Volume 42 by Silhouette Literary and Art Magazine

SILHOUETTE LITERARY

AND

VOL. 42

ART

MAGAZINE

FALL 2017

SILHOUETTE LITERARY

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VOL. 42

ART

MAGAZINE

FALL 2017

Silhouette is a literary and arts publication focused on fostering and encouraging creative expression 344 Squires Student Center Blacksburg, Virginia 24061 www.silhouette.collegemedia.com

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LETTER FROM THE EDI TOR Dear Readers, Welcome! I am excited that you have found your way to the pages of Silhouette! This is my third semester as Editor-in-Chief and my fifth semester working with the magazine, so I love this publication a lot. Our staff is so excited to share this labor of love with you all. We received an overwhelming amount of submissions for this cycle and we are so proud to present our selective creatives in the Fall 2017 edition of Silhouette Literary and Art Magazine. As an organization that aims to promote all forms of creativity at Virginia Tech, we hope that you are inspired by the vivid photography, expressive art, lyrical poetry and beautiful prose that we have selected for this edition. I hope you love this magazine just as much as we do! Thank you,

Layne Mandros Editor-in-Chief

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THE ASTRONAUT B Y TAY L O R T H A C K A B E R R Y

We spent years dreaming of the sky As children, me and my sister. Nights camping, gazing at the void From the safety of the earthen ground. A cardboard spaceship, milk jug helmet, One day to be bound for the stars. By some alignment of the stars We became students of the sky. Assigned our bunk, suit, and helmet. Astrophysics was hard but my sister Studied all night, books spread on the ground. No lesson escaped to the void. Physical tests--spinning with my stomach void And my eyes black with dizzy stars. The simulator knocked me to the ground Without ever leaving for the sky. But I was tough, and my sister Was there to pick up my helmet. We posed for photos, in hand my helmet Faces angled towards the black void. Space Girls, they called us--me and my sister. She was the best in our class. One of the stars. With a dream as big as the sky Aboard the next shuttle to leave the ground.

COAST

Her head in the clouds, her feet on the ground. My little sister, with her big heart and too-big helmet Would be the first of us to see the sky. The youngest astronaut ever to explore the void. I prayed for her safety to the stars And said a tearful goodbye to my sister. The crew assembled, in their number my sister And rockets exploded from the ground. A jet malfunction sent up sparks like fiery stars, Creating an impact, no match for her helmet. A spaceship that would never make it to the void. The explosion painted smoke on the sky. With my sister departed into the void, I removed my helmet, threw it to the ground. Turning from the sky to never again look at the stars.

BY MICHAEL BRUSSEL 10

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ANTELOPE CANYON BY BRIDGET OLSON

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B A S E L PA R T O N E BY CHARLOTTE NASWORTHY

WINDOW

BY MICHAEL BRUSSEL

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HEART SHOP BY HH HSUEH Please donate today

Kirkland jar that has never

Please donate today

been full, not of pretzels

Please donate today Please

past the cracked plastic

donate today Please

desk with its small golden

donate today Please. Kuda. Pull it together. Five

nameplate, which is the only thing worth stealing in this whole shebang—

and pale little pot bellies

here in her cracked

and we run, run even as

yellow office that she shares with a third-rate dentist. Half of the pamphlets politely beg you to

Past the nurses and part-time doctors, who all look so young,

we seem to pass again and

The rookie nurse looks

and it’s scratched with

the difference between a crease

name in cruel characters

Stop No Stop No Stop.

past the rookie nurse, who

while the other half knows

as an afterthought,

our pristine hearts sing out

please donate today please

as Kuda would call it—

the rookie nurse’s

and puffy red legs

only to her

minutes until lunch.

set to punch him, and maybe

and a fold. Been there, done that, clenched their

to punch me too.

we’ll never learn to

blankets into little fists

She looks about our age.

read or pronounce.

at night – phantom coughs

again in scrubs and now in a lab coat and and always with a look that seems to say My time. You are on my time.

