Volume 39

SILHOUETTE LITERARY

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SILHOUETTE

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ART

MAGAZINE

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Hello friends, I’m so excited you’re here! Silhouette really has become quite the passion project for me over the past couple of years. I’ve always believed in the power of creativity and I’m so happy, and honored, to be able to share some of Virginia Tech’s greatest creative talent with you.

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Special thanks to all of the artists who submitted their work for this issue and to my amazingly creative team of staff members who somehow managed to put up with my less than ordinar y way of doing things. I can’t imagine having produced this magazine without them, especially Richie Parks, my Business Manager and right-hand man.

LITERARY

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VOL. 39

ART

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Silhouette is a literary and arts publication focused on fostering and encouraging creative expression within the Virginia Tech community.

Alright, enough jibber-jabber, let ’s get to the good stuff.

Sincerely,

Casey Phillips Editor in Chief 344 Squires Student Center Blacksburg, Virginia 24061 www.silhouette.collegemedia.com 1

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EDITOR’S PICK

ANTISOCIAL SMOKER Hannah Johnston

Antisocial Smoker Blowing clouds across a dewy sky, fogging the lilacs.

Behind this bush I’m holding up the full moon between two fingers.

Whispers cling to me like smoke & the burns on my sleeve are from the looks I get kissing death to see my breathing.

“Listen to her cough.”

Hide around corners & chew gum like crazy so they won’t find us outme & my tall skinny, with his blaze of golden hair that makes my heart run scared like a rabbit.

Hide him in the dirt & go inside flushedsecret love burning a hole in my chest.

GOOD MORNING NEW YORK 3

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Daniel Darnell

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STORM

By Calli Zarpas

In an insipid and colorless town named Mansland, a young girl sat on a bench under a glass enclosure on the side of a skinny metallic road. The road lined an industrial desolation for miles and the only sounds that could be heard were the howling winter wind and sniffles from her chapped nose.

Two dirty brown pigtails, which curled slightly at the ends, sat on the top of her head. Her name was 287364 and it was her seventh birthday.

Her female Keeper had dropped her off almost two hours early as her and 2897264’s male Keeper had work early in the morning. It was their last required day with her and they had shipped her off as quickly as possible. They left her with a winter coat that just barely reached the halfway point between her elbow and her wrist and a small leather bag filled with one pair of pants, an extra t-shirt and her transfer papers. She was to be sent to Juvenillage until she was twenty-one years old and old enough to return to Mansland.

In an hour a group of children would arrive and begin their walk towards Juvenillage lead by an older Juvenile child.

Hundreds of years ago, it was decided that children tainted the progress of humanity. They were sickly, immature, and useless beings. They required far too much attention and were solely 5

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means to the end which was adulthood. Then and only then were they considered viable to society. They were to be raised out of town until they were ready to be working, thriving adults. Of course, doctors and scientists had proved children needed nurturing by those assigned to care for them, or Keepers, so the government declared children would remain in Mansland until they were seven years old. Each marital pair was required to raise two children.

The children were created from donated eggs and sperm in birthing centers. These donations came from people in their final days in Juvenillage who were required to donate before being sterilized when they arrived in Mansland.

The children were raised from petri dishes and then moved to cloned, electronic uteruses until they reached full term. They were then given to a random set of Keepers to be raised. In order to decrease the opportunity for the children distracting their Keepers as they matured they would attend school from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. and would have a strict curfew of 8 p.m.

287364 was now left sitting on the side of the road continually wrapping her jacket around herself and rubbing her arms with her hands. A grey, moth-eaten scarf clothed her neck and a red, knit cap fell slightly over her ears.

She had lost track of time, but

waited patiently for the other seven year-old children to arrive.

Patience or Punishment. Before long, a little, black speck appeared in the distance. It bobbed softly and grew larger with each small bump. As the child watched the blot come closer she found it to be another little girl. She had stringy, pale yellow hair cut haphazardly to her shoulders and a knee-length woolen dress. A pair of dingy grey socks ran up her legs to her knobby knees and her feet sported some scuffed up Mary Janes. Once the ashy blonde girl saw the other one she smiled brightly and started excitedly towards her.

