Literary and Art Magazine Volume 34 Issue 1 Fall 2011
Letter from the Editor Dear reader: The Silhouette staff chose to portray the talented artists and authors at Virginia Tech in a simple journalistic format. You will recognize a basic color scheme and simple fonts carried over from the last magazine with a few new elements. The feature design element is the handwriting of one of our graphic designers, Sean Simons. Thank you to the dedicated staff that worked all semester to produce this great product. Also, thank you to the gifted authors and artists who submitted to the magazine. In particular, I would like to thank Rachael Leon, Kelley Junco, Kyleigh Palmiotto and Sean Simons; we made a great team. I hope you enjoy this magazine as much as the entire staff and I enjoyed making it. Sincerely,
Katie Hagan EDITOR IN CHIEF
literary and art magazine volume 34, Issue 1. Fall 2011
3 4 4 Squires Student Center Blacksburg, VA 24060 silhouette@collegeme dia.com www.silhouette.collegemedia.com
Adjoining Moments Teal Sioux Falls Icarus Good Person of Szechwan Bus Eight News Ink Mint and Sawdust Up and Away Genuine All Eyes on You Dissonance Dragonfly Layers of Reflection Underwater Fireworks Americano Shades of Shades Cold Fire Kindling Grass Cats
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My Alexander Vodka & Lime Decay The Lost Night Fawn Kenna Alise Snow Whitetail Remove Missing You Adventure Dark was the Night Voyager Golden Record Chicago Bell Isle Bambino Acorns Peacock Feather
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Silhouette Volume 34, Issue 1 was produced by the Silhouette staff and printed by Franklin publishing. 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, Virginia 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 a one year subscription (two magazines) to the address above, c/o Business Manager or visit EMCVT’s ecommerce website at www.collegemedia.com/shop. For more information, visit our website at www.silhouette.collegemedia.com.
5
6
GRACE FRIEDHOFF
GRACE FRIEDHOFF
7
The problem with describing teal is that it hangs in the in between; one arm slung over green the other stretching, brushing against blue. Not true to either. The trouble with talking about teal is it demands attention in its moment of existence, its glimmer in the tossing wave. It is a brief color. See teal is a feeling color Its hard to say it’s the way the sky feels hanging after a storm, the way the peacock’s pride feels; Most often teal feels forced. The issue with telling you teal is I can’t tell you exotic and familiar things soak it up, the belly of the boat laps it up on the lake, my eyes steal it from my sweater. I can’t say teal lies beneath the white clouds in your eyes, just like mine. It tastes your hand when you dry the pottery. How can I tell you the way teal loves your skin, makes your hair dance in flames deepens each of your wrinkles with vividness.
8
MELISSA CHENAULT
MATTHEW GLOE 9
Stand closer. Feel these metal feathers Cut across your palms. I wanted to tell you That the beauty of these moments, Where we stand close And offer ourselves up through fear, Are dangerous. My wings are biting: Strong enough to shield you, Not soft enough to embrace you. If I hold my arms out, Palms up, pleading… Will you come to me? Will you come closer And watch these flocks above us: Figures of silver wings, Their shine cutting the sky Until it bleeds from blue To black. In this darkness Metal feathers glitter From the candle light of your eyes: The fire that consumes you. When you stand close I don’t catch fire, I burn from you Until I melt to mercury, And then I burn. I burn for you. And I will go like Saint Joan, Singing your name As your flames consume me. Your lightning eyes Will be the halo guiding me To Heaven. And like the silver knife wings, Cutting the air, I will fly too: My melting wings Dripping like tear drops As I fly too high to you. Too high to crash, But surely fallen.
