The Talon Spring 2012 by Woodberry Forest School

THE TALON Front COVER

The Talon

Spring 2012 Woodberry Forest School Volume 63, No. 2

The Bull | BEN PARK | acrylic on canvasboard 12in x 16in

Wilson Kuhnel

Supervising Editor, Senior Poetry and Text Editor

Editorial Staff Peter Shelton Connor Forrest Anna Grey Hogan Eric Ways Allen Jones

Ian McDowell

Submissions Coordinator, Senior Photography Editor

Nick Workman Senior Prose Editor

Willy Sherrerd-Smith Editor-in-Chief, Head Designer

FACULTY ADVISOR TECHNICAL ADVISOR

ART REVIEW BOARD PHOTOGRAPHY REVIEW BOARD PROSE REVIEW BOARD POETRY REVIEW BOARD

Karen Broaddus Richard Broaddus

Herbert Hernandez, Henry Holmes, Ian Edwards, Vinh Hoang, Kofi Som-Pimpong, Ben Park, Campbell Hallett Mark Petrone, Addison Winston, Spencer Brewer, Nick Gambal, Charles Blaydes, Charles Setzer, Miguel Valenzuela, Will Figg, Hank Krebs, Sterling Street, Tim Lindsay Thomas Doughty, Gibson Montgomery, Herbert Hernandez, McGregor Joyner, Jack Gauss, Trice Moore, Sterling Street Nelson Williams, George Sutherland, Jack Gauss, Parker Nance, Michael Bauer, Michael Turley, Kiefer McDowell

COVER ART Family Portrait | WILLY SHERRERD-SMITH | oil on wood 12in x 36in

Jason Hill Senior Editor

PHOTOGRAPHY Stormy Streets Willy 9 Sherrerd-Smith Walking Away Willy 10 Sherrerd-Smith No More Anna 13 Grey Hogan Working Class Hero Charles 15 Blaydes Sea Lions Willy 19 Sherrerd-Smith Oxford Hank 21 Krebs A Distant Break Will 23 Figg In the Direction of the Stars 30 Hines Liles Devilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Inferno Nam 38 Nguyen Christmas Tree Laura 41 Sutherland Solstice Linda 43 Hogan Another Son Addison 44 Winston The Cape of the Mara 52 Sean Brown Half-Peeled Ian 59 McDowell Gone With A Hop Connor 69 Forrest Summer in Tyrol Saul 72 Shimmin When One Focuses on a Stick in Tuscany 74 Jason Hill

Smooth Sailing Billy 16 Osterman Seal Sculpture Willy 18 Sherrerd-Smith On the Hunt Ian 24 Edwards Heartbreaker Willy 28 Sherrerd-Smith A Waltz with Imagination 35 Willy Sherrerd-Smith Howling Moon Henry 36 Holmes Risen Sun Henry 37 Holmes Interpretation Ken 47 Mutamba Ambiguity Herbert 48 Hernandez Praying Man Campbell 51 Hallett Elephant Mike 53 Burns In Touch with Nature 54 Ian Edwards Tree Man Henry 55 Copeland Dirt Man Saul 57 Shimmin Native Eye Henry 60 Holmes Flowa Tucker 63 Jackson Garden of Eden Tucker 64 Jackson That Look Willy 67 Sherrerd-Smith Constellations Henry 71 Holmes Tiger Brent 76 Oh

ART

Landscape | MARSH WILLIS | acrylic on paper 18in x 24in 8

A Study of George Bellows | JACOB KEOHANE | acrylic on paper 18in x 24in

Prose Life Connor 12 Forrest Head First Luke 17 Merrick A Nautical Mile Sterling 20 Street Plently oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Cigarettes in California 22 McGregor Joyner An Unknown Object Approaching 24 Hagood Grantham After the Deluge Jacob 30 Keohane One Small Candle Willy 42 Sherrerd-Smith The Salt of the Earth 58 John Amos Call Me a Junkie Gibson 59 Montgomery Blind Faith Wilson 62 Kuhnel

Dawn Arrived Too Early 8 Peter Shelton Memories Kevin 11 Chuisseu Prisoner of the Atlantic 18 Petey DuBose Castles in the Air Willy 29 Sherrerd-Smith Shimmer of Light Coleman 34 Bergsma I Dream a Face Wilson 35 Kuhnel Hurts So Good Connor 38 Forrest Collision Nelson 40 Williams Kingfish Ballad Jacob 46 Keohane Jigsaw Nelson 49 Williams Sassafras Allen 50 Jones Landscape Nelson 54 Williams A Bar Forgotten Jason 55 Hill Attending A Funeral 56 Will Tucker Reflections on Dorian Gray (A.K.A. Myself) Wilson 61 Kuhnel Lockjaw Anna 66 Grey Hogan #1777 68 Will Tucker Habakkuk 2:14 Wilson 70 Kuhnel The Plum Blossom Tommy 73 Fang FaĂ§ade Connor 75 Forrest Out with a Bang and a Whisper 76 Nick Joynson

Poetry

Dawn Arrived Too Early Poetry by Peter Shelton

Rain is like a child at a playground. He slouches away in a careless drip, pattering down the sidewalk, raincoat billowing out in the early wind. Her red-tipped fingers tug and tow at his moist wrist, a mother guiding her child away from the playground, fun in the rain. Time to go as the clouds shift. Haul-heave-haul. A last haunting impression as he steps in time to thunderâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s distant rumble and the rash strobes from lightning. His head lowered, a heavy breath. A last haunting impression of the nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s terror. Dragging feet and bobbing head. Rain pleads, a slow procession down a pink cheek. Wretched and writhing, wistful to stay. Red fingers pull and prod while the sun pushes aside his gray curtain at last. Caught in the rose-crested grasp, the babe lumbers, stomping in this puddle, in that. His mother will leave him to nap for the coming triumphant parade. Dawn arrived too early.

