The Gallery Spring 2012

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Volume 26, Issue 2 Spring 2012

Editors Editor-in-Chief Katie Demeria Managing Editor Arielle Kahn Copy Editor Dana Wood Art Editors Ashley Brykman Jenny Lee Poetry Editor Connor Smith Prose Editor Libby Addison Staff James Beardsley Brian Croarkin Molly Norrbom Scott O’Neil Vanessa Remmers Cover Art: Spring Fangwei Chen, Chinese Paper Cutting 2

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Table of Contents Poetry Taking the Eastern Roads Fractured Suicide Speech Slats Sunrise in Savannah Flowers of Edo Speak to the Tail Oneirophant On Love Letters We Had a Good Night Together

Robin Crigler D.J. La Velle J.T. Fales Connor Smith Anna Rose Gellert Connor Smith Joshua Burns Henry Ware J.T. Fales Robin Crigler

4 11 12 15 16 34 37 38 41 42

Dana Wood Elyse Endick Andrew Carter Sara Caudill

6 18 30 45

Jonathan Roth Jonathan Roth Mallory Bell Laura Brond Erin Spencer Erin Spencer Laura Brond Jenny Lee Jonathan Roth Jonathan Roth Jonathan Roth Jonathan Roth Erin Spencer Fangwei Chen Jenny Lee Fangwei Chen Jonathan Roth Laura Brond

5 9 10 14 17 22 23 24 26 27 28 29 35 36 39 40 43 44

Prose 2QH %R[ RI *ROGĂ€VK Monochromacy Stay a Little Longer West of the Sun

Art Curioso Papa Sunday Sidewalk Horizon Promenade A Caribbean Afternoon Serenity Colors of Rome Colored Streets Desert Destination Sacred Land Reardon, Washington Americana The Silent Aftermath Loving Swans God Save the Queen Pride NĂŠgociant En Vins Sunset

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Taking the Eastern Roads Williamsburg will bake anew in spring and I go now to her speeding past you, headlight ghosts and slow guile;; you followed me from Fredericksburg, and I am not frightened, melting golden dark;; the satin air is getting colder slowly like a wilting blossom light and gentle in decay: but I have gone with loneliness before, and never was alone. I am waiting in the greasestrewn belly of Parr’s drive in, waiting for a crab cake sandwich. suspended in the air, the stain-yellow walls and the noise of the kitchen, you were my inducement upward here: the air is hung with fry oil and it raises me in hunger and in the idle cockles of my mind so much so WKDW ZKHQ , OHDYH , Á\ and I am sure my wheels are not touching the earth as I leave her worn decay, seafood in hand for even if they are, the night is black and full of hissing frogs but none can see me, none are even there;; nothing but humming and humming, humming and humming and humming, humming, humming, humming and humming. —Robin Crigler

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Curioso

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One Box of Goldfish by Dana Wood

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Ă€QG KLP VLWWLQJ RQ WKH URFN LQ WKH clearing he’d showed me two years before, when he’d decided contributing a location to our neighborhood Halloween party was worth revealing his secret hideout. There are probably still Kit-Kat wrappers under the leaves. I sit down next to him. He barely moves. “Hey Chris,â€? I say. “What’s up?â€? “Did my mom send you?â€? he asks bluntly, killing any chance at approaching this casually. “No,â€? I reply honestly, reaching for my cell phone. “Well, she told me what you were doing, but I came on my own.â€? He tenses when I bring the phone out, but relaxes when I power it down and put it away. Eleven seems to me a weird age to run away. Younger than that, I could see it happening;Íž everyone’s experienced or heard the story of the toddler who has a Ă€W DQG GHFLGHV WR UXQ DZD\ DQG ´MRLQ WKH circus.â€? Often they don’t even reach the street corner before they sit down, and Mom or someone is always there to take them home. Sixteen, yeah, I understand that pretty well. Anywhere in that age range you can feel rebellious and invincible enough to “make it on your own.â€?

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%XW DW HOHYHQ \RX¡UH HLWKHU Ă€QDOO\ WKH WRS dog in elementary school or staring middle school in the face. You’re too excited or too scared to want to ditch Mom and Dad, because your life is moving somewhere in the world you’ve never been before. Something taps my arm. He has a box RI *ROGĂ€VK FUDFNHUV DQG KH¡V RIIHULQJ PH some. I thank him and toss a few back. “So,â€? I say after a few minutes of quiet munching, “what else did you bring with you?â€? “What?â€? he says blankly, still not looking at me. “Your supplies for running away. You bring a suitcase?â€? He shakes his head. “Did you bring any money?â€? It’s another “no.â€? “What about food, or water?â€? He fails to keep from glancing at the half-empty box between us. ´6R WKLV LV LW"Âľ , FRQĂ€UP UDWWOLQJ WKH FRQWHQWV ´2QH ER[ RI *ROGĂ€VK"Âľ “Yep,â€? he admits at last, beginning to swing his feet against our seat. “That’s all I got.â€? “You didn’t plan this like an escape,â€? , VD\ WKRXJKWIXOO\ ´, WKLQN \RX MXVW FDPH here to cool down.â€?

´1R Âľ KH VD\V Ă€UPO\ JHWWLQJ XS ´,¡P day. His name’s Rich.â€? really running away. And no one, not you, “Was he nice?â€? Abby, or my mom can stop me!â€? He thinks about it for a bit, strugAbby is his little sister. She’s almost JOLQJ WKHQ Ă€GJHWV DQG JUXGJLQJO\ UHSOLHV four years old. When I left Chris’s house “Yeah. We played Brawl on the Wii.â€? she was on the front porch with a book “So did you like him?â€? he was supposed to read to her before “I’m not supposed to!â€? he bursts out, dinner, watching her mother call all his looking at me like he’s done something friends and debate calling the police. shameful. “They broke up and now Mom Ms. Sconi’s usually neat make-up was likes him and he’s trying to replace my smeared over her eyes and on the crisp dad!â€? sleeve she’d used to wipe them. “It’s like that, you think?â€? “Sure, I can’t stop you. But where will “Maybe not exactly like that, but anyyou go?â€? one she brings “I can go to my home she must dad’s.â€? like a lot. And that ou’re too excited or too means she’s gotten Ah. I think I’ve found the crux of over it.â€? scared to want to ditch it. “Did something “Doesn’t your Mom and Dad, because dad have a new happen today, between you and wife?â€? I throw in, your life is moving your mom?â€? not to be mean, He doesn’t resomewhere in the world but his reasoning spond, and I guess isn’t quite fair. you’ve never been before. I’ve got to play “Yeah, but that’s my trump card. why they broke “Here,â€? I suggest, up,â€? Chris says, motioning for him to return to the rock. sounding bitter, “because he wanted to “Why don’t you sit down and tell me why marry her. Now that Mom wants to maryou’re leaving?â€? ry someone else, she’s doing the same Chris ignores me. thing.â€? “If you do,â€? I say, “I’ll tell you a seI start, feeling myself skimming the cret.â€? rim of a deep and treacherous hole. He snorts. I can almost hear him When Chris’s family moved in, I heard thinking, “That trick’s for babies.â€? enough from my own mother- enough “It’s more of a story. I’ll tell you about to know how to avoid upsetting the kids when I ran away.â€? I’d probably babysit- but I’m not ready to I’ve got his attention now, and I hold explain the acute differences between a out the box as he approaches. “You ran divorce and an affair to someone almost away?â€? he questions, skeptical. “Why?â€? half my age. , VKUXJ SRXULQJ OLWWOH RUDQJH Ă€VK LQWR “But your mom isn’t married anyKLV KDQG ´<RX WHOO PH Ă€UVW Âľ more,â€? I reason cautiously, “so don’t you He sighs and hops on the stone. WKLQN VKH GHVHUYHV WR Ă€QG VRPHRQH WR “Mom brought her boyfriend home to- love? Your dad did.â€?