10 LAUREN WHITE
AUSTEN MEREDITH 11
EDITOR’S CHOICE
I sat in the second seat from the front. That way, it was less likely that I’d invade somebody else’s territory. Mostly, people are only offended by breaches in the back of the bus. That’s where you want to sit. I scooted in the seat, settled myself, and stared out the window. I watched my old smoker friends. They’re laughing and flicking their cigarettes. I’d never wanted one as much as I wanted one the second I sat down on that bus. The leather seat shifted. Someone sat down next to me. I wouldn’t have looked, but he sat awkwardly close. Just my luck. Theo Goldstein. He tries to get everybody to call him Theodore, as if that would redeem the nature of the name. He’s tall and gangly, and tried for about two months in eighth grade to take advantage of it by playing basketball. It was hilarious. Basketball became more popular in Great Meadows Middle School for a short time. It was like watching a drunk praying mantis… disturbingly funny. I used to love riding the bus. It was always my own little metaphysical transport machine, encased in yellow steel and smelling of leather and sweat. With the right music and weather, staring at the fly-by roads of this depressing town was almost… peaceful. How did I get here? A senior sitting in the front of Bus Eight alone. It doesn’t matter that I’m alone. I’m strong enough. Everything just happened so fast. “You don’t usually take this bus, Lauren.” I jumped. I looked left with wide eyes. Theo was smiling at me. I stared at the galaxy of zits on his chin for a second before I realized he was actually waiting for a response from me. “Oh. No,” I murmured. I turned back to the window. The engines started to rev. We accelerated, one by one, around the parking lot like a parade of new recruits, beginning to doubt their decision to serve. Bus Two turned left at the stop sign. Bus Eight, right. No going back now. I watched the trees race by me, green blurs. I could only gage distance by the occasional rundown gas station or convenience store. Kids in the back of the bus were yelling and laughing, repeatedly catching the bus driver’s attention. His aged, tired eyes kept glancing in his mirror, as if their activities would suddenly change. They never change. I was watching the clock when the last school bell rang like the end of a long, violent hockey game. I walked briskly out of my English class as if it were any other day. On Mondays, the hallway traffic moved quicker than other days. The excitement of the weekend clung to the walls and lubricated our movement up and down the tubes of the building. It would be worn down by Wednesday. I was glad my appointment was on Monday. My walk to the bus would be like tubing down a waterslide rather than rolling uphill. Right, left, through the entrance door, left. I didn’t need to take my eyes off my blue Nikes and my hoodie pocket the whole way out. I am truly sick of this place. Every year, this lobby is renovated. Repainted, re-tiled, re-disguised. Every year, it retains this aura of infinite emptiness…hopelessness even. As if the kids that were here twenty years ago are still here. Like us, they’re waiting to get out, every single day. There isn’t enough bright orange paint in the world to cover up that feeling. “Did you get a bus change pass? Because you’re supposed to.” Damn it. Why me, Theo? “No I didn’t. Nobody actually fills those things out, Theo.” I didn’t even look at him while I spoke. We passed a bowling alley. I used to
ALEXANDRA THOMPSON 13
go there a lot with my friends because we could smoke inside, and nobody cared that we were sixteen. My bus, Bus Two, is right outside the chemistry hall. It’s a long, loud, crowded walk at the end of the day from English to Bus Two. If you get stuck behind kids that stay after school, you’re out of luck. I’ve missed the bus because of their damn loitering. It’s a little funny, though. You can always tell why someone isn’t going straight home. It’s either for detention, marching band, or math club. I’ve stayed late for the first two. I suck at math. Today I’m not taking Bus Two home. It’s Bus Eight for me. I remember where Bus Eight is because it’s right between my bus and my boyfriend’s bus. If I get let out of English early, that’s where I wait to kiss him goodbye until I see him later that night. On those days, I love watching the buses line up around our building. It’s mesmerizing. Their engines purr and hiccup as if they’re discussing traffic conditions. They have very distinct personalities, school buses. Some are new, big, and shiny. You just know their windows work, and they have air conditioning. Then there are the older ones. It’s always perplexed me that the shitty ones serviced the poorer parts of town. The free-lunch kids got on the stuffy, old buses, like Bus Eight, and were shipped toward places like Beatyestown and Hackettstown. Kids like me, full-price kids, got on buses like Bus Two and were scattered around Panther Valley and Liberty. I never understood it, nor why nobody else noticed it. Buses are segregated in Great Meadows, New Jersey. Population 3,149. “I know nobody ever fills them out.” Relentless. “It is modus operandi though. Did you know that the PTA asked the school to do it