Silhouette Volume 32, Issue 2 was produced by the Silhouette staff and printed by Southern Printing, located in Blacksburg, VA. The paper is 80 lb. Porcelain with a 100 lb. Porcelain cover. The fonts used are Adobe Caslon Pro and Alte Haas Grotesk. 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 and Art Magazine
Volume 32, Issue 2 Spring 2010
Silhouette Literary and Art Magazine 344 Squires Student Center Blacksburg, VA 24061 silhouette@collegemedia.com www.silhouette.collegemedia.com
Table of Contents Chapter 1: Poetry The Floodgate ..........................................................................8 Cornhusk Doll ...........................................................................9 The Loving Reader ................................................................. 11 Widow o’Flies .........................................................................12 Apple and Cinnamon..............................................................13 Sliver .......................................................................................15 Noture .....................................................................................16 Forty-Three Years ...................................................................17 Discretion ...............................................................................18 Showing Herself Off ...............................................................19 Black Woman Affair ................................................................20 Holding Fortune......................................................................21
Chapter 2: Photography Fallen ..................................................................................... 23 Overlook ................................................................................ 24 The Transition ........................................................................ 25 Isolation ................................................................................. 26 Stealth & Silence ................................................................... 29 Sometime Ago ....................................................................... 30 Ancient History ...................................................................... 31
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Chapter 3: Prose The Soloist........................................................................34-39
Chapter 4: Art Contemplation ........................................................................41 Laurel..................................................................................... 43 Ceramic and Yarn .............................................................44-45 Lazarus I ........................................................................... 46-47 Interior Design ..................................................................48-49 Monk ..................................................................................... 50 Girl ......................................................................................... 50 Grisailles Hands .....................................................................51
Editor’s Choice
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1 r e t p a h C Poetry
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The Floodgate Grace Cardwell
She was still, doing her crossword puzzle. On the TV in a distant room, there’s a muffled voice, calling for rain. Moving mechanically from the couch to the window seat and looking up — The sky had never seemed so low. Then all at once the clouds started screaming and tears of frustration were thrown at the earth. What sin so evil had the earth committed? The floodgate was broken, and though she was inside, she watched. And watched for an undetermined sect of time. The rain slamming onto the roof was pounding in her head. She hovered to the sink, and turns the handle, and kept turning it urgently, wanting to feel the surge of power of the rain. And the water hit the tub hard, and it splashed in her face, and the faucet shook and screeched, and it scared and amazed her, and it made her step back, but it wasn’t the rain.
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Cornhusk Doll Leigh Anne Coble
Carrie Mae’s house held that smell – of overcooked cauliflower, of carpets long since vacuumed. It was that smell, of the worn-down and the sickly, that made me cautious. Even at the age of turtleneck velour sweaters and lace-trimmed socks, I knew that the smell meant sickness and that sickness meant death. Oh, but her dolls were alive as if her life were being siphoned into theirs. Is that why Mom, in an urgent hush, warned: “Honey, don’t touch.” Is that why Carrie Mae’s hands, whether from defiance or hard hearing, ignored my mother’s wishes and placed her most precious dolls in my arms? And is that why my mother came to me, gently, as if I were a porcelain doll, delicately painted, from Carrie Mae’s top cabinet shelf with words, once more hushed, but this time, soft: “Sweetie, Carrie Mae loved you very much...” I learned the meaning of a will: I could pick out one doll. Nestled to my chest – with its simplicity, its rough skin, and its ability to absorb the smell of the ages, the smell of my Carrie Mae – rested a cornhusk doll.