“Hi! I’m Truce! What’s your name?” she beamed. 287364 looked to the girl with knitted brows and a slight scowl.

“Are you alright?” Truce asked.

Her eyebrows shot up and she cocked her head back in surprise.

“Truce is a word, not a name,” 287364 said.

“Oh I know. My…Keeper told me a number was no name for a child.

My real name is 947283.”

“Well, your Keeper shouldn’t have done that. We will get to choose our real names when we turn sixteen. We aren’t old enough to decide something like that.”

Truce shrugged and pulled the black backpack from her shoulders and onto the ground. She then sat with a huff next to 287364. From her backpack, she pulled out a

small notebook where each page was made of something different.

One was the back of an old school paper, another a flattened carton of milk and a third seemed to be made by hand as each piece of wooden pulp was still readily visible. Again she reached into her backpack, but this time revealed a short, black stick. It left a sooty powder on her hands when she touched it and it smelled of dirt and iron.

“What are you doing!?” 287364 shouted. She scooted to the other side of the bench in an instant and looked at Truce with fear pooled in the bottom of her eyes. Any sort of art was strictly prohibited.

Creativity is Crime.

“Shhh,” said Truce. “My mother gave me this before I left. She had been teaching me how to draw.”

“Your what?”

“My mother. That’s what female Keepers are really called. That’s what they were called long, long ago anyway. Mine told me not to tell anyone that so keep it quiet shorty.”

“As soon as we get to Juvenillage they are going to find that and punish you,” 287364 said with a matter-of-fact nod.

“Then I’ll make another.” Truce flipped through the pages of her notebook revealing images of towering metal buildings, the sun nuzzled among the clouds and a face of a kind, wrinkled woman.

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turned away, but her eyes snuck little glances at the artwork. She squeezed her hands into little balls and stuck out her bottom lip.

“You can try to draw something if you want. Just keep it small.”

287364 stayed silent for awhile and narrowed her eyes. But, when Truce closed the notebook and began to put it away 287364 reached for it. The blackened wand felt foreign in her hands. The children had learned to type in school, but they had only heard of drawing and writing in the stories of their barbaric ancestors. The generations past had destroyed the Earth with their greed and ignorance. They spent their days trivially on art, adventure and love and their nights bombing other people’s nations and fighting for more money and power. They were, simply put, fat, overgrown children.

The paper in the notebook was creamy and light having been well worn. Paper was used in almost no instances save during the administrative works of children.

They weren’t given their own computer tablets until they arrived in Juvenillage so paper was used in the mean time. 287364 racked her mind for something to draw, but repeatedly came up empty. She stared down at the notebook and clenched her jaw.

“C’mon! We don’t have all day,” Truce said.

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“What sort of things are you supposed to do?”

“Oh. Well anything. Clouds, buildings, people. My mother tells me to draw things that inspire you,” she said.

287364 tapped the drawing utensil against the page lightly in a deep thought and saw how it made small grey dots. It reminded her of the whitish smoke that floated from the shoe factory across the street from her school. She tapped the utensil with a little more strength and then drew curvy lines around the little dots. Her hand moved more and more quickly as the seconds increased and her eyes grew bright and entranced. When she finished a small billowing smoke stack grew from the corner of one of the pages.

“That’s awesome!” Truce smiled.

“So are you ever gonna tell me your name?”

“It’s 287364.”

“Hmm.” Truce looked from 287364’s grayish eyes and her soot stained hair down to the gloomy clouds that floated from the page.

“How about Storm?”

287364 looked up to the sky blanketed in clouds and pursed her lips. Storm. Something deep in her stomach pulled at her and a warm feeling ran through her veins. She didn’t know if it was just having a name or having someone who thought of her as more than a number, but something made

Storm sound like a word that was always meant to be hers.

Truce was different. She’d always imagined her parents were biological. She thought of her mother’s light green eyes and how they matched her own. She thought of her father’s big ears and hers which the other children at school had always made fun of. And she thought of how her parents really did seem to love her. She’d always dreamed that her parents were really hers.

