Dear Reader, Silhouette’s ultimate goal is to provide a creative outlet for students on the Virginia Tech campus. We accept submissions from all students in mediums ranging from poetry to photography. This semester we decided to continue our tradition of a simple design with an even simpler color palette. Our hope is that these minimal designs will highlight the selected pieces and not distract from their message. I would like to thank all the authors and artists who submitted their work for this issue; we hope that your pieces are appreciated by all those who pick up this magazine. I would also like to thank the Silhouette staff for your dedication to ensuring the selections were of the highest quality. Most of all, I would like to thank Sean Simons and Kyleigh Palmiotto for creating such a beautiful magazine. I can’t thank you enough for all your hard work, and your reassurances that we would get everything finished in time. We all know I couldn’t have done this without you. I would also like to thank Sarah Fitzgerald—you have been the best partner anyone could ask for. Your support and dedication is overwhelming. We have accomplished so much this semester and I am so proud of you.
Sincerely, Rachael Leon Editor in Chief
SILHOUETTE LITERARY & ART MAGAZINE VOLUME 34 ISSUE 2 SPRING 2012
344 SQUIRES STUDENT CENTER BLACKSBURG, VA 24060 SILHOUETTE@COLLEGEMEDIA.COM WWW.SILHOUETTE.COLLEGEMEDIA.COM
Freight Train Out West Ayios Sozomenos Lotus on Lethe Stairway to Heaven Introduction to Myself After the Company has Left Abstract of Glass Editor’s Choice: Art Color Square Encounters With 4B Ronald Regain National Airport Barnacle Bowl Cup and Saucer Accipiter Editor’s Choice: Poetry The Crude Chemistry of Stars Thanksgiving Dinner This Parasite
6 7 8 9 10 12 13 15 16 17 18 19 20 23 24 25
First Impressions View of El Tajo Silence Wetland in Valdivia The Stream Bridge Editor’s Choice: Photography Sunset in Lisbon A World Apart Preparing Bread To the Wake Editor’s Choice: Prose Lunatic Plastic Color New Year Looking Down the Great Wall of China
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Somewhere at the far corners of Americana there’s someone waiting for a train and coughing while wind throws dust up into the cracked windows panes of the station. That someone spits, runs the tongue near the lips of an arid mouth, soot spit nation, hears the wail of the train, the percussion in the iron wheels on the rails. Hated dust in the eyelids. The train stopped, the rubbing didn’t. The conductor got out, blew his whistle three times and in a tone with coal dust rife took passengers across the night. Dusty redness all, glory glory hallelujah the transmigration of souls marches on, till the steam engine thump can be heard no longer.
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Tom Minogue
Kaitlyn Fohl
7
If you see a flower growing in the still pond or a suocated stream could you tell me where it came from? Slide your fingers in the purple petals and try to breathe the apneic perfume of nostalgia, and put a petal on your tongue to recognize the vapors climbing up the back of your throat, fragrance infringing thought. Try to remember your name, your birth, your mother and your father. Tell me of your first recollections when crystals of perception formed about your irises, and how much you laughed on cold clear days and coming in for cocoa afterward, the back and forth of a rubber swing motion giggling in the pit of your stomach. Pluck the stem and tell me what it’s like to forget.
