Silhouette is going global. We’re venturing outside of our small town and capturing the world within our pages. From England to Chile, India to Australia: We’re bringing back pieces of other cultures to Blacksburg. Each sketch depicts a cultural landmark from the four corners of the Earth. So fl ip through, explore the planet, journey with us around the globe. We hope you enjoy the trip as much as we did. Melissa Brice Editor-in-Chief
Christopher Grey Business Manager
Silhouette Volume 32, Issue 1, was produced by the Silhouette staff and printed by Franklin Graphics, located in Nashville, TN. The paper is 80 lb. Porcelain with a 100 lb. Porcelain cover. The fonts used throughout the magazine are Adobe Caslon Pro, Myriad Pro and Hand of Sean. 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.
Silhouette Literary & Art Magazine 344 Squires Student Center Blacksburg, VA 24061
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Mission Statement Christian Harder
The Spirits of the Appalachia Julie Deishor The Miles of Your Skin I Travel Caitlin Leith
Carl Sagan Makes Me Feel Th is Way Dan Waidelich Green Eggs and Heartbreak Jeff Craley Fingers Olivia Marshall The Simple Th ings Caitlin Leith Engineering a Poem Adam Dust Gossip Tiffany Dao Jackass Flats Dan Waidelich Autumn Leaves Marin Fuhrman Monsters Ryan Kim
Rugby Glue Zofeea Genota Zubie’s Toys Kirsten Bernhards Ma-Ma Morganne Tinsley Colored Palate Maia Saling Don’t Forget to Pray Zofeea Genota For Erika Julie Deishor A Lifetime I’ve Waited Nicholas Moore Cinderella, 2009 Amanda Rhoads
Mommy Always Said She Didn’t Like Hunting Whitney Webb
Chaos Theory Tiffany Dao
The Southern Live Oak Katie Noland Family Values Bryan Collins
Fall Times Catherine Grier Iron Wheels Hussein M. Ahmed 170 Sarah Kia
The Trumping Tower Michael Yager GraďŹƒti Street Claire Holman Curiosity Michael Yager
The Carousel Kayla Clements
Film Still #1 Alexandra Militano
Facelift Rick E. Holbrook
Waves and Rocks Hussein M. Ahmed
Jigsaw Colleen Dolinger Fine Creations Hussein M. Ahmed Slowly, Th rough a Vector Sarah Kia
Chasing Mountains Colleen Dolinger Burs of Spring Holly Nicholson Looking Th rough Michael Yager
A Glance Hussein M. Ahmed
La Vanguardia Hanna Teachey
Love is All There Is Katie Cummings
Need for Speed Kayla Clements
Chile is Chile Robin Chidester Bird on a Wire Katie Cummings
Untitled III Sarah Kia The Duckpond Bridge Katie Cummings Light in a Dark Forest Robin Chidester
by Christian Harder I want my words to explode like rounds from a handgun, burning as rough as rope dragged around the wrist, and scream loud, a jet fighter peeling across the sky, to blast like crammed pipe bombs or bite tight as handcuffs but I wouldn’t mind if they also were a comforting blanket, a hazy sunrise, or the soft smell of cinnamon, or maybe even a carefully drawn bath on Tuesday night. I’ll be happy if my words force people to duck and yell, keeping men up in their beds, punching at the murky ceiling. And hopefully, someone will throw a grenade at my words starting an insurrection and producing lots of paper work. Preferably, it won’t make students pound their heads on desks to figure out why I used ‘handgun’ over ‘AK-47’ or study my mother who ran my baths. They should assume these words lie. I want my words to explode like rounds from a handgun.
Love is All There Is by Katie Cummings [ Pen on Bristol Board]
Fall Times by Catherine Grier [ Photograph]
by Julie Deishor For Professor Steven Mooney Hey, brother, brother—glad you’re home. The mountains have been lonely without you. Stay a while. I look over the shrouded ridges and feel at peace as if the spirits of the Appalachia are saying Hey, brother, brother—glad you’re home. The souls of my fathers reach for me, whistering, through bright flowers and cool mist, Stay a while. Family and friends speak to me through the golden fingertips of the sun; Hey, brother, brother—glad you’re home. Moist grass and sweet earth kiss my heels, pulling me to the mountain, inviting me to Stay a while. White mist licks the valley, and the bright blue sky beckons: Hey, brother, brother—glad you’re home. Stay a while.
The Trumping Tower by Michael Yager [ Photograph]
by Dan Waidelich
I asphyxiate; no air here tonight. The mass talks to me. No, they talk at me, and it’s not often I feel this alone. This balcony is my lonely empire stuck between the unsatisfying mob and the clockwork of a cold, clear night sky. I choose the cosmos, my consistent friend. Stars want me to meet them, to jump into space and fall forever, away from the ground. I breathe ether from the October night. The spheres exhale. They died long before I came outside to feel their silver smiles on my face. The girl joins me, and my solitude breaks. She is a beauty. She only wants me. I only want something ethereal, so I must seem as distant as the stars. She wishes I would come in from the cold; for a moment, I wonder if I should. I ask for a few more minutes alone. She returns to her oblivious crowd, and no one notices I lock the door. I’m committed to the sky for tonight because my dreams are grander than all this. No, this pale blue dot is never enough.
by Caitlin Leith I’m chasing all the lines of your skin; drawing patterns with the sunbeams caressing pale limbs with a dewy sort of translucence. I’m kissing all the grooves of your fingerprints; twisting the shadows of space into brightened treble clefs of smoldering romance. I’m swimming through the current of your irises; breaking the lucid blues into pigments of ocean and atmosphere. I’m tracing the every curve of your countenance; wearing away my fingertips with the miles of skin I travel. And as I traverse the paths of your body, I’ll keep outlining your image in silhouettes of dust motes; wasting my days remembering waterproofed kisses from so far away.