Truce put away her notebook and her writing utensil. She sat with her hands under her bottom and swung her feet back and forth.

They waited there in silence until other children started to filter in.

Most walked there quietly and sat down beside Truce and Storm.

Others were dropped off by their Keepers with a curt wave and a drop of a bag. Finally when the sun was right at the top of the sky a taller boy around the age of twelve walked up to the group.

“Okay kids. Get off your butts.

We’ve got a long walk ahead of us,” he said. He clapped his hands together and turned his ball cap a little bit to the side. He chewed a piece of gum widely and stopped just long enough to make sure the children were in a line before turning around. Truce quickly moved from her spot in line and walked beside Storm who didn’t turn her head to look at her. An

elbow swung into Storm’s side and an audible “ouch” echoed down the empty road.

“We should go talk to that guy.

We should see what the deal with this place is, ya know?”

“We already know what the deal with this place is. We go to school.

We learn how to be adults, how to pay the bills, how to meet our mate. We train for our future.”

“Ya, but like what do people do for fun? Can you imagine a place just filled with kids? No boring adults. Just think of what it must be like.” Truce widened her eyes and smirked. She grabbed Storm’s hand and dragged her up to the front with the boy.

“Hey,” Truce said. The boy looked down at them and kept walking.

“I said hey!” Truce raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to the side. The boy looked back down.

“We’ve got a long way to go, pipsqueaks, try to keep the small talk short.”

“Well I just had a question about things over here. Is it better?”

“Depends what you mean by better, squirt. Definitely more freedom if that’s what you mean, but the older kids are basically the same adults we’ve been dealing with for years. Some of them are cool, but a little brainwashed for sure. Once you reach your higher education everything changes.

Luckily I have three years to go.”

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it better?”

“Depends what you mean by better, squirt. Definitely more freedom if that’s what you mean, but the older kids are basically the same adults we’ve been dealing with for years. Some of them are cool, but a little brainwashed for sure. Once you reach your higher education everything changes.

Luckily I have three years to go.”

The boy walked looking down at his feet and kicking the dirt as he went.

“It’s really not too bad though.

It’s better than living in Mansland.

My Keepers kicked me out the first hour they could, sons of bitches.”

He spit onto the ground next to them and flipped his hat so the rim hung off the back of his head.

“Does everyone go back?”

“Where? To Mansland?”

Truce nodded slowly.

“Well — yeah. I’ve never heard of anyone not going back. I’m sure some people don’t want to go back, but you don’t really have a choice.”

Truce gulped a little.

“Well if I ever go back, there’s no way it’s staying the way it is.”

The boy let out a snort and laugh.

He kept a smirk on his face and looked down at Truce.

“Good luck, sweetie.”

The group followed down the road for miles. Storm had lost track of how long they had been walking, but the sun had begun to make its way to its home in 9

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the crook of the horizon. Her legs began to hurt a few miles back, but by now they were just numb and felt like gelatin. A few children had shouted, “Are we there yet?” and one had even fallen to the ground. Their leader carried him on his back for awhile. Finally, a city appeared in the distance. There was no building taller than three stories and most of them were crumbling to the ground. The air had grown gradually clearer and Storm could see how the sun painted the sky a rosy pink, striped with gold and dotted with a fiery orange.

A joyful sort of noise could be heard echoing from the small city. The exact sounds couldn’t be translated, but it was somewhere between high-pitched squeals of joy and laughter. Storm subconsciously smiled at the noise. The children picked up their pace and moved quickly towards the falling town. In a yellowing-green field, little bodies could be seen running around, tagging their hands to another’s backs and then quickly running away. It was like nothing Storm had ever seen.

“Welcome home,” the boy said.

SKYLIGHT, LA TOURETTE Leah Hodgson VOL. 39

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TAZ IN THE TREES Katie Bough 11 SILHOUETTE

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ANCHORED Calli Zarpas

Two souls one harbor sails against omniscient gusts trust the toiling tide

LUNGS Rebekah Seiler

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BABY’S BREATH Jessica March

Why does baby’s breath last forever?

