Volume 31, Issue II by Silhouette Literary and Art Magazine

Literary & Art Magazine Volume 31, Issue 2, Spring 2009

Letter to th e don’t want you to read this magazine – we want Read er We you to feel it. Put your hands into each page and let

each piece crawl between your fingers and under your skin. Follow every texture as it flows from industrial to organic. As you move through the magazine, ... Melissa Brice Editor-in-Chief

Christopher Grey Business Manager

Silhouette Volume 31, Issue 2, was produced by the Silhouette staff and printed by Franklin Graphics, located in Nashville, TN. e paper is 80 lb. Porcelain with a 100 lb. Porcelain cover. e fonts used throughout the magazine are Adobe Caslon Pro, Helvetica, dearJoe four and Urban Sketch. Silhouette Literary and Art Magazine is a division of the Educational Media Company at Virginia Tech, Inc. (EMCVT), a nonprofit organization that fosters student media at Virginia Tech. Please send all correspondence to 344 Squires Student Center, Blacksburg, VA 24061. All Virginia Tech students who are not part of the staff are invited to submit to the magazine. All rights revert to the artist upon publication. To become a subscriber to Silhouette, send a check for $10 for each year subscription (two magazines) to the address above, c/o Business Manager or visit EMCVT’s e-commerce Web site at www.collegemedia.com/ shop. For more information visit our Web site at www.silhouette.collegemedia.com or call our office at 540-231-4124.

Literary & Art Magazine Spring 2009

Volume 31, Issue 2

Silhouette Literary & Arts Magazine 344 Squires Student Center Blacksburg, VA 24060

silhouette@collegemedia.com

www.silhouette.collegemedia.com

Fiction

Warm Quarters Fall Cold Katie Cummings

Smoke and Mirrors Andrew Zimmer

Non-Fiction Essay 08

Queen of the Lowcountry Morganne Tinsley

04 13 17 22 29 33 35 38 50

In Case of Emergency Frances Smith

Poetry

Fruit Fly David Mudre î&#x20AC;&#x20AC;e Apartment Tom Minogue Anything to Not Grow Quiet Katie DeMoss Countdown Frances Smith Breathing Out Kathryn Galland Tomorrow Julia Viets I Cry for Twilight Jess Cohen salivate Shannon Cummings

07 14 18 26 31 34 36 46 52

King Midas Jess Cohen Walking with My Father to Baseball Games on Hot Summer Evenings Jess Cohen Fields of Rye Ian Cobb-Ozanne Benthic Julia Viets î&#x20AC;&#x20AC;e Kid Kriti Sen Sharma Mask Joseph Dunford Winter by the River Kristin Grinnell Louden Marshall and His Grandson Cullen Katie Cummings Moonflower Vincent Keung

12 21 42

Fine Arts

Bob Marley Casey Svehlak

Untitled Katie Cummings At My Fingertips Lisa Minner

16 32

Drew in the Womb of the Room Catherine Grier Sunday Morning at the Duckpond Katie Cummings

Photography

04 10 19 24 25 28 37 47 49 51

Elephant Encounter Holly Cromer Winding Stairs Drew Phillips Reflection Julia Viets Fisheyed River Holly Cromer Sea Turtle Holly Cromer Battlefield at Dawn David Mudre Untitled Drew Phillips Untitled I Jeff Anderson

Prime Meridian Shuffle Catherine Grier Unworthy David Mudre

06 15 23 25 27 30 39 48 49 53

Untitled II Jeff Anderson Shattered Reflections Jacqueline Addesa Lone Tree Eric Willoughby umbelina Holly Cromer Escape Courtney Myers Innocence Jenna Nichols As e Clouds Roll Back Eric Willoughby Spire Jenna Marson Muse Courtney Myers rough the Looking Glass Jacqueline Addessa

Silhouette would like to thank Adam Gehlert for photographing all of the textures used in this edition of the magazine. e photographs are part of an on-going art project by Gehlert entitled Tech-tures. Some of the images have been altered.

ere is a fruit somewhere in your mind whose skin is rough but soft like elephant hide. It’s hiding there, between the smell of shampoo clinging to wet hair and your grandfather’s clock, sitting on a lullaby and smothered in the taste of a lover’s spit dried on your body. Its juice is emotion, its flesh understanding. It holds not what the brain has, but rather the essence that makes all those things we cling to have meaning. It makes a kiss sweet and fills a hug with longing. But there is something wrong. It is shrinking slowly, a bar of soap, your memory of a lost friend’s voice. Gradually the juice has seeped out through pores, and the flesh has become a paper mache farce. You must seek out the hidden sun, and nourish it back to shine, but in case of emergency, eat the rind.

