GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS
THE WINDHOVER I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, kingdom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
COVER DESIGN BY LAUREN LU
2015
049 WINDHOVER
CONTENTS SECTION 1 04 Sydney Jones | Photo Manipulation 05 Mary Kate Jagoda
“BREAKFAST WITH A NEW YORKER”
06 Morgan Cox | Fashion Design 07 Alex Petercuskie
“LIFE IS A LAUGHING TALL TALE”
08 Zara Imam | Photography 10 Alex Petercuskie
“THE DAY”
11 Anna Dulaney | Pen and Watercolor 12 Sydney Jones | Photography 13 Gavin Stone
“A FLY IN THE REFRIGERATOR”
14 Darren Lipman
“COMMUNITY SERVICE”
15 Sarah Hardison | Photography 16 Emma Smith and Sydney Jones | Photography 17 Cyrus Homesley | Photo Manipulation 18 James Kornegay “A DOOR FOR JEB” 20 Vikas Piddempally | Photo Manipulation 23 Jennifer Vaughn | Photography 24 Cyrus Homesley | Photo Manipulation
SECTION 2 25 Josh Malchuk | Hand-Lettering & Photography 26 Khushu Gosai | Watercolor 27 Rutuja Joshi
“EYES ARE FILLED WITH TEARS”
28 Nicholas Casale 30
“SWAN’S SONG”
Emma Smith | Photography
32 Monica Galleto | Photography
33 Alex Petercuskie
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Emma Smith & Monica Galetto | Photography
67
James Kornegay “GENIUS”
35 Anna Dulaney | Charcoal
68
Anna Dulaney | Pen and Ink
36 Cyrus Homesley | Photo Manipulation
69
Paul Harvel “BACKWATER BLOSSOM”
37 Lynn A. Albers “COMING TOGETHER”
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Sarah Bowman | Photography
38 Daniel Kang “STRANGER”
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Josh Malchuk | Illustration
34 Anonymous
“A HAIKU”
“THOUGHTS OF US”
39 Zara Imam | Photography
SECTION 4
40 Pam Valle Perry | Fashion Photography 41 Cyrus Homesley | Digital Artwork
73
Jennifer Vaughn | Pencil
42 Bristol Bowman “THE BROKEN HOUSE”
74
Monica Galetto | Pen and Ink
44 Mark Demaria | Photography
75
Alex Petercuskie “LITTLE HAVANA STREETS”
47 Kristie Kim | Water Color
76
Wyatt Bond “PAINTERS (GRIEF)”
48 Jenna Lagonigro | Jewelry Design
77
Maria Martinez | Photography
78
Jennifer Vaughn | Pencil and Ink
79
Mallory Short | Photo Manipulation
49 Anna Dulaney | Pen and Ink
80
Cyrus Homesley | Photo Manipulation
50 Sydney Jones | Photography
81
Mary Kate Jagoda “NOW”
51 Darren Lipman “APPLIED KINEMATICS”
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Mary Kate Jagoda “AN EXPLICATION OF YOUR
52
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Maria Martinez | Photography
53 Khushbu Gosai | Watercolor
84
Monica Galletto | Photography
54 Lauren Lu | Photography
85
Philipp Lindemann “FAR OFF FROM PARADISE”
56 Morgan Parrish “WILBUR”
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Amanda Otten | Character Design
59 Khusbu Gosai | Pencil and Ink
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Mallory Short | Photo Manipulation
60 Cyrus Homesley | Photo Maniuplation
89
Nicky Vaught “BLUSH”
61 Wyatt Bond “OZYMANDIUS (WONDER)”
90
Brian Darst “APP STORE”
62 Mallory Short | Photography
91
Khushbu Gosai | Pencil
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Mallory Short | Photo Manipulation
64 Anonymous “SUNSHINE ALWAYS”
93
Josh Malchuk | Colored Pencil
65 Mallory Short | Photo Manipulation
94
Lauren Lu | Photography
SECTION 3
Darren Lipman “CELESTIAL”
Jenna Lagonigro and Sarah Parks | Product Design
LETTER, A LETTER (DEAR SETH)”
SYDNEY JONES | Photo Manipulation 4
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MARY KATE JAGODA
BREAKFAST WITH A NEW YORKER My cereal bowl sits across from me, on the table, while I read two letters in the “Books and Fiction” section. Cold milk drips down my chin, white tears, falling into my bowl of directionless, floating “Os.” Fragile hearts speak to me through words on the polished pages held between my fingertips. What can one do, from a breakfast table, about a country with too many pancakes; or one whose children have no winter coats; a place where cornfields spread all the way to the horizon, irreversibly fused to the ground, unable to be wrapped up, packed up, and shared— or real questions— Mouths, void of any small crumb. Children without skin, charred little fingers and toes. Violence and bloodshed over ownership of “homeland”— Where is rightfully whose? Who goes rightfully where? And what can I say, either way, alone at this breakfast table?
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MORGAN COX | Fashion Design
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ALEX PETERCUSKIE
LIFE IS A LAUGHING TALL TALE Who stole her away? Don’t play games with me Please, It’s much too late To Go back and forth. Not a quiet girl Still. It’s amazing how she spoke With so many people. She always was Taking in The woven breezes And wooden scenery. She acted in such a way, One that sharply contrasted With what’d you’d call Let’s say, Hopelessly Her dreams churned Like colors of the sky Playing tag in fields.
She was happy to provide, Happy to learn. Destined for all things shimmery.
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ZARA IMAN | Photography
Who stole her away? Barefoot in the dirt— Just as barefoot as she was Tumbling inside Her mother’s womb. She knew barefoot felt right. One angel who knew better, Drawn to run so she could know life, No one told her how to be. Who stole this little thing away? Why did you want her soul so? She gave herself to the world,
While holding it in her palms. Oh, How she wanted the whole world. Not keen on dresses, So innocent, A spirit untamable, Now she struggles to be tame, Still. 8
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Help her smile once again, Who stole this miracle away? Why did you want her soul so? Dirtied her mind Like mud between fleshy toes. Now she is cold, Lacks self control, Joyfulness, Not unlike A bundle Bought and sold. I whisper— Don’t worry sweet child You’ll be found again. Life is some twisted game.