Iron Wheels by Hussein M. Ahmed [ Photograph]
Need for Speed by Kayla Clements [Mixed Media]
by Jeff Craley
I stand by your window and Cry, “Rapunzel let down that long hair,” but baby that window’s closed and the light’s out. I gave you my sweetness but baby you just hopped on pop and took that twilight train to the Jersey shore. And while you there, I know you there, you and your pretty maids all in a row, waitin’ to ride that Atlantic City Rollercoaster they call Thomas the Tank Engine cuz he’s made outta steel and he smokes, I’m standin’ here, you leavin’ me by your bed, bringin’ you breakfast, Green eggs and heartbreak.
GraďŹƒti Street by Claire Holman [ Photograph]
by Zofeea Genota Four days have passed, without food or a home. Mama said I’ll be back. During the day, the street vendors shooed us away, like fl ies on a blistering summer. We watched as the cried out desperately: Cheap, cheap, cheap! We just laughed at them and sniffed our rugby glue. Its sweet smell and enticing red fi lled our hunger, making us forget the pain for a moment. At night when we worked, the women scattered around the curb, waiting for something by the cold streets. Only the cars were cautious. One slowed down and called for my attention: You’ve got a good one for me, boy? I turned around and called out Grace. I have a good one just for you! Fresh and fourteen! As she ran toward me, she fi xed her hair and smoothed out her skirt. You like? The door suddenly swung open. Get in. I rubbed the $10 in my hand as they drove away. Should I worry about her? No, she’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll just sit on the curb with a plastic bag of rugby glue and wait for Grace. Now that I’ve got money in my hand, Mama will be proud.
by Tiffany Dao
Going for my morning jog, a girl steps out of an alleyway and checks her cellphone. Korean girl, quite possibly in her late twenties, emerges from an alleyway between a Chinese medicine shop and a Vietnamese Pho restaurant, digging through her purse for her cellphone. The sidewalk is wet and the morning mist hasn’t yet settled, and the girl steps into a puddle as she slips out of an alleyway in Chinatown. Jogging past her, her eyes are in her purse and she doesn’t notice me. Asian lady in her twenties, hair pinned up in a high ponytail and buried under layers of coats and sweaters, moves out of an alleyway in Chinatown and stops to check her bag so she can call someone, doesn’t notice a hooded jogger passing her by. Her bag is a leather Coach bag, probably fake, and hangs at her outstretched elbow as she scrapes the bottom of her bag for her disposable cell, the third one of the month. She can’t seem to find her cellphone. Korean girl does not have a good grip on her bag since I can just slip my hand through the leather straps and ease it off her arm like butter. Her outstretched arm, made thick by probably three layers of clothing, is hanging an expensive purse at the crook of her arm and doesn’t notice a jogger buried in a white sweatshirt stepping towards her, bumping into her while she’s searching for her phone. There are shouts in the early morning in unnamed place in unnamed country as a jogger collides into a Korean lady stepping out of an alleyway. By the time she notices the purse is missing, the jogger is already weaving through a throng of cars and taxis. Worrywart girl doesn’t travel through alleyways often, but traffic is tight early in the morning and her car is dead for the fifth time this week, this time not bothering to start, and the alleyways are the quickest, emptiest pathways through Chinatown. Chinatown’s the kind of place where people come to experience the exotic but it’s actually a mixing pot for the eastern nationalities where the mixing isn’t done so well since the Japanese have a tiny corner on an unmemorable street, the Indians claim a sliver of the north side, Koreans have the west, and Chinese take just about every other spot in Chinatown which makes sense since the town is named after them, and Korean girl lives in an
170 by Sarah Kia [ Photograph]
by Olivia Marshall
You take my hand and tenderly place it in yours. You take my pointer finger and with a faint smile you yank it sideways so hard it breaks. You snap each of my thin fingers, one by one. I try to scream I hate you I hate you but when I open my mouth I change colors. When you’re done I raise my hands to my face and my fingers are all bent and bruised and it hurts, it hurts. You take my hand and hold it hard and squeeze and God it hurts so much I start to see bees floating across my vision and I can’t remember if I love you or not. But you look at me and your eyelashes make music when you blink and I forget about my broken fingers. Your hands move to my wrists and I think to myself that maybe this time you just want to give me a nice bracelet but I know what is coming and it will I know what is coming and it will not I know what is coming and it will not feel I know what is coming and it will not feel good
Chile is Chile by Robin Chidester [ Paint on Canvas]
Curiosity by Michael Yager [ Photograph]
by Kirsten Bernhards
A blind turtle, its Easter egg shell cracked, expels its guts before one horrified, detached eye. Tigger lies discarded, missing his snout, foaming at the mouth, his spring tail MIA after the brutal battle. The purple platypus has it worst – banana yellow crinkled feet amputated one after another. Its bill met the same fate, leaving a Jelly Belly corpse behind. A three-foot Diamondback no longer can taste the air. Mauled at the jugular, its carotid severed, body limp, a missing rattle silences the tail. The predator lounges nearby, cradling a plastic tibia between paws. Gnawing, fi ling those teething needles. His victims are littered about among a blizzard of fluff.