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Tom Minogue
Genevieve Conlin
9
An Introduction to Myself Samantha Jereys When I was young When I was rich and well refined Well, I like to think I was I was in my own mind I redefined imagination Took a permanent vacation From frustration Hesitation High-minded lacerations And abrasion fascination I confined participation In that fine organization Civilization Justification Realization My situation consigned Unrefined precipitation A sign Abomination crosses the line I wanted I want Emancipation of the mind When I was grown When I was clever and uncouth Clever enough to hide that fact And eat the puddinged proof Aloof in contemplation Segregation Degradation
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Samantha Jereys
And misrepresentation Rotation sensation Sleuthed in isolation Ruthless youth In disguised consideration Decimation Foolproof Fabrication Transformation Spoof and sooth in estimation Reproof Fornication through the roof I wanted I want Assassination of the truth When I was old When I had lived and loved and whatnot When I had made it to the end When I was found in thought I sought an explanation Rationalization Divination domination Education long forgot And fraught with revelation Distraught Ought not have fought Aught God hath wrought Degradation brought celebration Taught jubilation Exultation exploitation Boycott naught In augmentation Plot Inspiration hits the spot I wanted I want Consummation of a thought
Samantha Jereys
11
you do not speak. We sit to tea, sipping it through stained teeth–– stained with our daily rendezvous: a walk to the doctor’s office, a late lunch at three, an expired tea party. I flinch when you ease yourself to the floor, hovering upon the hardwood with a groan, and remember that you are my guest. I tiptoe from the room into the kitchen for a sip of water, but with my last footstep I feel you enter, reach for a glass from the cabinet on the left, and breathe. Out the back window, we listen to the wind hug the trees.
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Allison Donohue
Kristen Mankosa
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“Out of the many art submissions I have seen in the past, this is one of the few that have stuck out in my mind. Amy Harris is able to successfully make a wonderful abstract piece that has an alluring quality to it simply through its colors and strokes. I’m really happy we were able to receive work that breaks the traditional boundaries of art.” -Denise Borges Art Editor
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Amy Harris
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On Monday I’m going to K Street to visit the Spanish Embassy, my neighbor called to me over the click of her knee-high boots as she descended the stairs, wafting out into the all-a-bustle city. I turned to my horseshoe kitchen to make a cup of tea: fill the kettle, light the stove, wait for her to whistle. She came home that night with a stomp, her boot heel jamming in a stubborn nail with each step, until the hammer fell and I opened the door. She leaned against the wall, a half spent Marlboro dangling from her purple lip. I steadied her match and sparked it, leaning it towards the cigarette, letting it burn my finger tip before retreating into my apartment. Inside, I heard the hammer edge to the next door and slide through with a dragging carpet crawl. Her smoke cloud remained in the hall a moment before seeping beneath my unlocked door, curling across my apartment floor, to hover above my head before mixing with my exhaled breath.
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Allison Donohue
Emily Clark
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Caleb Matthews
Caleb Matthews
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I admire the hawk for he has perfected, what we have engineered. A gift of flight bestowed upon him by the universe so that he may watch the world with amber eyes We have created the ability to move, as the hawk does, through the air in jagged angles, trailing behind us the stagnant remains of the earth’s black blood. The hawk puts our supposed ingenuity to shame, traveling about the sky in curves and flourishes, altering the winds with the intermittent beating of his wings, leaving behind the reckless world below him. How I long to be this hawk, for he also has the ability to see from afar that which to us looks perfect at great heights. The hawk sees the truth. Perfection, he’s aware, is not on the ground, but in the constellations that lie above. For these patterns in the sky are the choreographed dances of the stars. They flicker and fade with each night, telling rhythmic tales about the ways of our universe, each attempting to shout lessons and warnings to the inhabitants of the earths in their sight; one last attempt, one last eort,
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Emily Thomas
to make us realize that we all, like them, must die. As they breathe their last breath before their luminescent lungs collapse upon themselves and extinguish their blinding light, they too become scared of death and cry out, forgetting their attempts to remind us of this inevitable fate, “I will not die! I will not leave the great cosmos without a fight!” And with this final proclamation they defy the laws of death and explode in a wondrous cascade, creating a multitude of tiny, living particles that collide with each other and reverberate sounds that create a symphony of new life and wonder. So like the hawk, I keep my eyes toward the constellations, for they remind me that I am just the beginning of new life and wonder. I I I I
too, too, too, too,
will produce a ripple effect will leave a legacy will create life when I return to the soil will depart from the world with a fight and with the hope that the resurrected beings cast and born from my body will alter the course of the winds like the steady beat of the hawks wings.