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ALEX PETERCUSKIE
THE DAY I can’t seem to wait for the day When the world’s eyes are renewed. When once again Old is considered beautiful. I can’t seem to wait for the day When the people walk on water, Like some already believe they do. For you to sample The truth about me, And for me To be bewildered By every private piece of you. I can’t seem to wait for the day When all children have a chance to sing If only they desire to. For when inside this infinite earth, Paradoxically, Somehow we feel Like we’re destined to stand taller.
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ANNA DULANEY | Pen & Watercolor
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SYDNEY JONES | Photography WINDHOVER 12
GAVIN STONE
A FLY IN THE REFRIGERATOR What is this world all around me? It buzzes and wooshes with no warning, on beat with no mercy. “Which way to the light?” is all I want to know. The creatures here seem to have other goals. They scavenge for food in an open market And bleat loudly to their companions About what food they want to complete their night. Is our DNA so different? I stare at the lights in awe as I draw nearer. My meal of spilled milk and egg yolks can wait. The light is so close it is blinding now. How long can I bear to look? My wings— are they fluttering? I feel so cold all of a sudden and my legs are stiff. Break the stare! Is anyone there? My vision is broken up and crumbling through my mind. How small am I? When did I learn to enjoy the cold? This is what has become of me at the end of my quest. I don't even know if there is more to it. Rigamortis. I deserve this.
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DARREN LIPMAN
COMMUNITY SERVICE I have marched on legislative buildings for the right to vote, but I have locked my car doors when a black man passed. I have sat down with Senators to lobby for HIV/AIDS funding, but I’ve stopped talking with men when they’ve told me they’re positive. I have stood next to women to uphold abortion rights, but I abhor the word “feminist,” and I’ll never use it. I have advocated for the poor—I have lived their plight, but I still look away from the homeless on the streets. I have stood with my brothers and sisters and friends, hand in hand in hand with each of them and scrubbed my hands when I made it back home.
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SARAH HARDISON | Photography
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EMMA SMITH | Photography
SYNDEY JONES | Photo Manipulation
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CYRUS HOMESLEY | Photo Manipulation NCSU 2015 17
JAMES KORNEGAY
A DOOR FOR JEB
GROWING UP, my dad’s favorite thing in
be upstairs on one side of the house, but
above our couch. It was a re-print of
side you had to walk all the way down the
at it, admiring the dark hues. Lincoln's
the ones on the opposite end.
background. His head rested on his hand
owners of our realm. We shared a room
problem that no one else could remedy,
parents slept in the master bedroom to the
our house was the painting he hung
Healy’s Abraham Lincoln. I’d look up
face seemed to glow against the bleak
like he was thinking of a solution to a
that no one else would attempt to solve, but he would figure it out momentarily. It made me feel hopeful. Like there was always a solution to any problem I may have faced and I think that’s why my
father loved it. God, I hate that painting. We grew up in a converted duplex.
My father bought it with promises to my mother that he’d soon remodel it and
make it a functional single-family home.
All he ever managed to do was put a small door between one side and the other and semi-demolish the extra kitchen. You’d
18
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to get to the second floor on the other
stairs, through the door, and then back up My brother and I felt like we were
on the north side of the house while our south. We had bunkbeds, and Jeb, being
older, got the top bunk, but I’d pester him with questions whenever we got in bed so that he leaned over while I looked up to
him expectantly. He and I agreed that we were in the best of all possible scenarios for young boys. We could sneak down
stairs at night with no fear of waking our parents. We could watch TV late in the
living room. We would jump on the guest bed in the room next to ours until we fell from exhaustion, falling asleep where we lay until the next morning.
The thick wall dividing the two halves
of our house ensured that our giggles
and yelps wouldn’t carry to my parents’ sleeping ears.
Once, after we’d thought our parents
had fallen asleep, Jeb and I slid from our
beds and crept to the top of the stairs, the place closest to our parent’s room, the
place we were always the most careful. When we reached the bottom we
saw my father sitting under his Lincoln painting, watching something on TV about Berlin. He turned to us as we reached the first floor.
“Boys—you need to get your sleep.” “But Dad, we aren’t even tired yet,”
Jeb protested. I kept silent. It was best to let Jeb tell our story, and I’d corroborate whatever he said. He was older and smarter and I trusted him.
“Come here,” Dad said and turned off
the TV.
I followed Jeb like a man being led to
the back of a police car. When Jeb got
to the edge of the couch my father put a
hand on his shoulder, and looked him in the eyes.
“You’re it!” he said and sprang from
the couch and headed for the partly
demolished kitchen. Jeb sprinted after
him. I stood frozen for a moment before
I realized what was happening. That was
the first time I suspected my father knew
we would often frollick late into the night, and he did nothing to stop us.
He was like that. He was rarely
impatient and never yelled at us. One
fall when Jeb was in the fifth grade and I was in third, we had been sent to the
principal’s office for our father to come
pick us up. I had been pushed into a wall at recess by John Davis, a fourth grader
who disliked me for the “stupid smile” I
had all the time. I’d tried defending myself
but only managed to swing at air, and then
I’d resorted to shouting for help, but as we were on the far end of the playground, just at the corner of our school building, no
one heard me. I was expecting John to hit me after I’d swung at him, and I winced
in expectation, hoping it wouldn’t hurt as much as I knew it would. But the impact
never came. I opened my eyes and saw Jeb on top of him, pounding his fists into the boy’s chest. I remember how ugly John looked when a teacher finely came and
pulled Jeb off, the blood streaming down his face and mixed with snot and tears that dripped from his chin to his shirt,
leaving deep red stains. I felt like he had saved my life.
When my dad arrived he didn’t speak
to either of us, he just walked past where
we sat and went into the principal’s office. I looked at Jeb who seemed unworried, so I tried to look the same. Dad came
out some time later and gestured us out of the room. When we got to his car he
ushered me up to my seat and closed the
door. Through my window I watched him put both hands on Jeb’s shoulders and
say something. Jeb smiled and looked to
the ground. Then my dad hugged him and walked around to the driver’s door.