Stormy Streets | WILLY SHERRERD-SMITH | digital photography

Walking Away | WILLY SHERRERD-SMITH | digital photography 10

Memories Poetry by Kevin Chuisseu

I remember the last time I stood next to him five years ago. Steve was not quite the bulky man he would become. I remember the last hug he gave me at the Douala airport before he broke free and went on with confident steps. He never looked back. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just who he was; a force of character unique to a fifteen-year-old boy. And then I could not see him. All of us were left behind at that airport, a place unlike the immense coliseum with a polished wooden floor. Gathered around our TV in a corner of our house in Cameroon, we would watch him run up and down, rebound and shoot, even from behind the arc. I remember as an eleven-year-old boy the dampness of my sleeves. However I was happy he would go to high school in Houston. My brother was ready to fly.

Life Fiction by Connor Forrest

:00 AM: Bloody digits shine as insistent beeping fills unconscious ears. Fluttering, his eyes slowly crack open to face the naked skin of a bare shoulder and the muted light of a new dawn creeping under the thin curtain. A breath in; shampoo and minute traces of sweat—reminders of the previous night’s activities— greet him. Smiling slightly, he lifts his arm from around her slender waist to her still-toned stomach, feeling for a sign of the miracle happening in her womb. Spying the ultrasound sitting on the night table, he takes a moment to look at his son before fixating on his better half. Her angelic face, illuminated by a few faded rays, is radiant with a faint smile. He looks upon this magnificent example of unparalleled perfection with open wonder one last time before throwing on a red robe and padding over the landing. He walks quietly down the steps of the brownstone and across the wooden floorboards. Sumatra beans quickly fill the grinder to the hash. Guttural buzzing invades the kitchen, making Victor wince. Hands press against the wall as warm droplets beat against a chiseled back. Turning, a stream trickles down strong features, past closed eyes, and around slightly parted lips before dripping from a prominent chin to plop against the tiled floor. After a quick rub down and prance up the steps, he exchanges his towel for khakis, and nimble fingers button up the blue and white

checkered shirt. Grabbing some black dress shoes and a tie, he gives his wife of three years a soft goodbye kiss. “I’ll pick Arya up from practice. Love you.” “Love you too. Dinner’s at six,” she murmurs before drifting back into unconsciousness. Smiling, he peeks into his daughter’s room, and satisfied with her sleeping form, he gently shuts the door. The aroma of a fresh brew permeates the kitchen. POP. A sesame bagel, ready to be cream-cheesed, jumps from the toaster. Back from his trip down the driveway, paper in hand, he fills a mug and puts the bagel under the knife. Once situated in the leather chair, a relic from his father and from his father before him, he unfolds The Times. “California Energy Crises Hits Scottish Power,” “Fetal Tissue Implanted Safely, Doctors Say,” “Teachers Don’t Need Note for Religious Day,” and “School Dress Code vs. a Sea of Flesh,” read the headlines. Wondering when the last time was that he read something meaningful, he laughs and closes the pages, shutting out the mundane and trivial nonsense. Shoes on and tie loosely knotted around his neck, he slings his jacket and briefcase over his shoulder before walking out and locking the door behind him. 7:30 AM: The taxi driver, a middle-aged man with a thick Indian accent, is curiously excited to be ferrying a stranger around. The duration of the ride reveals him to be a newly-graced father, his wife having just birthed their third son the previous evening.

No More | ANNA GREY HOGAN | digital photography 13

“Ma’a as-salaama,” he says, passing a few bills up to the front. “And for your children,” bestowing another handful of bills into the man’s weathered palm. “Allah yasalmak, my friend!” Lips curl back into a smile, revealing slightly yellowed teeth. “Thank you.” The city’s usual passion is up and running at full steam. Peeved drivers smash tired fists into steering wheels and horns fill the September air. A murder rudely caws a crude reminder to the city that never sleeps that a new day has risen. Black seas of ruffled business men and women cross intersections in the hundreds. Before he can step onto the gum-laden pavement, the neverending symphony begins its assault. An imperceptible pause to inhale the city’s essence; the steady thumping vibrations of a jackhammer underfoot, exhaust, croissants and fresh dough, a light breeze off the bay, curses of angry cabbies, and the clash of hundreds of conversations. Pushing into the throng, he hangs on for the ride as it carries him down the street. Finally breaking out of the surge, he steps in a small coffee shop, the brass knob cool and firm beneath his hand. “Sandy! Good morning!” “Hey! That’ll be three seventy-nine,” says the slightly plump black woman, passing a young man in dire need of a padded chair his extra-large double shot. Wincing, he mumbles a quiet “thanks” before shuffling off to sip the drink in a dark corner. “So what can I do ya for?” she asks, the usually outof-place and occasionally irritating smile cheerfully resilient on her face. “Just a coffee would be great.” “Coming right up!” Back into the torrent. Head down. The press of bodies, cologne, expensive perfume; the click-clack of dress shoes and professional, practical, black heels beating the pavement. Looking up. High necklines and basic ties meet bored, faintly irritated faces; the

monotony of existence painted across dead features. Onward they walk, hurriedly bearing their subsistence until finally able to punch out just another day on the clock. There! Happiness, excitement! With extra pep in her step, she saunters against the flow. The red dress, baring a seductively substantial amount of voluptuous figure, flashes amongst the blackness before being swallowed up. 8:00 AM: Smiling slightly and head held high, he continues, praising the joy of a new day, a new beginning. “Hey Artie! Gimme a copy of The Journal, will ya?” 8:30 AM: At last, his building. The three-story windows flood the lobby with light, illuminating dozens of complacent flags and scores of suits. “Morning, Lisa!” He waves to the receptionist and receives a grin in return. “Morning, Victor!” Up the escalator to the second floor, and then on to the elevator. A naïve smile in an ill-fitting suit tries to punch the correct button as floor numbers are called out. “Ninety-one, please.” Having impossibly packed the can, it’s up, up and away. Twenty minutes, approximately one hundred stops later, and a new friend, Vanessa, finds him stepping onto the black and white tiled floor. A plethora of “hello”’s and “good morning”’s batter his person, refusing to withdraw until a likewise message is returned. Making his way between the tables and past the workstations, he pulls back the door “Victor O’Connell—Financial Consultant.” A few strides carry him past the overstuffed white couches. Wallet and phone land on the desk and down goes the answering machine’s little triangle. As messages play, he faces the large panes comprising the back wall, taking a moment. From high above he observes the ants scurrying