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Thoughts from Zaki
“
This piece was born out of complete frustration with my inability to say anything of meaning. I was on a plane home from Cairo (where I spent a semester) and trying to get back into the swing of writing for the coming semester of English courses. I felt (and still often feel) this unshakeable feeling that to truly succeed as a writer, there is this tremendous pressure to say something profound, witty, out of this world, just dripping with brilliance with every word. I couldn’t take it. I wrote the first lines of this poem, then wrote “I can never think how to begin/So caught am I in this race for wit/ Twist some new cliché and polish/ Shiny new bowl for the same old shit”. As I threw my head back in exasperation, with babies crying left and right, choppy shouted Arabic pelting my ears, and Hannah Montana playing on the tiny screens before me, I shut my eyes to escape this strange, squawking, stupid, and brilliant world called language. And then –cliché alert- all I saw was the face of the most beautiful woman I had just met in pyramid land… and it wrote itself. That’s it, and that’s me.
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Fiction Editor’s Choice
The Loving Reader
Zaki Barzinji
How do you put feelings to words? Squeeze letters out of sunshine? Can seas of black ink ever begin to cover The blinding rainbow of joy that courses through life’s pen? So why try? Why reduce the infinite prism of the universe To the mere cracks of language? You may scribe a thousand delicious words, But paper shall forever have but one taste. A single scent. Fill it with every last wondrous sound rattling in the mind’s ear, And all it will ever sing is the gentle whip of a rustle. So. Then. You will be my language. Your eyes my adjectives, for lost in them do I see the world described. The sway of your hips, my cadence and meter. Moans and murmurs, my onomatopoeias and colloquialisms. And your voice... the quill, your heavenly song... the ink. The only calligraphy I ever want etched on my soul’s parchment. I only want to speak you, To turn each of your pages, Love every crinkle, smudge, rip, and tear, Because they mean You are. A pristine book whose spine has never been cracked, Just another done-up, pretty cover, Is not worth a single glance, From the loving reader.
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Widow o’Flies Lauren White Come closer, love, draw nigh Along this veil of spindled water I’ll sit in the center, watch you come near Along the thin veins, The tangled web I weaved. This is my trap, devised by God of old A solution to loneliness and hunger Hungry eyes watching, caught each other in cross-gaze You’re so wary, I’m so ready Why don’t you move faster, Why let my hunger win? Flies around us struggle Bound too tight to move. God, I’d free them if I didn’t eat them. If they didn’t consume me. This den, my lovely picture silhouetted in the light You’re enraptured of my strands of hair, The water drops hung there, softly glinting, Just so enticing. Won’t you give in? Eyes fed on sight, legs entwining tight Oh, how the flies surge, fin’ly break free I am one and you are so, And since you are I’ve captured you too. Turn this way, my lover, I’ll show you my sweet smile Come closer, lover, I’ll hold you dear. Ah, why did you move so slow? Why did you tempt me so? I will not resist you, fly that you are. So fast it’s done, my earth shakes It is stronger than steel but broken by whispering lies, Floating away in strands of our struggle The flies settle, I wrap them up tight I’ll keep them safe For another you on a different night While with steady legs I weave that tangled web again.
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Apple and Cinnamon One day I
Grace Hayes
promise to quit pretending that leaves are made of fire and sunrises, capable of bursting into stars at will. Maybe, in a year, in a day, I’ll trace their dead veins and not think of the crimson mortality in mine, ticking a fickle Judas heart, with no warning when it will finally stop. Like summer, where life is infectious and hope a disease, some things are too good to last, not just for lack of trying.
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Thoughts from Brooke
“
Last year as a freshman four of my new best friends and I borrowed a car and drove down to the New River to star gaze. Since it was only early spring we brought a ton of blankets to snuggle up in and stay warm. We stayed until early morning talking, laughing, and relishing our independence and friendship. This night was one of my very favorite memories of my freshman year, and I wanted to capture it in a poem so I could always remember it. I named the poem Sliver because the fingernail moon was only a sliver in the sky, and my friends and I felt like only a miniscule sliver in the universe.