Elephant Encounter by Holly Cromer (Photography)

In Case of Emergency by Frances Smith

Untitled II by Jeff Anderson (Photography)

King

by Jess Cohen

Midas

Eyes agape, ey are the mouths of starving ducklings Wishing to devour the scenery whole. In Italy. As far away from familiar as I’ve Ever been; I nod in Italian to street vendors And gypsies. You can’t fool me, I say I am not a tourist of any place, the world is my home. ese cobbled roads beneath my feet and edifices overhead impart wisdom unknown to Americans like me; they are as old as love itself but do not pine their antiquity. Instead, they shine in sepia-toned sighs of solid gold. Whose fingers are these, that disguise themselves as rays of dying sun?

Queen

of the

Lowcountry by Morganne Tinsley

“In short, one might say that Folly Beach represents your hippie surfer cousin, Wadmalaw your kitchen-loving granny, and Kiawah Island your discriminating father-in-law. Sullivans Island and Isle of Palms would be your sentimental sisters. And Charleston itself? Well, it could be considered the love of your life.” -Unknown e city pulls at you as soon as you cross the bridge on I-26 and turn off exit 221B onto Meeting Street. It remains hidden behind immense Abercrombie and Fitch billboards and criss-crossing highways until the exit spits you out on one side of downtown Charleston, and you’re there. King Street extends directly in front of you, brimming with high-end stores and local flavor cafes for farther than you can see. Marion Square sits sprawling to your right, acres and acres of lush green grass dotted with College of Charleston and Citadel students throwing frisbees and sunbathing. e Francis Marion hotel owns the corner like a castle, reigning as the most beautiful and richly historic hotel downtown. On Saturday mornings, from April to October, Marion Square turns into a carnival. e spread is technically referred to as a farmers’ market, but its extravagance exceeds that description. Venders line the edges of the square, offering homemade crepes, doughnuts, pizza, omelettes, paintings, ceramic wares, and baskets brimming over with fresh fruits and vegetables. Inflatable moonwalks are set up for the children to jump in while their parents enjoy breakfast under the shade. By ten-thirty, even the shops on a southern schedule along King Street have opened, and people begin to peel off from the crowd and follow the rows of palmetto trees. e shops on King are a kind of pop culture modern marvel – the street is a piece of New York, only in much better weather. e window of Jackson Davenport boasts endless pairs of Chanel and Dolce & Gabbana eyeglasses. e Charleston Place Hotel contains a Louis Vuitton, White House Black Market, and the exclusive Charleston Grill, which serves a Sunday brunch that people talk about all seven days of the week. e doors to the storefronts

stand open, momentarily blasting passersby with artificially freezing air. e sidewalks are shaded by perfectly spaced palmetto trees and the brick median running the length of the street adds a touch of historic charm. e Charleston Saturday shoppers abide by an unspoken dress code – women peruse the Pottery Barn in sundresses and flip-flops, and men test out the Sharper Image recliners in pastel colored polos, khaki shorts, and Sperry topsiders. If you’re lucky, you can catch the moment of hilarity when two girls realize as they pass each other that they’re both wearing the same, just-hit-the-shelves, impossibly chic, limited edition Italian-mill silk J.Crew dress. Of course, the look of mortification lasts only a barely-perceptible second before the warm smile returns, as Charleston has been voted the best-mannered city in America for ten years and running. ere are countless cafes lining King Street, but since a break from the stuffy elegance is sometimes welcome, Jestine’s Kitchen provides immediate relief. Located on Wentworth, where the paint on the houses is peeling and the street has no brick median, Jestine’s is a true southern restaurant offering true southern fare. Locals praise her fried chicken, collard greens, fried green tomatoes, sausage gumbo, and okra. e restaurant is tiny but light-filled and always packed, with a different set of hand-painted salt and pepper shakers on each table. A single server flits around the room, pausing just long enough at each table to plop down a bowl of cucumbers soaked in rice-wine vinegar and ask, “Y’all doin’ alright?” e only yes or no question involving dessert is “would you like vanilla ice cream with that?” and even then, sometimes your request is denied. If Jestine thinks that you need vanilla ice cream with your cobbler, you’ll have it. From Jestine’s, Market Street is only a block away. Much to many activists’ dismay and local preservationists’ delight, the old slave trading post still marks the head of the street. e structure is grand and haunting, with steep staircases running up each side to meet at a narrow platform, fenced in by an intricate, green, wrought iron gate and guarded by thick, cream-colored columns. North and South Market Streets run to its right and left like moats, enhancing the daunting atmosphere of the building. Between the two streets,

under a string of canvas tents, local merchants set up shop everyday, forming what is simply referred to as “the Market.” Crinkly-faced women weave sweet grass baskets and set them out in the sun to dry and harden and sweaty middleaged men in cut-off plaid shirts and bushy mustaches sell sea-glass figurines and pendants. Small, barefoot children dart through the crowd, getting caught underfoot, and offer up roses made of palmetto leaves. e soft-hearted women can never resist, and the children beam up at the couple as the man begrudgingly fumbles through his pockets for change. e far side of North Market features a string of candy stores. Women in aprons stand out front, far enough out so that they can offer up samples of candied pecans and homemade fudge to tourists, but close enough that they can