>Working Class Hero | CHARLES BLAYDES | digital photography 14

about, rushing to accomplish this and start that, trapped in eternal combat for success. Taxicabs dye the arteries of the city a spotty yellow as dots glide around the buildings like a stream around stones. Each one moving with a sense of purpose. Each going to accomplish something. What a beautiful thing, the nobility and greatness of existing with a reason, with principle and purpose. Looking out across the greatest city in the world, he can’t help but think what a truly magnificent race he’s part of. He raises his head to the skyline, vision reaching to the horizon and encompassing the greatness of man only to be interrupted by the ringing from his desk. Turning, he picks up the phone. “Yes?” “Your wife is on the way up, sir. Says she’s bringing a special surprise for a special day.” “Thank you, Theresa.” The receiver rests with a click, and his eyes travel to the solitary ornamentation atop his desk. Looking at the photo, his mind wanders back. It was one of those picturesque, sterotypical meadows, dandelions swaying in the gentle breeze, a four-year old Arya running among the golden petals. The clear sunshine enshrouding Gabriella in a celestial haze… He turns to look out once more, sipping at his coffee and wondering what was so special about the 11th that could cause Gabby to overcome her inherent fear of skyscrapers. A split second allows him to read “American Airlines” before it hurtles into the building side. The glass wall explodes towards him. Exquisite pain penetrates every fiber of his being as the ceiling comes crashing down. Blackness dulls the edge. His last thoughts flicker to the taxi driver and the woman in red before centering on his daughter, his unborn child, and his wife. The jagged darkness pulls him down, ripping him from this world. 9:00 AM.

Head First Nonfiction by Luke Merrick

one. Away from the world. My arms numb and my mind singing. A tow-rope points the way as the wake guides me onward. The roaring motor but a buzzing fly lost to the rush of wind in my ears. No point in holding back. In the grip of success, I let it all out, sounding my barbaric cry over the July lake. It only now occurs to me how fast I am going. “What should I do now, Dad?” “Just keep holding on; we’re turning here.” Just keep holding on. A twinge of fear shoots through my stomach as the boat cuts left. The rope reaches after the curving wake while my skis remain pointed straight ahead to the choppy water. Suddenly, the harmony is gone, the balance broken. Angry waters reach up, and then the ski is gone. Two heartbeats pound like small explosions in my ears. No matter how hard I close them, my eyes fill with the blinding darkness of the lake. The collision over, I float with the ebb as serene water soothes my stinging skin. Tears flood inflamed eyes. Worth it.

<Smooth Sailing | BILLY OSTERMAN | acrylic on paper 18in x 24in 17 17

PRisoner of the Atlantic Poetry by Petey DuBose

My life rises and crashes, muddies and clears, a constantly changing idea. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve worked hard to stick close to it for all of my years. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t control it, this powerful test of persistence. It controls me. It lifts me up and puts me down. I hope it never lets me go. I get dragged through different paths in life like a rip pulling me down the pier. My life takes me up along the Outer Banks where I willingly battle the ever-present drift.

Seal Sculpture | WILLY SHERRERD-SMITH | clay 14in x 12in x 17in 18

Sea Lions | WILLY SHERRERD-SMITH | digital photography

A Nautical Mile Fiction by Sterling Street

he shimmering surface of the deep splits the sky and sea in two. Solemn solo became divine duet; divine duet a sublime symphony of haloed orb, luminescent mackerel clouds, and black void of inseparable sea and sky. Moonlight rolled and tossed and crashed and foamed. Two distant whispering shadows laughed about their little babies growing up so, and love laughed with them at its great ability to turn a blind eye from imperfections. Bitter grey cigarette smoke curled into the sky from an orange dot. Chopin’s “Nocturne in C-sharp Minor” tiptoed in delicate high heels, rustled in her satin evening gown, and accompanied me wandering into the night’s mystery. It was unusually cool for June, and as I walked, the night’s wind brought not only a further drop in the apparent temperature but also a stimulating exhilaration.

Is it wind or curiosity pushing me forward? The end of the beach where sand morphed back into stone, flying backward millions of years, seemed just ahead —that’s the jetty right there. Oh, no, that’s still shore. Scurrying ghostly crabs fled the thud thud tempo of my bare feet. I couldn’t tell whether it was the absolute solitude that sided with the wind to chill the night or the absence of any sort of sense of time that scared me more. No, still got plenty of time. It’s the solitude. The radiant ball hanging in the sky was now joined by smaller ones pitching and rolling on the horizon. These were not white like the larger, but green and red. A casual evening stroll had become a race to reach the jetty before the approaching boat passed. My breathing rivaled the speed of my heartbeat. Was it worth it? What did you expect? The boat on the horizon I had caught just in time turned out to be nothing more than a boat on the horizon I had caught just in time.

Oxford | HANK KREBS | digital photograph 21

s it considered waitin’, Jess, when you’re walkin’?” His legs, spent and painted with dust, collapse by the cool desert oasis, and his arms, cut loose from his side, unfurl and slither down beneath the water. “I mean, you can call it anything you want, I guess. Shit, Jess, we’ve been waitin’ since Talehanna City.” In one motion, two leathery hands attack thirsty lips. “Hell, we’ll be waitin’ forty days and forty nights, right?” A chuckle thrashes the canyon walls with the percussive echo of a single drumbeat as he grins and launches back his long, black hair. “What are we waitin’ for anyway? Who’s to say we ain’t gonna stop and end our days right here in this canyon?” A coyote beckons to the fast-approaching night with a sympathetic cry. “I lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, maker of Heaven and Earth…” The low rumble of the Traveler’s Verse trails off and a distant grasshopper picks up the tune. “Well, anyway, you’ve got to be thirsty, Jess.” Having struggled to his feet, the young cowboy pulls his horse to the water, then sits back to watch her drink. The desert wind seems to synchronize with his breathing, and he sees the blood red curtain of his eyelids holding off the glare of a relentless sun. “Y’know, Jess, I’ve heard a dog’ll seek the woods to die in peace.” Two cold partners, flint and steel, emerge from his back pocket to greet the tobacco and rolling paper already in his lap. Five strikes later, all four fall to the ground beside the three new notches on his infamous revolver. “Ah, damn, it’s useless. Plenty o’ cigarettes in California, I’m sure. And no lawmen, neither. Sure sounds like Paradise to me.”

dirty brown hat comes down one last time over two weary eyes. Two rough hands return in vain to grasp his side as a lonely, fallen drop paints the desert floor red.