Emily Thomas
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“I choose this piece because the imagery sticks with you even after you walk away from the poem. Playful language mixed with intriguing images makes for the kind of tension that pulls you through the poem and makes you want to read it again. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and hope our readers do as well.� -Shelby Ward Poetry Editor
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Someone asked him whether he was more fond of astrologers or astronomers, he judiciously replied “neither” which was the practical end of a too sensitive dialogue, and he inhaled to get rid of the stitch in his side from too much dancing. Candles’ naked flames derided the mute dark, couples waltzed in twos. The gentleman in question adjusted the lapels of his jacket and claimed “nature does not appreciate a naked singularity” to which the party guests began to murmur, their ties ruffled and their skirts in need of smoothing from the whirls, the void of music a paralysis of limbs. The recursive wrinkles tightened across his brow, where once were found all the empires of the world, his tiny pores were markers of territories belied. Floating candles pierced the night of vacuum sky, his brow unfurled. “There is within you a compulsion that creates a consciousness, a consciousness that creates a kingdom, a kingdom of life at the altar of your passions.” There is comfortable laughter among the room at the garish inanity “does anyone understand?”
Tom Minogue
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Caleb Matthews
won’t leave my body. A bite of putrid animal flesh garnished to gain access. Tapeworm. roundworm. perhaps a fluke- this ghost worm wriggling around organs, attached to my intestines, sucking my insides, like a Slurpee through a straw. Insomnia. Vomiting. Weakness. Anemia. Anorexia. This hellish Helminth won’t leave my body, or my mind. Dying inside-being eaten alive.
Cassidy Grubbs
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Gimme some of your warm sepia lovin’, boy, dip down deep into your veins and share with me the flame that runs hot through your chest. Pour your whiskey honey words in my ears, boy, and paint them on my arms. Taste my fingertips with teeth and tongue and thigh. Together we can play in a fort of favorite pillows and wool socks – reigning over piles of crumpled clothes and old textbooks. Let me stay with you, boy, stay with me … Reel me in slowly with your sweet earth eyes, boy, and watch me crawl towards you like a lioness. Let me get stuck in your silk spun mattress, until my claws and my legs are completely exhausted. Weave me into your plaid shirt pockets, boy, and store my muddy secrets in the soles of your shoes. Let me peel away layers of cotton from your skin, and bathe with you in the smoky rays of a bacon scented Sunday mornin’. If you’d only just... Look over and notice me, extend your hand and ask my name. Strip away your hesitations, ‘til your instincts are as bare and basic as bone. Take a risk on our imaginations, and tap into the notion that begs you not to deny the thunderin’ footsteps of your curiosity. Undress your inhibitions, boy, and watch me melt in the heat of your Tuesday afternoon.
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Spenser Snarr
Christian Brahe
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If silence was golden, It would be sold, Bartered By men in cheap suits, Great tankers would be filled With sweet nothing And smuggled across Noisy borders. Perhaps we could wear it, Necklaces of silence, They would be displayed At shady thrift stores, Cheaply made with whisper clasps, A silent faรงade. True silence is heavy, It weighs on the mind, Turns conscious to lead, Noise and confusion Are far Cheaper.
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Emily Blair
Maria Cristina Villafranca Locher
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Mary Beth was the one who found the stream, weaving and bending around the trees by the edge of the field. Winter still clung uncertainly to the skirts of spring, hesitant and weak now that it finally had to move on. We broke o bits of dried reed growing along the stream bank and set them down lovingly to float in the water. We delighted in letting our pieces loose and following their progress downstream. Soon we were absorbed by the seriousness of our game and our attention became wholly fixed upon those precious, precarious vessels. Sometimes we made a race of it. Other times we just followed behind our separate crafts, observing their journeys. They often got tangled up in weeds or caught on rocks and had to be nudged free. Sometimes the current would zip our little ships by so fast that we had to rush to keep up, worried we would lose sight of them forever. Other times the stream ran so sluggishly that the reeds seemed like they would never get anywhere. There was a fascinating beauty in the way they twirled around obstacles and dipped down the tiny waterfalls along their path. When they were swept under by the stream we were afraid our small boats had capsized for good, but the reeds always popped back up and continued on their way. We stayed late into the day until the shadows around us lengthened and crickets chirped to each other across the meadow. Then we went inside, leaving those little bits of reed to travel and come to rest where they would.