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, NQRZ KH¡V VWXIĂ€QJ KLPVHOI ZLWK *ROGĂ€VK ULJKW QRZ WR DYRLG DQVZHULQJ +H¡V DIUDLG RI FKDQJH WKH Ă€QDOLW\ RI WKH divorce in two new marriages, not a new father. “That’s kind of why I ran off,â€? I say, leaning back. “I was living with my mom, WRR H[FHSW P\ IDWKHU KDG MXVW GLHG $QG I was sixteen, not eleven.â€? His eyes grow big as he stares at me with a new sense of kinship. I’m no lonJHU ´MXVWÂľ WKDW JX\ LQ FROOHJH OLYLQJ QH[W door who sometimes plays basketball with him. “Why’d you do it?â€? ´, ZDV MXVW PLVHUDEOH 7LUHG VFDUHG Angry at everything. I made things difĂ€FXOW IRU HYHU\RQH DQG , IRXJKW ZLWK P\ mom all the time.â€? ´2QH QLJKW , MXVW JDYH XS , JUDEEHG P\ ZDOOHW DQG WKH Ă€UVW EDJ , VDZ RQ WKH counter and ran. Just ran, without telling her, writing a note, or even seeing if she was home.â€? , VWRS LQ FDVH KH ZDQWV WR LQWHUMHFW EXW KH MXVW ZDWFKHV PH ZDLWLQJ “Somehow I ended up going through the woods, probably because I thought I ZRXOG Ă€QG WKH EXV VWRS IDVWHU WKDW ZD\ Soon I was scratched, dirty, and lost. I kept going until I found a clearing, smallHU WKDQ WKLV RQH ZKHUH , MXVW OD\ GRZQ and tried to remember why I’d done such a stupid thing. I can tell you right now, being angsty gets old real fast in the dark, in the middle of nowhere, with no clue what you’re doing.â€? “I wished I was back home. Then I thought of what my mother would say LI , FDPH EDFN DQG , UHDOL]HG KRZ VHOĂ€VK I’d been.â€? “What, for not telling her?â€? Chris interrupts. “I did that.â€? I wince inwardly, afraid he’s missing the point. “No, for all of it. I wasn’t the

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only one who lost Dad, but I was the RQO\ RQH EHLQJ D MHUN DERXW LW 6KH ZDV MXVW WU\LQJ WR ZRUN WKURXJK OLYLQJ ZLWKRXW him, and still deal with me.â€? “When I looked in the grocery bag , UHDOL]HG ,¡G UXQ RII ZLWK MXVW D EDJ RI Cheese Puffs, which at the time seemed like the most absurd thing. I ate them for dinner and laughed like a moron until I fell asleep. In the morning, when I could see the trail I’d made crashing through the night before, I went home.â€? , KHOS P\VHOI WR *ROGĂ€VK IHHOLQJ around for whole pieces in the corners. He expects more, asking, “What happened then?â€? “I found Mom sitting at the table with the phone, gave her a hug, and promised it wouldn’t happen again.â€? “Just like that?â€? “Of course I had to make good on that, but yeah. I’m not trying to sound sappy or anything, but we needed each other. We still do.â€? This time the silence is heavy, but I’m afraid to break it, because I know how important it is that he think it through on his own. “Hey, Matt,â€? he says suddenly, sooner than I expected, “I’m gonna go home. Do you want to come over some time?â€? “Sure.â€? I stand as he slides off the back of the rock and walks to the path. “You’re not leaving tonight, then?â€? “No,â€? he says, waiting for me. “I don’t think it’s worth it.â€? “Good,â€? I tell him, smiling as I reach him. Only the plastic lining in the box crackles as I shake powdery crumbs out for the birds. “Because you wouldn’t get far with this.â€?G

Papa

Jonathan Roth, Photography

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Sunday Sidewalk Mallory Bell, Oil on Canvas

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Fractured I see nothing but emptiness In the stars. Stars? What stars do you see my friend? The swirling lights that surround you are not stars, but memories. Memories? I have none, and no one to hold except me, but you cannot hold me can You my friend for I am a part of A part of A part of you, and you are not Ever Alone. —D.J. La Velle

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Suicide Speech Fashionable revolutions may be organized and televised on Fox News and CNN during primetime weeknights (with a special rerun at 10 so you can catch it again after the kids are in bed) Fashionable rebels may dip their expensive white tea bags into the mouths of Sunday morning talking heads as they crane on the blades of grassroots protesters whose real roots reach not into earth but only sod or astroturf Fashionable leaders may call to arms WKHLU SKRQHEDQN ÀJKWHUV and schedule a march for a convenient weekend when everyone’s not too busy coloring in the lines and gradually growing blind to the time bombs hidden inside our palaces of culture Real revolutions begin to swell in tiny drops of protest whose mark will never be felt until ripples have grown into swells and then tsunamis

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that ring funeral bells and people stop to wonder ZKHUH LW ZDV WKH ÀUVW GURS IHOO

well

WKHUH ZDV QR ÁDVK WR PDUN WKH PRPHQW when Mohamed Bouazizi VWHSSHG LQWR 7XQLVLDQ WUDIÀF carrying no grocery bags facing only the tanks of gasoline that would light a revolution on the pores of his skin It was not a moment of calm rage that would be framed, snapped wrapped in plastic sold and shipped cropped and clipped and pasted on the front of a best-selling album for Americans to stare at while they sing along with fashionable revolutionary lyrics In that moment of conception when sperm met egg as gas met match and a zygote of chaos was sewn inside an Arab womb, a life left behind a channel for Change to push through into the world In that moment that no photo will ever tell governments were overturned and dictators fell In summary: an execution The Gallery