Winding Stairs by Drew Phillips (Photography)

still feel the air conditioning. e queen of the candy shops, Charleston’s Candy Kitchen, sits at the end of the street and is well worth the walk. e sickeningly sweet scent reaches the sidewalk and combats the stench of the horses from the carriage rides, and stepping inside is like falling into the looking glass. A teenage boy in britches and a pageboy hat straight from the 1920s stretches a thick, pastel swirled block of saltwater taffy onto a giant wooden spool. e spool pulls and re-folds the block until the colors blend and the consistency is

thick and sticky, and then the machine cuts the taffy into pieces, wraps it in wax paper, and deposits it into a toy train car. e train car travels the perimeter of the room on a wooden track and drops the candy into its corresponding container while the boy sets out samples on a wooden ledge, and parents give their toddlers a boost so that they can reach the candies for themselves. From the end of Market Street, the peninsula begins to close around you and the only place left to go is the Waterfront. e famed Pineapple Fountain, which does not need describing, often serves as a mini-water park to infants by day and drunken college students by night. e usually prim, wellbehaved girls are always certain that standing on top of one of the powerful spouts will turn them into Marilyn Monroe for their audience of gawking boys. East Bay Street stretches the length of the coastline, featuring an eclectic mix of young new clubs and well-established restaurants with names like High Cotton and Magnolia’s. Around the very edge of the peninsula, the Battery features an impressive collection of Civil War-era heavy artillery labeled with engraved bits of history. Brides are often photographed on the gazebo, set against a backdrop of a gleaming slice of the Atlantic Ocean, punctuated only by an occasional set of white sails and gunmetal bits of Fort Sumter. Rainbow Row borders the Battery to the right. e coral, yellow, and sea green mansions sit like dollhouses, trimmed in white moldings and scrolled wrought iron fencing. Extravagant flower gardens swirl through the perfectly manicured lawns, and Spanish moss hangs off of the trees and over the brick driveways. e historic houses are the Deep South’s versions of fairytale castles, each holding its own legend or ghost story, perpetuated by the costumed tour guides on the horsedrawn carriage rides, and then by the tourists to their friends and family back home. Along with the ghost stories, Rainbow Row also perpetuates Charleston’s reputation. It is here that Gone with the Wind images are made concrete and the accents sound the strongest. e Charleston attitude is an oxymoron; locals are genuine and polite, but there’s also that sense that they know that where they live is much superior to your hometown. And why shouldn’t they act that way? e air is thick with history and sea salt, the bright houses blend to a pastel smear, and Charleston thrives and pulses with the past and the present.

Bob Marley Marley by by Casey Casey Svehlak Svehlak (Painting) (Painting) Bob

Fruit Fly by David Mudre

Fruit

flies a

and

are

bother.

î&#x20AC;&#x20AC;ey

buzz

land food.

fly and on

Damn it, I wanted that muffin.

Walking Fath er to Baseball Gam es on Hot Su m m er E venings with My

by Jess Cohen

I sometimes wonder about the jazzman, how he plays despite everything, how he lays the case of his horn on the asphalt like an open palm, hungry and expecting because spare change is not spare change but food. Human resilency is harmony in the form of thunder. And when lightning strikes, long jagged bolts of fury reflect in the polished brass of his sax along with the torn summer night. He grips that sax with the strong, callused hands of a mountain man and his fingers are tree roots grasping the earth. Every so often, a smile sways across his face; his dry, pink lips crack and bleed so he’ll wet them again with his tongue and go on playing the next notes of his soul. I could barely see his eyes behind those thick black-rimmed glasses like Ray Charles always wore, but the case of his horn lays weary and worn, so I tell the jazzman that if the home team wins, I’ll drop a hundred dollars in. If the home team wins, I’ll drop a hundred dollars in.