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Samantha Hu
Kelsey Oesmann
31
“I love the depth and warm colors in this photo but what really makes the image great is that the trees and beautiful little town on the horizon are perfectly encompassed by the arc of the tunnel. It’s extremely inviting and makes me feel like it’s a place that I need to see.” -Christine Aker Photography Editor
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Victoria James
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Josef hated his job. And yet, every morning like clockwork, he rose from his rickety cot, neglected breakfast, and set out for work. His one room shed, more of a dilapidated ruin, was situated in a forgotten corner of the work yard. A piecemeal construction, it barely managed to keep the weather out. Still, a roof over his head was more luxury than some people had. Times had not always been this bad. It wasn’t long ago that he owned his own home on a small hill overlooking the Vistula River. Josef had been a very successful contractor, specializing in demolitions and heavy machinery. In years past, it had made him wealthy and provided the quaint three-story town home in downtown Warsaw. As the owner of his own business, he had more than enough time to spend with his family. But those days were gone now, and times were lean. He was grateful for the job he had with the slaughterhouse. The war had found its way to his town, and the economy had crashed. As he plodded along, he thought it ironic to actually lament the fact that he was lucky to have his job. For one, he could walk to work in a few minutes, as his only obstacle was a simple muddy field. The slaughterhouse where he worked was a sprawling complex of brick buildings arrayed around a central utilitarian structure that breathed acrid smoke into the air from the smokestack that dominated the skyline. The smell of the place clung to the air, stirring like a thick soup when the wind blew but never really dissipating. A tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire surrounded the property and made Josef laugh every time he saw it. That fence could be three feet tall and no one would scramble over it. Who would break into this place? It sure doesn’t have anything anyone would actually want, that’s for sure. He had that same thought at the same time every morning, just as he crossed the muddy courtyard to enter the central structure. The smokestack loomed over him and seemed to stand in silent but constant judgment as he crossed the threshold and made his way to the equipment room. Even this early, at the beginning of his day, he could hear groaning complaints down the hall. That damn boiler must be acting up again, he told himself, glad that he did not have to work up close and personal with the grumbling machinery in the slaughterhouse. A uniformed supervisor stalked past Josef as he ducked behind a large support pillar. He hated dealing with the supervisors more than anything else. They were unpredictable at best, never in a good mood, and habitually doling out discipline to any worker they perceived as useless. They were the culmination of all his fears. It was the end of one’s employment should any workers be deemed useless. And Josef desperately needed this job as much as he loathed it sometimes. No
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Michael Jernigan
one wanted to feel useless, to have their existence comprised only of rituals and routines that served only to get them to the next day where they could start all over again. He wanted to live while he was alive. There was no point in just existing. In the slaughterhouse, there was no bigger crime than being useless. If an employee reached that status, he was terminated on the spot and never seen again, after all, only employees were allowed inside the slaughterhouse grounds. It seemed to Josef that every week, crowds of new employees bustled through the gates to start their careers here, but it was a hard job and not for the faint of heart. It didn’t seem so long ago that he had parted ways with his family at those very gates. His long work hours kept him from them, but they remained in his heart and head. Stepping around the support pillar, he moved toward the equipment room, cursing under his breath. He was one of the elite. He was a trash guy. The biggest benefit to being a trash guy was that no one paid attention to him. He could come and go, and as long as the leftover carcasses and rubbish did not accumulate, he was left alone. The equipment room was a small closet, but it contained the only tools Josef needed to complete his duties: a wheelbarrow with an annoying, squeaky wheel, a pair of black rubber gloves, and goggles. Arrayed along the wall were chemicals to dilute the smell of the trash when it was placed in the landfill not far from the outermost building. His duty, as much as he loathed it, was simple. Depending on the needs of the slaughterhouse, he either toted piles of trash one wheelbarrow load at a time out to the