had made prepping her. And then she said the two most beautiful words in the English language. “I’ll pay.” Suddenly, Barry was in love. “Barry, we’re just concerned that you’re forgetting your family,” said Barry’s mother. Barry tried to shut the door on her. He had listened to the same speech for the past half hour and was getting rather sick of it. “Barry! Don’t change yourself for a girl!” his mother cried as Barry finally shoved the door closed. “Don’t change yourself!” repeated the parakeet on its stand. With a sigh, Barry strode over to the fridge, pulled it open, and surveyed the contents. But just like the last time he’d checked, there was only a jar of mayonnaise and the meatloaf Sally had made him the day before. Barry grimaced—

after two months of no humans, he still could not bring himself to eating animals. Just as in every aspect of life, the taste of animals was inferior to that of humans. Barry’s stomach rumbled. “Damn,” he sighed, and flopped down on his bed. The hunger was making his vision blurry, and he was slowly drifting off to sleep. Images of juicy kidneys danced in his mind, and in the clairvoyance of a person half asleep, Barry saw himself with Sally. They were there at the pet shop as he was buying the parakeet, just like what had happened months before. But this time, instead of coy pleasantries, Barry had given into the urge to devour her. He was so hungry he hadn’t even bothered preparing her, and was just eating her raw. It was okay. He’d always been a fan of rare meat anyway. Barry opened his eyes as a sharp pain shot through his arm. There was blood on his pillow, trickling from his arm. He’d been gnawing at it in his hunger. The parakeet cackled at Barry from across the room. “Don’t change yourself!” The cannibal glared at the parakeet. Barry had only bought the damn bird in order to lure Sally to his lair and eat her. And now he had to deal with a talking bird that liked to torment him and had about the same intelligence as his older brother. His older brother was an idiot. If that parakeet told him not to change one more time… “Don’t change yourself!” Barry threw a pillow at the parrot. It fell. Barry giggled. After a minute, the parrot had not moved from its prostrate position, and Barry headed over to poke the parrot. It still didn’t move. Barry smiled and only felt a little bad for killing the parakeet,

but that was just because now he had to clean it up. With only his thumb and forefinger, he picked up the bird. As he did so, a few feathers fell out. Barry stopped and considered. He was really hungry. Barry proceeded to preheat the stove and pulled out the olive oil and garlic. The guilt settled in the next day, when Barry was on a romantic picnic with Sally in a field of flowers that smelled like someone had lit a Twinkie on fire. Of course, it wasn’t so much guilt that he had killed a poor innocent bird, but regret that he had eaten it. Barry’s stomach was starting to churn, and it was only partially because of the turkey burgers and the suspicious salad with way too much kale. Barry swallowed and looked away from the falafel, which looked far too much like fried pancreas for comfort. “Are you okay, Barry?” asked Sally, as she held his hand. Barry could feel her pulse from her grip on his hand, and he began to wonder what it would be like to rip out her heart and fry it like the falafel in front of them. Barry shook his head. “What is it?” “I…” Barry looked around nervously. Suddenly he could hear that damned parakeet. Don’t change yourself. Don’t change yourself, Barry… Barry squeezed his eyes shut, and turned away from Sally melodramatically. Sally reached after him. “Barry!” “Sally, I’m no good for you.” “What do you mean Barry?” “Sally… I’m a cannibal.” Sally was silent. Barry turned back to Sally, eyes

searching hers for a sign. Any sign. He knew it. He knew she would be terrified. She wouldn’t be able to handle it. She sat there, her heart beating like a terrified little deer, except she was probably more delicious than a little deer or that turkey burger or that steak crap he had to eat for the past two months. “Are you afraid?” “A cannibal? Like a vampire? Oh my god, are you like Edward Cullen? Oh my god, wait until I tell my friends, they’re going to be so jealous! Can you turn me

into a cannibal too? You know, like bite me or something? Oh my god, that’s so, like, sexy! Eeeeek! This is—” Sally never got to finish her declaration of fear. Barry was way too hungry for that. As he ate his newly ex-girlfriend, Barry couldn’t help but shed a few tears. He had killed that poor parakeet. And to think, the parakeet had only been trying to help all along. And then Barry knew. He would never change himself for anyone else again.G

I write my deepest secrets on the walls Of the alleyways Searching for a truth buried in my mouthless face Read between the lines of my consciousness – Stumble over a scratched out word to Consider the mistakes that make me sing The rain drums heavily on my shoulders as I crawl The streets mock me with mud puddles that are too clean for me to drink I scratch my name into a limousine – each letter is like a dying breath And as I fall (Stumble over a scratched out word) All I’ve written is Regret —D.J. La Velle