because they didn’t know where their children were going after school? It’s so they can keep better track of us.” I didn’t look at him, but I just knew he was staring me down with that big, goofy smile. “We’re not children,” I snapped. This was my genius strategy to get him to leave me alone: be as rude as possible. But I meant it. We’re not. End of story. I couldn’t remember a single detail from school that day. Only my inner waves, the surges of terror that have become regular in the past few days. Like monsoons of panic, they wiped out what used to seem important: how my hair looked, who noticed my witty t-shirt, if any of my old friends would talk to me, test grades. I miss those concerns like old cartoons. They were an easy naivety and simplicity that I don’t think I’ll feel again for a while. “I’m afraid I respectfully disagree…We are children.” His tone of voice changed. I turned toward him with a furrowed brow. It’s so irritating when people talk like that. His smile was less enthusiastic, but it remained. “I’m freaking eighteen, Theo. So are you. We’re adults.” I raised my eyebrows at him. I hoped nobody in the back of the bus saw me talking to him. I just couldn’t let him call me a child, even indirectly. Not today. I went through all the motions flawlessly today. I never revealed a thing. Although it’s not hard to conceal something when the only person you interact with all day is at home playing Halo. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve said a word all day except “thanks” to the lunch lady… My boyfriend Andrew wasn’t in school today, luckily. He didn’t study for a test, so he stayed home. That’s how we operate. We spend all night and all weekend together. It doesn’t leave a lot of time for homework, much less studying. He really is a great guy though. He’s one of those guys with a hundred friends but more secrets. Sometimes I feel like one of them. But he’s funny. He has soft, black hair. He uses baby shampoo on it. I’m nervous about seeing him tonight. I don’t know why.
14 ALEXANDRA THOMPSON
My mom still cooks for me. She still says goodnight. She still buys my clothes. I’m dependent on her completely. When I get made fun of, I still cry in front of her, and she comforts me. I’m just mature enough to admit it.” We were making eye contact now. His eyes were a dark hazel. They reminded me of my dad’s. His huge backpack sat on his lap like a child. A green, aluminum canteen was stuffed in its appropriate slot. Something French was scribbled on it. Theo was president of French Club. “Mature enough to admit you’re a child? Sounds like a-” “Oxymoron, I know. Still, I’m not an adult. I don’t pay for my own health insurance.” He sucked the saliva out of his retainers. It was a gross sound. Even grosser coming from him. “We have adult problems,” I argued. This was my only comeback? “But are we capable of handling them? Like adults? I don’t believe so.” Why was he arguing with me? Why was he so happy about it? “We’re not strong enough to handle them alone.” “I’m having an abortion today.” My heart stopped. My eyes fixed themselves on the green leather in front of me. I wanted to collapse my face onto it. The monsoon of terror came back. My nausea came back. I never wanted to see Andrew again. I wanted to take it back. I wanted to be a boy. I wanted to cry. I wanted my mom to comfort me. The world went black. It was just for a second, and these dizzy spells weren’t uncommon in the last week or so, but it was…a heavy blackness. The darkest black I’ve ever seen…experienced…whatever. I felt as if I weighed five hundred pounds, and this bus was driving deeper and deeper underwater. The pressure increasing. I was getting heavier and heavier, the world blacker and blacker. I wanted to be in shallow again. I missed the crystal blue waters, the bright blue sky, my parents reassuring each step I took toward the deep. I used to be so eager to dive in. Now I’m sinking, and I can’t swim back up… I can’t even slow my descent… Reality slowly reappeared to me. The first thing I saw was Theo’s larger-thanlife glasses. He was staring at me. I wanted to smack him in the face. He looked down at his backpack for one minute, then back at me. I knew he was going to say something. He smiled again. I almost laughed in his face. How could he be smiling? Why did I tell him? Why? I waited for the onslaught of questions. ‘Does Andrew know? Does your mom know? Do you need help?’ No, no, no! He spoke… “Do you remember in summer camp before first grade when everybody went swimming in the lake, and you and I just played in the sand?” I nodded. “My mom has a photo. It’s quite humorous. We’re taking ourselves really seriously.” “Can I see that sometime?” I asked. I knew my voice was cracking. Screw it, I didn’t care. “Indubitably,” he continued smiling. The bus slowed, screeched, and stopped. I stood. Theo quickly stepped aside to let me pass. I stepped off, two blocks from the clinic. I turned around, ready to cross the busy street. It’s hard to say, because the sun shone directly in my eyes, but I think I saw Theo waving eagerly from the bus window as he pushed up his glasses from the bridge of his nose. What a dork. I waved back. The bus pulled away to reveal the “WALK” sign. I walked.