>A Distant Break | WILL FIGG | digital photography 22

Plenty oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Cigarettes in California Fiction by McGregor Joyner

An Unknown Object Approaching Fiction by Hagood Grantham

une had been unseasonably cold. Jim stepped through the chill-bearing fog and got into his truck, turned on the heat, and set the radio to 98.1, Greenville’s hit radio station. Usher’s “Yeah!” pulsed out of the speakers as Jim backed out of the driveway and flew toward Furman. Driving down Poinsett Highway, Jim reflected on his final year of high school. Because of his ambitious workout regimen, Jim had suffered a torn hamstring and hadn’t recovered the summer’s fitness until the middle of spring track; even then he had a marginal season. All the colleges recruiting him had backed off, so what was almost a free college career turned out to be a costly one for his parents. He wondered if he could fully get back to the potential he had a year ago. The doctors said no, but Jim didn’t listen. Instead he kept running and progressing. The workout that day would test Jim physically and mentally. It was a series of 800’s broken into two groups of five with various recovery in between. The entire day’s mileage would be around eleven miles with warm up and cool down. Jim hadn’t done a work out like this in over a year and was trying not to think about it. Jim parked the car next to the entrance of Furman’s Belk Track Complex and hopped out. The fog seemed denser here; all that was visible was Furman’s bright orange track that shone through the mist. He

On the Hunt | IAN EDWARDS | pencil on paper 14in x 11in 24

began to jog his one and a half mile warm up while Lil Wayne’s “Right Above It” pounded in his ears. As he was walking to the start line, a sound pricked his ears. It was steadily getting louder. Clack, clack, clack. Looking around, Jim saw nothing but an ocean of white. The girl flew past him. Jim was uncertain if she even noticed him. As Jim’s coach would say about runners who get in that zone, “She’s gone wildcat.” Jim smiled. Well, this makes things better. I wonder what she looks like. Once he got into his third 800, Jim had caught several glimpses of the mysterious, ghost-like runner. She was blonde, shorter than him by a few inches, and definitely a serious runner. As far as he could tell, she’d been at about a 6:30 mile pace without taking a break since he first saw her. Normally, any distraction would cause Jim to fall off pace, but the girl didn’t. On Jim’s final 800, the fog still clouded his vision as he gasped for breath to finish out this workout. He hadn’t seen the girl for a few minutes but soon heard her. And there she was. Two strides ahead. Running right at him. The collision was unavoidable. She hit the infield grass as Jim landed roughly on the track. Scrambling to his feet, Jim went over to her. “I’m so sorry…I didn’t see you. I…heard you but couldn’t see you.” In one instant, Jim had forgotten that he was out of breath, that his legs were on fire, and that his whole left side was cramping. “Oh, it’s alright…Where’d you come from?” Puzzled and now doubled over, chest heaving, Jim responded, “I’ve been… I’ve been running out here for the entire time you’ve been here.” “Really? Must be the fog. Didn’t see you.” She smiled and stood up, dusting the grass off her shorts.

She was stunning: dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, a flawless smile, and curves that would make Kim Kardashian jealous. “Hey, I’m really sorry about decking you. Is there anything I can do?” Jim asked. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. It’s my fault.” “I still feel bad; I ruined your workout.” As his brain began to get oxygen and work to capacity, he added, “Can I buy you a cup of coffee? I just feel I need to make it up to you.” She smiled at him. “Sure, I think some coffee would be fantastic right now.” “I’m Jim by the way, Jim Turner,” he said, as he extended his hand. “Aria Green.” They got in Jim’s pickup and drove out of Furman and down the highway to Starbucks. Jim found out she was a freshman running for Furman’s cross-country team and majoring in economics. Jim told her that he was also a freshman at Davidson. He wasn’t on the varsity team but still stayed competitive. As they were walking into Starbucks, Aria teased, “Nice shorts.” Looking down, Jim blushed a little. He’d forgotten how ridiculous his neon green short shorts were. They ordered their coffee and sat down. Jim couldn’t get over how easy it was to talk to this girl. They both liked the same music (Red Hot Chili Peppers, U2, and M83 among others), they both were avid runners, and they both loved movies. He couldn’t tell if this was a runner’s high or if he really felt a connection with this girl. The conversation never faltered, and she never stopped smiling. This must mean something. “Well, I need to be getting back. I’ve got classes in an hour,” she mentioned as she stood. “Alright.”

Driving back onto campus, they saw a runner cross in front of them at the school’s entrance. Jim watched her go by and then drove on, but Aria didn’t take her eyes off the girl until she was out of sight. “You know her?” Jim asked. Aria shifted in her seat. “Err, somewhat. Well… Yeah, I do. She’s on the team, but she hates me.” “Why?” She glanced at him. He glanced back. “She like had a boyfriend a few months back… and he had a crush on me. He didn’t exactly try to hide his feelings for me and asked me out a lot. I rejected him; nice at first then I got kinda ugly ‘cause he kept this up for a month. Anyways, that girl, Caitlin, hated me for… well being me, I guess. But she really got mad a week later when her boyfriend got sentenced to several years in jail for dealing drugs. Then she blamed me.” Jim felt there was more to it but let it go at that. Aria’s voice had been rising, and her face was a little red. Realizing he needed to change the subject, Jim blurted out, “Hey, would you like to grab dinner sometime this week?” “Yeah, I’d love to. Here’s my number. Call me tonight. We’ll figure something out.” “Okay, great! Talk to you later.” “Yeah, see ya.” Jim watched her go to her dorm, admiring her figure and wondering how this good luck had happened. He turned up the radio and floored it back home.