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of steadfast tyranny at the hands of a poor street vendor who never spent a cent on a college education yet kindled a revolution beneath a generation in the shadow of his act RI VHOà HVV VHOI LPPRODWLRQ —J.T. Fales

For an audio version of this piece, go to wmpeople.wm.edu/site/page/gallery

Horizon Promenade Laura Brond, Photography

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Slats I peer through the window Like the light of the low red moon, I enter through the slats open to the night to the air to me. Like the lights across Tokyo bay , FDQ RQO\ à RDW then disappear, folded into the black waves. The warmth of the hearth HQIROGV P\ ÀQJHUV but my hand, my arm— I am forbidden. —Connor Smith

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Sunrise in Savannah Even sunrise takes its time in Savannah. The rays creep and the houses sleep And the doors are closed at Paula Deen’s At sunrise in Savannah. Each statue-horse, with its rider, Frozen in his pose of triumph Does not paw or preen till seen By sunrise in Savannah. The famous sleepy Spanish moss Hangs and sways in charming sloth Claiming every branch aloft At sunrise in Savannah. The waves lap quietly at the docks As the cobblestones of River Street Are slowly warmed by the easy light Of sunrise in Savannah. And I can see the morning glow, though I am far from that quiet city. Maybe I could go back, today, tomorrow, And catch my breath. After all, Even sunrise takes its time in Savannah. — Anna Rose Gellert

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A Caribbean Afternoon Erin Spencer, Photography

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Monochromacy by Elyse Endick

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do not see in color. I see only in blacks, and in whites, and in shades of useless, shadowed gray,â€? he says WR PH SODFLQJ KLV Ă€QJHUV RQ P\ DUP rubbing the tips of his nails against my blonde hairs, almost scraping against — “I think I saw green once. That is, I saw a weird light shine on the grass, and my brother told me that grass is green. But maybe I didn’t really see green at all. Maybe it was blue or cream or chestnut. Maybe it was periwinkle. Violet, rose, magenta‌â€? He trails off, blinking his eyelids, heavy with sleep. The train wears heavy on the tracks, and he begins to drift off. I try to see the world like he does. I try to see the world in Casablanca monochrome, a dizzying frenzy of shadow and light, never quite sliding into the Technicolor shades to which I am accustomed. I stare at the grass and try to see it as hazy grey sheaths of life. The dew is silver and the dead grass is white and the stalk is the most beautiful shade of charcoal I have ever seen. We meet on the train to Normandy. It’s winter and I’ve forgotten to pack my heavy coat. I am miserable in the most beautiful country in the world. I am focused on my manuscript (I still think it’s good), and he watches me try to scratch heavy letters with the blunt tip of an antique fountain pen into the rough curves of a parchment paper notebook. “Writing?â€? he asks.

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I hadn’t noticed him there. Truthfully, he’s plain-- a stick with copper wire-rims and the complexion of a stubbled, greasy teenager. He wears his auburn hair long, so it sits on his shoulders;Íž the split ends colliding with his rough wool sweater. I tell him that I don’t believe in writing if it’s easy. That if Shakespeare could write with a quill, I could certainly write with my grandfather’s fountain pen. “The difference is that Shakespeare was an artist,â€? he says. I stare into his eyes, a sparkling shade of blue that he himself will never see. “And I’m not?â€? He sighs and leans against the train’s window. “Why are you in France?â€? His voice is lightly accented, like a Parisian who attended an American school, reading British literature and watching 5XVVLDQ Ă€OPV I tell him I’m here for inspiration. It’s partially true, anyways. “See, that’s the thing. A real artist need not leave their own bedroom to write their magnum opus.â€? I’m in my bedroom, and I haven’t written my magnum opus, or even its rough draft. Cat hair clings to all the sofas and all of the woolen sweaters he gave me. I haven’t paid my electric bill in three months. I sleep in my winter coat. I KDYHQ¡W VKDYHG DQG IRU WKH Ă€UVW WLPH LQ my life, I’m bearded. A postcard taped to my bathroom mirror reads “Allons-y

au Paris!� and on it there’s a kitten rubbing its whiskers on the Eiffel Tower. A few weeks ago I couldn’t stop vomiting. I retched and I retched and out came everything I had ever eaten. The carpets are now stained brown, but not a drop got on the postcard, so at least there’s that.

FRRO ZDWHU WKDW ÀOOV PH DQG VXVWDLQV PH I try to remember this when I get home to my apartment in Wichita. I pick up the phone to call my mother, to tell her I’ve met someone, but I hang up on the third ring.

I keep getting trapped in dreams. My The train stops at Mont-Saint-Michel, alarm goes off, and I try to reach for it and we all get off for breakfast. He fol- but I’m still stuck elsewhere. On a train lows me, not saying a word, and we si- from Paris to the beaches up north. In a lently pick a cafĂŠ together. The waitress bedroom, nibbling on his chest. On top doesn’t know the word for bacon, and of the mount while the tides pour their when it comes it is different than the briny spittle against the rocks. JUHDV\ IDWW\ VWULSV RI EURLOHG Ă HVK WKDW I begin to be glad that I’m unemployed. I’m used to making for myself over the I don’t really have anything to wake up for, stove. They taste like strips of real food, and I let the alarm chirp while I dangle my pink and savory, covered in butter and feet into the icy waters of Normandy. laced with a sort of chutney. He tells me Can you imagine how many people about Mont-Saint-Michel. died here? “It’s an island, but not really.â€? , DOZD\V DVN KLP WKLV MXVW DV WKH DODUP I don’t understand until he takes me to goes off. He sits in silence until my mind an overlook, carved into a rocky outcrop- breaks free, and I never hear his answer. ping. We are surrounded by water on all sides. Thierry, “Then how did the bus drive up here?â€? Did you know that there’s a tribe in I ask. Africa that sees colors totally differ7KH ZDWHU Ă RZV DQG UHFHGHV KH VD\V ,W ent than everyone else? It’s because they was dry land then. have different words for the colors, and In the distance, sheep graze on grass they bunch all sorts of colors together in and run along the hillsides. I wonder lat- groups. Can you imagine? Their eyes are er if sheep can see the greenness of the the same, but they see different things. grass, the way the foggy sunrise casts a There are so many things that I can’t pink shadow on each stalk. I spend ten see that you can. I can see the pink light on PLQXWHV MXVW DGPLULQJ WKH JUDVV VZD\LQJ the grass but I can’t see why that should in the breeze, the tide crashing against the make me any happier than a withered base of the mount. He spends it staring at patch of desert shrubs, tumbling, alone. WKH SHQ ,¡YH WXFNHG EHKLQG P\ Ă RSS\ HDU -Jack Later that night he nibbles on the ear, sucking it and tasting it, leaving ruby red bite marks that trail down my neck. I am an island, but not really. Sometimes I’m alone, but other times I’m surrounded by