Why does it look the same for months even after its water was spilled from the vase on the coffee table when our feet slipped from the couch and knocked it to the floor?

How could it continue to live after watching our first kiss, listening to me tell him I loved him, absorbing the sounds of our laughs and our sarcastic remarks and our shifts in positions as we moved from sitting on opposite ends of the couch to lying entangled, holding each other, whispering about our pasts and our fears and our secrets and our desires, listening to each other’s heartbeats?

It sits in that vase on the coffee table even now, among the clutter of a new semester’s books and mail collected over winter break. It listens to my muffled tears, face down in that leather couch, months later, lying in that same spot, now alone.

You sit there in the middle of my living room and you watch me try to get over him. You watch me argue with my roommates and laugh with my friends and kiss a different boy.

But still you thirst, left without water since that night you fell from the table.

And I think now I understand how you can remain there and pretend to be alive.

DANCER Yunhua Li 15 SILHOUETTE

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UNTITLED Darren Siler 17 SILHOUETTE

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EDITOR’S PICK

HANDS

By Ashton Lineberry locks. Hands hold her closely as she coos with excitement.

Hands are gripped together tightly, with thumbs twiddling nervously, gliding back and forth over a rounded knuckle. These hands, they’re young and smooth, not yet worn with age, not yet torn from life. The nails, bitten into their beds, carved into rugged patterns, are short and browned, specked with bits of dirt, a trademark from their line of work, the signature of a carpenter. Hands clamp together even tighter, whitening, as a door opens in the distance, the wail of a small child echoing through the hallway. Hands, moist with perspiration, slippery from nerves, slide their way down a rugged pair of blue jeans, leaving a thin trail of sweat behind. Hands slowly reach for a doorknob, twisting the rounded surface anxiously.

Hands open a door, leading into a brand new life, to a beautiful and miraculous future. Hands wipe tears away from from raining eyes. Hands lift a small, gurgling, wrinkly baby girl. Hands hold happiness, hands hold fear. Hands hold laughter, hands hold life.

Hands hold the start of a neverending love.

Hands, calloused, blue with bruises, caked with mud from a hard day of work, caress a 19 SILHOUETTE

child’s round cheek as she sleeps soundly in her crib. Hands, large and sturdy, gently trace each feature of the sleeping infant, committing each small curve, each tiny characteristic, to memory.

Hands silently pull a blanket under the infant’s chin, tucking her in, making sure she is dressed in warmth, assuring she is blanketed in comfort, clothed in safety.

Hands run over her soft, petite head one last time, before retiring to their own bed.

Hands, freshly washed, clasp an eager baby under her arms as she messily drags her feet across the floor. Hands stay firm, determined to keep the wobbling child steady, determined to be there if she falls. Hands loosen their grasp with every step the giggling child takes, hovering behind her, fingers slightly curled from tension. Hands urge her to go on. Hands urge her to stop. Hands pick her up each time she falls. Hands press a starshaped bandage neatly against a scraped knee. Hands tenderly wipe tears off chubby cheeks. Hands raise up in surprise as the child stumbles around on her own for the first time. Hands happily wrap around the child’s small frame, brushing against her soft curling

Hands, solid and sun-kissed, are intertwined with a much smaller pair, creating a marvelous contrast.

Large against small, dark against light, rough against smooth. They move briskly through the busy parking lot, cars honking and engines roaring in the distance. The larger hands swallow the others, grasping tightly enough to create a fortress, but gripping loosely enough to maintain a feeling of gentleness, a feeling of care.

Hands cross the busy lot, entering the store empty. Hands exit the store full, the darker pair holding onto tiny legs draped over broad shoulders, the lighter pair happily clutching a bright red sucker.

Hands, holding a weather-worn hammer, drive a rusting nail into a two-by-four with ease. One, by one, the beefy fingers move down the board, bringing to life a wooden swing set with more character than beauty. Hands resemble the swing set; both patterned with hardened knobs and splintering edges, both built sturdy and solid. Hands, much like the swing, are hard on the eyes but beautiful to the heart.