“You’re both suspended from school
tomorrow. And it won’t be a fun day at home.” When we got home that
afternoon, as we walked to the right one of our two front doors, my father held
me back a moment, pulled me close and
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VIKAS PIDDEMPALLY | Photo Manipulation
much. That was the last thing he ever said about the fight that day.
The next year Jeb was off to junior high
school, which meant we’d no longer be in the same school building, and my parents thought it best that Jeb get his own room since he was getting older. It was the end of our adventures.
I protested that we should both stay
friend. But each day at lunch he took the hand of some girl and brought her to a
table far from me where she sat down and blocked my view of him. When I brought
it up to my father he said, “It happens son. But it won’t last. Don’t worry. You’ll be pals again in no time.”
But we weren’t. Jeb was in high school
on our side of the duplex, but my father
and by the time I’d caught up with him
the north side for his new office. I would
politics and college, and it made me look
insisted he wanted the larger bedroom on have the smaller guest room to the south. Jeb didn’t argue much, so I agreed for his sake.
The bunk beds came with me, and
on the new campus he was thinking about like a boy clinging to a man. One night I heard Jeb yelling in the living room.
“Son all I’m asking is that you pay
a little bit of attention to him at
the first few nights I would lay on the
school, okay?”
wondering what Jeb was doing, thinking
wave at him across campus. I don’t know
top bunk alone, looking up to nothing,
about how thick the wall was between us, until sleep overcame me and I dreamed of
“I do Dad. I talk to him in the halls and
what you want from me.”
“I know. I know you’re trying, son, but
boyhood games.
I think if you could put a little more effort
he had a girlfriend. I had hoped that he
once in—“
By the time I’d joined Jeb at junior high
20
would show me around the school. Be my
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in, maybe have lunch with him every
“Jesus Dad you want me to change his
“I don’t understand how you can
diapers too? I’m not his babysitter.”
even think of supporting him. I mean for
my house, son…..”
on around you? Do you even understand
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain in I crept back to my room, like Jeb and I
used to do after our nighttime escapades,
God’s sake Dad, do you see what’s going where we sit in a global economy?”
My father, beneath Lincoln, looked up
and fell into a somber sleep.
as though Jeb had told him he loved him.
only involve him explaining to my father
go ahead. We’re proud that you’ve become
His last year of high school seemed to
all the various sins he had committed
in raising us. He had decided to vote for
“Son, if you want to disagree with us, then your own man.”
By the time Jeb got to college I’d
someone else in the upcoming election,
stopped chasing him. He never seemed to
I never knew if he really did it out of
the way the world worked, and in his
someone my parents didn’t support.
some misguided ideology or just to spite my father. The Gulf War was stored
somewhere in my childhood memories and I knew that presidents made those things happen or stopped those things
from happening, but I was too young to
vote, so I just sat on the floor and looked up to Lincoln and my father and Jeb. Jeb spent the evening chastising my parents for their views.
forgive my father for not understanding early twenties Jeb moved to a different
state, trying to put as much space from
my father’s influence as possible. It gave
him a good excuse to not come home on Thanksgiving or Christmas. The travel was just too expensive. He married a
girl we hadn’t met. We got invited to the wedding. He asked a buddy from college to be his best man.
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“ SON, IF YOU WANT TO DISAGREE WITH US, THEN GO AHEAD. WE’RE PROUD THAT YOU’VE BECOME YOUR OWN MAN ”
I’d been in the local technical college
I stumbled from my room to theirs and
my own place. I was still in the same room
I heard ribs cracking and the paramedics
the painting and the TV to our side so we
had tried mouth to mouth but her hands
The bedrooms there remained empty.
blue lips apart or his nose pinched. He had
for a few years, trying to save money for
pounded my fists into Dad’s chest until
I’d had since sixth grade. My dad moved
arrived and dragged me from him. Mom
never went over to Jeb’s side anymore.
shook so badly she could barely keep Dad’s
When my mother suggested tearing down
been dead an hour.
father looked at his feet and shook his
She said she couldn’t stand to live in the
take on such a task now. I offered my help,
took out the door between the two halves
looked at me for a few moments, like he
the north side of the duplex. I took dad’s
then turned from me.
backyard. As it burned the first thing that
arms wrapped around mine and my hands
at his nose and chin, the hand that was
attack a month before I was due to finish
like blood pooling from a wound.
the wall between our side and Jeb’s, my head, mumbling that he was too old to
house anymore, not with Dad gone. I
but he just put a hand on my shoulder,
and refinished the wall and rented out
was searching for something he’d lost, and
painting off the wall and went to the
At Dad’s funeral Jeb hugged me. His
stayed in my pockets. Dad had had a heart school. I had hoped to graduate with him there. I wanted to show him my new
place, the one I finally had enough cash
for. I wanted him there when Jeb wasn’t. My mom had woken up screaming and
22
Mom moved to an apartment in town.
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went was his face. The flames ate away
holding his head, and crept to the darkness
JENNIFER VAUGHN | Photography NCSU 2015 23
CYRUS HOMESLEY | Photo Manipulation
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JOSH MALCHUK | Hand-Lettering & Photography
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KHUSHBU GOSAI | Watercolor WINDHOVER 26
RUTUJA JOSHI
EYES ARE FILLED WITH TEARS Eyes are filled with tears, Mind is full of fears. I don't know how to say I wish you could stay You are going to fly tonight My heart is going to come with you! Ohh dear you have no clue How much it loves you! A warm hug and a forehead kiss I am surely going to miss! Long chats with long fights. I am going to miss such nights. Be it a day or night. You were always within my sights! Now that you are going away. I won't be able to see you right? Many wishes we had. Many dreams we still have, I wish to fulfill all Only if you are the one that I will have!
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NICHOLAS CASALE
SWAN’S SONG Who comes down the hill? None but her. I want to talk about the gulf of time, The guilty yawn, How I’ve felt? It’s merely speculation. With this fading memory, I can tell myself She wasn’t that great, And truly, If she’s not around anymore, She must not be good for me. I think I remember tension. Sure, tension. Sooner or later the apathy fades, too, And what emerges is a careful center. All this contrived longing, I’m simply inventing my sorrow, and everything I’ve ever wanted or Felt can be found in the Drone rhythm of last night. They are the future, the grim present. Xiu Xiu barked seven times at me, At the rest of the crowd, Whom he sought to displease.