“I do not see in color. I see only in blacks, and in whites, and in shades of useless, shadowed gray,â€? he says to me, SODFLQJ KLV Ă€QJHUV RQ P\ DUP UXEELQJ the tips of his nails against my blonde The Gallery

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hairs, this time scraping against them. “How did you get these cuts?� he asks. “When did you get these?� “Yesterday.� “Why?� “I was alone.� “Aren’t you alone every day?� “Not every day, not always.�

The World Informer P.O. Box 22330 New York, New York 10292

“’I think I saw green once. That is, I saw a weird light shine on the grass, and my brother told me that grass is green. But maybe I didn’t really see green at all. Maybe it was blue or cream or chestnut. I don’t see him for a few days. I sit on Maybe it was periwinkle. Violet, rose, mathe beach alone and suck at the end of genta‌’â€? my pen, licking at ink. The tide washes “Monochromacy is very rare in huagainst rocks, against abandoned bunkers mans,â€? she says. “Are you sure that’s what and loose hunks of he had?â€? scrap metal. I tell her I’m poshat did you hope to find in I dig the tip of itive. the pen into my France that you thought couldn’t “20 mg, Loxaparm and write a be found in Wichita or within ine, once a day. Take story. this to the pharmaNobody reads it yourself? There is color every- F\ JHW LW Ă€OOHG 'RQ¡W because it isn’t very where for people like you—those stop taking them. good. Don’t forget this who dream in such vivid color. time.â€? To: Jack Yearly, Her prescription Wichita, Kansas, 67203, USA. pad is sea foam green, and the ink is a subdued shade of aquamarine. Jack, In reviewing your piece, Polychrome, What did you set out to do, Jack? What ZH IRXQG PDQ\ IDFWXDO HUURUV :H HQMR\HG GLG \RX KRSH WR Ă€QG LQ )UDQFH WKDW \RX the vivid descriptions of color and the thought couldn’t be found in Wichita or beautiful images you evoked. Your piece within yourself ? There is color everyhad an iridescence that almost lifted off where for people like you—those who the page. However, a third person account dream in such vivid color. of a man’s romance is hardly hard-hitting travel writing. In fact, it’s not even travel Waking up becomes more and more writing at all. Your descriptions of Mont- GLIĂ€FXOW ZUDSSHG LQ WKH WHDO FDVFDGH RI Saint-Michel and the northern regions of my sheets, the cotton down comforter. France bear little factual integrity. It is as The radiator churns and whirrs and I lisif you had never been there, save through ten to it scream out—like a train grinding books and online articles. Perhaps your against its tracks. work would be better suited for a literary magazine. Two ghosts stand in a Wichita apartPHQW Ă€JKWLQJ 2QH KDV D ORQJ VFUDWFK\ Best, beard and wears sweaters imported from

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Damascus, and the other is skinny, blonde, and wears his torn up polo shirt for his GHDG HQG MRE GRZQ DW WKH GUXJ VWRUH “When are you going to start writing, Jack?� asks one ghost to the other. “All I need is to be in France,� Jack, the other ghost, says. “Then I can write.� Then Jack Ghost tells the other ghost that his sweater from Damascus doesn’t match his pants from Portugal. The other ghost tells Jack Ghost not to change the VXEMHFW +H KROGV XS DQ RUDQJH ERWWOH RI pills and asks why the bottle is still full. “They’re not helping,� Jack Ghost says. “They don’t work right away,� the other ghost says. Jack Ghost grabs the orange bottle and starts to pour pills in his mouth.

vomiting out all of his pills. All of them, white and chalky, came out in a grey and brown mush that stained the hospital bed sheets.

It’s Jack Ghost’s birthday. He receives: a discount coupon from work, a passive aggressive letter from his mother, a Ă€YH GROODU ELOO IURP KLV GHPHQWLD DGGOHG grandfather, and a big red box tied with a silver bow from his boyfriend. “Books,â€? Jack Ghost says. He sits on a wicker deck chair with his ghost boyfriend, who rubs at his shoulders. “Do you like them?â€? asks the ghost. “I love them,â€? says Jack Ghost, as he Ă LSV WKURXJK WKH SDJHV ORRNLQJ DW WKH rich color photographs. The cover of RQH VKRZV D Ă€HOG RI OLODFV EORZLQJ LQ WKH breeze, coupled by golden yellow daises. Another shows the Eiffel tower at night, illuminated against a cobalt, starless sky. There are six books in total, each hardcover, each about France. “I can’t afford to take you, but one day‌â€? the other ghost says. Jack Ghost silences him with a kiss. “We’ll read them together.â€?

I sit on my bed staring at a white wall with nothing on it and drift to sleep.

Jack Ghost is alone at the hospital after

Jack has been alone ever since. Only he’s not a ghost;Íž he’s me. And I’m real. And I’m still here. And I live in a Wichita apartment and I haven’t paid P\ KHDWLQJ ELOOV DQG , FDQ¡W IHHO P\ Ă€Qgers anymore, so how am I supposed to write? And the other ghost, whose name is Thierry, doesn’t live here anymore, but he sent me a postcard from France with a kitten on it rubbing its face against the Eifel tower and told me that I see the world in vivid color.