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Sliver
Poetry Editor’s Choice
Brooke Reynolds Sky stretched out before us like heaven’s art project, sprinkled with handfuls of silver glitter and a pasted paper moon. Girls huddled together squirming, giggling, snuggling, teasing, and chattering on a blanket. River rushing by in too much of a hurry to stop and mingle, leaving us with only a passing gurgle of hello. Spring teasing the cool night air with soft breezes and playful pockets of warm currents embracing youthful skin. Backs to the grass, eyes to the stars, fingers intertwined like wisteria vines. Hearts and minds soaring up, floating until adrift among the palette of stars, which held secrets of life, ramblings of thoughts, and our energy, so fresh and raw that freshman year. Peaceful quiet settling over the night, hushing bodies into a quiet, rhythmic hum. Sending rays of contentment, simple and pure, echoing throughout the universe. Feeling smaller than ever before, yet never more empowered by the vastness of that sky. It was just us. Beneath the blankets, beneath the trees, beneath the stars. Five heads connecting in the middle of the fleece, forming our own earth-bound star.
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Noture Zaki Barzinji I would have relished the fresh crunch of crisp leaves, If not for the slimy smile of slugs beneath Would’ve salsa’d with the sun beaming from ear to ear of corn, But it’s the UVs, you see She couldn’t have been my mother, for my lips would touch no mossy bosom, And my father had already a mistress, I could converse with wind and trees if I troubled to learn woosh and bark, But why can’t they all just speak English? Th is is America. I’d live deep and suck out the marrow of life, But I’d rather save my tongue for tastier things In short, I’d bother to live in harmony with the earth and sing verses with the universe till the smiles smote all the swords and weapons surrendered to the power of words, and beings loved outside their herds, and all of us flew with the birds, If it wasn’t so fuckin’ inconvenient.
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Forty-Three Years Brooke Reynolds Summers, autumns, winters, and springs slipped by. Clustered together forming forty-three years since she moved to the beach. Waking to seagulls’ throaty cries, thick, salty air enveloping tan bodies, surfboards piled on wooden Volkswagens, sandy carpets, feet, and beds. Building her life at the sea out of dribble castles and empty bottles of sunscreen. Raising children then grandchildren at the edge of the unbound Atlantic. Letting life ebb and flow with the changing tides, while sitting on a beach chair wearing Hollywood sunglasses, relaxing, soaking, being, knowing that the moon is in control. Forty-three years of pouring vinegar on jellyfish stings, studying the sunset as it airbrushed the sky, chewing on salt-water taffy. Living watching, listening, absorbing, blending into the ocean. Wrinkles, sun-browned skin, blonde-streaked hair, tough bare feet all year long. Keeping life beautifully simple. Moments became days, days became weeks, weeks became forty-three years.
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Discretion Caty Gordon There are no secrets, there is only privacy. And everyone has the right to privacy. But the linen dangles dripping in the backyard, little lies we hide forming clever puddles in the grass. There are no secrets because the walls carry our confessions and the mirror will always recall the way nudity clings to you. The mortar will allow whispers to escape into the street and the neighbors, the nosy kind, will catch wind of how good the sex is. There are no secrets because the yellow mug you left in my sink is cracked and the morning smile from your lips will slide down the drain, through the sewer and streams, and ďŹ nally form a frothy ripple in a crescent wave of an open ocean. There are no secrets, you see, because pieces of you will drip and carry and reect and escape and slide away from my hands. There are no secrets, there is only privacy. And you have the right to privacy, just like I have the right to my own heart.
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Showing Herself Off Laura Jensen I look damn good. Hell yeah. Ooh this old thing? You better believe it. This look works for me. But not for you honey, Not just for any young thing attempting to strut down that street, I own the street, it is my make believe stage. Closing my eyes, playing my role, I walk with the gradual swing of my hips, the quick swift but jolting pop to one lucky side, They think I’m all that. All that... ha, a whole lot of nothing. Street stopping, maybe just to you. But who’s the girl hiding on the side, afraid to show herself to the real world? Showing myself off, it’s a lot different from showing myself. Take my bright blue sapphire sinful sparkling eyes “You like?” With a quick wink from my shadow pasted thick on top, never to smudge or fade, Combined with my luscious lustful red lips “Gorgeous?” I’ll give a quick smooch one quick pucker together, “Come and get it baby.” And smack — it’s all been done, But really in the end, it’s all a show. Now Presenting: Sophisticated Beautiful Envious “Jealous?” I knew you would be.