—Sam Roth

An excerpt from

elinda is supposed to get home tonight. Chicken sizzles on the frying pan and Mama’s house shoes shuffle between the stove and the counter. Oliver sits at the table behind her, watching the clock as it ticks at them. He rubs his palms against the table. “Olly, get my apron outta my bag? The broth spits.” “It doesn’t spit.” A moment passes, then Oliver sighs, reaching toward the complimentary tote bag Mama had gotten from the bank to grab the smock stained with flecks of cafeteria food. She keeps the bag by the door, on the handle of the chair that sits at the head of the table. The wood where the strap rubs against it is worn. He turns and hands it to her, and she slips it over her head. “I hate that thing,” he says, sliding onto the counter. “It makes you look too West Virginia.” “Oh hush, that’s a silly thing to say. There’s not a thing wrong with West Virginia.” She takes the chicken out of the pan, setting it on a plate and separating the meat from the bones. Oliver can smell the bouillon. “Don’t worry,” Mama meanders to say as she drops the boneless meat back into the broth. “I’ll take it off when she gets here. Wouldn’t want to remind her that she’s got a Mama from West Virginia, now would we?” Oliver squirms on the counter and glances at the clock. Pounding footsteps on the porch

By Katie Demeria always precede the squealing of the screen door. The smell of mud and grass wafts into the kitchen. Mama gives her usual greeting, a highpitched, drawn out ‘Hi.’ “Hey, Daddy.” Oliver greets his father, watching as he steps on the heel of each of his boots to pull them off before walking into the kitchen. “How was school, Olly?” “Good.” “What’d you do?” “Nothing.” Daddy narrows his eyes, opens his mouth to respond— “Why didn’t you answer the phone this morning, John?” Mama demands, her back to the both of them as she stirs the broth. “I heard you get up but the damn thing kept ringing.” “It was the gas plant.” Oliver grins, tearing his eyes away from the clock. “And they don’t start paying him until 7:30, Mama. Why would he answer the phone before he’d get paid?” Daddy empties his pockets onto the end table beside the front door, already piled high with odds and ends that had accumulated there over the years. He points a finger at Oliver, “Bingo.” Mama snorts, but Daddy speaks before she can start again. “Olly, when does getting an ‘A’ on a paper count as doing nothing at school?” Oliver’s mouth relaxes out of the smile and he shrugs at his father. Mama turns to face him with hands on her hips. “Excuse me?”

“It’s not that big of a deal...” “Not a big deal?” Mama exclaims. “Olly, I could slap you over the head.” Daddy walks up to Oliver and gives him such a heavy pat on the back that his thin frame is nearly knocked to the floor. “It’s alright. Oliver’s a strange boy.” “Easy John, you’ll crush him.” Mama turns back to the stove. “Aww, no, he’s too much of a man to be crushed. What was the paper on, Olly?” “It’s really not—” “Olly.” Oliver shifts his weight and twiddles his thumbs. “Truman Capote.” Mama inhales. “Is that the one who writes about crazy killers?” “Serial killers,” Daddy says, letting his hand fall from Oliver’s back. “In Cold Blood, right Olly? I had to read that in school.” He squeezes between Oliver and Mama, making his way toward his television. “How’d you hear, Daddy?” He hesitates on the threshold of the living room. “Uh, stopped at the Dairy Mart after work. We were talking about our sons, and Carl said Dylan mentioned you’d gotten an ‘A.’” “Hope you bragged about your son, John,” Mama says, pushing the boiling pot onto the back burner. Daddy lingers in the kitchen. Oliver doesn’t look at him. “Well,” Daddy breathes finally, emitting a forced chuckle, “that’ll be our good piece of news for the day. Get ready, Olly. Shocks go through the house whenever your sister comes home.” Oliver’s answering smile chases his father out of the kitchen. “I know what I’ll do,” Mama says as she swings the refrigerator door open. “I’ll make you fried tomatoes. What a reward