landfill or to the massive incinerator room on the premises, at the end of the hallway. After gearing up, Josef was ready to start his 16-hour day. Today, it was building four that needed servicing so he loaded his wheelbarrow with chemicals and started on his way. His luck held up as it hadn’t rained since early yesterday, and the normally mired fields were only slightly muddy. Crossing the field was the worst part of his day as his mind kept looking ahead to the nasty work yet to begin. The trash was constantly on his mind during this journey. It was so heavy and smelled so bad that even the thought of it often dragged him down. Sometimes, by the time he arrived to start his day, he was already exhausted. The irony of his current job further embittered Josef. Handling the trash outside allowed him to work alone and avoid the constant banging of the machinery in the slaughterhouse that ran day and night, screaming and wailing, driving him mad. Outside he was free of the noise, but the trash was disgusting. Having sat out, sometimes for days, it was ripe and crawling with maggots, infested by all manner of vermin by the time he got to it. It was the type of odor that invaded not only his sense of smell but his sense of taste as well. Josef may have grown accustomed to the smell, but the sight was always dancing on the edge of his nightmares. Sighing, he realized that he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t, but at least he had a cause. His disgusting, less-than-desirable job, to say the very least, made him useful and that kept him employed.
Michael Jernigan
35
Only 12 hours and 20 to 30 trips later, Josef dumped the last piece of trash into the small pit. He spread the chemicals and moved his wheelbarrow and buckets out of the way. An old military bulldozer was his tool for covering the refuse pit. This was the part of his job he relished the most. The old, ailing beast brought back memories of his former company days. He would sit and work the machine, the sun beating down, hot and stifling but never enough to take the smile from his face. His workers had disappeared when the war visited, and he had not seen them since. Except for Antoni. He had seen Antoni here at the slaughterhouse a few months back. The job had not been kind to him. He was much more lean than Josef remembered, and their reunion had been the catalyst for Antoni’s termination. His friend had made the mistake of acknowledging Josef within view of a supervisor. That was the last time he had seen Antoni, and he often wondered if his former employee had found a new job. Another hour on the bulldozer, and he was finally done for the day. It was a rare short day, only 13 hours. Stepping down from the beast, he wished he could load up his tools and drive it back to the central building. Rules, however, dictated that the bulldozer stay at the landfill. With a sigh, he loaded his wheelbarrow and began the trek back. His mind raced back again, to the days when he worked with his demolition crew. Little did he ever think those skills would benefit him today and get him this job, the job that had saved his life. If it wasn’t for his familiarity with heavy equipment, he would have been terminated long ago. As he closed in on the central building, he saw some co-workers out in the field. They were stacking the feed that had just arrived and cast disapproving looks his way. Everyone seemed to dislike the trash guys. They had free reign of the grounds and could come and go, almost at will. Although Josef was certain that the other workers were jealous of his position, he somehow felt like he had betrayed them. Day after day, they slaved away under the watchful gaze of the supervisors while he and his fellow trash men came and went unfettered. Yes, he worked devilishly hard, but he was not considered a part of the normal work force in the slaughterhouse. Some even reacted to Josef’s presence as they would a supervisor, with mixed feelings of apprehension and distrust. The thought made him shake his head. He would never be a supervisor. No, he was a worker. Though his fellow laborers seemed not to see it, he was and always would be one of them. It eased his guilt a bit to think that any one of those yard workers would trade places with him in a heartbeat. After all, the way the slaughterhouse was operating, Josef would always be useful. The next morning, Laszlo, another of the slaughterhouse’s trash men, met Josef at the equipment room. They seldom spoke. What would they say? Hey man, how’s your trash today? Mine smells like shit. No, Josef learned, as did Laszlo, that the supervisors did not tolerate anything that slowed their progress. Nothing could slow the output. Especially not a friendly little chat. Laszlo’s presence meant the day that Josef dreaded the most was here. The incinerator had to be cleaned. Refuse that sat out for a week in
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Michael Jernigan