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Swans was louder, And I thought They would make my Swan’s song The last song I ever heard. I threw my arms seven times, To cross the pool, I slept for seven hours, And worked seven more. I’ve been so angry lately! I’m very sure of it. Anxious dreams force me awake. I find myself awake, I’m upright, and I know no pain, I think I saw him say, “What’s my name?” I know I didn’t hear it. Stimulus-Response Nothing is justified, Birds of a feather flock together, I just want out. It’s a verbal assault, not a memory. This is a splash zone. What would I do, If I saw it again? There is no love, No thing.
LAUREN LU | Photography
Everything is simultaneously Irreproachable and awfully wrong.
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EMMAWINDHOVER SMITH | Photography 30
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MONICA GALLETO | Photography
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ALEX PETERCUSKIE
A HAIKU Love is salty tears Overwhelming the spirit And clogging its ears.
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ANONYMOUS
THOUGHTS OF US
Do you think of me? All I can think of Are those long summer nights, Time melting into blurred heated drops Stretching out windingly into a still dream. I used to dream of you Curling up under warm covers even in the heat, Slightly melted ice cubes clinking in our coffee, My fingers tracing each and every treasured line on your face. But then I’d wake back up in the moment that melted me to sleep And all I’d have for company Would be my own rumpled sheets and slats of stale sunlight. Maybe you wonder if I love you. All I can tell you is that each day we are apart I forget a little more about myself. Every day is a new day, But it’s also a continuation Of the same, long, never-ending stretch That deludes you into hoping That maybe, just maybe Today will be different.
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ANNA DULANEY | CHARCOAL
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CYRUS HOMESLEY | Photo Manipulation WINDHOVER
LYNN A. ALBERS
COMING TOGETHER
That moment when you really love someone That moment where you don’t know what to say That moment when your heart speaks and your soul listens That moment when you realize that you don’t want anyone else That moment when you realize the vastness of this world Is bearable because of him. And you don’t know why. All you know is that your soul is at peace near his soul; Your soul is at rest in his. That moment that you know your role in life is to protect his soul, Because his protects yours. That together you are stronger That together you will survive that together you will love.
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DANIEL KANG
STRANGER Deranged of those floating blossoms soaking through the heart of such besmirched obliviousness; Mystery calls for a chime in the drift of your melting pheromones. Swaying along with the rhythm, creeping up the spine as one dreams a breathless daze for a timeless charm of your dawning background sunset. Who, I, an infinitesimal being, measure a slight of delight in sharing the same breeze at each moment you gently cushion the rocks in the abyss of those turquoise eyes, alluring with those naturally carved smiles. How flowers learn to open themselves up hearing the singing Orpheus-- awakening even, surrounded sleeping stones. The fortune! Unforgotten, of that silent delivery in our playful midst of this implacable, perpetual scheme; resurface the very rusted chain once which parted our islands afar, needless of words, letting yet again the conjoining waves mesh in accord with opaque current; searching senselessly for a dock, to ship in.
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ZARA IMAM | Photography NCSU 2015 39
PAM VALLE PERRY | Fashion Photography WINDHOVER 40 ERIN HOLLOWAY | Model
CYRUS HOMESLEY | Digital Artwork
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BRISTOL BOWMAN
THE BROKEN HOUSE (An excerpt)
HOMICIDE DETECTIVE Kate Blakely pulled
and well-manicured, and the two-story
her Smart Watch indicated. Having
of those surrounding it. As Kate trudged
over her situation, she realized she felt
a young girl’s bike leaning against the
Ivey Terrace and stopped at the house
colonial was almost a cookie cutter replica
had a twenty-minute drive to mull
up the steep cement driveway, she noticed
apprehensive about being called so early
garage door and her blood went cold.
even less pleased that she was going in
my first case back. she hoped fervently,
about a seemingly secret case. She was
without her homicide partner, even if her colleague Justin Armstrong was the one requesting her help.
Justin had called her in the middle of
the night and asked her to meet him at a crime scene, but had been very secretive
and clearly bothered by whatever he had found. He had insisted that Kate come
immediately and without her homicide
partner, Daniel Goodman. She had worked alongside Justin for a few years and didn’t believe she would be in any danger, but
would have preferred less mystery and the
company of her regular partner on her first day back from maternity leave. 42
The lawn before her was square
off Highway 298 into a subdivision called
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It can’t be a child homicide. Not for
hearing thunder rumble not too far in the distance. That would hit a little too close to home right now.
She approached the front door and
found it slightly ajar. She dropped her soaked umbrella on the doorstep and
stepped inside cautiously. A stairway was on her immediate left, and the narrow
hallway in front of her seemed to open into a living room. Her boots made
clacking noises on the hardwood floor as she ventured further inside.
“Justin?” she called, and heard
movement near the back of the house.
Her hand dropped to her hip instinctively,
reaching for a gun that wasn’t there, but
Kate dared not look at the victim’s
Justin appeared from around the corner
face. She found she couldn’t breathe, that
been able to go to the station to pick up
too strong. She searched for a window
with raised hands. Kate wished she had her service weapon and her badge, but Justin’s urgency in his comm call
the scent of blood and decomposition was or a door and found one behind her,
which she unlocked and slid open hastily.
had worried her.
She stepped outside onto a sheltered
understand why when you see what I’ve
overwhelmed her. She rested her head
kitchen and into the living room. The
to the rain as it poured in sheets beside
she put her hand over her mouth to keep
she wouldn’t be sick, and found Justin
“Thanks for coming, Kate. You’ll
concrete porch, and bent over as nausea
found,” he said, and led her past the
between her knees for a moment, listening
smell of death hit Kate like a wave, and
her. She straightened when she was sure
from gagging.
standing in the doorway.
Justin stopped in the middle of the
hallway and placed an arm on the wall, blocking her path. His expression was tired, despondent. When he spoke it
was with obvious effort. “He’ll be hard
to recognize, but it’s Jeff Sharp. I know you two had history, but I thought you
deserved some warning,” he said heavily,
and let his arm fall. “If you want to leave, I’ll understand.”