I sit on the beach alone, writing stories LQWR P\ VNLQ EXW WKLV WLPH KH MRLQV PH He spreads a tattered blanket on the sand and motions for me to sit next to him. He pulls off his sweater and hands it to me. “How could you forget?� he asks. “My sweater? It’s not important, really. I’m not cold.� “Not the sweater, Jack.� I didn’t forget, not really. It’s sitting on my kitchen counter. It’s orange and opaque, with blue trim around the lid. 20 mg, once a day. I’m afraid to be lonely, really. I’m afraid that if I take the chalky eggshell colored pills that I’ll lose the beach, the blanket, the winter air, the tides. I’ll lose the pink on the stalks and I’ll lose him. “I’ll lose you.� He rubs my arm, feels the scars. I ask him what color the water is. “Grey.� G The Gallery

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Serenity

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Colors of Rome Laura Brond, Photography

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Colored Street Jenny Lee, Photography

Desert Destination Jonathan Roth, Photography 26

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Sacred Land

Jonathan Roth, Photography The Gallery

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Reardan, Washington Jonathan Roth, Photography 28

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Americana

Jonathan Roth, Photography The Gallery

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Stay a Little Longer by Andrew Carter

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was tired. We were all tired. It was the damn heat. It was late spring and QHDUO\ QLQHW\ ÀYH GHJUHHV , ORRNHG to my left, at Sophie and her short black dress. She had sweat building up around her forehead, but she had stopped crying. The service had ended and we waited outside the church. I could see that everyone was tense. Family, friends, teachers. Even a few students. , WXUQHG WR 6RSKLH ´<RX FRXOGQ·W ÀQG anything shorter?” Sophie stared straight ahead. “I didn’t have anything else. It’s not like I made sure to grab a funeral dress while I was packing.” “It was only sarcasm.” I forced a little laugh, but it came out awkward. An elderly couple gave us a look. I unbuttoned the top button of my shirt and loosened my tie. The worst of it was over. We watched the doors to the church open and the pallbearers bring WKH FRIÀQ GRZQ WKH VWHSV 7KHUH ZDV QR way of being sure, but I assumed. Mary was in there all right, make-up on her neck and all. I squeezed Sophie’s hand when they SXW WKH FRIÀQ LQ WKH KHDUVH 3HRSOH EHgan leaving in small groups. I turned to leave and saw Ryan walking towards us through the crowd. He kept his hands in his pockets and gave a smile when he rec-

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ognized me. “It means a lot that you’re here.” “I wish I had known Mary better.” “Me too.” Sophie looked at me and then at Ryan. “I don’t know what to say, you know? It’s so heavy.” Ryan didn’t respond. There wasn’t much to say. He left in a car with the family, and Sophie rode in my car. When the procession turned right, I turned left— towards the campus. We had no business watching her get buried. We both had class anyway. In some way, we all knew someone who had done it. Every semester or so, someone threw in their cards. There was Cynthia Gray, an interQDWLRQDO UHODWLRQV PDMRU HQUROOHG LQ DQ KRQRUV SURMHFW DERXW IRUHLJQ SROLF\ EHtween countries whose names I can’t pronounce. She took too many sleeping pills and curled up in a ball in her closet. There was a note taped to the bulletin board she kept on a wall in her dorm room. For one reason or another, her roommate didn’t see the note. It was two days before she found the body. From her desk, Sophie turned towards PH ´7KH\ ÀQDOO\ VHQW WKH HPDLO RXW µ

I was lying on her bed, staring at the crowd cheered when Derek Jeter hit a ceiling. I wore nothing but my under- game-tying double. wear. Sophie wore even less. “Didn’t you They said that the paramedics saved VD\ \RX KDG D SDSHU WR ÀQLVK"µ him. None of us really knew for sure. He “It’s the same as all the other ones.” never came back. Two weeks later someI sat up on the edge of the bed and one on the wait list for housing moved started putting my shirt back on. “Dear into his dorm. college community, we need to come together in this time of tragedy.” The fog sets in around midnight. “If you are concerned that one of Some nights I sit on a bench, facing the your friends may be suicidal...” JUDVV ÀHOG EHKLQG P\ GRUP KDOO 7KH IRJ “You can always make an appointment UHÁHFWV WKH OLJKW IURP WKH VWUHHW ODPSV , at the counseling center if you think you was out there one night, smoking a cigamay be suffering from depression.” rette. Sophie was asleep in my bed. Sophie dropped the mocking tone. It’s hard to make out much in the fog. “Are you going someI saw something like n some way, we all a shadow come towhere?” I had put my pants knew someone who had wards me. It was a on. “I have work to do.” girl. She must have “So do I.” She stood done it. Every semester been only about a up and took my hand or so, someone threw in hundred feet away and tried to pull me when I recognized back onto the bed. their cards. her. I met her in the “Come on, don’t go. ÀHOG Stay a little longer.” “Mary?” I said. I gave in, kissing her long and hard. She turned her head towards me but “You’re going to be the death of me.” didn’t look me in the eyes. She had on a Her grip on my back loosened. winter coat with fur lining over an offWe both stayed silent. The air condi- white dress cut off at the knees. There tioner whirred in the background. I was a pearl necklace around her neck. wished I could take the words back. I She wore heels and was an inch or two wished I could take a lot of things back. taller than me. “Mary?” I repeated. “It’s me, Aaron.” There was Sam Brighton, a Spanish Her lips curled up into a smile. “AarDQG JRYHUQPHQW GRXEOH PDMRU ZKR VSHQW on. Funny meeting you out here.” two semesters in Spain. “What the hell are you wearing that Sam slit his wrists during game six of coat for? It’s got to be eighty degrees.” the World Series. The Yankees and the “But I’m so cold.” She shivered for Cardinals. The RA was making rounds good measure. “It must be the fog.” when he heard a loud thud followed by I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t a moan. He knocked but there was no know what she meant. “What are you doresponse. He opened the door and saw LQJ ZDONLQJ DURXQG RXW KHUH LQ WKH ÀHOG"µ a puddle of blood and Sam slumped ´, MXVW WKRXJKW ,·G JR IRU D ZDON *HW against his wall. The TV was on, and a away for a bit. You know.”

“ I

”

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My cigarette had gone out. I tossed it in the grass. “I haven’t seen you much since freshman year. I heard you started dating Ryan. You two doing okay?â€? She was rocking on her heels now, still smiling. “Too busy. Always too busy, you know?â€? “Too busy for what?â€? The smile was gone. “Just too busy, Aaron. I really can’t talk anymore. I should be doing work. Studying.â€? “We’ve all got work to do. You’ll make it through. Every semester ends.â€? She nodded and started walking away. I called out goodbye to her, but she didn’t respond. She didn’t seem real, her white dress moving through the fog. I never knew why she was dressed that way, or what she was really doing out there in the Ă€UVW SODFH , GLGQ¡W VHH KHU DURXQG FDPSXV after that. Ten days later she died. There was Mary Dover, a biology maMRU RQ D 6KDUSH 6FKRODUVKLS It was Saturday morning, before the sun had risen. She left her dorm hall, rope in hand, wearing the white dress and the pearl necklace and the heels. A fraternity had a mixer the night before, and red Dixie cups littered the path she took. The one that led to the lake. Ricky Sanders, a frat brother, had passed out in a chair on the back porch of the fraternity house. She walked right past. He didn’t wake up. The path goes directly through the campus, past the School of Business, where Mary had two high-level economics courses. Once you get past the main buildings, the path leads into the woods and then to the lake. Sometimes couples camp out there. Both the woods and the lake were empty that morning. $URXQG VHYHQ LQ WKH PRUQLQJ D MRJ-