The Carousel by Kayla Clements [ Photograph]
by Caitlin Leith
- you died tonight, but, oh, you’d been dying for so long now, your world blurring into melting creamsicles trapped between the moonbeams’ silver teeth The fire is lit and she’s bubbling through the everglow, like a fickle bee buzzing around a spilled drink, sticking her fingers into a bag of treats and smiling as she licks the sweetness away.
as she wraps her sticky hands around my neck, I whisper to her, “Does the candy taste good?” and she giggles; a sunbeam twisted and electrified into sharp, resonating notes.
She spies me in my darker corner and ambles over, small patent Mary Jane’s fumbling, until she is in my lap, and she’s so warm and I can feel her tiny heartbeat fluttering against my sweater and
- and, oh, how I wish I could bottle this moment and hang it on our windowsill so that every prism would reflect that melody -
- I wish you could hold her now and let her heat envelope you and blush across your cheeks until you, too, smiled -
She looks at me and sneaks another secret sweet in between small, white teeth, and says, “It tastes like candy.”
by Morganne Tinsley Thick, Gone With the Wind accent a remnant of Richmond like the Thalheimer’s jewelry box tucked into her drawer under a purple velvet cloth. Clinique “Toasted Rose” lipstick constantly needing re-application she thinks.
Film Still #1 by Alexandra Militano [ Photograph]
Green beans with ham, new potatoes in butter and squash casserole lined up on the stove. “Don’t y’all ever want me to fi x anything different?” She knows we don’t. She fi xes the sweet tea in the big pitcher for the grandchildren and the unsweet in the little one for the sugar-conscious adults. She drinks the sweet with us. The mini-book of prayers and thanksgivings, trimmed in frills, remains unchanged, in its place on the back of the toilet since the days when we used to love to spend the night and she would ask “Maaw-gan, don’t you want me to curl your hair for church?” I always answered yes, my cousin no. Sundresses she smocked by hand: painstaking stitches in pink, yellow, and white with ribbon ties and matching hair bows. Worn to a decade of Easter Sunday services at Memorial Baptist Church by six different Tinsley girls. She has outlived the dresses; bent double with the pull of time and arthritis. Still going Cooking Raising. So we gather there children and grandchildren to eat and talk and take Christmas card pictures and hear stories about when Richmond still had a Thalheimer’s.
by Adam Dust
Scribbling boxes, variables, symbols onto scratch rubbed grey, smeared graphite and rubbery dust, tattered from mistaped -retaped- graphs and drafts drowning in ostentation, homework, cacophony, highlighting heats (hats), coloring Hooke’s hanging – perhaps some find (force) time, fulfi ll (reject) the stereotypes – point masses, probing magnets in Faraday cages, perusing Lindlar, Diels Alder, Van der, and Issac toying with theroems, assuming away complexities: But can reactants form a perfect literate product? Does scribbing, drowning, studying, highlighting work to every bit end? Sciencetists or enginyears mayhap seam ill literate magichians–yet Doyle’s ‘n Issac’s genuis reverberates through print, bounds from pages, reflections into characters, into words, into sentences, to lines, paragraphs, stanzas, stories. Perhaps this vanity, mirrored in moles of tables and work, can manifest a poem (like an aromatic ring: structured, stable, powerful; Lego for more ‘n more carbons replaced by words, double bonds replaced by literary elements). Letters more than variables? Can e and x stand for more than numbers? To me will elephant forever recall natural logorithims and decay or will sign forever - always - mix with sin? Could I derive a poem?
Facelift by Rick E. Holbrook [ Photograph]
by Maia Saling The floorboards were always covered in snow and bonfire soot. And when they thawed out right, they puddled up in like colors,
themselves into pictures of dogs and bells as clouds do from time to time. They acted like an Etch A Sketch when stepped on,
and matched up in line with the boots that had tracked them in. There was always an extra shade of grey, with a tint of green,
as they wiped clean and recreated into new parts and possibilities. I watched them for hours, sitting in the corner and
and it always made no sense when you looked out the window. Regardless, the dirty liquids eventually coordinated
doting over their simple shapes, wanting to pick them up and hold them close, and if I were a dog, I would lick them, despite the grimy taste of the floor. Untitled III by Sarah Kia [ Digital Art]
Waves and Rocks by Hussein M. Ahmed [ Photograph]
by Tiany Dao I remember someone told me once about a dude they knew who had a friend whose adopted younger sister had overheard a conversation by accidentally tripping into a rose bush though it didn’t catch the attention of said conversationalists during said conversation but had heard them, nonetheless, talking about that thing that happened that time, yeah, that thing you know that involved that person who did something sometime somewhere and it was freaking awesome.
by Zofeea Genota
I almost forgot about God when I left home for college. But I remember what my mama had taught me. “Pray every night before you sleep and treat others how you want to be treated.” This and that, black and white, believe or burn. But I never gave a damn. She prayed like a nun, so holy and pure, asking that I’d be the saint that God wanted me to be. I remember the time I first saw her cry. that morning i put on my white polo shirt and forest green plaid skirt, the uniform of innocent catholic school girls. i walked out of my room, papa came through the door, mama followed yelling, flinging her arms. i’d never seen her so mad. mama grabbed a rock paperweight raising her arms about to strike papa with that bull’s-eye on his back. mama cast the rock, papa dodged in time. i cried so hard to make her stop but she looked at me with scarlet eyes. i thought she was leaving for good. mama went to a bar that night to get her anger drunk. he said you’re pretty; your husband’s a lucky man. mama came close to getting her revenge, but she came back, tucked me to bed and whispered don’t forget to pray.