inner and the conversation went swimmingly. From Soby’s, they strolled down Main Street towards Falls Park. They decided to go in Spill the Beans, an ice cream parlor just above the Reedy River Falls. While they were eating, they talked about their favorite movies and directors. Aria reached for his hand. Jim acted like this was no big deal, but for the first date, it was. They returned to Soby’s where both their cars

were parked. Jim was sweating a little. He didn’t know how he should end the date. As Aria got her keys out, a scene from Hitch played in his head: Will Smith told his friend that when girls fiddled with their keys, they wanted a good night kiss. And damn, sure enough she’s fiddling. “Aria.” When she looked up, Jim grabbed her waist, pulled her in, and kissed her. Smiling, she gave him a quick kiss back. “I’ll talk to you very soon,” she said as she got into her car. Leaning against the truck’s door in a daze, Jim watched her blue Mustang turn onto Main Street. He checked his phone and saw Graham’s text. Jim’s smile faded as he read it for the fifth time: stay away bro, this girl is trouble. wouldnt be surprised if she has aids. i heard she slept with three guys at the same time. why are you taking her out? Jim’s heart sank. He didn’t want to reply, and he certainly did not want to believe it. If it had been someone other than Graham, he wouldn’t have. But Graham had been his close friend throughout high school, and they always had each other’s back. With a heavy heart, Jim called Graham and told him everything. “Shit, dude. And you like her that much? Well, I think you should avoid her, Bro-Montana.” “But she seemed so perfect.” “I’m sorry, Bro-Bro Ma. Melissa told me that she heard Aria bragging in class to her friend the other day about how she has this book. She writes down dudes’ names, and next to them she puts stars down about how far she’s gone with them. One star, kiss. Two stars, hand, and so on. Over thirty-five guys have four stars.” Jim exhaled. “She’s slept with that many guys? What do I do?” “Write her off. Just don’t text. Things will probably get rough. I heard she harassed her last boyfriend for several months after he broke up with her. Do you think she liked you?” “Hell, I don’t know. I guess.”

“I’d just stay away from Furman for a while, and do not text or call her. Leave her be.” “Well shoot.” “Talk to you later, Bro-Bi-Wan-Kenobi.” ver the following days, Aria texted Jim, sexy at first, like, Hey cutie, cant wait to see you next. A few more days and she began to sound pitiful. Where r u? and Please don’t do this to me, i thought we had something good. Jim was struggling. He hated being so callous to a girl he really liked, but Graham urged him to stay the course. “You’re doing the right thing, Bro-nana. Trust me, all the girls I’ve talked to say the same thing. We’ll get through this.” A week after the date, Jim was out running along the Swamp Rabbit, which follows the Reedy River down through Greenville. Jim had just completed mile seven of his sixteen-miler. He happened to be at the section of trail that ran parallel to Furman. This was not a coincidence. Jim ran to mile eight just beyond campus without seeing her. Disappointed, he was about to start his return trip when he spotted her. She saw him. Stutter step (both of them, almost in unison). Each was looking the other in the eye in a dead silence. Jim considered something like, “Missy you better throw down or I’m gonna draw on you.” No such witticism came to his mouth. “Jim, did you come here on purpose?” “No…Yes.” “Why? Haven’t you heard the stories?” Her voice started quivering, “Sometimes people don’t even bother to whisper. Runs are the only time I get peace… And now that’s gone.” She turned on her heel and started to jog the other way. Jim’s mind was torn down the middle. What do I do? Jim shifted from one foot to the other. In a few minutes she’ll be gone; this is my only chance. Jim ran after her. When he got near her, he called, “Aria! Please! I’m sorry. Yeah, I heard stories, rumors. I should’ve gotten

to know you better instead, but I thought I should trust my friend.” Aria didn’t answer him. She slowed down to a walk. Jim reached for her shoulder to turn her around. Her eyes were puffy and tears were coursing down her face. “What’d you expect me to do? Don’t you realize it was Caitlin who started all these stories? I can’t tell you how nice it was to meet someone who hadn’t heard all this…bullshit. I thought I was gonna find someone; I had hope, and you crushed it.” “Whoa, Aria please, I’m sorry. I can tell you’re not like that. I just let others persuade me. Please forgive me.” She coldly stared into his face, her breathing heavy. “I’ll think about it.” With that she turned and sprinted off down the trail to the exit that lead into Furman’s campus and out of sight.

y the time he reached his house, Jim struggled to keep up his pace. His head was hurting, and soon he stopped and stared up into the sky. Jim took in a long breath, blew it out, and went inside to take a shower. Drying off, Jim reached for his phone. New Text Message. Hey, im sorry for the way i acted, i was just really into u. when u ignored me i just got angry. what do u want to do now? Jim thought. He hadn’t expected to hear from her again, certain that the image of her running off was the last of Aria Green he’d see in his life. Jim replied: clean slate? clean slate. what u wanna do? go for a run w/o hitting u haha that’d be nice. when/where? FU track, 9 tmr mornin See u there ;) Jim smiled as he shut the phone. Life’s messed up. He hit play on his iPod. “Right Above It” blared. What a song! He flipped open his phone, told Graham to come over, and finished drying off as Wayne rapped “You know we at the top when Heaven’s right above it, an’ if you ain’t running with it, run from it.” 27

Castles in the Air Poetry by Willy Sherrerd-Smith

Don’t go, my dear, you know I care. We’ll find a way to work this through. I’m sorry, love, I just can’t bear. The purest life we vowed we’d share. What lies have made me look untrue? Don’t go, my dear, you know I care! You’d try to hide the whole affair, And put me through this pain undue? I’m sorry, love, I just can’t bear. You have my love, to this I swear. My heart is honest: tried and true. Don’t leave me dear, you wouldn’t dare! You caught the others in your snare, Was I some kind of game to you? I’m sorry, love is just not there. We built our castle in the air, And now we fall from what once flew. Don’t go, my dear, you know I care! I’m sorry, love, I just can’t bear.