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ger came down the path, taking the same route he took every Saturday morning. When he reached the edge of the woods, he saw Mary. She was suspended from a tree by a rope tied around her neck. There was no wind that day, so she hung perfectly still, her headed drooped a little WR WKH VLGH 7KH MRJJHU FODLPV KH YRPLWHG twice in a crop of bushes and sprinted back through the path and alerted the campus authorities. When the cops arrived, they noticed that the bottom of her dress was wet. Her heels were found arranged neatly by the edge of the lake. I don’t know why Mary hung herself, or why she was wearing that dress, or why she waded into the lake. But I can picture her, walking slowly into the water and skimming her hand across the surface, eye level with the fog that rises with the sun before disappearing. It was Thursday and I found Sophie at a desk in the library, hunched over a textbook. I kissed her gently. “Let’s get out of here,� I said. “Let’s go have a drink.� She stared me down. “I have an exam on Monday. Now’s really not a good time.� “So do I. Listen, let’s get out here. You can study later.� She sighed. “Let me pack up.� We left the library. It was full of people. We walked to the bar. It was nearly empty. A couple of workers sat in a booth, sharing a pitcher. I saw Ryan at the bar, alone. We sat down next to him. He was at my right, Sophie at my left. She ordered a glass of wine;͞ I ordered a shot of Jack Daniels. I offered one to Ryan. He didn’t answer. He kept his eyes focused on the

“

She left her dorm hall, rope in

hand, wearing the white dress and the pearl necklace and the heels.

TV hanging over us. The Mets and the Phillies. I ordered him one anyways. He GUDQN LW ZLWKRXW Ă LQFKLQJ The game went to commercial. He turned to me. His eyes were red. “The Mets are winning.â€? I nodded. “You shouldn’t come to the bar alone.â€? “I don’t have a TV in my room.â€? He looked me in the eyes. “Do you?â€? “No.â€? He shrugged his shoulders. “Then that settles it.â€? I laughed a little and ordered another round of shots. “Can I tell you something?â€? His head swayed a little. “Anything.â€? “I ran into Mary a couple of weeks ago. She said some great things about you.â€? He drooped closer to the bar. “Did she look alright?â€? “She looked okay. Stressed, you know? But okay.â€? “You know what she said to me? The last thing I ever heard her say? ‘I feel cold. Really cold.’ We were lying there in

�

bed, and I didn’t know what she meant. I told her to curl up in the blankets and go to bed. When I woke up she was gone. I didn’t hear her leave.� He started to cry softly, and I put a hand on his shoulder. After a couple of minutes he lifted his shot glass, and we toasted to Mary, even though the glasses were empty. I bought two more rounds before we lost track. Even Sophie switched to liquor. At some point we stumbled out of the bar. We were dead drunk. We all lit cigarettes. Ryan gave me a strong hug. We took turns saying goodbye. I took Sophie’s hand and watched Ryan walk away. He went towards his dorm room, towards his piles of textbooks and his papers. It must have been late. The fog had set in. I kept my eyes on Ryan until I couldn’t see him through the fog. Sophie tugged on my hand and asked if we could get JRLQJ , MXVW VWRRG WKHUH DQG WROG KHU WR ZDLW MXVW D OLWWOH ORQJHU G

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The Flowers of Edo

When I build my hut in the shadowy groins of a bridge I will salvage the planks and mortar from the smoldering carcasses of houses on the cliff overlooking the raging sea. You will lay on the threshold DV WUDIÀF URDUV DERYH speeding into the hungry city. <RX ZLOO KDYH D ERXTXHW RI EXUQLQJ ÁRZHUV WLFNOLQJ \RXU FKDUUHG ÀQJHUWLSV I will kiss your skin, new and pink, and inhale wet wood —Connor Smith

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The Silent Aftermath Erin Spencer, Photography

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Loving Swans

Fangwei Chen, Chinese Paper Cutting 36

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Speak to the Tail

Head porcelain basin bent is faucet fare. I am head butting the sink not so a handy KHOLFRSWHU FDQ URWRU ÀQJHUV RYHU WKH VWLII frittered hairs on my knobs. The petting is blowing up the hairs I spent so long licking. Is my radio antenna not signaling? $UHQ·W P\ HDUV MXVW DV URXQG DV \RXU VKRZHU KHDG" I will put one paw on the knob, fold my ears under the spout, and rub off hairs until I reach skull. I will peel P\ MDZ DOO WKH ZD\ DSDUW DQG GURS P\ FDQLQHV and red carpeted tongue. I will bite and when I open afterwards you will hear the glissando of my Meow. I can draw this out for as long as you are showering. Don’t you know I need to be wet before I can go back to laying out? Speak to the tail. — Joshua Burns

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Oneirophant

Tell your mother to Stop interpreting my dreams. I’ll sit here on the sofa Recite them to you Whisper them into your ear, Elektra. And you are free, my lovely. Share them if you wish. But at the table she must not Speak of them, must not broach them At her knitting or in our walks through the tilled countryside And especially not in the intimate moments before bedtime. , MXVW FDQ·W VWDQG LW DQ\PRUH This oneiromancing feeds the visions of each night Each sight becomes the incestuous child of its interpretations The exegesis becomes the text—a cockroach—a round of infernal torments My terrors eat each other And shit themselves into my mind because of her chatter Fuck you Freud. —H. Joseph Ware

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God Save the Queen Jenny Lee, Photography

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Pride

Fangwei Chen, Chinese Paper Cutting 40

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On love Letters 7KUHH OHWWHUV , JDYH P\ ÀUVW ORYH·V QDPH the summer that we sent ourselves away. Three years they took to reach his callused hands. When he read them back to me three months ago, so artlessly, I told him that I’d been a different man. 0\ VHFRQG ORYH VWDPSHG RXW RXU ÁDPH in a loveless letter that never came that fading summer that sealed our fate forever. Outside his door, he addressed to me the postscript that I’d never read our second night in parched Virginia weather. If another letter is mine to send not a word will hint of true intents. After all the prose, I’ve learned a single lesson: , ÀQG WKDW /RYH LV EHVW DGGUHVVHG through simple, honest eloquence outside of lines and beyond manila margins. —J.T. Fales

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we had a good night together

Waking up alone in this house;; I wished you might have stayed at least until the sun rose but I do understand WKDW WKH QLJKW ZDV YHU\ GLIÀFXOW There was no room in bed DQG WKHUH ZHUH ÀUHWUXFNV SDVVLQJ almost constantly: siren noises, and the yelling from outside a child crying down the stairs, and the cold, of course Every reason why you’d want to leave