Hands move towards the hips, resting there, satisfied with their finished project, their own work.

Hands, eager and enthusiastic, hold a small, ripened tomato, red with splendor, perfectly smoothed.

The first of the season and the first grown by not just one, but two pairs of hands. Hands bend down to a smaller face, visible to a pair of bright blue eyes, also eager and enthusiastic. Hands fall into the back left pocket of a pair of jeans, pulling out a small knife, the shine dulled from use, but the blade sharpened to perfection.

Hands tenderly roll the produce back and forth between the thumb and pointer, searching for a perfect place to slice. Hands methodically puncture the fruit, sawing back and forth, creating a perfectly even slice. Two pairs of hands, stained with red, exchange a salt shaker, enjoying every single wedge of the mature tomato.

Reluctant hands drop off their daughter on her first day of school.

Hands form a number two as she walks away, normally known as a “peace” to most, but known to them as “I love you 2.” Hands grip the steering wheel, determined not to cry, determined not to cry.

Hands turn the velvety pages of a book, painting magical pictures of Goldilocks and Cinderella, filling their daughter’s head with wisdom and her heart with delight. Hands, aging themselves, use a pencil to mark the frequent growth of their daughter. Hands grip the lead in shock at each week’s results.

Hands, ungloved and worn from a speedy decade, toss a softball back and forth. Hands show how to grip the graying ball, two fingers on the red stitching, the VOL. 39

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others curved around the sphere.

Hands wave passionately from the stands as they recognize their daughter’s eyes from the field.

Hands cup a bearded mouth, producing the world’s best homemade megaphone, allowing a “Go Shorty!” to echo across a gymnasium. Hands happily highfive their daughter’s hands after she nails a new cheerleading stunt.

Hands appear at every school activity. Hands appear at every church event. Hands appear every night to tuck her in. Wherever her hands are, so are his.

Hands, wet from tears, shaking in despair, are pressed together in a praying position. They beg for help, they beg for a miracle, they beg for her life. Hands wipe hair across a familiar face, swollen at the temples, blue at the eyes. Hands dip a sponge, against the doctor’s wishes, into a painfully dry mouth, aching for some form of relief.

Hands carry their twelve-year-old daughter back to the hospital bed after she passes out. Hands wring themselves from worry. Hands clench. Hands unclench. Hands hold their daughter’s. Hands hold their head. Hands bang the wall in anger. Hands hang helplessly at their sides. Hands clench their chest in relief as they’re allowed to leave the hospital. Hands tend to their daughter for the next eight weeks. Hands secretly hold a puddle of tears each night. Hands thank God in prayer. Hands thank God in prayer.

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Hands firmly shake the hands of a boy as their daughter leaves for her first date. Hands run through graying hair as the midnight curfew approaches and nobody has arrived. Hands wrap around their daughter in a hug as she cries.

Hands clench into fists wanting to break the boy who broke their daughter. Hands pat the back of the new boy who treats her right.

Hands shakily place eighteen candles on a birthday cake. Hands run through their daughter’s long, brown hair. Hands clap thunderously as their daughter walks across the stage, diploma in hand.

fingers trace the lines in their palms, realizing the resemblance to their father’s. Hands, waving goodbye eagerly, open the door to a new home, a new future, hoping, that one day, they’ll be just like their father’s.

Hands, shaky from years of hard work, stiffened from joint pain, carry multiple suitcases to the car.

Boxes are stacked to the rim of the trunk, making it almost impossible to close the trunk door. Hands pull their daughter into an emotional hug as they sit the last box down on an unfamiliar tile floor. Hands hold her there, and hold her there, and hold her there. Hands, worn and exhausted from age, bruised and calloused from hard work, gentle, kind, and beautiful, loosen their grip. Hands finally let go.

Hands are gripped together tightly, with thumbs twiddling nervously, gliding back and forth over a rounded knuckle. These hands, they’re young and smooth, not yet worn with age, not yet torn from life. The nails, bitten into their beds, carved into rugged patterns, are short and white, specked with bits of chipped red polish. Slim VOL. 39

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UNTITLED Austin Ledzian 23 SILHOUETTE

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CENTER OF GRAVITY Alyssa Lentz

Spell the rains for me.