Shattered Reflections by Jacqueline Addesa (Photography)

Drew in the Womb of the Room by Catherine Grier (Digital Art)

The Apartment by Tom Minogue Five valium a day and club soda to wash things down. e pills make powders and lines that trace across the ceiling, as if they could predict the cycle. A gasping, frothing stab at consciousness on the floor it comes back down. He screams hydrochloric acid and grenade fire, but this man cannot be me. I am behind a velvet shade, wrinkled with the sandman’s dust and it gets in my eyes again. Again I cannot sleep as I watch him in patterns climbing to the ceiling, I am behind the curtain. Beyond the veil he is no one, beyond the veil I am him, we are nothing though I have struggled. Reaching through the dark I grab, yanking him back, releasing in terrified whisper, “Forgive me, All I wanted was to be permanent.”

Fields of R ye

by Ian Cobb-Ozanne

Whisper to yourself the softest of lies, and bury them in barley and rye. Listen to my song as the north wind sighs, and remember how I never said goodbye. Recall a distant shore, where dead men lie, and follow a white horse to where blackbirds fly. Trace a path through stone across a ruined pier, and if you come alone, you will find me here. Stand along the tide and cry, watching my body as it dries. Listen to why I never say goodbye, and whisper to yourself the softest of lies. î&#x20AC;&#x20AC;en, when you hear the north wind sigh, bury me in fields of barley and rye.

Reflection by Julia Viets (Photography)

Warm Quarters Fall Cold by Katie Cummings

We were out of milk. Mother handed me a couple of quarters and told me to walk to the supermarket, about six blocks down the way. I could have said no, that it was getting dark out, that we could wait till tomorrow, but I didn’t. I wanted to go, to walk on the chipped sidewalk and watch my white shoes start to glow in the dusk. I was proud she even asked me to do it. I put the quarters in my right hand, feeling the metal stick to my sweaty palm in the dying summer heat. No one was outside. is past week it had been in the early 90’s all day, everyday. Hot enough to make my friendly neighborhood look abandoned, as everyone settled in front of their fans, sipping their iced lemonades. It was no different now in the evening, even though the sun had disappeared and the air was starting to cool. I kept my head down, reading the stories the sidewalk wanted to share: R.T. + M.N. A handprint pressed into the concrete. I thought about the milk I was going to buy, skim, and how school would be starting up again in a couple of weeks. I wasn’t going to be able to be out late like this again till next summer. I thought about how unusual it was of Mother to let me out at all. She must be realizing that I was fifteen after all; I could do things now on my own. At first I thought I was imagining the soft footfalls, but then my mind just stopped wandering and started listening. I hurried my pace, watching the whites of my shoes swish in dark in front of me, like white fish darting around in a concrete pool. I listened for any following sounds and my breath caught as I heard the answering footsteps. I started to run. I could see the neon sign of the supermarket flickering ahead of me, but the feet were getting closer, louder. My eyes started to water. —what’s going on— —why—just run—run—get inside— —Get inside—get inside now! I slammed through the doors and into the first checkout line I saw. e bagger boy looked up at me startled. I grabbed his hand and turned back to the door. And then I saw him, the maker of the footsteps and destroyer of my safe world. He didn’t come in. He just looked through the glass of the door right at me; his eyes flashed. He slammed his palm on the glass, looked at me one last time, and walked away into the darkness.

Untitled by Katie Cummings (Clayboard)

I jumped when I felt the hand of the bagger boy on my shoulder. Concern soaked the corners of his face. I realized he was talking, but I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hear him. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hear anything. I barely felt the quarters drop from my right hand. I just watched them dance on the checkerboard floor, dancing among the water of my tears.

As I listen to Michael tell a story about the feeling of letting an ice cube melt in the palm of his hand, I find myself dissolving slowly into the thought of you in your big coat, hands in pockets, nose tender pink & pointed. I want to thaw it. î&#x20AC;&#x20AC;e human element of it, the gusty warmth it leaves on the brr of my cheeks, the nose I knew before this mixture of oxygen & empty space grew frigid irregular & gray. November was constructed to deconstruct the summerland between us, your nose with skyward eyes & eyes as ripe as the wolfmanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s moon, a land wherefrom distance evaporates into tiny drops that collect & recollect on future lashes. Michael says there is something Zen-like about enduring the cold, accepting its indifference while awaiting its demise, knowing you have brought it upon yourself & must therefore suffer the consequences. I clink my third drink & remember how formed we once were. I wipe my nose & melt a little.

Anything

to Not

Grow Qu iet by Katie DeMoss

Lone Tree by Eric Willoughby (Photography)

Fisheyed River by Holly Cromer (Photography)

Thumbelina by Holly Cromer (Photography)

Sea Turtle by Holly Cromer (Photography)

Benth ic

by Julia Viets

Last night I swam in pools of obsidian gold. Ink embraced movement; warmth fought the cold.