Someone told me you were homeless;; that having nowhere you escaped the city DQG \RX ZDQGHUHG KHUH WKURXJK IDUPHUV· ÀHOGV where you would lie and watch the stars when the crop was high enough to cover your sleeping in the gold, dark-eyed ghost. $QG XQWLO ZH ÀQLVKHG PDNLQJ ORYH I thought they were lying and I’m sorry because I kissed you eyelessly Forgive me: I watched you after you had gone to sleep and the moon watching us lay like the sea itself upon your naked arm which drew me into you;; suddenly, like a man who had been blind I understood everything And now that I had found you with my eyes I sought you with my lips-but, like steam, you had already gone, beyond the rows of new houses no money in your pocket, in search of high corn or thick cotton

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—Robin Crigler

NĂŠgociant en Vins Jonathan Roth, Photography

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Sunset

Laura Brond, Photography

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(taiyŇ no nishi)

(west of the sun) by Sara Caudill I got in my car and went west. I had forgotten the raw chicken breast I intended to grill among the grocery bags the day before, but I had remembered to refrigerate the eggs. The cooler in the passenger seat contained them now, all twelve boiled after I woke up before dawn to JHW UHDG\ :DWHU ERWWOHV DOVR MRVWOHG LQ WKH LFH , KDG SURWHVWHG DERXW EX\LQJ SODVWLF (from Wal-Mart, no less), but Lynnie had insisted that my canteen emblazoned with “Buy Fresh, Buy Local” would not cut it for wherever I was going. She was not the only one concerned. Hutchy and Eli asked me what I would do when I got migraines. I said I would pull over somewhere and wait it out. Two of my parents insisted that I call whenever I stopped to get gas. I said I would try to remember. My third parent wanted to know if I had a baseball bat to take with me. I said I had bought a 14 inch boar hunting knife off Amazon for nineteen dollars plus tax (I had, but I canceled my order after Googling “non-fatal places to stab someone” had yielded off-putting results). In my car, I also carried: a GPS that refused to acknowledge West Virginia’s existence;; a poorly chosen novel for a young woman traveling alone (Room, by Emma Donoghue);; a stack of CDs I had commissioned friends to make for the drive;; and three frisbees.

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I went west because I did not know where I was going. , KDG VSHQW ÀYH PRQWKV EOXUUHG DURXQG WKH HGJHV D VPXGJH DIWHU FDUHOHVV KDQGV KDG not waited for the ink to dry. Five months doing nothing that warranted a photo to WURW RXW RQOLQH DQG ÀYH PRQWKV UHIXVLQJ WR ORRN DW SKRWRV IURP WKH SUHYLRXV WKUHH )LYH PRQWKV H[KDXVWHG LQ WKH PRUQLQJV IURP WKH DUFKLYH RI SURFHVVHG ÀOHG EXW never stored memories that were pulled from the shelves every night— Wandering the city with the fourth bottle of convenience store wine passing between us. Breathing in the sweet stench of rotting leaves and staring down at the elevator testing facility in the valley. Failing to push him off of me in the internet cafÊ where some of us passed out much sooner than others— I drove 5,144 miles, you know. The kicker is that the truth I was seeking sprouted in my head within ten minutes of getting on I-64. I could have turned around. I would have saved a lot of gas (I am a guilt-ridden hypocrite) and a lot of Excedrin Migraine (driving exacerbates the thumping in my head). I also would have saved: the lives of millions [of insects];͞ one bird;͞ and an animal that could have been an opossum. That possible opossum saved my life. The twenty-two hour stretch from South Dakota to Missouri is a dark one. Google says that a human can drive approximately WHQ WR WZHOYH KRXUV VDIHO\ LQ RQH JR , GLG QRW OLVWHQ 6PDVKLQJ LQWR DQ XQLGHQWLÀHG animal at 4:30am on an unlit swamp road really wakes a person up, though.

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Building tiny mountains of sea glass on the shore. Piling all the clothing we had packed on my shaking body that night we were homeless. Logging off after he had looked me in the eyes over the internet and asked, “What happened to the classy girl I used to know?â€? Haruki Murakami knows earthquakes. He wrote a book about them after Kobe (after the quake). Mr. Murakami also gave a speech about earthquakes in Barcelona on June 9, 2011 (“Speaking as an Unrealistic Dreamerâ€?). During it, he mentioned the concept of  (mujŇ) (transience).   is something of a Japanese mantra: that all things must pass away. Haruki Murakami assured his audience that the Japanese are not fatalistic sociopaths. He said that the Ă HHWLQJ PRPHQWVÂłFKHUU\ EORVVRPV WXPEOLQJ RII WUHHV WKH PRRQ RQ D VWLFN\ VXPmer night—bring us the peace of knowing that things have changed long before us and will continue to do so long after us. By the end of my drive, I had lost: seven pounds;Íž my assumption that Nebraska was the dullest state in America;Íž much of my long-standing resentment towards my mother;Íž and my grief at being incomplete. At 2:45pm on March 11, 2011, I was shopping for a pencil case in Minami-Hikone, Shiga-ken, Japan. To my north, 19,000 people were about to die. I used to believe I knew that people die, houses burn, things are lost. But every day that goes by without tragedy allows me to forget a little bit more, until I am reminded again. Standing in front of the television, watching as the waves fanned out across the dry earth. G

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Contributors’ Notes Mallory Bell is from Alexandria, Virginia. She has been painting and drawing throughout middle school and high school and hopes to minor in art at :LOOLDP DQG 0DU\ 6KH HQMR\V 1XWHOOD WKH .HQQHG\V DQG 5HDO +RXVHZLYHV Laura Brond , DP D MXQLRU DQG DQ (FRQRPLFV PDMRU DQG )UHQFK PLQRU IURP 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! Joshua Burns: Writer. Andrew Carter , DP $QGUHZ &DUWHU DQ (QJOLVK PDMRU DQG JUDGXDWLQJ VHQLRU My goal with “Stay a Little Longer,â€? as with all of my stories, was to capture the complications and harsh realities of everyday life as they truly are--without PHORGUDPD Ă RZHU\ SURVH RU Ă XII , EHOLHYH WKDW VWULSSLQJ D VWRU\ WR LWV EDUH bones brings out the core emotion that lies underneath. My hope is that readers will connect with this story on a deeper emotional level than the sentimental. Sara Caudill believes that adventure is out there. She will graduate in May and will continue to look for it. Fangwei (Ferra) Chen is a student of 2015 from China, who started to learn Chinese paper cutting two years ago. She has taught quite a few Westerners this form of traditional art during cultural exchange and other international events. She hopes to spread more Chinese culture through her academic life in America. Robin Crigler LV D MXQLRU +H LV GRXEOH PDMRULQJ LQ KLVWRU\ DQG UHOLJLRXV studies, and he lives off campus, but, by God, not for long. He likes to drive slowly through little towns and play bluegrass loudly. Elyse Endick LV D VRSKRPRUH PDMRULQJ LQ (QJOLVK ,Q KHU VSDUH WLPH VKH OLNHV to eat cereal without milk, write plays, and dabble in ornithology. She spends much of her time reading early 20th century literature and dreams of an alternate universe where she can become married to F. Scott Fitzgerald. J.T. Fales is a senior at the College of William and Mary. He was born and 48