that is!” She pulls out a carton of tomatoes and goes to take the apron off. Oliver exhales, and his shoulders relax a little, but his brow furrows. He hates the way that smock makes her look like one of the lunch ladies from school. It’s important she look just like Mama whenever Melinda comes home, because sometimes he’d swear his sister doesn’t recognize their mother at all. But Melinda still won’t get there for a few hours. He knows why Mama’s removing it now, and he hates that even more. “Mama, don’t take it off, you know they spit.” “They don’t spit, I’m making them for you.” The house has fallen into complacent waiting. Only the sound of cards shuffling breaks the steady buzz of the television from the adjacent room and the hum of cicadas outside. “Two outs, Olly, and a runner on third.” “Hm?” Oliver is playing cards with his mother at the kitchen table. His posture twitches in the chair, knowing he should turn to face the television but unable to follow through. “We’re only down by one.” “Ah.” “It’s the bottom of the seventh, you know that? Are you watching?” “Yeah, no Daddy, I am.” Oliver shifts around to peer into the other room, trying to suppress the blush that glows around his ears. Only the back of Daddy’s chair is visible, but he can almost see, through the wrinkles of the ancient leather recliner, a crease furrowing into his brow. The awkward scene is interrupted, and Oliver is saved by the rhythm of footsteps

on the porch, punctuated by the protesting screen door and the heightened sound of night. “Melinda!” He twists out of his chair and rushes around the corner, eager to get the first look at her. The face is always brighter, the clothes fancier, the baggage larger. But for all her elegance, she throws her luggage aside and opens her arms to her little brother. “Olly!” They come together like puzzle pieces and Oliver is suddenly acutely aware of how desperately he has missed her. Phone calls and letters, he knows, aren’t enough. She’s not there when his photograph is featured in the art show and he’s too embarrassed to tell his parents. She’s not there when he has to lie about losing his close childhood friends because they think he’s gotten weird. He feels her absence acutely after he’s been praised by his parents, while he’s awaiting the familiar rise of guilt. Mama and Daddy’s greetings are lacking in every way. Mama offers Melinda a cool smile, which is reflected in her daughter’s face. Then they move to kiss each other, but their cheeks don’t meet. Daddy, meanwhile, welcomes Melinda home by pulling out his wallet. “I’ll pay the cab.” Melinda’s eyes narrow. “Really, Daddy? Every time I come home. I already paid, like I always do.” She avoids hugging him and instead pushes past them both, grabbing two bags and giving two to Oliver. “Because women obviously shouldn’t work enough to ever afford paying for anything,” she mutters to her brother as they hurry to her bedroom, and his stomach sinks. The cheap linoleum sticks to her heels as she walks through the kitchen.

Her bedroom door has to be jerked open, since it’s rarely used. Melinda deposits her bags in the corner and gives the walls a disapproving look. It hasn’t been changed too much since she left, but they’ve used it for storage. Mama had tried to clear it out before Melinda got there, but there was too much. Most was pushed against the walls — an old vacuum, boxes of winter clothes, board games, and a floor lamp. Melinda eyes the lamp. A majority of the base has been covered by a peeling ‘West Virginia Mountaineers’ sticker. “God, I can’t believe I’m back in West Virginia.” Oliver eases the door shut and sits down on the bed. She collapses beside him and lets out a groan. “How’ve things been?” she asks, craning her neck to look up at him. He shrugs, and she snorts. “Of course. How could things ever be good for you while you’re here?” She pushes herself forward, inspecting her reflection in the mirror on top of her dresser. Oliver examines it too: short, straight brown hair, a narrow nose, thin lips, and far-apart eyes. A spitting image of their mother, while Oliver boasts the flat, subtle features of their father. Her frame, now New-York thin, doesn’t fit in the bedroom as it had before she’d gone to college. She doesn’t fit in the house, either — her crisp, ironed jeans and black charmeuse blouse are a stark contrast against the thin walls and cluttered countertops. With a sigh, she lets her hands fall into her lap, and looks around at Oliver. “Well, I’m ready to be called a snob if you’re ready to be called a strange boy.” She leads the way back to the kitchen, and he follows on wary legs. Daddy is sitting at the head of the table,

and Mama is standing at the stove. “I made you chicken and dumplings, Melinda,” she says as she carries plates to the table. “Oh, great, your favorite,” Melinda mutters before sitting down. Daddy watches her, but doesn’t comment as his wife fills his glass with ice tea. “You should have let me pay for your cab,” he says in a flat tone. Melinda heaves an exaggerated sigh. “I wish you would stop thinking that just because I’m a woman, I can’t take care of myself. Right, Oliver? That’s what he thinks.” Oliver looks toward Mama without responding, though he knows Daddy’s frowning at him. “That’s got nothing to do with it,” he hears him say. “I’m very successful, Daddy,” Melinda says as Mama sets the fried tomatoes on the table and sits down. “I’ve actually been promoted,” she straightens up, raises her chin, and looks around at the table, “to Beauty Editor.” “Beauty Editor?” Mama questions, hesitating as she serves herself chicken and dumplings. “Why in the world would you need to edit beauty?” Melinda’s face clouds. “Because, Mama, women in New York actually care about things like that.” “I just don’t see why you’d need a beauty editor,” Mama sniffs as she passes Oliver the fried tomatoes. “Awfully pompous, if you ask me. Your whole magazine is, Melinda. It’s very... low.” “What does that even mean?” Melinda