Jigsaw by Colleen Dolinger [ Photograph]
by Katie Noland
This is why I am like a tree. Quercus virginiana, also called the Southern Live Oak, is an evergreen or nearly evergreen oak tree native to the southeastern United States. Down here in the South, trees grow real tall. Have you ever heard of a southern oak? Well I guess you have now. The tallest and widest are the oldest. I guess I am a pretty tall tree for my age. I don’t have many rings to count on my trunk, but I am older than you think or at least older than my Momma thinks. I had been working up for this one thing. This was it; time to show everyone how big I really am. It’s time for them to see how far my branches can really reach. Momma always said I was real big in the head, but that I had a lot to learn. I think she was wrong. You know, a few months ago they used to call me “Lil’ Georgia.” Do you want to know why they called me that? Well, why does anyone refer to something as “little?” That is why they called me Lil’ Georgia. It has been a few months, though and look at me now. All high and mighty like I am something. I am a lot bigger than they ever thought I was. They say it takes trees hundreds of years to reach their largest sizes, but I am practically already there. Proved them wrong. Depending on growing conditions, live oaks vary greatly. They can grow to be much larger and spreading or some remain very shrubby. Their lower limbs often sweep down toward the ground before curving up again. They can grow at severe angles. Momma was always telling me what I was doing wrong, how to be a lady, how to cross your legs in public, but she never taught me how to uncross them in private. I learned that one myself. I was damn proud too to think I could do something like that. Now, that was a real accomplishment. No other girl my age had lost her virginity yet and no girl was too proud of it either. Maybe that is why Momma wanted me to cross my legs so much whenever people were around. I never really understood all that nonsense. She always tried to say that people were always watching, but I guess I never knew what it was they were watching for. She was always trying to make me one way, but I fought back and just went the other. My branches were always up and down, back and forth, and I blame Momma for that.
“Now Georgia, dear, don’t look at me so crossly! One day when you are at some wonderful estate and you walk in for a fine dinin’ occasion, you will be thankful that I took the time to teach you this. Some Mothas don’t teach their daughters what I do. I want you to be classy, darlin’. Is that too much to ask?” Apparently so, Momma. I didn’t want to stay classy too long. What does a tree need class for? We are put into a species, identified as trees and that is the end of it. Would you call a tree anything other than what it is? That is how society works. People see a tree, they classify it immediately, not really judging, but just calling it what it is and that is the end of it. That is who you are. Although, it doesn’t make much sense considering most people don’t know the names of trees at all. Tree does not differentiate between the kinds, but I guess that don’t matter much round‚ here. Momma always acted like acting proper was going to get you somewhere, but who taught her that? I never felt all that classy, whatever that means. Momma used to say I had so much going for me. Sometimes, the way this town is makes me feel like nothin’ is goin’ at all. There is one main street that goes into and out of town, but for some reason no one really had much use for it. Most everyone walked by foot where they wanted to go because most likely it wasn’t very far at all. And as for visitors, well folks didn’t usually stop into town unless they really have to. It is really out of the way of anything, but it is where I planted my roots and I can’t change that now. I wouldn’t say I had much choice in the matter either. When I was twelve, Momma taught me how to make home squeezed lemonade. She always said that a woman should be domesticated. She needs to know how to cook because when the time comes to marry she will be the one to make the meals. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but now I wonder what kind of meal lemonade would be and what husband would marry a woman who could only squeeze out lemonade? I don’t remember Momma making any lemonade for her husband. I can hardly remember a husband, but I do remember a few of her favored men coming by. If I didn’t know that you needed a man and woman to make a baby, I would have thought Momma made me all by herself. Anyhow, it tasted real good once you put some sugar and stirred in some nice cold ice. Oh, I can almost taste it now. Sometimes, while we were making lemonade she tried to talk to me about things, things that I really didn’t understand. Once I did understand them, I still pretended I didn’t. After all, no Momma wants to know their baby girl knows those sorts of things. “Now, lil Georgia, you know about sexual intercourse do you not?” “Yeah, Momma. When you and Daddy used to not let me sleep in your room anymore.”