ALEXANDRA THOMPSON 15
,
Between his smooth fingertips he clutches my crisp pages and stares intently through thick glasses. I wait patiently, He’s an avid reader, while I examine yet another worn flannel shirt. I smell like fresh ink, He smells like mint and sawdust. Different, but both we bond having information we eagerly expel. Both a little outdated, a little under appreciated. On me the man has spilled Lipton lemon tea, oatmeal, apple drippings. I might mind more but he never spills me on the floor or in the trash. And neither of us like the house puppy, we’re brothers of that. He absorbs my news the way a man ought. Slowly. Matter-of-fact. Knowing he can do about as much as me to change the words I whisper. As placid as his response, the man cares. The older he gets the more he seems to need the quiet reclusion, the regular hum, of my smudged sheets. The older I get, the more I value good men like him who read the newspaper, every day.
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MELISSA CHENAULT
MELISSA SAMWORTH 17
18
LINA GARADA
LINA GARADA
19
I held two hearts last night, Beneath a rib cage cracking from the Pressure of unsaid words. My heart was the down beat To your double time echo Against my Adam’s bone. Your drumming cadence Slid into my ribs, a lethal dagger, So swift I never felt the sting. I danced my feet to your bass beat, Felt your breath condense upon my collar Where head and heart contend. Some nights you trace the divide with spirals, Like pictures on fogged glass, Still felt when your breath evaporates. Blue ember light of cable Lit the path we tread, Your slumber breathing my directions. The people moved inside a box, But the volume was down. If we take refuge in this room, And put our world on mute, Can we avoid the unspoken? In our darker hours, words Caged behind crooked ivory walls Are whispered in subterranean tones for our safety. Because, out loud, they kill. Grating tickle of phone space static. Killing words finally tapped out: A rhythm to march my execution, My heart the only metronome. Your dagger heart stings Only when I stomp away. Our silent blue lit room was safer, With its cold warmth: The icy neon light, And your fever hot embrace.
20 LAUREN WHITE
JED GRUBBS
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CURTIS GOULD
CURTIS GOULD 23
Powerfully pounded by mortar and pestle and brewed into concentrated caffeine suave, yet gritty, roasted richness percolated into an intoxicating swig He’s a sinful spice of hazelnut, cinnamon and fig beneath lies liquefied dark chocolate molasses brooding, he sweats and fumes temptation mounds with every aroma A porcelain beaker of pungent perfume, he lures you in with an enticing flavor you breathe him in and then, linger Be careful: he’s a double shot of despair each sip blisters and bristles the tongue he’s a façade, a stimulant, a dirty indulgence enticing to sip and soothing to swallow Eventually, he’ll stagnate and leave you bitter his decadent charms will wear off and you’ll realize he’s not as pure as you thought oh, how the taste burns! Replace him, and you quiver, wanting he’s your weakness, your unquenchable thirst the drug of your desire will continue to summon and you’ll give in again, tomorrow
24 RACHEL FITZGERALD
Brown-tinted sunglasses, Turning to amber All but the unmistakable Asphalt char of Unrelenting bare feet. Faded honeysuckle Stains the leaden air, Lending flavor to The cotton fields, flued Into shaded gold. Ironed miles stream away. There is fire in their hold Only mountains can smother, Reducing to ash what even Brown-tinted sunglasses cannot stain.