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Black Woman Affair Thomas Beckworth Labeling her like she a fi le folder because she won’t let you degrade her body and insult her integrity, telling everyone she got attitude, she already peeped your game. She refuse to be placed in a cabinet or up on a shelf like other women you have dated and trashed like you were slam dunking a basketball. She’s strong, black, educated, won’t be barricaded in misery or have spells cast on her. You a pretentious brother — Arrogant, conniving and controlling. All your homeboys know, the only thing you trying to do is smash and play with her like you spinning the bottle. Too bad. She confident, sophisticated, and dedicated. If she get to know you, she might as well audition for Tyler Perry’s I Can Do Bad All By Myself. You shadowing her move, saying that black woman have an attitude. Did you forget your momma black? Knot your tongue, tape your mouth, freeze your brain, she don’t wanna talk to you and your attitude.
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Holding Fortune Hayley Dodd I knew I could love your hands before I knew your last name or that I was dying. They were big like old burly motorcycles and the thought of holding them made me feel safe, even without helmet. One of them could easily hold the responsibility of an entire basketball, which is far more voluminous than my head sans hair, which led me to believe you could love me bald. This is an important quality in a man, ever since the palm reader read the lines across my hand, like a foreign language laid down in Braille, like a net over my esh. I remember laughing and gasping as your big and benign hands held the tarot cards she gave us for free. We found amusement in the future before it found us in the bright room with 18 chairs, like the dentist’s, but my teeth were being cleaned by only vomit, And while my body was letting poison wash my organs My forehead rested in your big blanched hands.
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Chapter 2
Photograp hy
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Fallen
Lesley Ann Stowe
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Overlook Hussein Ahmed
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The Transition
Hanna Teachey
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Isolation
Hanna Teachey
27
Thoughts from Hussein
“
“I took this photo at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum. I was amazed at how this snake looked so alert. I was fortunate enough to have the snake enclosed in an aquarium, but using a polarizing filter, zooming in, and using a wide aperture for the shallow depth of field, I was able to capture the beauty of that fearful creature. With those great eyes, unique scales on the head, and the intricate scales overlapping like tiles with adjacent rows diagonally offset, this made for a great picture of a remarkably beautiful, yet horrific beast who eats his prey alive.
“
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Photography Editor’s Choice
Stealth & Silence Hussein Ahmed
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Sometime Ago Hussein Ahmed
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Ancient History Sarah Tanner
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3 r e t p a Ch Prose
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The Soloist
Adrienne Rush
The girl did not want to go to church. It wasn’t because she was sick, or because she had to sing a solo today. She simply thought that today, on this Sunday, of all the Sundays in her life, she should do something else. Take a walk maybe. Or perhaps finish the last few chapters of Cat’s Cradle. She liked Kurt Vonnegut. He was honest. She opened her bedroom door and then turned and sat on the edge of her bed, listening to her family run through their Sunday morning routines. Her father’s curses came careening down the hall as he tried in vain to coerce the skinny part of his tie into becoming shorter than the fat part. “Goddamn it!” he shouted. Then more quietly: “Ellen.” It wasn’t a command or a plea, but the familiar completion of a habit. “There now,” soothed the mother’s voice after a minute, “don’t you look handsome.” The girl heard her mother walk across the room to her vanity to finish putting on her makeup, her shoes click-clacking against the wooden floor in measured steps. As the organist for their church, the girl’s mother couldn’t wear high heels while she played, but she insisted on wearing her three-inch pumps to and from the service, maintaining that without them the difference in height between her