“Well—not quite darlin’ and that was not your Daddy either. Well, let’s just say when you love a man very much.” I don’t think I loved him very much or anyone for that matter. Momma didn’t throw the word around too much. I had heard of it, but it didn’t seem like my type of thing. Really, after it happened I could hardly remember it at all. Momma made losing your virginity out like it was something real important, but all I remember is closing my eyes and hoping he would hurry up and put his damn pants back on. Fifteen years old and I am pretty sure I know everything by now. At church, the minister always said it was best to wait til marriage to let a man take your virginity away from you. I don’t see how it is something you can take, but that is what they say anyhow. Well either way it is long gone now. Lost it months ago. Now I am a woman. Momma doesn’t know. She thinks I am still “Lil’ Georgia,” but I do what married people do, I do what she does, so she can’t call me little anything and that is for damn sure. I let a man carve his name in my bark and no one can erase what that man carved so deeply into me. Bird on a Wire by Katie Cummings [ Pen and Ink on Bristol Board]
It was this past summer. I have known him all my life. He practically raised me along with Momma. He would stop by the house every now and again. He used to give me candy when I was a little girl. He stopped coming around as much, but I see him enough. I could never remember whether he had a wife or not. I don’t think it mattered to him much either way. I trusted him, so it wasn’t that bad I guess. We were at a Fourth of July party. Momma was out making her public appearance as usual with all the right people. She didn’t worry about watching me too closely. There were other people to do that. Besides, I was fifteen and I didn’t need anyone watchin’ me. Fourth of July may as well have been Christmas down here. Something about Southern pride, whatever that is. Momma used to say stuff about having good Southern hospitality. Well I don’t know about that. I don’t think I want to welcome every damn person that just walks up to my door. I don’t see much sense in that. That is just welcoming bad luck upon yourself. She made me wear a dress she made. It was an awful color, itchy and tight. I practically had to rip it to get it off, but Mr. Hunnigan, that was his name, helped me with the process. He was experienced in that area I guess. Some kind of Southern hospitality. Everyone was there. Everyone was wearing their best. They knew that everyone else would be looking, judging, identifying and putting them into categories. It was practically an all day event for me. Momma woke me at the break of dawn to get ready. She said a girl must be awake and aware of her surroundings at these sorts of things. You never know who is lookin’. She had sewn the dress last week. It was hanging in my room. Momma kept saying that it was just waiting to be shown off. I didn’t realize until I put it on how ugly it really was. From a distance it looked nice, but up close it was down right awful and made me look like a real heifer. It was a pale sky blue, Momma’s favorite color. She thought it looked best on me, but I hate that damn color. It was if she was trying to make me more like her. I tried so hard to not let that happen, but somehow I think it did. It was harder than I thought to avoid that. Live oak wood is hard, heavy, and difficult to work, but very strong. She made damn sure to make that dress real tight too. Maybe she knew what kinds of things I would be up to. Maybe those were the same things she got into at my age. Momma never did tell me much about her growin’ up. I’m sure if I asked she would just say I didn’t need to know. I could hardly breathe at first. I got used to it after a while, but it was no pain I would go through again any time real soon. I think Momma practically pasted the dress on my pale sunless skin. She never let me lay out like the other girls. Momma
said tanning was a waste and bad for your health. I don’t see how that matters. I am practically grown up now, so she won’t be making those decisions for me anymore. Mr. Hunnigan liked the dress, but I got the impression he liked it more when it was off. There was a dark blue bow that tied in the back of my dress around my thin waist. He followed close to me all day long softly caressing the bow. Momma didn’t pay any mind to it. She thought he was just being a good mentor, making sure I didn’t get into trouble. She probably didn’t realize that real mentors aren’t supposed to get that close to their pupils, but I liked the attention. Something about him intrigued me. I watched him closely and kept my legs crossed all day long so he wouldn’t think I didn’t have class. I was mature for my age, as he could probably notice. Momma told me I must have been eating something special because all of the sudden I seemed to be growing breasts out of nowhere. Maybe that was why the dress was so tight. She was trying to hide them, but I wouldn’t let her. I was fifteen and ready. They always did fireworks once it was dark. I had been looking forward to that all day. I couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Hunnigan either. There was something about him that made me feel like there was a fire inside me. Maybe it was because he was the only one that could see how mature I was for my age. I didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing. Momma never told me about a fire. She didn’t really tell me much of anything about men except that they were off limits until I was married. I doubt that same rule applied to her. Well married or not, I wanted Mr. Hunnigan. I knew Momma might not like me being with him in the way I wanted to be, but it was all the more reason to do it. He was somewhere around Momma’s age, maybe younger. He knew what he was doing. So did I, I guess. I think Momma would be proud that I picked such a nice man and an experienced one too. He won’t mind that I don’t really know what I am doing, at least that is what he seemed like. And besides he could show me how. I needed to learn somehow. I was sick of waiting around to get married to get what all the fuss about sex was. Fifteen years is a long time to wait and I just couldn’t do it anymore. I had to let myself grow, get my branches somewhere worth growing. This was a type of learning you couldn’t really find in school. When the fireworks started, I knew Momma would be distracted. The thought of me and Mr. Hunnigan having sex probably never crossed her mind. After all, I was still “Lil’ Georgia” to her. I went and stood real close to Mr. Hunnigan. I put my hand on his leg and began to stroke it. The fireworks were beginning. They were red, white and blue. He gave me a funny look. I think at first I surprised him, but he began to see how mature I really was. I stood up on my tip toes and leaned real close so my lips brushed against his ear and told him that I wanted him. You know, after I said that I couldn’t really believe I really had. There were big booms from the fireworks and sudden spurts of bright light. My hand began to explore more of his leg and body as discretely as I possibly could, but with all the noise and commotion my actions went by nearly unnoticed. Mr. Hunnigan noticed, though. Out of the corner of my eye I saw