We run past

in the emergency rooms

In these halls, in this

pass it to Kuda.

the double doors and

a floor below us – and so

hospital, the walls are

Crease fold snap divide

mirror windows and

earned the right to demand

Crease fold snap divide

pass it to Kuda. Crease snap fuck shit divide

peapod chambers that display the soft pink things hooked

pass it to Kuda. Two

up every which way to

minutes until lunch.

hard plastic, cold metal,

The rookie nurse knows exactly when we sneak a look at the cracked yellow

and never of cash,

clock, as if time belongs

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tubes and needles that poke and jut every which way out of soft pink

from you: Donate Today. Lunch time. LUNCH, Kuda shouts and now we run— run laughing past the fat old

yellow and cracked. Like clockwork, all the hearts here are set to the same brief time. Kuda wheezes and snorts and I laugh though I can’t hear anything above the beating of my heart.

arms

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DANCER

B Y K A I L A N AT H A N I E L 18

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MIRROR MIRROR BY CELESTE FINELLI VOL 42.

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L E A F

BY JUSTUS DARBY

HIDDEN

B Y A L E X A N D E R P E N A M AT H E U S

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SWEETIE BY SHALINI RANA

when older men call me sweetie I feel jolted my dad never called me sweetie should he have? I feel loved in a strange way. why does it feel dirty and sexual and beautiful at the same time. like you saw my soul for a split second and then looked away. but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just a word or is it, a word is not just a word is a word. I am not your younger muse your Lolita. but I kind of like it when you call me sweetie. sweetie.

THE DIALOGUE BY HANNAH THOMASCLARKE

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TWO BOXERS BY HANNAH THOMASCLARKE 24

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LO O K I N G F U T U R E : PA S T BY HANNAH THOMASCLARKE VOL 42.

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M U S TA R D S W E AT E R BY MADISON N. MADRAZO

They were facing opposite directions. Not because they were directly upset with one another, but because it had become more comfortable. They knew that turning around would lead to talking, and neither were necessarily in the mood to do that. Their spines touched as their minds wandered, aimlessly thinking of other things; Emily thought about how warm and inviting Alice’s bed used to be, while Alice considered texting another girl from biology back. It wasn’t that they had fallen out of love; rather, it was they had come to realize they had never really fallen in love. It was — it had always been — artificial. Emily didn’t exactly think Alice was anything special; but a couple months ago, she was wearing a low cut shirt with a short skirt, and it seemed like she was the only single girl she met at that bar. And Emily didn’t have anything (or anyone) better to do. They didn’t really say much to each other that night,just slurred, meaningless words. Emily half-smiled when she remembered how she drunkenly fumbled when she tried to unzip her skirt, and how she could not remember if her name was Allie or Alice. At first, everything was fine; the late night texts were standard protocol, almost automatic on both ends. Drunk college girls texting late at night about hooking up. They played mind games with one another, as if waiting to text back would somehow make the other more interested, or if Alice liking another girl’s picture on Instagram would make Emily jealous. But then late nights became early morning breakfast, and grabbing coffee on campus, and Friday night dinners. And somehow, casual sex turned into this average relationship, filled with fall pictures at pumpkin patches and game nights with their other friends who were in monogamous relationships and a relationship status on Facebook. They thought that attempting to be a traditional couple made them normal, and normal people were supposed to be happy. Emily’s eyes began to dart around the room, trying to remember what it felt like the first time she was there— she decided the walls looked smaller and the sheets looked yellower. She also decided she needed to end things with Alice, yet as she looked at her mustard sweater sitting on top of Alice’s biology textbooks the corner, she wasnt exactly sure if she was ready bring it home.

SCALING

BY CHARLOTTE NASWORTHY 26

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I N E SC A PA B L E R E A L I T Y BY BODHIE LONG

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REAL LIFE MAKE BELIEVE BY CHEYENNE FRANKLIN Real Life Make Believe

Desperately they comb their fingers through their yarny hair.