Under for the length of eternity, or just a kiss, I was Ophelia, immortal, suspended in bliss.

î&#x20AC;&#x20AC;en air grabbed my lips, back to reality I flew; fiery snakes danced, and cement was all I knew.

Escape by Courtney Myers (Photography)

Battlefield at Dawn by David Mudre (Photography)

by Frances Smith

Cou ntdown to your hand on the small of my back, pulling me in for one more long awaited, last good kiss before the next, each better, each stronger, filled with each day we were apart, until the longing peaks over their lids and pours down, out, over and under our lips, our tongues, our cheeks, chins, shoulders, once torn, now healing. Two months until the hills roll again, Eight weeks until songs reclaim their rhythm, Fifty-nine days until I can finally lift my head off this cold pillow and pull myself up, and out into today, but for now Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll just miss you and fall asleep.

Innocence by Jenna Nichols (Photography)

Th e Kid

by Kriti Sen Sharma

Kid smiles back at me. â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Aloo chaatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; in hand. Watching cars pass by. Inhaling fumes all day, as he dishes out his fare To hungry wayfarers. His smile is real, but his life is not.

[Aloo chatt: typical roadside fare available in many parts of India]

Sunday Morning at the Duckpond by Katie Cummings (Oil Point on Canvas)

Breath ing Ou t by Kathryn Galland

Extended hand hugs yours and holds fixed sure; starts swinging toward meadows...and lets go— twirling: to bird-day treats till blanketed rosepetals red find you repose to rest your headyour heavy head, on inocent white— gold-red penetrating light emerses all; so sunshine soaks dampened moods— mounted in cool blue eyes, reflected in mirror skies.

Mask by Joseph Dunford

î&#x20AC;&#x20AC;e morning after, it is not so bright, crown of feather rumpled, green yellow purple vanes stained brown, soaking in spilled beer and mud, a stream of glitter bleeding out into the gutter, sequins and beads waiting for the street sweeper

Tom orrow by Julia Viets

A neon sign in the middle of the night was the sunrise she toasted to. A sip of tea broke the waves; daybreak was her moon. I sat behind her, as loud as her voice, and heard her paper face speak; I could have traced the picture that was beneath. My woolen toes itched, and I ate bread buttered sweet. Vainly I passed her the honey, but she did not want to eat. Instead she addressed the gulls, concerned about the weather and my age. But all I could see were yellow walls and hear the sound of crashing waves.

Winter River by

th e

by Kristin Grinnell Dedicated to Steadman Knight

I remember being bold that evening. î&#x20AC;&#x20AC;e coldness of your fingers on mine felt like the first time I saw snow. We stood bundled on the pier of the York River and watched as the sailboats sailed in and out. You grabbed my hand. Outside of us was nothing but white, but we knew the ephemeral light of the brazen sunset would soon settle, and fall innocently on the watersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; edge.

Untitled by Drew Phillips (Photography)

I Cry

Twiligh t

for

by Jess Cohen

I cry for twilight. Its splendor is smoke. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the sand that sifts between finger rifts. I cry for the tempered sky of late October, for the postmodern sun, and for the defiled light of early dawn. I cry for you, Muse. As substantial as smoke and sand; sifting between finger rifts, despite everything.

As The Clouds Roll Back by Eric Willoughby (Photography)

Sm oke Mirrors and

by Andrew Zimmer

I only smoke Pall Mall cigarettes, so I can remember you forty times a day… ey always light up with a flare, painting the walls of my little shop red. For a second I can see every crevice, every skittering roach; then the room drips back into the drear. e brightest light is the end of my smoke. e Pall Mall never goes down silky smooth. It tastes like charcoal to me, even though Angela says that no cigarette tastes that way. She says I should try a cooling menthol. “Smokey Smooth,” she told me. Sometimes we sit in here, choking on our respective memories, sending streamers of soot along the low ceiling. She says that she likes the way it smells. Like the 50’s. Back when every diner was filled with cigarettes, back when the television touted the filtered brand. She is a girl from a different time. You never smoked the filtered kind. Raw and rough was always your motto. Like that time we made love and you called it fucking. Once upon a time we filled this little shop with our moans, now I only sit and smoke your favorite, Pall Malls. Angela tells me I should move forward, but the cigarette smoke has sunk deep beneath my skin, so when I shower I can smell you. Sometimes the soap curls into my hand, and days later I see the imprint of my fingers and wonder why it hasn’t worn away. I wonder if time has broken. Is it running at the same pace as it always has? You never had these doubts. For you it was always a positive movement. Light a cigarette, step into a room, tear off your blouse. Never a moment’s hesitation. You were always moving. And then so was I. I take my Pall Mall and snub it against the table. I’ve let it burn all the way back to my fingers, but still haven’t taken a puff. I shrug and flick the butt onto the floor. I’m addicted to more than nicotine. ere are things that I simply can’t let go of. How could I forget the way your black hair chopped short above your ears. So different from other girls. Or the way you wore tank tops when it was snowing. e tiny dimples on your butt.