him give one quick body shake. I knew how to seduce a man. I had seen Momma do it. I had never done it before, but I just did what I saw her do. It seemed to work just right on him because he leaned against my ear and asked if I wanted to go somewhere. I think he had done this before. It made me more excited to know I would be showing an experienced man that I could be experienced too. I was excited for him to be my first. I was ready to have sex and leave “Lil’ Georgia” behind for good. We weren’t married either. I bet Momma would be upset about that, but I don’t think she has much of a right. I don’t recall any wedding ring on her hand and she always has men around the house. The fire in me grew. I don’t know what it was, but it got worse when he pushed me against the wall of a barn and ran his hand anxiously up and down my body grazing the spots Momma always said were off limits to boys. The fire was building fast. I felt like something in me was going crazy. Really, I just couldn’t control myself. The fireworks continued to go off in the distance. I couldn’t see them anymore, but it was hard not to hear them. They tend to survive fire, since a fire will not always reach their crowns. I don’t know why people think this is so great. I think he was having more fun than I was. At first, I couldn’t control myself with all the excitement and build up. I had never really kissed a boy before so I knew I was bad, but Mr. Hunnigan didn’t mind I guess. He pushed me into the door of the barn, now and then into a bed of hay. He kept on rubbing his hands all over the place. It was hard for me to keep track of where they were really. I stopped paying attention for a while too. It got old a little bit and I got less excited. Really, I got a little scared. God knows what he was doing while I was thinking about how no one else my age has done this. I was the first. I bet everyone would be so jealous of me. I would be all grown up once he finally gets to the point. I would be done growing, but I got scared that maybe it was not going to be that great after all. The anticipation was killing me. I wanted to get it all over with. Skip ahead to the part where I was grown up, where I knew, where I was done learning. Even if a tree is burned, its crowns and roots usually survive the fire and sprout vigorously. He began to moan real loud. I don’t remember hearing about that happening when you have sex. The fire was gone from me, but he kept getting louder so I guessed his fire was just gettin’ goin’. I got worried that people would hear, but the fireworks drown everything out. Maybe that is why I can’t remember much either. Maybe the fire was all drown out by that noise. All I know is I was ready to be done with this. I just wanted to survive it. Somewhere in there, he unzipped my dress, got hold of everything and kissed what he felt he didn’t touch enough. He was fast about it all, business-like I guess is what people say. Nothing like Southern hospitality. I didn’t do much. He must be a talented man, that Mr. Hunnigan. He took his pants off too. I
didn’t really see much of anything to brag about. I guess I could lie about that. Really he didn’t give me a chance to. I tried to see what was under those pants. Momma always said that I didn’t need to know that anyhow, but before I could I felt a sort of pressure in that place that made me forget to look all together. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not. There was nothing that great about it. It hurt a little, like someone was poking me at a weird angle. Momma never told me about that. Was that what sex is? It was over pretty fast. He seemed like he enjoyed it. I felt real funny at first, dirty almost. When he was done he put his pants back on and I managed to squeeze back into my ugly dress. He asked me how old I was and I said fifteen. He gave me a funny look and said, “you best not tell your Momma about this. Let’s keep it a secret?” I thought about it a while and I guessed he was right. Momma would be disappointed if she knew I wasn’t married the first time I had sex. I guess I know what it is now. I thought that was it. I thought there wouldn’t be any problems with what I had done. Before, I was so ready to finish growing. I felt like I was ready. I am mature for my age after all, but I hadn’t learned quite everything. They can The Duckpond Bridge by Katie Cummings [ Pen and Ink on Paper]
withstand occasional floods and hurricanes and are resistant to salt spray and moderate soil salinity. For some reason, Momma keeps me under strict supervision when it comes to my period. She has a calendar that has had a record of my period since I was ten and first had it. She was surprised I had it so early. She said hers took a while to come, but like I said I grew up fast. Every month around the second week there was a red “X” marking the day it started and another for the end of it. It was always pretty regular, lasting about a week. I did miss it once by a few days and she had a big breakdown. I never really understood why. I was glad to miss it. It is a pain in my ass. After what happened this time when I missed it, I began to understand what the breakdown was for. It had been a month or so after the Fourth of July party. I was due for my period and it hadn’t come yet. Two days went by and nothing still. Momma broke down and cried for those two days. She didn’t leave her room. She wouldn’t look at me or talk to me. I didn’t think much of it. I knew that sex led to pregnancy, but the first time? I didn’t think it was that easy. Maybe he had a special sperm that was the best kind to get pregnant with or something. Who knows, but I knew Momma was going to start asking questions once she recovered. I was getting real nervous. I didn’t think grownups had to worry about their Mommas anymore, but I was sure as hell worried. What was I going to do? If I told her, would she hate me? That wouldn’t be fair. She practically made me who I am, all bendy and backwards, growing every which direction. Yeah, I had sex, but it was her doings that made me this way. Maybe I would tell her then. She can’t punish me for being who she made me. I was very wrong. Forests disappear naturally as a result of climate change, fire, hurricanes or other disturbances. Most deforestation in the past 40,000 years has been human induced. That is just what Momma did to me. She cut me down, out of her life and killed me, separating me from my roots and leaving me to die. I don’t know if trees die instantly when you cut them down in all cases, but I did. Do you know where she made the cut? She made it right where Mr. Hunnigan had carved his name into my bark, so deep and big that I couldn’t hide it eventually. When he first left his mark on me, I was glad that it was him. I was glad that I could show it off to everyone, but when Momma saw it I changed my mind. She made sure I would never forget it. I disappeared, I decomposed and nothing remains of me, except for my rotting branches and trunk.
Chasing Mountains by Colleen Dolinger [ Photograph]
It’s a lonely ride to the end of the world. The exhausted lakebeds wheeze with dry salty breaths. Sweltering waves break over my body leaving me weak in the chalky crush. I look for a sign of a sad old man; some conceit to the history of this atom-scarred waste. Instead, silence. They say Oppenheimer quoted Hindu scripture; “I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.” I think he just said, “It worked.” But the physicists did become poets; writing warnings on the air with fission and fire. As my gaze stretches across Jackass Flats and into the friscalating light, words fail me. I sit at the epicenter of a flare that burned hotter than any conceivable hell and more radiant than Sol himself. My eyes adjust to a luminous blanket of white light. My lungs gulp for fresh air, but with every breath they are assaulted with radiance and fire. If I could cry, the salty rain would run dry before it ever reached the ground. Considering the bomb, the desolation it wrought, I understand: Eliot was wrong about the whimper; this is the way the world ends.
by Dan Waidelich
My eyes squint behind my sunglasses at the stark, dusty carpet of the Nevada desert. My rent-a-car car bounces along, leaving Las Vegas behind, a mirage in a shimmering heat.