CAITLIN BELLINGER
25
EDITOR’S CHOICE
3:32. 4:18. 6:05. a.m. I hold to sleep Like children who restrain cats That try to claw and slink away. There’s no lack of exhaustion; It hurts to stay awake; Forcing breath in my lungs to not sedate, And blink my cracking eye blinds. My room, navy blue and black, Glows with a black fire burn; Red clock numbers smolder like resting embers. When I sleep, in Dream, you’re there, In Reality you’re gone. I curl against the marrow cold Seeping through my window glass, Blanketing me. There is no curve of your hip and shoulder, Fine lines of your sinew and bone, Acting buffer to the window crack Where polar air leaks in to douse Your rarely present fire. In sleep you incinerate, Blaze inside to out, And melt me to your skin: Arms braced round me To ensure I burn full out to ash. The winter air is my rebirth. The surrounding cold and star silence Act as bas-relief and Reveal your absence: I pull my eye blinds down: Darkness unveils ultraviolet Blue, lime, magenta Afterimage: Always more beautiful. I never get your eyes right, But it’s worth it to always See you for the first time: Always expected, never prepared. I curl your cobalt dress shirt on your pillow: The pheromones are mostly faded, But I smell Ralph Lauren Black, As imagined inexorably from your identity. Sleep now, easier. Morning fog will yield when I turn over: I will wake to your scent, and heat, and afterimage; A moment, real, Before the sunlight burns you away.
LAUREN WHITE
27
The dew gave the scuffed leather of his shoes a uniform luster; soon his socks would be damp and uncomfortable, the bottom of his pant legs already hung heavy with moisture. Instead of being cuffed on the outside, the fabric was folded in so that strangers couldn’t see how much longer his mother intended for him to wear this pair. By itself, this idea conveyed no specific significance, but an innate sense told him that interior cuffing was a shameful secret to be kept hidden from the outside world for as long as possible. It was Sunday morning, also known as after-church, and he and his slowpoke, tag-a-long of a little sister (ambling a few yards behind him, as always) were mushing across a lake of grass, heading for the local burger joint for whatever 3 dollars and 25 cents could buy. As he walked, he muttered small, flimsy grievances under his breath, a child’s curses, mostly concerning his ingrained and largely self-held duty to walk slowly so that he could protect his sister if any potential danger threatened her safety. His mind was elsewhere when he almost stepped on it, thinking about the burger, his sister, wet socks, the walk home, and how much change he could take back and put into the cup on his dresser. His sibling’s panicked warning sounded, unexpected and shrill. “Watch-out! Kevin!” He drew a quick breath and stepped back before offering a whispered, “I saw it, be quiet.” “What is it?” “I don’t know.” “Is it a cat?” “Yeah.” “Can we keep it?” His stare said that he couldn’t believe how stupid, how young she was. “It’s dead.” “Should we tell Mom and Dad?” “No. Let’s just go get burgers.” “My socks are wet.” “I know.” “You walk too fast.” “I know.” They moved away from the small mass of fur, she throwing backwards glances every few steps, and he with small hands in small pockets, looking up into a graying sky.
28 DAN CONWAY
KENNA ALISE DAY 29
Trembling Moonlight streams upon my face, while He climbs on top of me. Unyielding hand on my back dragging me in, scent of pot on his breath, He tastes of vodka and lime. Powerful lips crushing mine, a suffocating vice, His hand on my He is
smoke
breast,,
strength between my legs. Pinned down, unable to move, I am a fly on a web, rhythmic motions telling me It’s not over yet. The moonlight, it’s gone.