Sometimes when I think my memories are slipping away, the little details come crashing back. It’s those details that bring me back to you. I turn back to the rock on my table. When I need money I shape stones for the outsides of buildings. e work is mechanical, chip chop. Hammer and chisel working together, slowly shaping building blocks. I never smoke on the job; I don’t want to mix the different lives that I lead. I reach above my head and turn on the lamp. It feels like the sun beating down on me and the stone on the table leaps into sharp relief. I study the rock; it is deeply pocked and worn by years in the open. Wind wears down what it cannot destroy. I pick up my hammer and chisel, then set them back down. is stone will not become part of a building. is stone can be more; I select my chisel again and rub it lightly across the rock’s face. I think of the things this stone could become. Angela always forces me to show her my creations. I drag my feet and complain, but she always knows when I have something new. Somehow she gets excited over every lizard or beaver or sunset, I carve into the stone. She always exclaims how creative and unique I am. I let the compliments roll off my back, but she knows me too well, and she keeps on talking. I think she has a way of seeing through the stone even more than I do. Sometimes she knows what I’m going to carve before I do. Eventually, we open the door and sit down, side by side, and watch the sun play through the trees. I love the way I can feel her breathe beside me. In and out, like the ocean. Sometimes we light up, but usually we just sit and dream. I dream of you. Even when I can feel the heat of another person beside me, I think of what we used to have. Do you remember the weekend we went camping? It rained for all three days, and by the end the trails had become mudslides. e woods turned to an amusement park, and we had to ride all the way back home. Do you remember how we couldn’t build a fire, and all we had to keep warm were each other’s kisses? Angela and I kissed once, but she smelled all wrong and I started to think of you. I’m sure she could tell, because when we let go of each other, she took her swaying red hair and her freckled back and walked away. e next day she came around, and we didn’t talk at all, just smoked cigarette after cigarette. Maybe all I deserve is friendship. I take my chisel and curve it lightly into the stone, tracing the arc that wind has smoothed out. I don’t carve the stone so much as release what nature

has already started. Widen a groove here, deepen a hole there. e pictures paint themselves; it’s the stone that does all the work. I always begin without knowing where I’m going. It’s an unmapped road trip. I grab my hammer and begin to work. Later, I sit with the door open, smoking my Pall Mall. e porch of my shop is covered by enough of a roof to keep rain from falling, but it doesn’t stop the damp air. A chill shakes me, and I inhale lightly from my cigarette. Smoke tastes like the past, and sometimes I swear I bleed from my gums into the back of my throat. Why is it that sometimes you taste like a chisel biting into my hand, or a mosquito worrying my neck? I run my hand back through my hair and flick the butt of my cigarette into the grass. Dusk is starting to fall and dew stifles the little red flame almost instantly. Angela tells me I should smoke cigars. She says that they are based in the present; they exude the emotions behind good company or good wine. I worry that my memories would fade if I were to make that switch. I bought a At My Fingertips by Lisa Minner (Digital Art)

Cuban weeks ago, but it sits unlit in a drawer of my work table. e sun drops further, hiding behind the trees, and the air starts to bite at my shoulder blades. My breath hangs in front of me like a ghost, and I consider lighting another cigarette when I hear someone walking down the trail towards me. e footsteps blend with the sounds of the forest, I’m not that far from the road, but enough so I only hear the occasional passing car; the rest is nature. I can tell it’s her by the light pound of her feet, not quite like yours, but a friendly sound. Her dangling red curls round the corner, and I see the smile in her eyes creep down toward her pink lips. “Stephen!” she says. I look up and smile; her face is so freckled I can barely see her cheeks, but she beams a smile back toward me. “How have you been?” she asks as she sits down next to me. Our knees brush. “I quit my job again.” She frowns, “Lie. What have you really been up to?” “No really,” I say. “I’ve decided to stop carving rocks.” She looks at me, nonplussed. I lean back against the shop and close my eyes. “Stephen.” I open my eyes and watch the way her hair jangles past her ear, “I started something new.” She shoots to her feet and grabs my arm. “Show me! Show me!” she says. I allow her to pull me up. “It’s not finished, I only just started it.” “I don’t care.” She pulls me into the workshop. I drag my feet all the way across the floor, and Angela turns on the desk lamp. She looks down at the marked and worried stone, and takes one sharp inhale. I wait for her to tell me how creative and wonderful I am, but she just stares at the stone. I watch her face, the smile is gone now, and she looks confused. e stone just looks like a bunch of swirls and bumps to me. She must see something more. “It’s not done yet,” I say. “I’m not sure what it’s going to be.” She breaks her stare with the stone and gazes up at me instead. “No,” she says. “It’s good.”