Kate felt like the wind had been
“ HER HAND DROPPED TO HER HIP INSTINCTIVELY, REACHING FOR A GUN THAT WASN’T THERE ”
knocked out of her, and considered
walking back out the door. Before she
could make a decision either way, her eyes locked on a blood spatter streaked across the off-white carpet. Her gaze followed
the crimson trail across the living room,
and she stepped past Justin to find a body
sprawled across the couch. The man wore dark boxers and a white undershirt that
had been ruined by a large wound in his
head. A mix of blood, brain, and bone was smeared against the yellow wall, and the
coffee table in front of him was shattered into hundreds of tiny glass shards.
She struggled to find her voice, and
fought the urge to glare at the other
detective. “You shouldn’t have called me here,” she said, her throat dry.
Her face was hot, and she couldn’t
decide if it was out of sadness, anger, or both. She and Jeff had dated when
she first started working at the Atlanta Police Department, as he had been in the Homicide Division before being
transferred to Narcotics. Everything had
been fine for the first few months, but the longer they saw each other, the more
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MARK DEMARIA | Photography
argumentative and possessive he became.
waited for him to finish. She could see that
as it affected his relationship and his work.
the two men had been partners before
His drinking had made Kate uncomfortable, When Kate ended things, Jeff had become violent.
She had promptly broken his nose in
self-defense, and had avoided him ever
since. Kate wondered if perhaps the same had happened in his current relationship, and his partner had been less forgiving.
“I’m sorry, Kate. I just wanted you to see
everything for yourself, so you could decide if you could handle it.” Justin said, joining her on the small porch. Lightning
flashed in the sky, and thunder rumbled
a few moments later. “I was covering for someone and responded to the call, but
now that I’m here,” he trailed off, and Kate
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the situation pained him, and she knew Jeff’s transfer.
“I know it’s a lot to take in, but since
you were first on the scene, Captain Stone
won’t see any reason not to let you stay on
the case,” he reasoned. “I’m glad you came.
I’m almost certain this wasn’t a suicide, and
you’re a thorough investigator. If anyone can find his killer, you can.”
“But I wasn’t first on the scene.” Kate
said, wondering why he was acting so
strange. She still felt queasy, and goose
bumps prickled her skin. “This is a hell of a case to start back on. And just because
you two were partners doesn’t mean you couldn’t take it.”
Kate heard movement from inside
the loss of his friend, and wasn’t thinking
the house and her body tensed. “I think I
clearly. “Have you talked to them yet?”
check the house when you got here?” As
doubtfully. “This is your case, if you’ll
she wanted to kick herself.
I think Jeff was murdered because of
not as defensively as Kate might have
sharply. “Someone he put away?”
offended. “His wife and daughter
he was putting together some evidence
should look upstairs,” she said. “Did you
soon as the words were out of her mouth, “Of course I did,” he said, though
expected. He looked sad rather than are upstairs.”
Kate’s eyes widened. “You left them
waiting up there?”
“I couldn’t just let them leave. They
have to be interviewed.”
“How are you supervising them from
here?” she demanded, but she wasn’t truly angry with him. He was clearly grieving
“She thinks this was a suicide.” he said
take it. But I need to tell you something. case he was investigating.” Kate inhaled “No.” Justin replied solemnly. “I think
against a few of the guys in Narcotics, but that he didn’t have all the proof he needed.”
Kate broke out in a cold sweat despite
the chilly weather. “Dirty cops? Seriously? What are you trying to drag me into?”
“I know this probably isn’t how you
wanted to start—” he began.
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“No, it isn’t. But you’re right that
something seems off about all of this,”
Kate admitted. From what she knew about
officer-related suicides, most cops ate their guns to ensure accuracy. The wound to
Jeff’s right temple was straight on, as if
someone had been sitting across from him and pulled the trigger. While she hadn’t had a chance to check for forced entry,
the broken coffee table seemed to indicate
about it in the report, they’ll will know that we know,” she said, relieved that
she hadn’t been assigned her wearable technology yet. The idea of all of her
on-duty activities being recorded didn’t
appeal to her as of yet, even if it was for the purpose of recording evidence and promoting police accountability.
After a long moment of quiet
there had been a struggle.
consideration, with only the sound of rain
to go back inside. “Make sure the wife
have to sort it out the Narcotics angle
Kate sighed and gestured for Justin
isn’t trying to leave or tampering with
anything. Keep her here so I can question her. I’m going to comm Daniel and get
falling, she gave in. “You’re right. We’ll
later then bring it to the captain when we know more.”
“We’d have to come to him with solid
a couple of MEs down here.” she said,
evidence. Don’t you think Jeff would have
reasons why she shouldn’t get involved.
a hunch?” she asked.
running over in her mind the dozens of Justin’s face softened slightly. “So,
you’ll do it?”
“I don’t know why it has to be me.”
“Because I know you.” he said simply
with a broad, grateful smile. “You can look at him and see more than just a drunk.
You see a victim. I know you’ll do right by him, even given your history.”
“You don’t think that would make me
biased?” she asked, raising an eyebrow
gone to his supervisor if he had more than “I’m not going to play guessing games
right now.” Kate said, trying not to sound too harsh or dismissive. She doubted
it was a coincidence that Jeff had been
killed while investigating his co-workers, but she knew better than to let it steer
her investigation. She followed facts, not theories. “Finding his killer is the top priority, whether or not it’s related.”
Reluctantly, Justin nodded and headed
at him.
back into the house. Kate leaned against
justice in your cases, not closures. I can’t
bolt of lightning flashed against the gray-
He shrugged. “I know that you look for
say that about everyone at the station.” He paused and glanced inside the house. “Do
you think you could keep Narcotics out of it for now?”
“You mean lie?” Kate asked.
Justin rubbed at his neck, stalling.
“That might be why he’s dead.”
Kate felt a twinge of fear at the base
46
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the sliding door and took a deep breath. A purple sky, and thunder followed soon after. What have I been dragged into? she wondered.