demands, “and have you ever even looked at my magazine? Oliver has.” “Yes, well,” Mama meanders to say, “Oliver is a strange boy.” “Yuuup,” Daddy almost hums in agreement, not looking at his family. “Except when he gets an ‘A’ on big fancy papers,” Mama chirps, beaming at Oliver, who slouches in his chair. “What ‘A’?” he hears his sister ask. “He wrote a paper on — what was his name again, John?” “Truman Capote.” “Right, Truman Coppotee.” Melinda snorts. “Oh, you would, Olly. And it’s ‘Capote,’ Mama.” Like a reflex, Oliver shoots a glance at his father, who meets his gaze with a sudden, subtle suspicion. Daddy looks away and Oliver digs his fork into a fried tomato and grates the prongs against the plate beneath. “Just promise me you won’t move away too, Olly,” Mama continues. “I couldn’t bear to see you a snob.” Oliver can feel his sister’s eyes boring into him. “I don’t know, Mama,” he says, careful not to look at Melinda. “It’s a long way off.” “Not too long!” Melinda reminds him. “But I think we all know what you’re going to do.” Out of the corner of his eye, Oliver sees Daddy look between his children. He places a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “Olly will do the right thing. He always does.” Oliver grimaces. “I’ll try.” G

To read the rest, go to the Gallery’s website at wmpeople.wm.edu/site/page/gallery 45

one purple flower she wore in her hair to feel exotic textured mango slices and apple smiles wrapped in saran wrap and those red balls bounce hard on the linoleum crying in shock but not pain so the snake named manny held the quiet and these painted halls soak in shadow where the chalk dusts mesh she rides a chair in the afternoon and she understands that silence is the sunshine leaking through the slitted panes and she feels its better not to speak like wooden horses crushing the mud but she sought the neon red exit sign to turn away and and to turn away the Red she sought the exit sign but the mud crushing horses speak like wood. better not to feel. and she leaks sunshine through the Pain slitting silence, understanding that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only a chair ride in the afternoon. she dusts chalk in where mesh shadows soak, halls painted quiet held the Man named Snake and the Pains. Shocked and Crying, bounced hard Red balls. her memories wrapped in apple slices and mango textures to feel exotic, in her hair she wore one purple flower. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Jill McLaughlin

Sierra Barnes: Since I was very young, I have loved two things: history,and writing. Now, as a History/German Studies double-major and amateur writer, I have been interested in combining these loves. Go Seek is an homage to not only my love of history, but also my great-great grandfather, who fought in WWI and was blinded by German gas attacks in the trenches. Faith Barton: I’m a senior at W&M and spent last spring studying abroad at Florence University of the Arts, where this piece was done for a student exhibition at FUA in conjunction with a show called “American Dreamers” at the Centre for Contemporary Culture in Florence. It will also be shown at another FUA exhibition beginning November 8th called “New Shores: F_AIR Landings” along with the work of past artists in residence at the school. Laura Brond: I am a senior and an Economics major and French minor from the small town of Forest Hill, Maryland. I’ve been taking pictures since I was a kid but only recently developed a true passion for photography. I’m heavily involved in William and Mary’s chapter of Phi Sigma Pi Honor Fraternity, but always make time to snap some photos! Áine Cain: I am a freshman at the College. I come from New York and I hope to major in History. Katie Demeria is a senior and is thus undecided. Hannah Elliot-Higgins is a freshman from Boxford, Massachusetts. She plans on double majoring in Studio Art and Psychology and eventually working in the art therapy field. Ryan Jiorle, a senior from Phillipsburg, NJ, is a Biology major/Math minor who does not plan to give up on becoming a better writer. He has enough New Jersey pride to make most people uncomfortable, and that is fine with him. Other interests include surfing, snowboarding, fishing, and table tennis. Ryan’s inspiration for writing comes from all over creation, and his dream job is Renaissance man. Natasha King is a freshman from Stafford, VA, who writes poetry in class and on breezy days. She enjoys writing, drawing, painting, and photography, and cannot handle watching any kind of horror movie. She loves chocolate, the ocean, and cats. D.J. La Velle is a sophomore at William and Mary who is crazy about writing. He is also a piano player and a passionate composer of music. His favorite thing to do is run in the rain on a warm night.