husband and herself was simply unsightly. Thumph. Whap. The wall behind the girl’s bed vibrated as her brother John threw his basketball in an arc across his room so that it bounced off their shared wall and back into his waiting hands. Thumph. Whap. The girl leaned back and closed her eyes against the familiar beat, trying to recall just how much of her life had been spent in gyms hearing that leathery slap against palms—warm, sweaty gyms that reeked of battle and echoed with the furious cries of indignant fathers. John was talented on the court, more talented than most boys his age, and his talent was a great source of pride to his father. Well, to his mother too, but then she’d be quick to tell you that she was proud of both of her children as long as they tried their best. The girl supposed she was proud as well, though she could have thought of other things to do with all of those weekends—weekends spent traveling up and down the East Coast to various tournaments, of sneakers squeaking and whistles blowing, of MVPs and trophies, of high fives and grateful fingers pointed skyward in thanks. Thumph. Whap. Thumph. Wha— “What’s the matter with you?” The girl opened her eyes and looked up into 34
her father’s face, his lips pulled down at the corners into an irritated frown. “Look at you—not even dressed yet,” he boomed. “The service starts in half an hour, your mother and brother are dressed and ready to go, and you’re laying here half asleep!” The girl said nothing. She looked up at her father and thought to herself that he had too much skin; the way it bunched up around his wrists and his neck in thick fleshy rings made him look rather like a hippopotamus. She wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her before, this resemblance, and decided that since he had maintained such an ample weight for as long as she could remember, she had just never taken the care to notice. He peered down at her. “Are you sick?” he asked, his voice tinged with confusion. She shook her head. He sighed impatiently. Suddenly, with a pleased look of realization, he leaned down to her. “Nervous about the solo, is that it?” he prompted, with a smile that pushed his cheeks up into round doughy balls. Again she said nothing, but her father’s chest puffed out in self-congratulation, like a pigeon’s after it has found a half-eaten candy bar on the street. “It’ll be fine, sweetheart,” he said, slapping a meaty hand on her shoulder just as he’d do to his son after an impressive win on the court. “Mom’ll be right there, playing along just like at home,” he added. The girl smiled and nodded. “Right then, we’ll meet you downstairs.” For the first time they parked along Maple Ridge Drive, which was a few blocks from the St. James parking lot. The mother remarked that they’d never arrived to see the lot full but she supposed that that’s what happened if you were late. They hurried through the great red doors and right into a crowd of people milling about, apparently awaiting the opening of the doors that led into the nave. “Why look, there she is! Oh Ellen, Ellen!” They turned to see Mr. and Mrs. Thomas approaching them, flanked on either side by their sons, Dave and Billy. The Thomas family all shared the same unfortunate hawkish nose and thin, spindly frame—the girl was often reminded of a flock of storks whenever she saw them all together. Dave and the girl’s brother performed a complicated handshake routine and then disappeared into the crowd to find the rest of the basketball team. “We were wondering where you all were,” Mrs. Thomas exclaimed, “but I kept telling Bill that there must’ve been a problem that held you up.” She smiled expectantly at them. “Well? Is everything all right?” “Oh, just fine, just fine,” the girl’s mother answered. “Just running late, you know.” She smiled back, a broad shiny smile that looked as if it took more effort than it should, but was really quite easy for the mother. She wore it often. As 35