the elements was preferable to having to clean the filthy black ash built up from the incinerator’s constant use over the course of a month since it was cleaned last. This was the day when trash men would team up to expedite the job and to keep the fires burning. A small scraper and rubber gloves were all that the job required, that and about 12 hours. The room with the incinerators was very spacious and had wooden floors and big windows lining the walls. The room was bright and inviting, except for the smell. Lining the wall, under the windows sat a series of four brick incinerators. The doors, ajar now to allow access, were shaped like giant mouse holes and made of tempered glass set in a steel framework. They were large enough for Josef to crawl inside. His slight build made him ideal for this work. Inside, they were all brick and worked like a standard brick oven that one might find in a bakery. These incinerators were not fueled by wood, however, as they needed to be running most hours of the day in order to keep up with the demands of the slaughterhouse. It had taken Josef months to swallow the lump in his throat every time he had to crawl inside for cleaning. Now he barely thought about it. He just shoved himself inside, making his way to the very back to start his work. Laszlo did the upkeep on the outside, oiling hinges and scrubbing build-up off the doors. He also mopped the floor and scraped the metal grooves in front of each incinerator. They were tracks that a pushcart could be rolled on to make dumping trash into the incinerators easier. Now, the carts sat against the wall, pushed as far back along the track as possible and locked to prevent from rolling forward during the cleaning process. Josef halted his cleaning as he heard protesting screams and whines from the aging machinery and livestock in the room next door. Groans emanated through the closed door, followed by an unnatural snap and hiss. The hiss droned on, and Josef had to push it out of his head in order to continue. The incinerators could not be down for long. The supervisors would not entertain any excuses for the interruption of their quotas. There had already been extensive production loss due to the intermittent deliveries of fuel for the incinerators. Though none of the supervisors would say it, Josef expected there were financial difficulties forcing cutbacks on the fuel. The backload resulted in far more work outside in the landfill, not to mention cartloads of trash just sitting around the grounds, waiting their turn in the incinerator. Again, the irony of Josef’s position befuddled his thoughts. The backload insured that he was useful, which in turn ensured that he would not be terminated, but it also meant a lot more repulsive work for the trash men. Josef scraped harder in the back corner as a new, disturbing thought occurred to him. Certainly, the supervisors would not blame the backload on him and the other trash men. It was beyond their control. Nevertheless, every day the trash served as a constant reminder of how slow production had become due to the lack of fuel to run the incinerators. “NO!” came a shout from outside where Laszlo was motioning frantically for Josef to get back to work, “There’s no time.” Laszlo was peering into the incinerator, a look of terror written
Michael Jernigan
35
across his haunting features as he made a forced scraping gesture. His gaunt face seemed to have sunken even further. His eyes were wide, and a line of spittle hung from his mouth. Josef had been so lost in thought that he had stopped working. Both men knew that being useful meant meeting deadlines. The incinerators had to be up and running before nightfall, no exceptions. With a nod of his head, Josef frantically continued his scraping. How long had it been since someone spoke to him? The sound of a voice, even a grating, screamed command, was music compared to the constant moaning and crying of the slaughterhouse’s machinery. Finally the hiss stopped, leaving the standard groans and whines that Josef had become so accustomed to. Hours later, a filthy, smelly, and utterly exhausted Josef crawled out of the last incinerator. Laszlo, too, looked absolutely drained. With a nod, they left the spacious room and went their separate ways. Even at night, the slaughterhouse’s machinery wailed and screeched in unison with the bleats and moans of the livestock. It was not as animated as during the daytime, but it was constantly there, like a somber soundtrack to a sad movie. Josef woke to a sharp jab. That was nothing new. The aches and pains of his job had become second nature to him, a welcome sign that today was another day above ground. But something was different about today. Even before he went outside, Josef knew things had changed. Crossing the muddy field to the central building, he realized that no one was in the yard. There were no workers anywhere. Fear gripped him as he closed in on his destination. He had not seen a single supervisor yet. The place looked deserted. Finally reaching the central building, Josef pushed open the doors and walked in. It was gone. All of it. The