A little girl sits quietly and stares into a box.

No one makes a motion, but they feel the others stare.

With legs tucked under belly, she peaks through golden locks. A dimpled chin sits comfortably in a pair of idle hands.

Across the aisle a man looks on, wooden, splintered, trim.

Watching time go by inside, she’s free from life’s demands.

Instinctively he looks away and brings a chisel to one limb. His joints are tight, make too much noise, he speaks too much he’s told.

Inside the box, live miniatures moving in a daze.

So he chips away another piece, commits to be less bold.

Painted smiles, sutured lips, they question not their cage. To and fro they float inside, puppets on their strings,

Suddenly a cry escapes. They look through glass, through yarn, through shame.

Pulled by duty, doubt, regrets—debilitating things.

For a moment strangers all connect. Could this be why they came? A slip. An error? Deviation? A dancer falls away!

Inside the box, through the streets, into a hall completely hidden

Her strings go taught, quiver, snap. Hesitation stirs the fray.

The lights are out, lines are gone, splendor‘s cloaked by city din. Through an arch there beckons light, fighting off the dusty haze.

Crumpled on a stage, a dancer stares through golden locks.

It strains from rooms that moan for crowds of yesterdays.

At a child’s face looking in at figures in a box. She sees the building tears, a child’s shock at real-life horror,

Climbing ceiling, abounding seats, music low and tamed.

Youth that doesn’t understand, eyes that hoped for more.

On a shadowed stage there’s silhouettes lulling, limping, maimed. Porcelain dolls with pasty skin swaying where they are led.

Ragdolls, puppets, figurines, all stare outside a box.

They strain, they reach, their shadows dance but never raise a head.

But they cannot see beyond their world of lifeless stringed-up mocks. Once they were but children, looking on this universe,

Among the watchers waits a doll dead before she’s old.

‘Til the hearts that made them human turned numb to what’s perverse.

Her body stiff and statuesque, her skin is porcelain cold.

Wrapped in false security, she brandishes this chill.

A little girl sits quietly and closes up a box,

She watches from the shadows, wielding glass-eyed looks to kill.

Puts away the puppets, dolls, and shuts them up with locks.

Not far off, two dolls in rags find seats far in the back.

Gone are all the lifeless forms that live but never feel.

They try to hide their stains and tears, ashamed of what they lack.

The girl will make believe a world much better than what’s real.

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LIGHTNING BY SHANNON TSU 32

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ARCH APEX BY LOGAN ZOOK 34

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ABANDONED SHIP B Y L E I N A G R E E N W A LT VOL 42.

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PA C K O F C A R D S BROOKE BOUTWELL Nine of clubs Lover of wide brim hats, has worn them ever since Grandmother walked barefoot in the July grass (sweet gumballs like a mine field) and taught her how to drink nectar from a honeysuckle flower. Her entire skull wasn’t enough to contain the flavor; It exploded in a halo around her head, a honeysuckle hat. Jack of diamonds Mustache and side burns always in pristine condition, he owns the barbershop on Pinedale Street. What else is there to smell of besides tobacco and shaving cream? Stomach always grumbles around 4:53 pm while grooming Mr. Eddie with the straight blade. Tries not to nick his jaw but the mesmerizing spin of the barber pole puts him in a trance and he can smell Allimay’s gumbo from two streets away, yearns for it, yearns for her. Three of hearts Walks past Bella’s Roses on the way home from school, asphalt kicking up onto her legs when the autos get too close. Do they do that on purpose? It doesn’t matter with a Mama who has always said her hair smells like Alabama in the summer with a Daddy who gathers her up like laundry in his arms every time she comes home. She knows that tonight, they’ll eat dinner through smiles and then he’ll say “Wanna get the cards, baby?” and she’ll say, “They’re already all here.”