KRISTIE KIM | Watercolor
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JENNA LAGONIGRO | Jewelry Design
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ANNA DULANEY | Pen & Ink
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SYDNEY JONES | Photography
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DARREN LIPMAN
APPLIED KINEMATICS We are but particle in motion. At the corner we gather on either side Of the street, repulsed By the charge of cars streaming by, Our dielectric thick with the smog Of exhaust and the bored breath In our lungs we cannot cross, Collecting magnitude and building numbers Until they cannot hold us back, And we converge, one side to another. The current completed. The circuit broken. In larger spaces we stand numb And dumbstruck in the absence Of any material to constrain us. We congregate in clusters, Coagulate in communities, Expand to fill the space around us, Commensurate to the idleness of our hands. We uproot forests and trees To plant pillars of stone and steel Always aiming against the maximum The unreachable end, reality’s supremum Of total dominion and articulation, When our survival can be assured. Our mere existence proven.
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DARREN LIPMAN
CELESTIAL Each year I learned that starlight can pool like water In a dark field of grass turned to ice A river of meteors: I counted twenty-three, a prime number, So it must be fate. The last one Made the sky ripple, burned like a broken spark plug On a winter night, the gasoline Crushed beneath cold, condensed air. We shivered In the car, waiting for the tow truck to come. One evening I climbed to the top of a parking deck And lay back upon the bent cement Stenciled in great arcs, Deep grooves my fingers could fill, twirling like Cabaret dancers In a tour bus, five pulses Formed from one. I raised my hands To block the streetlight glow And see the stars. If I could capture the universe I could enumerate every point of light: either they are finite Or countably infinite, But what’s speakable is breakable So I choose silence, And hope.
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KHUSHBU GOSAI | Watercolor NCSU 2015
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LAUREN LU | Photography
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MORGAN PARRISH
WILBUR I had a love affair with a bike named Wilbur. Summer.
The air was hot, the sun was radiant. We were young, itching for adventure. He, dusty and abandoned. Me, lonely and exhausted. Companions we needed, Companions we found, There in my Dad’s old shop. The first time we touched, we raced Down sidewalks and streets, Past houses and oceans, We flew. Hands on his handlebars, Wind licking my cheeks, Alive. I rode quickly into a love affair with Wilbur. Spandex clad, backpack held, I became one with his frame. Spinning wheels and squeaking breaks Seduced me in their escapades. Piers, Lighthouses, Sound, Sea, We traveled to mystical lands. On arrival, I dismounted, Caught my breath, sat beside him.
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Here, I felt beauty in the world and in me. I drew masterpieces. He looked on silently. Then, we rode on. I cared for him. Changing tires, fine-tuning gears, I worked when he was weak. In exchange, He cared for me. Strong, aluminum arms carried me Far, far, far away When I needed to escape the fight. Quietly spinning wheels listened To my rants of those horrors That broke my spirit. When my heart was lonely, When my dreams were empty, He held me. When my work was painful, When my future was bleak,
LAUREN LU & KIRSTEN SOUTHWELL | Photography
He soothed me. He became my solace, My knight, My friend.
As one, we rode. I was a woman
Bound by the chains of expectations, Enslaved by the thorns of perfection.
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I hid behind masks, The ones others made for me. They gave me compassion, Kindness, Hardworking, Gifted, But I stopped liking the masks. One handed me inadequate. Another, inferior. Judgmental. Shallow. Hopeless. I scratched at the masks. I tore at them, removed them, But they tore at my skin, Ripped away flesh, left behind A distorted, broken me. Weak, I crawled in a love affair with Wilbur. He gave me no mask. He gave me no chains. No, never, not once. I came to Wilbur, just as I was, And he whispered, “You’re perfectly beautiful. Occasionally cracked, Temporarily bruised, But relentlessly strong.” Without protests or doubts, He undusted the mirror to show me Me. No mask. No title. Me. I became free in a love affair with Wilbur. 58
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KHUSHBU GOSAI | Pencil and Ink
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CYRUS HOMESLEY | Photo Manipulation WINDHOVER 60
WYATT BOND
OZYMANDIUS (WONDER) I dreamt of a world spinning by Caught in bits of sand and flung about By the exhaust of passing cars, bright greens and yellows Like the last day between spring and summer in a wet year Where my seatmate's accent is melting between my ears Like the hoarfrost at the edge of the water, Cold and sensual and natural And slipping between my fingers As she tells me of her home far from here And the great monuments that are gravestones and texture On a vast abstract painting, Vivid in the reflection of new sunglasses And newer mirrored high-rise buildings, Humming with commerce and trade, That I can see the reflection of monuments and her old country In the polished chromium sides of dollar hot-dog carts Tended by Caliban and other visions of raccoon players, Masked and made up, reciting the lines that were fed to them So that they would not have to break their tender hearts And open up their breast to a flash of understanding Discussed by two strangers on an outbound old bus.
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MALLORY SHORT | Photography WINDHOVER 62
JENNA LAGONIGRO & SARAH PARKS | Product Design Elmehandmade.com
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ANONYMOUS
SUNSHINE ALWAYS His hands grazing the sun-splashed glass He realizes This is a world where his sweetheart can dream and dance. He thinks about it, About freedom and life and euphoria. He tells his friends he drinks for merriment, rather than solace, And they look at him as if he’s gone mad, And for a while he thinks they’re right But loses that sense when she kisses him in the rain— If she’s in the world, it must be beautiful. His parents dream of freedom. He tells them their dream has already come true. They look at him as if he’s a child. For a while, he feels demeaned But loses that too when she makes him laugh. He realizes a child is what he wants to be, And all the world carries on in its ignorance While he finds bliss, holding her Amidst moon-glazed, creamy walls They stay awake for nights upon nights Because together, They make reality better than any dream.
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MALLORY SHORT | Photo Manipulation NCSU 2015
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EMMA SMITH | Photography
MONICA GALLETTO | Photography
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JAMES KORNEGAY
GENIUS Genius: With not a drop to spare. The empty place between us, Sprawling space we cannot share. No lack of love, longing lust or loathing lilts Still, you cannot hide in the space there. But, you ask, what if I seem pristine? if in ink I arm myself with love if writing is teeming with meaning, Saying love, and love, and love? Meaningless: To treat it all with care. When the ripened fruit busts The worms all crawl from there. Maggots making mockery of your muse, But oh, do not despair. Do not despair. For you still let love go in salvos feigning everything but that, keeping action as distraction, Saying love. and love. and love. Oh Genius, Brooklyn’s ferry is not above. You’ve made this space between us, You’ve wrecked the ferry hereof, Blithely beckoning and begging me to come Saying love, and love, and love.