machinery was no longer running. No screams, moans, groans, or whines. Nothing but silence. A silence so alien that he thought he might have gone deaf. How could this be? The slaughterhouse was always working, business never stopped. There was always trash to clean up and livestock to foul the air. Fearing reprisal from the supervisors, Josef decided it best to continue his work. Today was another landfill day. He had a huge pile of trash to dispose of, so he decided that he might as well get started. Walking out the back towards the landfill, he was shocked at the sight before him. All the workers were gathered in a huge group facing away from him, their attention on something he could not see. Suddenly one turned and pointed to him. In unison, the others turned and began pointing at Josef. “He’s the one you want,” some said. “There he is,” others added. Slowly the crowd parted as a group of uniformed soldiers stepped forward. They were not as harshly attired as the supervisors, and they all shared the same dull green clothing. Their weapons were not drawn but sat in silence, in lowered hands or strapped on backs, ready at a moment’s notice. Why are soldiers here? Was there some kind of emergency? Josef wondered. The soldiers approached him slowly, one with a helmet sitting off-kilter on his head. The man in the middle appeared rugged and worn,
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Michael Jernigan
someone not to be trifled with. Josef feared him immediately. Although his face seemed warmer than the supervisor’s did, he carried himself with the same unquestioning surety. Setting down his full wheelbarrow, he waited for them to approach. As they came within reach, he noticed them looking disgustedly at the trash; one lost his lunch and dropped to a knee, retching. It smelled horrible. They stopped in front of him, mere feet away. “You the guy that polices these bodies?” the ranking soldier asked. Josef wasn’t sure what he was asking—he didn’t understand the foreign tongue. “I’m the trash man,” he said, as if that would reveal all. He noticed their horror as they poked through the trash. His confusion must have been evident on his face; the soldier stepped forward. “Woznewski? Tell him I want to know what the hell is going on here and how many more bodies there are? He better be willing to show us!” From behind them, Josef saw all manner of weird vehicles. Big green tanks, each with a white star, circled round the outskirts of the slaughterhouse as jeeps with the same white star were driving up. All over, men in green were walking around, gathering more and more employees. Josef felt Woznewski’s strong grip on his forearm and locked eyes with him as he spoke. “Show us where the rest of the bodies are?” he asked, motioning toward the wheelbarrow that was now stacked with four emaciated corpses. Falling to his knees, Josef sobbed as his world collapsed. In years to come, his memories would return, filling his mind with horrors untold. Him, stuffing corpses into the ovens in the spacious rooms, trying to ignore the screams and groans from the shower next door, hearing the snap and hiss of the gas as he struggled to finish quickly and leave, seeing in flashes, pits filled with hundreds of corpses, people that had been worked to death. His people. He would remember looking down at his hands, in sudden disgust. Covered in years’ worth of dirt and ash from the corpses; he knew he would never be able to wash away the filth. “I had to,” he insisted in that moment, grabbing the ranking soldier. “I couldn’t become useless. I had to keep working. There was so much trash.” “Sarge!” came a shout from the field, “We found a big one.” The Sergeant turned alongside Woznewski to look over to where a green bulldozer was stirring the earth. Death erupted from the ground with every shove, and the horrible reality of Josef’s last three years made itself known to those around him. All he could do was weep.
Michael Jernigan
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Kristen Mankosa
On Thursday I went with Ma to Pop-Pop’s in Fairlawn, New Jersey, just over the train tracks. I sat backseat watching the seagulls spin circles in the sky trying to find the ocean. My seatbelt felt too tight, but I didn’t say anything. In the car I looked into the rearview mirror at Ma, but I could only see her movie-star sunglasses covering her eyes like black holes. I had on my shiny dress shoes that pinched my toes. I wanted to wear my pink ones, but Ma said, No and walked out of the room, her black heels clickclacking down the hall, turning left into the bedroom, shutting the door. We passed a field of wildflowers and I said, look, Ma, the flowers are waving, and she looked out through the window with those black holes. Outside it started to rain. With my fingertip I traced the drops on the glass, connecting them to make a fish like the ones Pop-Pop caught and cooked for us. In the mirror I saw little drops on her cheeks and I wondered how the rain had gotten inside with all the windows shut.