<Heartbreaker | WILLY SHERRERD-SMITH | charcoal on paper 18in x 24in 29 29

Aft r the Deluge Fiction by Jacob Keohane

In the Direction of the Stars | HINES LILES | digital photography

lick. “Good morning, Darwin, this is your captain speaking. Today is March 1, Year 1. Launch day.” Catharine rolled over. She really didn’t want to get out of bed—not today. “I have declared today a ship-wide holiday. We left home behind a year ago, and with sixty-nine more years to go, I know living on Darwin can seem like a daunting prospect.” Catharine smiled to herself. The recruiting team had picked the right man to be captain; he had a deep, soft, reassuring voice like Morgan Freeman. “But we left Earth behind to make a new life, a new world. We may not see it, but we have faith our children will. It is this faith—” “Alvin, turn off radio,” Catherine said. Her room complied, silencing the Captain’s voice with a soft click. Catherine slipped the soft white sheets off of her pale legs and stood up. She felt exhausted and ugly, and her stomach churned miserably. You know, you don’t have to get up today, she thought. Just use the bathroom and get back in bed. She got up, taking special care not to look at the pictures on the desk. After showering until her skin shone pink, she wrapped a towel around herself and came back to face her apartment. She walked around, taking each picture from its resting place and setting it on the small breakfast table. A photograph of Yosemite’s Half-Dome. Her old house in Charlottesville. Her parents; that one wasn’t painful. She had mourned them long ago. She arranged the pictures into a semicircle, carefully setting each in place according to her own emotional algorithm. There was a picture of a handsome, bearded Indian man with his mouth open, hand raised to drive home a point. Catharine touched the picture, remembering when it was taken. “You women!” Rasheed said, thick eyebrows popping up and down. “Can’t you ever learn not to ask questions like that?” “It was an honest question,” said Catharine. “How do I look?” Rasheed snorted. “Honest question!” He tried to

sound insulted, but Catharine could tell from the way the left corner of his mouth curled that he was secretly amused. “You don’t actually want my opinion. You want me to feed your ego. Well, I won’t do it!” Catharine quickly raised the camera and took a picture just to infuriate him. She had been taking them all day like a silly American tourist. Rasheed hated it. “Give me that!” he yelled, leaping for the camera but grabbing her instead, pinning her close to him with his strong arms. The camera dropped to the ground, forgotten. “Get off me, you brute!” she squealed, partly in shock but mostly from the feeling bubbling up out of her. Rasheed pulled her even closer, so close she could feel his scratchy beard and his warm breath. “In answer to your real question, you foolish woman,” he whispered, his voice low and playfully serious, “I still love you and always will.” Catharine didn’t cry; she just sat at the breakfast table. She had cried enough already when she had to leave. “What a fucking idiot,” she whispered to herself. When she had told Rasheed they needed to leave, the world was dying. The icecaps were melting. Couldn’t he see? Couldn’t he tell that with the massive storms, the famine, the riots, and the rising waters that there was no hope left on Earth? “But that’s why I have to stay,” he had said, lifting her pleading hands from around his neck, holding them in his own hands. “People need me here.” “I need you, Rasheed! Our future children will need you!” “Humanity is here, Catharine, not on some distant planet. I’m not going to give up on seven billion people.” “But there’s only a thousand spots on the ship! If you don’t go then who’ll, who will—” This was the point when she had cried so much she couldn’t speak or even stand. “I’m sorry, Catharine; I’m so sorry,” he had said, stoic as she knew him, unbending as she loved him. She toweled off her hair and brushed out all the 31

kinks and knots, standing up to pull it back into a ponytail. Stepping out the door, she looked down the hallway that extended as far as she could see, curving up and out of sight in line with the turning of the ship, an unnatural horizon. As she walked down the hallway, she heard from behind each door the sounds of people mourning what they left behind. Sobbing or silence. From behind one door leaked a strong smell of burning incense; from another she heard someone chanting a Hail Mary. It amused her how so many of these agnostic intellectuals became deeply religious when far from home. Thankfully, the wave of religiosity spared her. She arrived at the elevator and stepped inside. “Level B-one-thirteen, please,” she enunciated clearly. The doors whisked shut and she slumped into a chair. She really felt sick. Why was she going to work today? Maybe the cool air of the storage bay would make her feel better. As the elevator sped upward towards the axis of the ship, she felt herself gradually getting lighter. She clenched her teeth to keep from vomiting. With a soft whirring, the elevator stopped, and the doors dinged open. Getting up, she went down another hallway, this time moving in low, practiced bounds. This close to the center of the ship’s rotation she weighed barely a tenth of what she would have on Earth. Still, the centrifugal force was enough to keep her on the ground, and it was better to keep the normal gravity areas for parks and living areas; there have been more than enough people going crazy as it was. Ten suicides in the past year. She idly wondered how many people would kill themselves today. She touched the fingerprint scanner on the front of her door, and it clicked open. She smiled to herself; one of the few perks of being Dr. Catharine Anderson, head of cryostasis. She stepped into a small 32

antechamber with fluffy hooded coveralls hanging on the wall next to signs and motivational posters. WEAR YOUR WARM CLOTHES! CURRENT STORAGE BAY TEMPERATURE: 220 °K ALWAYS REMEMBER Next to this last poster hung a picture of a human fetus in the womb at about the twelfth week of pregnancy. Catharine looked at it for a while, wondering why she put up the damn thing in the first place. She let it hang, though. She took her coveralls down from its hook. It was white and soft with gloves attached and booties on the ends of the legs. She slipped inside it, pulling the hood up and over to cover her face. It was snug, warm, and dark inside the coveralls, and Catharine lay on the floor of the antechamber letting it hug her, her own heartbeat sounding loud in her ears. She had no idea how long she lay there, but as she shifted, she felt something small and hard poke her in the side. Sitting up, she reached into her pocket and found a small DNA sample tube. She had forgotten about that. Standing up, she pressed the button on the side of the vault door, and it whooshed open. A blast of cold air hit her, and her eyes began to water. But what a sight! Hundreds of monolithic storage banks extended for miles in every direction, shrouded in semidarkness. An iron catwalk lined with dim blue lights extended from under her feet. It reached into the dark to intersect hundreds of other catwalks, forming a network of pathways that penetrated every corner of this place. Slim cables were strung everywhere, from catwalk to catwalk and in the chasms between the storage banks for balance and safety. Catharine took a running leap off the side of the catwalk, her arms and legs spread wide to feel the cold rush of air around her. She snagged a cable as she fell,

jerking herself out of free fall and instead sliding along the thin wire; it didn’t take much to stop herself from falling in one-tenth of Earth’s gravity. Swinging from cable to cable, she soared through the air in a display of acrobatics that would have been very impressive if she didn’t weigh about fourteen pounds. She landed on the side of a storage bay, grabbing a handle in the wall with one hand as she brushed off frost from the label on a drawer in front of her. Oryctolagus cuniculus, the common rabbit. She opened the drawer and clouds of white mist poured out. Inside were rows and rows of metal tubes, similar to the one in her pocket, each one with a unique serial number. She pulled one out and turned it over to examine it from every angle. It held dozens of embryos, poised to be brought to life to populate a planet. “Sorry guys, you’re gonna have to wait seventy years,” she said, slipping the tube back into the rack and closing the door. She climbed up to the top of the storage bank and started, almost letting go of the