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ANNA DULANEY | Pen & Ink
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PAUL HARVEL
BACKWATER BLOSSOM (An excerpt)
ANDY TOOK OFF RUNNING toward the
against the silver moon hanging above.
and went around back. He took one look
him and deep within them he could hear
gymnasium then slipped off to the side
at the grass stains on his white shirt and knew they were far beyond any repair a bottle of peroxide could do. The entire
day and evening felt like it had lasted an eternity. Andy wondered, after all that
had happened, how he would explain to his father that he’d gotten roughed up at the middle school dance. He stared at his two watches that he had spent
so much time picking out to match his
outfit. The face on one had cracked. The sight of it made him feel like someone was standing on his chest. He realized
that his outfit, fashioned after his favorite actress,Blossom,was too fashion forward, too much for the kids at his backwater
school to handle. Andy took both watches
The woods lay only a few feet away from
the whippoorwills begin their evening call. He walked to the edge of the forest, pines and oaks deep, stretching for endless
miles. Andy thought about that word—
faggot—that the lanky boy had called him. The look of disgust on his face was still fresh in Andy’s mind as though it had
been seared into his memory. Finally, he
stopped fighting and gave in to the lump in his throat. Tears slowly rolled down
his cheeks. He turned when he heard the
sound of footsteps and saw the silhouette
of Mr. Joyce, the gym teacher, in the moon shadows. Andy would rather have another round with the popular boys than to be consoled by Mr. Joyce.
He took off running into the woods,
off and tucked them into his pockets.
holly trees scratching at his arms in the
the cool red brick; his pale chest glowing
was going, like someone was waiting for
He took his shirt off then leaned against
darkness. He ran like he knew where he
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him out there, and he was already twenty
listening to the whippoorwills cry until he
an oak tree, sucked in a few deep breaths,
of angry Indians, but, rather, a little boy
minutes late. Andy came to a stop beneath then laid down on the ground. He stared up into the darkness of the pines and
waited. After a few minutes of nothing
more than the occasional deer crunching leaves in the distance it surprised him that an arrow hadn’t pierced through
the air and struck the oak he was lying
under, or, that one of the Indians from a
tribe he’d convinced himself lived in the woods hadn’t snatched him under his
arm, stealing him off into the scribbles of trees and darkness. He was almost disappointed.
realized that they didn’t sound like a tribe far on the other side of the forest crying
out his window into the loneliness to find a kindred spirit. Andy’s thoughts trailed
off becoming more like abstract images of a Picasso floating across a sea of darkness until his eyelids grew heavy. Then, just like those thundery nights where the
cracks of lighting and rolls of thunder
lulled him into dreamland the sandman stole him away.
He felt like he was floating; stomach
weightless, arms like wings. And he knew it wasn’t real but it felt so good he went
along with it. He felt every branch on the oaks and pines trying to pull him back
“ HE FELT LIKE HE WAS FLOATING; STOMACH WEIGHTLESS, ARMS LIKE WINGS”
down while he floated above the tree tops. Far off in the distance the stars looked like the shape of skyscrapers reaching
into the sky. One of the buildings stuck out, it was higher than all the rest and
there was something about it that made
him feel like he’d been there before, like
it was where he was supposed to be. The very top of it was so bright, lit up with a
strange occurrence of light. Andy floated The air was still and the whippoorwills
crying, slow and steady. He calmed his crying down to match the rhythm of
the whippoorwills and took one of the
watches from his pocket. Too dark to see, he ran his thumb across the cracked face of the watch. He felt a stir somewhere
inside, past the shame, past the hurt—a
longing for something that he felt like he
could almost touch it was so near. He put one watch back on his wrist and lay there
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closer until he saw little windows in
the buildings. He squinted his eyes and though it was far off he could see the
blurry outline of a boy knelt down in one of the windows. When he saw the boy, the whippoorwills cried so loud their
call exploded across the expanse of the
midnight blue sky. The distance to reach
the boy seemed like it rested somewhere
outside of time. He kept floating towards
him though; slowly at first then faster and faster toward the crying, farther into the
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JOSH MALCHUK | Illustration
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JENNIFER VAUGHN | Pencil
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GALLETO | Pen & Ink WINDHOVER 74MONICA
ALEX PETERCUSKIE
LITTLE HAVANA STREETS Sip a cafe con leche when it's been a rough day, When all I need is the smile of your face See through brown eyes like rich mahogany grains. They never shed a tear, And they never hide away. You're cold to the touch, And my words aren't enough Still you remain my lion on fire, My tropical palm tree in the rough. These Miami streets are strangling me. Without you, it is only trash I breathe.