Allison Donohue
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“It’s not very often that a piece of prose can express itself in a single page. However, this piece does it brilliantly by using only the necessary words to expand the setting and characterize an unreliable narrator. It’s unique poetic and metaphoric writing draws the reader in and leaves you questioning everything you think you know about the piece in front of you.” -Sydney Morgan Prose Editor
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Streaking along that dusty black ribbon between home and heartbreak, lost amid the empty heart of the southwest, my mind began to plan and plot, as I slid down the ever-increasing spiral of torment caused by my wife’s death. I believe it came on gradually, its demeanor insignificant enough that I could deny its existence. But then, as its current swept me faster and faster, even when I realized what was happening, I did not deny it. I embraced it. It became my forte as they say. My insanity. Well, I think insane might be a bit strong, although I did feel a little off. After all, who was there to tell me otherwise? And besides—Pop. The green glow of the radio flickered. Damn. Smack. Pop. 8:00, 9:00, 10:00, jazz, rock, static… For such a massive object, the moon climbed into the heavens that night with considerable ease. Perhaps due to its resplendent counterweight sinking posthaste into the purple desert sand. I felt my mind fogging up like the windshield of the station wagon, as the chill crept down from the mountains. Rest. The distance between the signs seemed to grow as the distance between my eyelids dwindled. Forty miles, twenty miles, five miles, one mile, Exit 166: Rest Area. I set the brake and turned the key. Thump. Thump. Something shifted behind the back seat. Click. Eeerchh. I unbuckled and opened the door. The smell of hot oil and cooling rubber rolled in off the interstate and thickened the air. I fumbled in the dark for a moment before finding the latch for the hatchback. The back window, opaque with dust, released a small cloud as the hinges snapped open. I poked my head inside for a moment before contenting myself with the state of my belongings and locking up the car. I walked a short ways and sat down in the grass beside the road. The desert scrub was the same dull gray in the black and white of the moon as it was in the glare of the sun. Black and white. Night and day. Wrong and right. Everything seemed clearer that night. Thoughts flowed effortlessly into idea, into memory, and back into
Josiah McDorman
43
thought. The whirling cycle of brainwaves rocked me to sleep like the gentle motion of a ship. I was the captain and the blacktop my ocean. I can only guess how long I slept there, alongside the road. When I awoke, the moon’s celestial army stood at attention, dressed in full regalia. The lunar soul herself sat atop the dome of the heavens with all the majesty of a queen. I stood and brushed the sun-bleached sand from my jeans. The coarse grains beneath my fingers brought images of home, our pastel blue house, the brilliant shimmer of the sun reflecting off the sea, the black slip against her pale skin. I longed for it. I returned to the car. I dug into my pocket for the keys, and my searching fingers found the cold metal of the keyhole. Thump. Thump. Crack! My skin electrified, as if the key had been wired up to the battery. I circled to the rear of the car in a daze. Thump. Thump. Thump. My heart this time. Crunch. Glass. --Luna. The patient of a psychiatrist, who says to his doctor, “I think I am insane” will often be given a sound bill of mental health. I dispute this conclusion. As I stared into the rear window, and the black eye of the barrel winked in the moonlight, I knew for a fact that I was indeed insane. I could have sworn she was dead when I put her in there…
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Josiah McDorman
Amy Harris
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I could watch the snow fall and be caught in the trees like wild beautiful birds all day, but there is a lot of nothing left to do.
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Emily Blair
Kristen Mankosa
47
Rachael Leon editor in chief Sarah Fitzgerald business manager
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SILHOUETTE LITERARY & ART MAGAZINE VOLUME 34 ISSUE 2 SPRING 2012