handle. There was another figure on top of the bank. “That was a very impressive display. Sorry if I startled you,” said the figure, his voice deep and reassuring. “Rasheed?” she asked, her mouth dry. “Maybe,” Rasheed said, holding out his arms to her. In the piercing cold of the storage bay, he was dressed only in jeans and an old Led Zeppelin t-shirt. “I’m probably just a hallucination brought about by a year of isolated, indoor living.” Catharine climbed to the top of the freezer bank and held out her arms. He smiled from the left corner of his mouth but did not budge. Her mouth worked soundlessly. “I’m so sorry —” “Shh, foolish woman. I love you. Of course I forgive you.” Catharine felt trails of ice trickle down her face. She pulled a DNA tube out of her pocket. “We’re going to have a baby.” “Tell him love from his daddy,” said Rasheed, and Catharine’s vision clouded over.

Shimmer of Light Poetry by Coleman Bergsma

Light shimmers off the bubbles blowing in the air. Lush green grass sways in the breeze. Dogs cry to the world, pleading for attention. Happiness and sorrow loom near. Sitting there in her cute pink and green flower dress, she smiles and laughs, enjoying the little things in life. Her dad had left her forever, with only bubbles of memories of her best friend. Streams of light pulsate on her skin, the warmth of a man she once knew. He disappeared like the bubbles, but his presence was incased in her heart. The beautiful bubbles shimmered in the light, leaving the reflection of his smile. Her dad would never leave.

>A Waltz with Imagination | WIILLY SHERRERD-SMITH | charcoal on paper 54in x 30in 34

I Dream a Face Poetry by Wilson Kuhnel My brittle heart would break for you, my bride. I can’t resist, though fate deplores we wed, A face that beds the lark yet swells the tide. A brook runs soft and does our banks divide. Through willows bare and strange, to me it said, “My brittle heart would break for you, my bride.” Oft could it be that love is love of pride And not for its own sake. But still I dream: A face that beds the lark yet swells the tide. The forces on these banks have fast allied Against the day they preached, condemned, and hid. My heart, a specter, breaks for us, my bride. So tarry not, the seas will soon subside. We’ll find a place that suitably will praise Your face, which beds the lark yet swells the tide. Let water scheme and froth on either side. But I will carry on with my sweet tune: “My brittle heart would break for you, my bride, A face that beds the lark yet swells the tide.”

Howling Moon | HENRY HOLMES | marker on paper 16in x 12in

Risen Sun | HENRY HOLMES | marker on paper 16in x 12in

Poetry by Connor Forrest

I find myself naked. Again. Cursing, pushed inside, thudding finality tolls behind. Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no escape. The room so small, wooden walls lasso tight. A brazier in the corner, my fate apparent. For her, I must withstand. Already the heat suffuses. My jailer stands ready, lithe body immune. A daunting shimmer dances behind sadistic eyes. Fuel carelessly tossed on glowing stones. Hissing flames roar. Hands cover searing eyes. Fire invades with every gasp. My mind begins to numb. Heat surrounds. A hazy current drowns out a silent plea as all begins to fade...

The door opens. A stern hand propels. Blindly I stumble, flying high, steam writhing from my trunk. Water so cold, so blessedly wet. Icy salvation quenches a mind wreathed by flame with only a brief reprieve. Back to the cell. Slick air stifles. Frigid feet beat against damp tiles in time to a stricken heart. Monsoons of moisture, assaulting already slick skin, roll earthward and collect in nether regions. The steady plop pools below, melting stone. Skin weeps salty tears as water turns to fire, searing the vicious path. I must bear to win her kingdom’s keys. My father, a cryptic figure. “Beware Estonians my son.” Never warned me of that infernal box. Never mentioned the sauna’s inferno.

<Devil’s Inferno | NAM NGUYEN | digital photography 39

Collision Poetry by Nelson Williams

The cars converged and shattered all the stillness, Shattered the calm and equanimity. Figures emerged mid twisted metal; glass Lay broken, and the amniotic airbags, Inflated by the violence, oozed about. The cars screamed out; their horns were harshly wailing; The newborn drivers never would forget; Collision fathered them that violent day.

Christmas Tree | LAURA SUTHERLAND | digital photography 41

One Small Candle Fiction by Willy Sherrerd-Smith

lex sat alone at the kitchen table. An untouched birthday cake sat alone on the table in font of him. A hypnotic silence, accentuated by the sound of rain diving into the roof, blanketed the house. A small fire atop a blue and white striped candle sat in the middle of the “o” in “Love.” The entire cake read “Happy Birthday Mom, Love Alex.” It took Alex some time to get the hang of writing in icing, so the scribbled “Happy Birthday” was nearly illegible. Well, at least “love” looked fine. Thunder crashed almost right over top of the house. It was really unlike her to be this late. The power was off, but Alex enjoyed the glow of the candle as it flicked and jumped, flickered and bounced. The melodramatic shadows reminded him of an old saying his mother taught him: all of the darkness in the world can’t put out the light of one small candle. Oh yeah? He focused on the candle, willing it to go out. Willing it to prove his mother wrong. The defiant flame just kept puttering along. Darn. A drop of melted blue wax dribbled down the side of the candle. Well this is great. The cake took forever to make and now mom doesn’t even have the courtesy to come home before the candle bleeds all over it. Great, just great. He put his head down in his arms. It would be rude to give up on her this early. Alex went to sleep anyway. A grating screech tore through the veil of rain. Then a crash, shattering glass, and the reverberating wail of a siren. He couldn’t feel the crash, but he knew he had been hit because of the way his body was about to jerk forward and smash against the steering wheel. Gleaming shards of glass reflected and distorted the blinding headlights as