Fine Creations by Hussein M. Ahmed [ Photograph]
by Julie Deishor In the context of the bedroom in the basement Everything is cold. The tile oor, the air, my hands, her kisses— frozen kisses that pull my heat from my tongue. A photograph of a boy and a girl (who might not be me), holding hands and smiling, stands upright and watches us critically with freezing eyes that sting my back. She pulls away, leaving me shivering as she approaches the metal frame, sends me a cool white smile, and knocks the picture face down. The thin rattle of cracked ice punctuates her soft footsteps as she pads back towards the bed. When she returns to my arms her skin is thawed and her lips are warm and as red as the strap of her bra slipping down her arm.
Burs of Spring by Holly Nicholson [ Photograph]
by Marin Fuhrmann
The sultry summer sun, undone, slips lower in the sky, while all around the sights and sound abound with mourning cry. The brightest hues grow more subdued as death and sleeping wander; the passing days, in aestival blaze, prepare instead of squander. The ember reds and golds so bold issue from relenting greens, those living for a season, reason, wondering what it means. The cooler airs, without a care, caress a final flower who will be left, lifeless, bereft, alone in the last hour. Death, we’re taught, makes us distraught in any other setting, yet no grief for any leaf sets us to days of fretting. Instead we’re captured, full enraptured, by beauty in our eyes; all the while, we gaze and smile, accepting summer dies. Each leaf unwhole, without a soul, may fancy she’ll be spared, while knowing all, the others’ll fall, despite how much they cared. Though autumn thinks she is the prize, so wise as summer grieves, ‘tis winter forecast to laugh last, for he knows autumn leaves.
by Nicholas Moore
A lifetime I’ve waited for you to arrive. The moment is finally here. From this gold pillared palace perched high on a cloud, I’ve watched you, my eyes stained with tears. Each morning, I watched as you’d wake up your children. Slowly you’d open their doors. “Good morning!” You’d say, “Kids it’s time to get up.” And then came the rants and the roars. They’d whimper and whine and they’d sniffle and snarl and pull blankets over their faces. They’d kick and they’d scream, “I don’t wanna go to school!” Still you dressed them and tied their shoelaces. I watched as you’d cook them a brilliant breakfast, and still they’d persistently fuss. You’d wrestle on backpacks, and kiss their little heads, then you’d watch as they walked to the bus. I will never forget how you watched them so lovingly, despite their relentless resistance. The bus would come by and they’d climb the tall steps, and then disappear into the distance. So many mornings I watched them wake up, their ideas of misfortune distorted. And now that we’ve met, let me be known to you, I’m that child of yours you Aborted.
Slowly, Through A Vector by Sarah Kia [ Photograph]
by Bryan Collins
To prove to his only legitimate son Isaac that traditional family values could stand up to change, Abraham bought two shots of heroin from the local Intravenous Drug Control. He decided that they would take them together, father and son, as a ritual of repentance, on a day-long hike to the top of nearby Mt. Moriah. He would teach Isaac to fear God. He loaded one backpack between the two of them, and being a man of old age, compelled his son to carry it. In the backpack were a kerosene lantern, foodstuffs and other supplies, and tied to the back of it were two sleeping bags. Isaac had all these things on his back, and Abraham carried only a hunting knife. When they had been hiking for a few hours, and the sun hung almost overhead, its light dripping moment-to-moment upon the peaks of the woodland trees and scattering all down through their branches to the forest floor, the pair stopped to lunch. Isaac said, “I am glad you have decided to try the drugs before you condemn them,” and Abraham said, “My conviction will only be reinforced a hundred times. Drugs are bad. What you are doing by defying me is sacrilege. The family is holy, and you are defiling it.” Abraham had previously banned Isaac from shooting up. Isaac drew sandwiches from the bag, and they ate. When the meal was finished, Isaac said, “When you say the family is holy, you mean to say that you are holy. This is sacrilege. Where is my brother? Where is my mother?” Abraham said, “You mean Sarah?” and Isaac said, “The other.” They continued hiking. When the peak of Mt. Moriah was visible among the bare trees, Abraham stopped to collect tinder of the fallen branches. “This part of the mountain,” Abraham said, “has been stricken by a plague from God, that the rain will not quench the thirst of the trees, but smite them.” The trees were all dead, and when he had collected enough wood for a fire, Abraham handed the bundle to Isaac. Isaac carried the backpack on his back, and the firewood in his arms, and Abraham carried the knife, and the kerosene lantern—having taken this from the backpack to lighten Isaac’s load. They hiked to the top of Mt. Moriah. Atop the mountain was a scenic vista with a stone slab for sitting, and so Isaac
and Abraham sat, and Isaac administered the shots for both of them, first for Abraham and then for himself. Abraham felt euphoric, and praised the Lord for allowing him to accomplish bonding with his son. He fell from the stone slab to his knees and did obeisance. Then he knew it was time to lecture Isaac on the dangers of drug use. But when Abraham turned to face his son, Isaac was fast asleep, and Abraham tore his clothes. Abraham became delirious and heard the voice of the Lord like a thunderclap in his ear. Though by now the sun was setting, a beam of light poured down from Heaven, and the Lord said, “Abraham!” and Abraham said, “Here I am.” The Lord said, “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering.” Abraham’s spirit was lifted, because he had already come to Moriah, and so he laid the firewood on the stone slab as though it were an altar. Then he bound Isaac to the stone slab with the rope that had held the sleeping bags to the backpack. Isaac stirred, but did not wake. Abraham clasped the hunting knife in both hands and raised it high above his head. Meanwhile, Isaac was having a dream. In the dream, Isaac’s tutor had slowly begun to remove her clothes, meaning to tutor him in the ways of men. She removed first her high heels, then her skirt, and then her blouse. She reached behind her back and began to unhook her bra, and her skin was milk white and inviting, but then she stopped. “I am only woman,” she said, “and cannot even undress without your permission. You must tell me to do it.” “Do it,” Isaac said. Abraham had paused for a moment, because something was supposed to come next. The angel of the Lord was supposed to stop him, but then he heard Isaac speak. He brought down the knife with all the strength he could muster and pierced his son’s heart. Then he smashed the kerosene lantern and poured the kerosene over the offering, lit the pyre with a long match. The pyre burst into flame, and acrid smoke darkened the dusky sky.