I crinkle my brow. “It’s beautiful, I mean,” she says. “is is beautiful.” She leads me back outside and lights a cigarette. I light up a Pall Mall and sink back into my seat. We sit side by side and bump knees on the edge of the porch. Night has fallen all the way now, and the stars are starting to peek between the clouds. ere is no moon. She takes a hard puff on her cigarette and turns toward me. “Still smoking for that girl,” she says. “Her name is Brittany.” I let her comment roll off my back like so many before. I place the Pall Mall on my lips and taste the sweat and blood and charcoal that comes with an inhale. e smoke dribbles between my lips, “Who do you smoke for, Angela?” She presses a small hand against her face and makes like she’s going to leave. I wonder what he’s done to her, if it was anything like you’ve done to me. en she settles back down and takes another puff. “Stephen, do you remember when we met?” I nod, it seems like my life is filled with nothing but memories. ey poke holes in my day and steal my sleep at night. “It was the three of us,” I say. “You, me, and Brittany. You were at the market.” Angela smiles and it shocks me how much her face can light up in so little time. “I had my hands on that last big pumpkin. And you two just swooped in and grabbed it right from me.” “Halloween was just around the corner,” I say. “We were getting desperate.” “I got really upset. But then you invited me to carve it with the both of you.” She laughs, “I think that was the last pumpkin in town.” I nod and watch the way her head sways from side to side, ears peeking between her strands of hair. “I couldn’t leave you hanging, darling,” I say. Angela holds her cigarette out in front of her, watching the flame ride up the stick. “What are you going to do if she never comes back?” I wring my hands a bit. “I guess I just haven’t

thought about it enough. I feel like I’m running in place. You know?” She reaches out and rests her hand on my cheek. Her eyes catch mine, as her hair sways from side to side. ere is something both sweet and sour about the way her lips press together as she begins to speak. “I smoke for you, Stephen,” she says. She holds my face for another second, and I want to melt into her bittersweet touch. en she flicks her cigarette into the wet grass and gathers up her jacket. When she walks away, it’s at a slow shuffle, leaving me to my silence. I place the Pall Mall back into my mouth, but somehow it tastes wrong. I throw my cigarette away and walk back into my shop. I find myself in front of the stone once again, hammer and chisel in hand, pounding away. I think of you. How you left so suddenly. As if the woods weren’t big enough for the both of us. You never said you loved me, and I was always too scared to be the first. I think of where you are now, you left for New York almost two years ago. A new job, new boy, a new life, you said. You left me with nothing but smoke and mirrors. And after a while nothing but smoke. I raise my hammer and curve the chisel down the sides of the stone, tracing the tracks that nature has left. e stone gradually takes shape, and I apply less and less pressure as time goes by. After a while, it doesn’t feel right to keep carving, so I place my tools aside and blow the stone dust to the floor. e wind worked swirls have turned to curls, the bumps to freckles. Angela’s face stares back at me from the stone. I sit for a moment, staring at her, as she stares at me. I start to rise from my chair and turn off the lamp; it is late now, and the sky has long since been dark. But instead of leaving to go to sleep, I reach into my pocket and pull out my pack of Pall Malls. I twirl a cigarette and pull out my lighter. But before I can light up, the Pall Mall slips from my fingers, down into the cracks on the floor. I drop the rest of the pack there as well, and open a drawer on my right. e cigar is still coated in plastic, and I have to bite the end off with my teeth. It lights up slowly and the flavor is so unlike the cigarettes that have become my pastime. It is warm where the Malls are cold, it is thick where the Malls are lean, it is now and the Malls are then. I hold the cigar between my teeth, and let the smoke rise up toward the ceiling as I lay my fingers against the stone. First a finger, then a hand, I rest against her cheek. e stone feels warm, nearly alive as I run my fingers along her curly hair.

Louden Marshall and His Grandson Cullen by Katie Cummings

You tie my shoe. I watch your wooden arms bend and turn at the wrists. Your face is pocked and roughened by the sun, like someone took sandpaper and rubbed you dry the same way Momma dries the dishes. You are of the earth around me; the soft dirt is your skin, and the trees, your body, with leaves for hair and rocks for teeth. Your hand swallows the tiny veins of my laces. I imagine them connecting to the veins in your arms, winding and turning up beneath your shirt. You are content with yourself and that which surrounds you: dirt, sun, trees, me. You tie my shoe and I watch and wonder: am I seeing myself in fifty years? Would if I were to be that lucky.