30 CHRISTINA ROWELL
KENNA ALISE DAY 31
The morning catches me off guard. All three clocks in my bedroom— one wailing a horrible song that I used to almost like— accuse me of laziness. They wrench me from my bed, and I ask them, “What ever happened to the night?” They helpfully answer, “9:01 AM.” I retrace my steps; last thing I remember, I was… in high school, standing in front of my scariest ever teacher, every guy I’ve ever had a crush on, and everyone who ever mocked me. I was about to give a speech which I hadn’t prepared, and I’d forgotten to wear shoes. Maybe that’s where the night went. I may have folded it up and tucked it away for safe keeping in one of those forgotten shoes, like a cell phone in a hotel room, so that I wouldn’t leave it behind.
32 KYLIE SUTHERLAND
But maybe I lost it earlier than that. I remember before that I was taking a quick flight over the mountains, borrowed wings lifting me above the treetops to watch the leaves catch fire with their autumnal yellows and oranges. Maybe as I flew past, the night slipped out of my pocket, fluttered to Earth, and laid itself over the mountains like a blanket, to guard the naked trees against the winter when their leafy shelters abandoned them. I couldn’t think of taking it back. Perhaps it got lost at sea. I recall sitting at the bow of a boat, with a faceless man beside me. We’d gathered some things that were weighing our ship down, and he encouraged me to toss them overboard, one by one. Maybe the night was one of these. As I watched it float away, the man assured me “If it is yours, it will come back to you.” But will it be the same? I suspect it will not; it will at least come back to me masquerading under some new name. Something like “Tomorrow Night.”
KYLIE SUTHERLAND 33
34 MATTHEW GLOE
KENNA ALISE DAY 35
I love her – skin like butter cream frosting on a wedding cake soft and metallic. A crystalline tingle as I hold her in my mouth she pilfers my breath. Whispered serenades dissolve between us. We make love in secret: Curtains drawn tight, dark night with bursts of yellow light. Hiding in the ash oaks awareness amplified by the risk. Each flicker a climax as our passion smolders – a bliss ignorant of futile feelings. She loves everyman the same white hard amount – gram by gram.
36 KEVIN PEARSE EATON
MATT LAYMAN 37
38 THERESE NOONAN
THERESE NOONAN 39
EDITOR’S CHOICE
ABIGAIL RICKARD 41
I want the recipe to muted, scratchy blues I want to know how many burlap collars how much speckled ash how long to marinate in slick, black mud underneath sweltering southern porches for weariness to seep up from bare soles and swell through open gullets
42 DAN CONWAY
HANNAH CAO 43
44 KENZIE GRASSO
KENZIE GRASSO 45
She walked on acorns She didn’t relish the snap of a bone Or the death throes of a crushed bug But she loved the sharp crack Of an acorn reduced to dust It had a crisp, solid sound The chime of destruction Unlike the powder that remained And was silenced forever For there is no voice in dust
46 CAITLIN BELLINGER
DIANA TUNG 47
special events business manager photography editor webmaster poetry editor prose editor production manager graphic designer production manager
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Bellinger, Caitlin Cao, Hannah Chenault, Melissa Conway, Dan Day, Kenna Alise Faton, Kevin Pearse Fitzgerald, Rachel Friedho, Grace Garada, Lina Gloe, Matthew Gould, Curtis Grasso, Kenzie Grubbs, Jed Layman, Matt Meredith, Austen Noonan, Therese Rickard, Abigail Rowell, Christina Thompson, Alexandra Tung, Diana Samworth, Melissa Sutherland, Kylie White, Lauren
25, 46 43 8, 16 28, 42 29, 31, 35 36 24 6, 7 18, 19 9, 34 22, 23 44, 45 21 37 11 38, 39 41 30 13 47 17 32 10, 20, 27
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