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raised in Norwalk, CT. He will be graduating this spring with a degree in English and a minor in Linguistics. He hopes to be a writer. Anna Rose Gellert D VRSKRPRUH (QJOLVK PDMRU IURP WKH EXVWOLQJ VXEXUE of New Providence, New Jersey. Here at William and Mary I divide my WLPH EHWZHHQ WUDFN SUDFWLFH P\ MRE VFKRROZRUN &&0 DFWLYLWLHV DQG RQ WKH weekends, friends and/or sleep. Let’s hear it for TWAMP life! D.J. La Velle is a freshman 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. Jonathan Roth LV D IUHVKPDQ IURP *OHQFRH ,/ ZLWK SODQV WR PDMRU LQ Marketing. During high school he was involved in photography for the yearbook and newspaper, which culminated in him winning the Illinois state FKDPSLRQVKLS IRU KLJK VFKRRO SKRWRMRXUQDOLVP LQ +H KRSHV WR FRQWLQXH to bring his love for capturing people and their landscapes to beautiful Virginia for the remainder of his time at W&M. Connor Smith is a sophomore who likes balsamic reductions, A&E’s Intervention, Skyping with his dog from 15,000 miles away, coffee, having the KLJKHVW ZRUG FRXQW LQ IDPLO\ &KULVWPDV OHWWHUV YR\DJHV WR IDU à XQJ SODFHV khao soi, and pleasant customer service. He is totally down to skydive someday. Erin Spencer LV D MXQLRU IURP %DOWLPRUH 0DU\ODQG DQG KDV EHHQ VWXG\LQJ SKRWRJUDSK\ IRU RYHU ÀYH \HDUV 2Q FDPSXV VKH LV RQ WKH VDLOLQJ WHDP D photographer for the DoG Street Journal, and a member of a social sorority. You can see her other work by visiting www.etspencerphotography.webs.com Henry Joseph Ware LV D MXQLRU +LVWRU\ $QWKURSRORJ\ GRXEOH PDMRU at the college. He writes in his spare time. He is interested in sustainable worlds, nightmares, Foucauldian power relations, and the immanence of the ridiculously sublime. Dana Wood LV D IUHVKPDQ ZKR HQMR\V MHZHOU\ PDNLQJ DQG VSHQGLQJ WLPH ZLWK IULHQGV DQG IDPLO\ 6WRULHV DUH KHU JUHDWHVW MR\ DQG ZULWLQJ LV KHU GUHDP The Gallery

49

Editor’s Note

Dear Reader, This is the start of something really, really good. :KHQ , ZDV D IUHVKPDQ , MRLQHG ´7KH *DOOHU\Âľ EHFDXVH , KDG VWDONHG LW GXULQJ P\ VHQLRU \HDU RI KLJK VFKRRO ,W ZDV WKH Ă€UVW PDJD]LQH , IRXQG RQ WKH :LOOLDP DQG 0DU\ ZHEVLWH DQG LW ZDV OXFN\ , GLG RU , FRXOG KDYH PLVVHG P\ FKDQFH DOWRJHWKHU DQG MRLQHG “The William and Mary Reviewâ€? or “Winged Nationâ€? or “Jumpâ€?— or one of the milOLRQ RWKHU PDJD]LQHV WKDW WKLV FDPSXV VXSSRUWV %XW , IRXQG ´7KH *DOOHU\ Âľ DQG MRLQHG WKH VWDII WKDW UHYLYHG WKH PDJD]LQH IURP LWV FDWDVWURSKLF Ă RS ,I \RX ZDQW WR KHDU PRUH DERXW WKDW JR WR RXU ZHEVLWH ,W¡V TXLWH D WDOH 2U MXVW DVN PH EHFDXVH , XVXDOO\ HQG up telling everyone I meet, anyway.) The Dream Team, you might call them, who taught PH HYHU\WKLQJ , NQRZ DERXW SURGXFLQJ D PDJD]LQH LQ D VHPHVWHU WKDW VHHPV KRUULĂ€FDOO\ short, when every procrastinating TWAMP at this college refuses to turn in their submission until the day of deadline, and your layout week always seems to coincide with midterms. , ZDV WKH RQO\ IUHVKPDQ WR MRLQ WKH VWDII LQ 2U RQH RI D KDQGIXO ZKR DWWHQGHG the interest meeting, and the only one who stuck it out. Probably because I already felt connected to the magazine from my days of stalking the outdated website (though it was DOVR SUREDEO\ EHFDXVH , DFWXDOO\ XQGHUVWRRG DQG UHVSHFWHG $QGUHZ DQG $ULHOOH¡V MRNHV Now, with the last member of the Dream Team graduating in May, I’m going to be the only one of my freshman year’s staff left – the only one who remembers the ziplock bag of money that was the entirety of our funds, or the stories of how Kelsey and Laura were able to persuade the Publication Council to give us a second chance. But worst of all, I’m going to be the only one who remembers sitting in the basement of Swem, in one of the recording studios, recording our rendition of “The Mysterious Ticking Noise,â€? or listening to the treatises Andrew insisted on telling us about W&M traditions and his own wacky experiences (though I kind of wish I could forget those now). But, even without the staff that brought “The Galleryâ€? back to life, we are continuing to make improvements and to send the magazine we all love in the right direction. (I’ll say, for the second time in this Editor’s Note, that you should check out our website to learn more. It’s at the bottom of this page, so you have literally no excuse.) And so I say that this is the start of something really, really good because I honestly think that it is. The magazine that was founded in 1979 survived the “Great Hiatus of the 2000sâ€? and has the support of a group of people who want nothing more than to see it thrive. Our staff is expanding with every semester, and I must say that I am particularly proud of what the editors have done for this issue. We are growing, we are learning, and we will record another version of “The Mysterious Ticking Noise.â€? Keep the tradition alive. —Katie Demeria

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