The thunderstorm months made us laugh with mouths wide open, teeth bared, little cuts in the sky under which we were one with the wolves.

Do it again, please.

Let me traverse the clouds.

Tipsy and twirling in the gutter all over, circus memory, put the sun in your mouth and let me taste it.

Like bubbles and roses and ocean water, warming me up from the inside out.

our heavenly bodies going and coming, chasing away and attracting in perfect time.

You—stars breaking through your skin; me—trying not to swallow you whole yet.

That high, lush fizzing feeling in my throat while my heart plays jump rope and hopscotch in out-of-sync rhythms on clean, bright sidewalks.

When you touch me we are a summer sunshower, thin, wispy heavens, bare skin in the grass, and together we dissolve like cubes of sugar in a tall, clear glass.

Sleep in my bed, this time.

You are tangled inside my dreamcatcher already— you and the jazzy, drunken violins as we spin around hazy rooms we’ve never been,

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CAMEL CRUSH Gabriella Jacobsen

Several seconds are spent sucking sweet smoldering something’s smoke straight into my lungs Seven minutes are taken off my life for each slender stick I rest between my lips Autumn nights are filled with this indulgence: black tar lines smeared on benches indicate fair weather But winter, too, proves to be a fair candidate for late night lightings, the snow an adequate extinguisher The wind plays with our patience: precious moments are wasted frustratedly flicking the Bic But once the tip is glowing orange, the worries of my world are momentarily melted My escape comes wafting through the filter: inhale, exhale, relief.

UNTITLED Austin Ledzian 27 SILHOUETTE

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THESE ARE JUST THOUGHTS Samantha Shifflett

Several seconds are spent sucking sweet smoldering something’s smoke straight into my lungs Seven minutes are taken off my life for each slender stick I rest between my lips Autumn nights are filled with this indulgence: black tar lines smeared on benches indicate fair weather But winter, too, proves to be a fair candidate for late night lightings, the snow an adequate extinguisher The wind plays with our patience: precious moments are wasted frustratedly flicking the Bic But once the tip is glowing orange, the worries of my world are momentarily melted My escape comes wafting through the filter: inhale, exhale, relief.

TESSERACT Brennan Young

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UNTITLED Darren Siler 31 SILHOUETTE

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A MOTHER TO DAUGHTER ARGUMENT IN THE KITCHEN Rachel Moore

Soft beige walls White crown molding Rosy sunset spilling through the window Shiny black and white tile glinting Chrome appliances winking And so much anger She was yelling I was yelling Hands were furiously flapping and flailing Harsh words burst from our mouths Neither of us cared what we said

Her head nodding Her eyes shedding a thousand tears My head nodding My eyes shedding a thousand tears She pulled me into a wet embrace I held to her And just like that The anger was gone

Then tears Like glass pearls Growing at the corners of her eyes Welling in my eyes Blurring the scene “I just want what’s best for you” Garbled with sobs “I know, but you have to let me make my own mistakes” Garbled with sobs “I know, I know” Garbled with sobs

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A NEW KIND OF FARMER’S MARKET IN SECTION Carlin Tacey 35 SILHOUETTE

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PENSIVE Mila Baler 37 SILHOUETTE

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FULL Julia Lattimer 1.

Faucet off.

Curtain open.

Towel Dry. Contacts out.

Clouded mirror.

Don’t look up.

2.

The sun sees me, sprawled on my floor, eaten by carpet.

I cross my legs and sit up.

In my full-body mirror, I only see above my eyes.

I’m relieved.

3.

I pull my shirt over my head and poke my arms through the sleeves. My belly-button pokes out, so I pull my pants up, poke a belt through the loops, and pull my ribs in tight. I poke at my arms, my stomach, my thighs. I pull over a sweater.

4.