COLLAGE

B Y M I A WAT S O N

And they have faces. 36

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INSOMNIA B Y S U H A N I PA N T

BIG BEN

BY KELSEY FITZGERALD

My fingers stir the sun, they mix the blazing red streaks with the calming gold swirls.Â I flick the residue of light off my fingernails and it scatters into twisted floating fragments. I tightly grip the edges of stars so I can freely slide along from one to the next as my body dangles and feet point, searching for gravity. My head rests on galaxyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s halo, as my mind frantically explores it for stillness. Ears listen in on the vacuum and hands keep digging into the black holes. These comets, they swim spirals in my eyes while I dance pirouettes on the moon. I inhale the dust of its craters, spin the tides then exhale an erratic trajectory of its orbit. Jumping over Uranus, I land on Saturn to slide down its rings so I can nudge Jupiter to the side and roll over Mars. Earth with its boundless worries and finite uncertainties wants to cuddle me, but I shove it away because I just need some space to fall asleep.

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O N M Y WAY

BY CHARLOTTE NASWORTHY 40

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MIRROR

TITLE BY

B Y V I C T O R I A S H U LT Z 42

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G O D WA S A T R A I N CONDUCTOR BY BROOKE BOUTWELL

like you’re walking in quick sand or one of those foam pits that smell like feet and rubber

I wish I had been there. I wish I had been standing

If I had been there

chin held high

I could have told you.

under a broad expanse of newly washed skies

It seems to have been the only time that the rainbow’s ends actually touched the earth

when God

I bet God moved them up because we somehow misused it

created the rainbow.

Humans usually do.

I would have been fresh off the boat.

So we’ve been chasing those ends ever since

Legs restless and ready to run ready to climb this transparent ray of color like the backward peddling of a child

And I wonder if,

running up a slide on a jungle gym –

in the moment of creation,

feet so anxious they slip with every overambitious step.

God simply waved an arm in a grand arc that encompassed a human’s entire frame of vision

I wonder if it would feel slick

and there it suddenly was.

like wet grass

Or if he had to build it

like if you took too quick a step you would slip and slide back down

color by color,

Would it feel sticky

so that in the first moments it was only a thin strand of red or violet.

like cotton candy that’s been touched by saliva

Or if he maybe started from one end and built up and over,

Would it feel like glass,

adding bit by bit

feet lightly treading,

like a child builds a train track and watches it grow longer.

afraid of shattering the entire mirage

If children are to wooden train tracks

Or would your feet sink deeper and deeper

as God is to rainbows

with each sluggish step you try to make

God was a prodigy train conductor.

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JUST “LIP” STUFF BY KARLEY ZDEBSKI 46

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C E M E TA R Y BY YILIN REN VOL 42.

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K O TA R O I D E SHELL HOUSE BY CYDNEY DOUGLAS

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M E E T T H E S TA F F Layne Mandros Editor-in-Chief

Clare Carter Blogger/Writer

Charlotte Kuhn Business Manager

Kalin Benza Blogger/Writer

Fintan Kelly Special Events Coordinator

Charlotte Kuhn Blogger/Writer

Leina Greenwalt Asst. Special Events Coordinator

Fintan Kelly Poetry Editor

Amy Borg Social Media

Hannah Goode Poetry Editor

Bobbie McCord Social Media

Jayne Ross Prose Editor

Hana Lee Designer

Cassie Keene Prose Editor

Mia Watson Designer

Paige Hartian Photography Editor

Kate Thomas Designer

Rachel Leonardo Photography Editor

Kelly Tetrault Designer

Celeste Finelli Art and Design Editor

Hannah Goode Blogger/Writer

Jessica Wirth Art and Design Editor Gabby Godoy General Staff

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PERFORMANCES l EXHIBITIONS l EXPERIENCES 190 Alumni Mall, Blacksburg, VA 24061 artscenter.vt.edu | 540-231-5300

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SILHOUETTE LITERARY

AND

VOL. 42

ART

MAGAZINE

FALL 2017