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WYATT BOND
PAINTERS (GRIEF) The last time I didn't see you I said I think I'll just see you next time. That I would stop by your house On the edge of my pre-car reckoning Far gone to the depths of wild continents Where there be dragons and other tales From beyond the edge of the world. I write this now from the other side Of that one way wall, a trip that I'm Not ready to take, not like you turned out To be, and if I'm being honest, this is more For me than it is for you, bridging a gap Between what was and what is to be. You did the Thorazine shuffle right out Of your mortal coil. These are all sheep Ready for the slaughter, to be opened Bled, disemboweled and hung up To honor old gods with wooly Christmas Ornaments, that is what we collectively had To offer to you after the imposed event Horizon that spun away from the center. Like a top on a string and went out with A bang, another drunk 4th of July at the Casino on the rez, non-participatum of Course, that's just grass on the wind. How mad, the edge of shadow that Swallows the hard outline of the world And crafts instead a fuzzy softness 76
MARIA MARTINEZ | Photography
Full of the innumerable terrors of the night That demanded the creation of fire And light and friction and heat. That is what fills humanity's heart And gives us more than a little goodness, But when we lose it, we lose it with the Grace of a gun in the hands of a child. And you were a child, after all I know because I was a child too. Somewhere a finger twitched in the Dark or the light and the whole world Was painted in the beautiful red hues Of sorrow and inconsequential apology
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JENNIFER VAUGHN | Pencil & Ink
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MALLORY SHORT | Photo Manipulation
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CYRUS HOMESLEY | Photo Manipulation WINDHOVER 80
MARY KATE JAGODA
NOW A cold absence of quiet aching fills these pale days. Wrapped tight and safe in the dark of blanketed stillness, recollection comes. It washes me in moments of there, then, and when— Frozen fingers; frozen toes; stick to nothing but static. Chilled to life, tranquil: numbness holds those memories— and now I stand in sight of the frigid expanse; future: frosted field, the frozen, fog-wrapped precipice of my impending everything and now—
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MARY KATE JAGODA
AN EXPLICATION OF YOUR LETTER, A LETTER (DEAR SETH) The orange lighthouse stamp stuck on one corner turns life-like when I hold it close. Through squinted eyes, about to close, I almost see that rocky coast rise up from the sea. Thank you for your letter about where you’re going, and where you’ve been; the ink words stand up like people, on their crisp cream-colored ground. I can hear their joyful laughter ringing in the words you wrote. You sent me three dear voices in that salt-sprayed envelope. The scent of sea still lingers as you describe sitting on those craggy cliffs. The three of you reading Frost and Longfellow—Robert Lowell too— I hope you read his “Skunk Hour” with its fox-stained hill called Blue. Pressing down each old key with care, I imagine you tap, tap, tapping on your nifty antique device, relating my verses to Lowell’s. (My goodness, how that’s nice!) Dear friend, after such an epistle traveled from typewriter to mailbox to hand, I thought it only fitting to respond by poem not set, but penned.
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MARIA MARTINEZ | Photography NCSU 2015 83
MONICA GALLETTO | Photography
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PHILIPP LINDEMANN
FAR OFF FROM PARADISE Excommunicated from the shore. I tried to make myself your life raft. You let yourself sink With your heavy indecision. Floating in a cold, open ocean. I guess you liked the way your skin spiked up. Little porcupine. Big girl with her fists out. I wonder how it feels To hold you when your guard is down. Carrying the guilt of reckless wishing, We are here as bodies, lost and confused. Drowning on my own. I went with the waves and left the shore Searching, Finding but never reaching.
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AMANDA OTTEN | Character Design
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MALLORY SHORT | Photo Manipulation WINDHOVER 88
NICKY VAUGHT
BLUSH
Your embarrassed skin obscures my vision Until I take off my glasses, always in the way, Everything works around a pinkish hue; All in my sight clamors for a chance, too, to kiss you. We navigate the crowds of cool hipsters Smoking away their silhouettes; we’re invited Only ‘til breakfast, then we’ve got to go.
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BRIAN DARST
APP STORE Behold! The instruments sharp minds have made to bring us close and help our knowledge grow. But cheap desires cast progress into shade, and Business never lets a dollar go. And now that he has finally found the key to endless entertainment ‘til we die we’re locked in cyclic, gilded misery unyielding to the junkie’s warning cry: “The first hit’s always free, but then you pay.” Our brains still wired by laws Nature has writ we tap and click and piss our lives away to please the Id and keep our faces lit. Old Business sneers at us; he understands how power shatters in our clumsy hands.
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KHUSHBU GOSAI | Pencil
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MALLORY SHORT | Photo Manipulation WINDHOVER 92
JOSH MALCHUK | Colored Pencil
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LAUREN LU | Photography WINDHOVER 94
A LETTER FROM THE EDITOR I would like to thank Frank Pulley and Theo Davis for their continued
support and generosity. Your benevolence throughout the years is a large
part of what makes this beautiful publication possible. Your kindness and advice are much appreciated.
Thank you, Martha Collins. I admire your dedication to the publication,
and your guidance was invaluable throughout the year. I am truly lucky to
have you as an adviser. Thank you to Patrick Neal and Douglas Flowers for
your continued support. Special thanks to Technician for your immense help in publicity, and to WKNC 88.1 FM for gladly allowing us the use of your equipment during our events. The entire Student Media staff has proved
to be a tremendous support, and working as a team is what gives us all the ability to be the best we can be.
A special thank you to George Thomas at the Crafts Center. I’m grateful
that you have always gone out of your way to help us, and the venue you
provided us is always perfect for our events. Thank you for your enthusiasm, and for providing us flexibility when we needed it the most, especially given the snow days this year!
A huge thanks to my design team. You were a breath of fresh air for the
magazine. Thank you for devoting so much of your time to developing the
publication. I loved working with all of you, and really appreciate the talent
and creative ideas you brought to Windhover. Without my design team, this publication would not have been possible.
Thank you to my committee heads for their input on the submissions,
allowing the publication to showcase a diverse collection of pieces. I’d like to thank my friends and family for supporting me in my
decisions. Thank you for believing in me, and making these wonderful experiences possible.
And finally, thanks to you, the reader. The entire process of creating
Windhover leads up to you. We hope you enjoy it!
-Ajita Banerjea windhover-editor@ncsu.edu
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ABOUT WINDHOVER DESIGN TEAM DESIGNERS Lauren Lu
EDITOR Ajita Banerjea
Vikas Piddempally Vishnu Veeramachaneni Sarah Bowman
ADVISER Martha Collins
COMMITTEE MEMBERS VISUAL COMMITTEE
SHORT STORY COMMITTEE
Abigail Chapman (Committee Head)
Erin Holloway (Committee Head)
Saiswathi Krothapalli Ashley Davis
POETRY/ PROSE COMMITTEE Akira Romero (Committee Head) Khushbu Gosai
Alison Nailor Abigail Zarzar
AUDIO COMMITTEE Julie Smitka (Committee Head) David Smith Coleen Kinen-Ferguson
PRINTING TYPEFACES Milo OT Iowan Old Style Roboto
PRINTER Theo Davis Printing
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PAPER TYPES Inspire Earth white dull 80# cover Cougar white smooth 80# text UV Ultra radiant white 28# dividers
AUDIO CONTRIBUTORS 1. “I WEAR MY RIBS LIKE A SHIRT” ‘AINT CASALE 2. “STEAK AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW” ‘AINT CASALE 3. “6-2-14” ‘AINT CASALE 4. “SOMEONE IN THE RAIN” HASSAN DURANT 5. “UNTITLED” PAUL WILLIAMS
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