At age ten, I went on a fieldtrip to the aquarium. If I squint I can remember the water on a stingray’s back and the giant, plastic shark’s mouth and a picture of me and Casey we took outside. I was wearing a gray hoodie and blue jeans and my stomach fell between them.

I don’t remember what Casey was wearing.

5.

Hello, stretchmarks, coming through again today? I saw you just last week.

Hello stomach. Met the floor yet, stomach? Belly? Tummy?

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Rip in the thigh of my week-old jeans, hello. Hello baggy sweaters and tight T shirts.

Hello, I would be an A cup or B cup if my double Ds weren’t put there by double decker Oreos.

Hello, my name is unimportant. Don’t remember me like this.

Hello carbs.

Hello sandwiches and pizza and pasta. Hello crying in dressing rooms.

6.

My mom’s fridge was empty except for a half-gone pint of mayonnaise and a decade-old bottle of ranch. My father’s fridge was full. In his giant, hollow house I stayed up late and alone. In the dark I ate his cookie dough and leftover pizza.

Once when I was fifteen, he came downstairs to find me cooking mac and cheese at 2 am. In silhouette, with the judging fluorescence of the fridge behind him, he yawned, “Just clean up after yourself.” I did the dishes. The dishes done, my room clean, my grades good, my smile white, I was fine. Manners turned into mashed potatoes at midnight. But in the daylight, when I didn’t get out of bed and I mouthed off to my brother, no bagels. I don’t get pancakes. I get push-ups and laps around the house. Yesses turned into “ask me when you lose a few pounds.” The floors in his house creaked and he slept with the door open. I stopped sneaking food when I started sneaking out. I broke the rules, brought my bad attitude home with bags of popcorn. Wall-sits and sit-ups. Nightmares. Ice cream sundaes. Jumping jacks. Screaming matches. Hiding candy wrappers under yesterday’s trash. He taught me that exercise is an obligation and food is an indulgence, and I’m screaming, “It’s the other way around!” at my mirror, at my scale, at my fourth salad in two days. My father called me yesterday. He said my nine-year-old sister is starting to see her body change.

He said she gained some weight. He asked if she can talk to me. I told him, “No. Just let her grow.”

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UNTITLED Jacobson

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SPACE IN PLACE Bradley Kaufman

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SLEEP SHOW Calli Zarpas

I don’t even remember where we were going, but I can still hear the rhythmic snores of my little brother resonating through the car and the humming engine shadowing them like a lullaby.

It would’ve been easy to fall asleep, to let my head plunge into the seat and the car rock me to sleep in waves.

But, my dad let me sit in the front seat that night and I couldn’t betray him to the tender hands of sleep just yet.

The rain had been softly pattering off the thin, red roof for miles and crescendoing in a drumroll leaving behind an ethereal anticipation.

The first bolt ripped through the black curtain of the night sky with a dagger, but with a smile and wink disappeared as quickly as she came.

Teasing us, she swiftly struck again, but this time she dared to streak across the entire sky and brought a few old friends with her.

Groups of them danced across the sky with an aboriginal rhythm that moved in a way known, but long forgotten, and me and my dad just attended in implicit wonder.

TOO BEAUTIFUL FOR THIS Katy Layman

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SIGN Katy Layman 47 SILHOUETTE

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THE TREE ON CLAY STREET

By Molly Ryan

She lived at the top of the hill, alone, aside from the speckling of brown and black cows she shared the field with. If you drove up the Clay Street hill, just past the old Blacksburg High School stadium, and looked out the passenger window, you would see her - her humble abode blending the border of earth and heaven.

In spring, the calves would start popping up in the field. She would welcome them with a cool place to sleep, under her watchful gaze.

In summer, she would let her hair grow long and wild. Her bright green tendrils reached to the sky, pulling red sunsets close, hugging them to her until they lit her up.

In fall, she blended the colors of those sunsets into herself, until green became gold that eventually bled into red.

In winter, she would fall ill. Each year, more and more, her age would show – when the magnificent colors of the other seasons fell away, she was left with bare bones.

Each year, she would shrivel smaller and smaller, retreating into the earth, her limbs sagging under the chill of ice and the weight of snow. Each year, when my mother drove me to school, she would sadly say this was likely her last year. She was very old, after all.