Light in a Dark Forest by Robin Chidester [ Paint on Canvas]
The voice of the Lord thundered again in Abraham’s ear, “Abraham, Abraham!” and Abraham said, “Here I am.” The Lord said, “Now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me.” Abraham looked up, and saw a needle full of heroin lying by the backpack. Abraham took up the syringe and said, “The Lord will provide,” and jabbed the needle at his arm. Only the needle would not go in. He tried several more times, then felt dizzy and fell into a deep sleep. The next morning Abraham awoke to the sight of a gruesome murder, and fuzzy memories of a drug-induced stupor. He tore his clothes, and rubbed dirt on his head, and lamented the loss of his son. There was nothing he felt he could do to repent, then he remembered. He said, “If any harm follows, then you shall give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.” He doused himself in lighter fluid from the backpack and gathered up a shard of the broken lantern. With a lit match in one hand, he dragged the shard of glass across his throat. As the blood began to flow, he dropped the match. These were family values; he had repented.
are alive in your mind and in the dark you give them life. your hope is in your blanket and your closed eyes.
by Ryan Kim
as the air thickens underneath your blanket and it gets harder to breathe. what will you do? you must breathe. in one motion, uncover. breathe deeply. open your eyes and see nothing. get up and wipe o your sweat and turn on the true light that shames. the light blinds and then you can see the monster beside your bed. now that you see him are you still scared?
Looking Through by Michael Yager [ Photograph]
A Glance by Hussein M. Ahmed [ Photoraph]
by Amanda Rhoads There has never been victory, for there has never been an end. There have been deaths and there have been births, creating lives that will be spent inventing ways to destroy the enemy. We are dragons in camouflage thinking ourselves knights in shining armor. We are damsels dropping bombs in the distress we created. We manufacture souls in our schemes for domination, being power-hungry has shaped the new starvation. What if the toy in your son’s cereal box was a cardboard soldier and a bag of plastic bombs? What if the kissing princess in your daughter’s fairy tale were replaced by widowed princesses, what if the poison apple was replaced by a gun? Where is victory? Where is the happy ending? Troops lace up their glass slippers and the battle rages on.
Cousin Alex and I caught them together the summer we were eight. Footsteps and quick breaths; tiny bare feet on grass under a big umbrella of dark, we ran. We stalked them; crouched behind the magnolia bush and watched them appear from nothing and become a necessity. Our hands reached out, swatted and grabbed— possessed. We waited for the glow to seep through the cracks between our fingers before we would open our palms to the sky and wait. Wait for them to climb to the cliff at the edge of our thumbs; wait for them to gauge the night, open their God-given parachutes, and jump.
by Whitney Webb
Our hands looked so much alike— small and smooth, instruments of harmless children’s tricks. Not like Daddy’s hands. Hands that I saw tear and rip the skin from the body of a doe that hung from the rafters of the garage by her back legs. “Like peelin’ a banana,” he said as he showed me the muscles, while her black eyes stared to nowhere and her tongue dripped into a blood puddle on the concrete. One night you caught one of them in your hand that looked like mine but you didn’t open your palm to the sky. You didn’t wait for the glow.
Your fingers no longer a loose encasement, instead turned into tweezers that mashed its head and you said, “watch this.” You scraped its body against the rough concrete sidewalk where you left its wings, mangled, near a streak of glowing ink and I yelled at you. But I wanted to cry. I waited to apologize to God until you went inside for lemon pound cake and sweet tea. I put my hands on the sidewalk’s roughness next to the scraps of legs and wings and eyeballs. For the first time I saw that I had lines— lines on my knuckles, like the ones I saw peel flesh once. La Vanguardia by Hanna Teachey [ Photograph]
Hussein Ahmed 11, 32, 46, 59 Kirsten Bernhards 23 Robin Chidester 21, 54 Kayla Clements 12, 24 Bryan Collins 52 Je Craley 13 Katie Cummings 05, 38, 42 Tiany Dao 17, 33 Julie Deishor 07, 47 Colleen Dolinger 35, 44 Adam J. Dust 28 Marin Fuhrman 49 Zofeea Genota 15, 34 Catherine Grier 06 Christian Harder 04 Rick E. Holbrook 29
Claire Holman 14 Sarah Kia 19, 30, 51 Ryan Kim 56 Caitlin Leith 10, 25 Olivia Marshall 20 Alexandra Militano 26 Nicholas Moore 50 Holly Nicholson 48 Katie Noland 36 Amanda Rhoads 58 Maia Saling 30 Hanna Teachey 61 Morganne Tinsley 26 Dan Waidelich 09, 45 Whitney Webb 60 Michael Yager 08, 22, 57
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