Untitled I by Jeff Anderson (Photography)

Spire by Jenna Marson (Photography)

Muse by Courtney Myers (Photography) Prime Meridian Shuffle by Catherine Grier (Photography)

quantify morality and feel it pulse with salvation and ripped skin and bloody spurs and crucified hands and everyone else. blood is as relative as it is dark.

salivate by Shannon Cummings

Sandra Good found Christ in ripped Wrangler Jeans and patchwork vest. her brother her father her savior her hearth. sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not far off. not far out like where makeshift cots writhe with makeshift love and girls giggle and mares neigh and all is right with the world. sewn on skins wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t rectify patched clothes and tired horse corrals. rusted swingsets pinch pudgy little fingers. red trails brown as hooves drag. shadowed patch lurking under the long slide, lost slide. spirals down deep into a race war that rages on. perhaps decay is denser, heavier than we first thought. horseflies land on your asteriod eyes sand makes your feathers grimy. unseemly. wash them warm and red and lovely. dusty wings release. fly blackbird fly keep the sun out of our eyes and fix them fix us

Unworthy by David Mudre (Photography)

Moonflower by Vincent Keung I looked to the east, through space and time. Dressed in lime you sat next to me, feet in the river running along under. In it were space alligators crooning their song to you. Moonflower, when did you get so sour? I looked up at the stars. Your electric eye smoldered with a million degrees of brilliant blue plasma bright with life. A distant look from the supernova funeral, forgotten in the billion year promises that lingered longer then the infinite day. So when did you look away? I looked inside through a foliage of asteroids that quivered fluorescent. Crept chimp-like, through parabolic jungles of majestic dark. You were a space invader, your fleet zipped through phantom galaxies that sparkled, ripping apart relics that resembled the main street of a spaghetti-western ghost town. So when are you coming around? I looked down into the river running along, under-currents like satellites in orbit. ey crashed through space, thousands of them. Nevermind the chance of a silent death, wasted like another rock ‘n’ roll suicide. You loved those tragic stories of swollen space-age pride. So when are we gonna collide? I looked to the west, that last frontier. Beautiful but blue, baby, just like you. Freak out! I’d used to cry. Far out! you’d reply. In out! We’d lie. And I was a space alligator, crooning my song to you. But moonflower, when did you get so sour?

Through the Looking Glass by Jacqueline Addesa (Photography)

Melissa Brice Christopher Grey Monica Alvano Kara Batt Mike Chimento Elizabeth Cole Joanna Crowder Alexandra Ford Darien Foster Katie Hagan Brian Ivasauskas Kelley Junco Ryan Kirwan Jerry Liles Alec Noller Mary Kate Ramsey Kylie Sturgeon Lara Treadwell Brittney Trimmer Katie Fallon

Staff

Editor-in-Chief Business Manager Photography Editor Prose Editor Special Events Coordinator Public Relations Director Distribution Manager Communications Director Webmaster Special Events Coordinator Poetry Editor Assistant Graphic Designer Promotions Director Radio Show Host Art Editor Alumni Relations Director Assistant Promotions Director Graphic Designer Production Manager Faculty Adviser

General

Staff

Candice Chu Katie Collins Erika Duerksen Jonathon Fajardo Lauren Hockenberry Kelley Hower Robert Mulloy Mika Rivera Hannah Soh Brittany West Lindsey Taylor

Index

15, 53 06, 47 18 07, 14, 38 04, 24, 25 20, 21, 35, 46 50 22 34 16, 49 33 36 52 48 42 17 13, 28, 1 27, 49 30 10, 37 31 04, 29 12 08 19, 26, 35 23, 39 40

Jacqueline Addessa Jeff Anderson Ian Cobb-Ozanne Jess Cohen Holly Cromer Katie Cummings Shannon Cummings Katie DeMoss Joseph Dunford Catherine Grier Kathryn Galland Kristin Grinnell Vincent Keung Jenna Marson Lisa Minner Tom Minogue David Mudre Courtney Myers Jenna Nichols Drew Phillips Kriti Sen Sharma Frances Smith Casey Svehlak Morganne Tinsley Julia Viets Eric Willoughby Andrew Zimmer

Submit!

If you currently are an undergraduate or graduate student at Virginia Tech, Silhouette welcome your submissions. You can submit your work in person at 344 Squires or you can email your submission to us at submit@collegemedia.com. More details can be located on our website: www.silhouette.collegemedia.com

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Literary & Art Magazine Volume 31, Issue 2, Spring 2009