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Yet every spring, she would bloom again.

One summer, the wire fence vanished, and the cows disappeared. The field, with its rippling grass ocean that used to wash up to her knees, was mowed down. The brightly colored zoning sign appeared.

She did not bloom that year.

Instead she wept for the loss of the farm, as concrete was poured and the land divided with asphalt chasms.

Now I drove myself to high school, and every morning in the dregs of grey sunrise I would gaze on her like it was the last time.

We first met not long after the roads were built. Though the farm was gone, the concrete gave me the opportunity to introduce myself.

Her skin was wrapped over her in deep grey-brown wrinkles, splattered with blue and green moss. She was just big enough to wrap my arms around. She spoke in birdsong and breezes.

I could see the entirety of Blacksburg from her stoop, from the bright lights of Lane Stadium to the sharp roof of Kent Square, to the protective boundary of soft-peaked mountains. From up there, the town was no bigger than the palm of my hand. And when I

felt overwhelmed or lost, I would go to her and she would remind me just how small that big, demanding town of opportunity actually was.

She loved dogs, and didn’t mind if Pickle curiously padded at her with his little brindle paws. She was even happy to hold his leash if I paused to take a photograph of her view.

Even in winter, when she was at her sickliest, she was still friendly.

One frozen December night, as I entered the final months of high school, my mother and I sat underneath her at midnight on plastic sleds. We leaned our backs against her and talked about everything that mattered. Then she watched us sled and heard us laugh, and helped us to forget everything that mattered.

It wasn’t until I started college that the houses began sprouting up like wild mint, invasive and angry.

I lived across town and passed by less often, but every time I did there would be another house, or another dozen.

She remained on the hill, forever the watchwoman, digging her feet in. She held on as the hill we sledded on turned into colonials and moderns and duplexes. She held on as her yard grew smaller, and smaller, and smaller.

I heard the house they built on the top of that hill was nearly 12,000 square feet. It seemed that the plywood walls pushed closer and closer to her, until they cut into her roots.

She still stood there, proud and unafraid, staring down angry machines, spray paint, industrial

progression.

One day, I guess the contractor decided that she blocked that amazing view. The next time I drove by, late last year, she was gone. I can still picture her up there, the last time I saw her, her thin branches shifting in a final, knowing wave, as if she knew.

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A DIALOGUE BETWEEN NEW AND OLD Kelsey McLean

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SIGN Katy Layman 53 SILHOUETTE

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SPACE Jillian Shank

You can count each spike and curve of the vibrations.

Run your fingers along each wave that fills the space between me and you.

It is suggested and widely accepted that space insinuates emptiness, but if you close your eyes tight and bite your tongue tighter, You then realize that it is really quite full.

It is full of “please”s and “I’m sorry”s.

It is full of opportunity and punctuation.

It is full of moments that might happen, and the moments that never will.

Our eyes pick out the particles that touch each other’s skin and we wonder if words will ever join them.

FOOD Caitlin Kachmar 55 SILHOUETTE

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UNTITLED Katie Simmons 57 SILHOUETTE

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MEET THE STAFF Casey Phillips Editor in Chief

Cassidy McFarlane Art Editor

Jenizza Badua Secretary

Justus Darby Assistant Art Editor

Celsea Copas Poetry Editor

Allie Carr Social Media Director

Layne Mandros Assistant Poetry Editor

Kasey Casella Special Events Coordinator

Kayla Schoch Prose Editor

Kayla Schoch Blogger

Peter Volpone Assistant Prose Editor

Grace Silipigni Blogger

Joe Mrava Photography Editor + Photographer

Michael Watanabe Designer

Charlotte Kuhn Assistant Photography Editor + Photographer

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Hana Lee Designer

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BE CURIOUS PERFORMANCES | EXHIBITIONS | EXPERIENCES

190 Alumni Mall, Blacksburg, VA 24061 www.artscenter.vt.edu | 540-231-5300

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COVER ART BY AUSTIN LEDZIAN