she lifted a hand to adjust her necklace however, the girl noticed a trickle of sweat that ran down the side of her mother’s beige silk blouse. Odd, considering the cool autumn weather. Odder still, the fact that her mother hated to perspire and so rarely did. After exchanging a few pleasantries with the Thomas’, both of the girl’s parents went off to mingle and she was left alone in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by greetings and warm small talk. She felt a familiar hollowness; the words bounced around and over her as if she were an empty tureen forgotten in the middle of a dinner table during a lively meal—the talk friendly, of peas and tomato soup. “Megan, that skirt is gorgeous—you absolutely must tell me where you got it Oh you don’t think it’s too simple Oh no, it’s elegant you know, not too fancy but really just stunning Well, thank you, I bought it just last weekend at that new Talbots that opened over on King Street Oh yes, I know the one you mean, over by the Starbucks right That’s the one So Doug, whadya think bout that match-up tonight, huh It’s gonna be a real fight, I’ll tell ya Steve, that new quarterback they got outta Michigan State is gonna put up some big numbers Kid’s got a good arm, huh? It’s more than that though, he can really see the field, you know, can really stand big in the pocket, so we’ll see if the o-line can give him some support Oh, and Kathy, don’t forget about scrapbooking on Tuesday night, and remember you signed up to bring brownies I’ll be there, we’re meeting at Lori’s, right Frank, remind me to show you the new TV when you come over later for the barbeque I don’t even think I want to, I’ll bet I’m so jealous I can’t even stand it Heh, I can still hardly believe Jen let me get it, but you know, you only live once and--” “Oh, I’m sorry.” The girl raised her eyes to Missy Johnson, who was standing awkwardly in front of her, not quite sure what to do with her hands. Missy was a tall girl, with a pinched face and drooping eyes that were expertly rimmed with heavy black eyeliner. “Didn’t even see you there, with all these people, you know?” Missy smiled at the girl. “Have you seen your brother? I haven’t been able to find him yet, and my parents were hoping he would sit with us for the service.” The girl studied her brother’s girlfriend, noting that her pointed features became even more pronounced when trying to convey a forced friendliness. Missy really was quite pretty, the girl thought—beneath the makeup and the orange skin that clashed violently with her shiny bleached hair. She remembered how much like a child Missy had seemed last Friday afternoon, when the girl had caught her and John hurrying out of the Planned Parenthood over behind Fireworks Pizza. She hadn’t meant to catch them. She had simply 36
“And the girl smiled back at the prodigal son.”
slipped out after chorus class, through the door behind the gym, and found herself downtown with no real plan or a thing to do. Wandering past the antique stores and banks, she happened across them exiting the building that they—as two officers in the Abstinence Club—had often picketed. Missy had been crying; her face was red and splotchy and the black from her makeup ran in little rivulets down her face, while snot collected in a small wet pool just above her mouth. None of the three had said anything at first; Missy wiped her face and searched for a lie. John gawked. And the girl smiled back at the prodigal son. “I swear to God,” he finally managed, “if you tell Mom or Dad!” They both had stared horrified at the witness, resentment coloring their faces, as if she had intruded upon them in a moment of prayer. “Look,” he tried again, “it was an accident. You don’t know how— Please.” Please… “Please,” said Missy softly, her voice just barely carrying through the crowd’s buoyant chitchat. She touched the girl gently on the arm, then looked down at her hand and pulled it away nervously. “You didn’t say anything, right? I mean, you won’t? John can’t deal with this now, with the State championships next week. He can’t have that stress, you know? For him, at least, okay?” The girl nodded. Missy smiled at her again, relief softening the sharp angles in her face. The smile almost reached Missy’s eyes, and then she sniffed once, turned, smoothed her dress with her hands, and slipped back into the current of the crowd as it surged through the now open church doors. The girl’s eyes fl itted to the leaf-strewn street outside and she considered making a run for it, but the crowd swept her up and minutes later she found herself wedged in between her father and the Jacobson family on an uncomfortably hard pew, the underside of her thighs sticking to the smooth wood. She tugged at her skirt and tried to shift her position slightly to relieve the discomfort, but her father’s bulk kept her pinned fi rmly against Mrs. Jacobson’s bony, polyester-covered hip. She let her head fall back, and she stared up at the dark wooden ceiling, curved like an upside-down boat. The stainedglass windows threw slants of colored light into the pews, and she could feel the dappled blue and red shapes rest warmly on her face. Just then her mother’s hands banged out the first chord on the organ, signaling the service’s start, and the girl stood with the rest of them. She watched as her mother played with joy, a look of pure contentment resting on 37