Jenny Lee likes to take commemorative photos as she travels. Of all the places she’s been so far, Barcelona is her absolute favorite city because of its artistic history and stylish culture. Jill McLaughlin rocks. Allister Nelson is an aspiring author whose hobbies include ballroom dancing, birdwatching, and Thai food. A Biology student, she hopes to travel the world in search of rare birds and the perfect burrito. Jonathan Roth is a sophomore from Glencoe, IL with plans to major in Marketing. During high school he was involved in photography for the yearbook and newspaper, which culminated in him winning the Illinois state championship for high school photojournalism in 2011. He hopes to continue to bring his love for capturing people and their landscapes to beautiful Virginia for the remainder of his time at W&M. Sam Roth is a senior at the College. She is involved with a social sorority, Winged Nation, a job at the Grind, and various other activities that keep her up far too late but are too much fun to give up. However, writing has always been her first love; she’s been published in many campus creative writing publications, and recommends each and every creative writing class. After all, she’s taken most of them, too. Fall semester has been spent learning life lessons to apply to the real world, and enjoying her second to last semester as a “kid.” Sarah Schnorrenberg: I’m a freshman from Chevy Chase, MD. I have no major yet, and in my free time (when I’m not curing cancer and defeating supervillians in uncomfortable spandex suits) I entertain myself by writing. Irenka Tete: An integral part of my fascination with clay is the material’s versatility. I am amazed by clay’s ability to respond to the softest of touch yet withstand thousands of degrees of temperature that transform its state. I strive to understand clay’s expressive capability while simultaneously discovering myself. Through an exploration of clay’s potential, I aim to achieve both visual and personal balance. Marion K. Tudor: I grew up in the Shenandoah Valley and went to Blue Ridge Community College, where I turned my academic attentions to art. Graduating with my Associate’s Degree, I took the next step and transferred to William and Mary, where I am currently majoring in Studio Art with a focus in Printmaking. In my artwork, I try to draw influence from my struggles, my triumphs, my not-quite-forgotten passion for math, as well as inspiration from my favorite artists, such as M. C. Escher. I have been greatly encouraged by my professors, especially John M. Bell at BRCC and Brian Kreydatus at W&M. As someone who suffers from ADD, an anxiety disorder, and PTSD, I consider every finished piece a step forward and a success.

Dear Reader, I found out that the Spring 2012 issue of the Gallery received a Gold Medal critique from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association on August 10th at 1 a.m. After I woke up my mom and managed to tell her the news in what can only be described as a highpitched screaming whisper, I sent out an email to the Gallery staff that included a great deal of Caps Lock and several lines of exclamation points. It was a big deal and I’m sure the staff didn’t need my electrified email to understand. But I couldn’t help attempting to yell “Congratulations!” at them through their inboxes. For the first time since 2007, when the Gallery was restarted after its four year disappearance, we were being recognized for our hard work. I wanted to stand in the middle of the Sunken Garden and yell it across campus, to bribe Ginger Ambler into sending a student-wide email. I wanted everyone to know. Because, really, we’re not the only ones getting recognized. So are all the writers and artists at the College. The CSPA awarded us All-Columbian honors in content. Out of 500 points, we scored a 496. That is outstanding and a testament to the quality of the student body’s work. Our staff spends a great deal of time looking over pieces and discussing whether or not they should be accepted. I will sometimes send them documents reaching up to 25 single-spaced pages that they have to read before our weekly meeting, and I cringe at the thought of that amount of reading time piled on top of hours of schoolwork. But I am continuously impressed with how much they give to the magazine, and how much improvement I see semester after semester. That improvement wouldn’t be possible, though, without the work we receive from students. If great pieces weren’t submitted, then great pieces wouldn’t be published. The staff deserves this award. And so does the student body. Without your work, we would not be able to produce the magazine that we do. So, because I cannot afford the fee I’m sure Ginger Ambler would charge me to commandeer her email, I will use this forum to say it instead: Congratulations to all of William and Mary’s writers and artists. You certainly deserve it. —Katie Demeria The Gallery Volume 27 issue 1 was produced by the student staff at the College of William and Mary and published by Western Newspaper Publishing Co. in Indianapolis, Indiana. Submissions are accepted anonymously and through a staff consensus. The magazine was designed using Adobe Indesign CS5 and Adobe Photoshop CS5. The magazine’s 52, 6x9 pages are set in Garamond, while page numbers are in Trajan Pro. The cover font, along with the titles of all pieces, is Criticized. The Spring 2012 issue of the Gallery was a CSPA Gold Medalist with All-Columbian honors in content.

est. 1979