the woman’s slender face. With eyes closed, her fingers sought out the keys with ease and her feet flew over the pedals in a graceful dance. The girl reflected that she hardly ever saw her mother in such a state of bliss—in fact, she realized that the only time the woman was quite as peaceful was when she had her third after-dinner glass of wine, coupled with a Vicodin. She felt a sudden urge to hug her mother, this happy mother; she wanted to grab her and squeeze her tight, and give her a kiss. She found herself smiling at the thought, knowing how fussy her mother became at unnecessary displays of affection. After the congregation had re-seated themselves, the hundreds of bottoms hitting the pews like a rumble of thunder, the girl felt her father’s hand on her knee, giving an encouraging squeeze. She did not know what to make of this second touch of the day from him—he had not touched her for weeks, ever since she had found a big, jangly gold earring between the cushions of the living-room couch. Her mother did not wear big earrings—gaudy, she called them—and the girl herself did not have pierced ears. She had slipped it across the kitchen table to him the next morning, as the two of them enjoyed their usual school morning schedule of Raisin Bran and crossword puzzles. His face had paled just one barely noticeable shade, and with a savage grab he clutched the earring. The girl brought a spoonful of flakes to her mouth and munched on in silence. She had waited for a declaration of innocence, a hurried excuse, the explanation behind a silly misunderstanding—but he had just stared at her, his eyes pleading. Please… Her father’s touch reminded her that it was time for her solo. She stood and made her way along the spongy red carpet that stretched down the middle of the church, splitting the congregation in two. She took her place in the middle of the front line of the choir and smiled back at her mother’s childlike grin. The church seemed cavernous then, a whale’s jaws stretched wide in front of her— threatening to swallow her whole. Everything was so still she thought a single sneeze might blow Mr. Seymour’s toupee right off of his head. As the first chord sang triumphantly from the massive pipes, the girl stepped forward, opened her mouth, and let out a scream. It was louder than any sound she had made in her life. It was so loud, and so long, she almost forgot it was hers. She heard the scream echo throughout the space; it ricocheted off the giant curved buttresses and grazed the twenty-foot-tall Jesus emblazoned on the stained glass window. As she ran out of breath, the end of the scream was coated in sandpaper as it tore from her throat. She swallowed and tasted something hot and coppery—truth, she thought. The girl breathed heavily through her mouth, her eyes flashing, as she faced 38
the sea of Os—wide and blinking, and pink and fleshy. She caught her mother’s horrified stare, her delicate skin flushed with shame. John gaped up at her with loose wet lips, like a deep sea bass just plucked from the water. The girl met her father’s gaze evenly. She couldn’t tell if he was trying not to cry or laugh. He simply sat there, and sweated profusely. No one moved. “Goddamnit!” she prompted. The church erupted, as women shushed their children and men shouted angrily. The girl watched the chaos unfold, strangely unsatisfied. The next thing she knew she was outside, sitting on the curb next to her father. He was looking off over her head, almost afraid of her. She didn’t like that. “Dad?” She reached out to comfort him. Just as her hand touched his arm, he grabbed her in a tight embrace, resting his cheek against the top of her head. Normally the girl didn’t like her father’s hugs—he was always so sweaty and thick. But this time she didn’t mind his clammy hands holding her close, and she breathed in his salty smell. He didn’t try to understand her in this moment, and she was glad. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and then stood and rejoined the rest of the girl’s family. She watched the three backs as they returned to the church without her, explanations and excuses already on their minds. Her mother’s shoulders were slumped, as if someone had struck her in the stomach and knocked the wind out of her. The girl felt a slight squeeze inside her chest; she didn’t like seeing her mother wounded like this, hurt and confused like a child. She watched with an odd sort of yearning as her mother smoothed her carefully highlighted hair back into place, and the family re-entered through the great red doors.
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Chapter 4 Ar t
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Contemplation Digital Art
Anthony Irwin
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Thoughts from Christine
“
In this piece, I wanted to capture light and color on skintone and hair...the human figure in general. When I first started painting I used acrylics, but it doesn’t have the same luminosity as oils. I use a lot of layering techniques in my paintings and with oils, the layers show through much better. I used straight lines in the background to break up the color field. The title of the piece is actually the name of the model, Laurel.
”
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Art Editor’s Choice
Laurel Oil on Canvas
Christine Munchak
43
Ceramic and Yarn Colleen Dolinger
Black on Bright Red
44
Spring Green on Bright Yellow
Claret Fleck on Colonial White 45
Lazarus I Elise Birnbaum
46
Screen Print on Book Cover 47
Interior Design Computer Generated Perspectives
Sibie Ohumay
Contemporary Living Room
48
Eclectic Bedroom
Eclectic Dining Room
49
Monk Micron Pen and Color Pencil
Anthony Irwin
Girl
Micron Pen
Anthony Irwin
50
Grisailles Hands Oil on Canvas
Christine Munchak
51
Silhouette Staff Monica Alvano Editor-in-Chief
Katie Hagan Business Manager
Briana Bishop Production Manager
Elise Chretien Photography Editor
Rachel East Communications Director
Kelley Junco Assistant Production Manager
Allen Jung Promotions Director
Kayla Clements Graphic Designer
Alex Pirillo Distribution Manager
Wei Hann Graphic Designer
Kristin Walker Public Relations Director
Darien Foster Webmaster
Vanessa Williams Alumni Relations Director
General Staff: Taylor Chakunda Sarah Janosik Rachael Leon Mika Rivera Hannah Soh
Alyssa Haak Fiction Editor Brian Ivasauskas Poetry Editor Brittney Trimmer Art Editor
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Index Ahmed, Hussein M. 24, 29, 30
Ohumay, Sibie 48
Barzinji, Zaki 11,16
Reynolds, Brooke 15, 17
Beckworth, Thomas 20
Rush, Adrienne 34
Birnbaum, Elise 46
Stowe, Lesley Ann 23
Cardwell, Grace 8
Tanner, Sarah 31
Coble, Leigh Anne 9
Teachey, Hanna 25, 26
Dodd, Hayley 21
White, Lauren 12
Dolinger, Colleen 44 Gordon, Caty 18 If you currently are an undergraduate or graduate student at Virginia Tech, Silhouette welcomes your submissions. You can submit your work in person at 344 Squires Student Center or you can e-mail your submisstion at submit@collegemedia.com. More details are located on our website www.silhouette.collegemedia.com.
Hayes, Grace 13 Irwin, Anthony 41, 50 Jensen, Laura 19 Munchak, Christine 43, 51
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Congratulations Mendoza Winner of Fall 2009
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Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, Ever since I began as a general staff member of Silhouette, my goal has been to best showcase the creativity of the Virginia Tech student body. I am proud to say that this semester Silhouette has taken great strides towards this goal. This issue is the ďŹ rst full-color issue of Silhouette. Restructured into chapters, the magazine’s contents are now divided by media. Each Editor chose a favorite piece, and these are accompanied by thoughts from the artist as well as the artist’s silhouette. All of these changes were made to present creative work as it is meant to be seen, and to provide insight through its back-story. For this accomplishment I owe many thanks. To my family and friends, thank you for supporting me in every way. To EMCVT, thank you for your outstanding contribution to our community. To Melissa Brice, who took big risks with this magazine, thank you for inspiring me to take a chance and run with it. To the entire Silhouette staff, thank you for taking that chance with me. And to our readers and contributors, Silhouette is all about you. It has been a privilege to serve as Editor-in-Chief for a short but sweet semester. Katie. you have been the best Business Manager ever and will be an amazing Editor-in-Chief. To our loyal readers, I hope you enjoy the change. For our new followers, this is only the beginning. With love, Monica Alvano Editor-in-Chief