each cut its own path. They looked so lonely glimmering and gleaming. What argument could divide them like that when they had all been united once? Was it too late for them? His head smashed against the steering wheel, and his world went dark. Alex picked his head up from the table. The room was still dark but he could see the candle shining dutifully in its puddle of dried blue wax. Hey! Stop contaminating the icing, alright? The rain was still trying to break through the roof. He was still alone. Alex eyed the cake. Would it be rude to take a piece now? The candle was telling him to go ahead—he knew his mother would say that too—but it would ruin the artistry of the lettering. He decided to take a slice out of “birth” because it was so messy anyway. The cake was good, but the candle was judging him (even though it would never say it). Ashamed, Alex stuffed the half-eaten chunk of cake back into its slot. Now the candle was giggling at him. He put his head down. Candles don’t giggle. Alex peered over the steering wheel into the darkness. A mess of shattered glass and twisted metal covered the street, illuminated by the orange glow of a streetlight. The rain seemed louder now, or maybe just closer. Had it penetrated the house? Or just the car? He glared at the dented hood of a Suburban leaning against the disfigured hood of his mother’s Sedan. It’s a shame to have to repaint the car. It was a lovely shade of red. A flash of lightning tore its path down the sky. Alex jolted awake. His eyes fixated on the cake. It read, “Rest in Peace Mom, Love Alex.” The candle

was dripping red wax instead of blue, and the fire on the top was dimming. Thunder roared again, and lightning bleached the cake back to normal. Well, who says it ever changed? Alex stared at the candle, willing it to stay alive. Please come home, Mom, please.

lison felt so peaceful. It was the first time she had since she went to that day spa at… She couldn’t even remember where now… Was it…? No, stop.

Thinking too hard. That place was too feminine for her taste anyway. They told her she held her hair back too tight. The little girl in her was outraged. The CEO in her was too. Today was her birthday, and life didn’t give her any presents. At least Alex was at home waiting to make her smile. He was so wonderful like that. She could remember Alex’s father, or wait… It was so hard to think about him. Was he like that too? She decided to concentrate on the

Solstice | LINDA HOGAN | digital photography 43

sweat rolling past her nose. Don’t fall off; you’ll never make it, she thought, trying to warn the sweat. Then she realized her head was on a steering wheel, so it wouldn’t have to fall too far. Okay, just be careful. The thick irony-tasting glob ran past her lip. Iron? Did sweat taste like that? Who knows. She really just wanted to know why she was leaning on a steering wheel. She struggled to open her eyes and saw blurred orange light flickering through her eyelashes. The orange light came into focus. It was a single candle on a lovely little chocolate cake, flickering and flicking. The blue-striped candle looked pathetic and lonely. The poor thing, it was just asking for love, but no one was there for it. She wanted to reach out to comfort the candle, but her arms wouldn’t move. Okay, maybe later. The candle was reaching out for her, beckoning her. I’m coming, Honey. A painful, blinding light ripped down from the sky. There were voices in her head, out of her head… where were they? Were they the darkness around her? Or the red and blue flashing lights outside? I don’t speak siren, I’m sorry. The wall slid away from her and hands reached out to catch her. More hands un-clicked her seatbelt and the first hands put her on a bed and rolled her away. Why was it so bright? Why was she in agony all of a sudden? Why were hands in white masks putting something over her? Where did the candle go? Where was Alex? If only Alex were here. If only she could hold and love that lonely candle. Alison was always working, never playing. “Too much work and not enough play makes Alison a dull mommy,” Alex used to say. Such a shame that he was too young to understand that she worked for him. That she loved him so much. She wished she could tell

Alex, but there was always another e-mail to send and another call to answer. She closed her eyes. I think I need to play more.

lex checked his watch one last time before he decided to give up. His mother wasn’t coming back tonight. She was going to work through her own birthday. Alison stared at the worn-down candle sticking out of the chocolate cake. She reached out to embrace it, embrace her son, her darling son. The light wasn’t embracing her back. He leaned over and blew out the candle. His room went dark. Her world went dark. Alex looked at the extinguished candle. It was dead. He was alone, trying to cut his own path in life. People in white masks leaned over Alex. “We lost her! Get the AED!” A young man took his mask off and breathed into Alison’s throat. “Alright, help me get her hooked up.” They attached patches to Alex’s chest. “Everyone back!” Clear! Thunder smashed down right above Alex, and the rain poured in through the roof. Their house was broken. It had been united once. Was it too late? Clear! A thunderbolt shook the house so violently the lights flickered. Alex dropped to his knees and sobbed. I’m so sorry, Mom! I’m so sorry… Clear! A surge of electricity bolted through Alison. She arched her back, and she gasped for air. Alex fell to the floor. Gentle raindrops fell down around him, glimmering and gleaming. Illuminated by the light of one small candle.

<Another Son | ADDISON WINSTON | digital photography 45

The Kingfish Ballad Poetry by Jacob Keohane

The Governor, his royal self Gave word of jobs he’d bring. “I promise you, and everyone, That every man is king. A radio, an autocar, Each man will have his share. No more will rich men own the State. They’ll learn to take what’s fair.” The Kingfish stood upon his box And made the masses moan. They picked him up onto their backs And brought him to his throne. No more the hunger in his eyes, He had what he desired. If any man would anger him He promptly had him fired. With head in hands and heart in mouth, He knew that he was wrong. Through guilt he built a hospital. “For you,” said Huey Long. One day on the election trail An old friend stopped to say, “Huey Long, you’re a murderer. I hope you die today.” He drew his gun, and quickly shot Huey Long through the heart. And standing there, the Kingfish died, From all he loved, apart.

Interpretation | KEN MUTAMBA | acrylic on paper 24in x 18in 47 47

Ambiguity | HERBERT HERNANDEZ | charcoal on paper 24in x 18in 48

Jigsaw

Poetry by Nelson Williams

We scratched and scrabbled for that puzzle piece, And then began again. It wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cease Until weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d found them all. Our fury flared Each time insolent pieces proudly dared To be too wide or thin or round or square To fit within a spot. Our rage was payment For our outrageous chosen entertainment.

49 49

Sassafras Poetry by Allen Jones

One shoe pointed forward, the other at two oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;clock. The reused Smart Water bothered me. A dramatic hand, posed on his hip, really bothered me. The bright pink tie fought the snow for attention. Both corners of his lips tiptoed up his cheeks. Demerits.

>Praying Man | CAMPBELL HALLETT | acrylic on paper 24in x 18in 50

The Cape of the Mara | SEAN BROWN | digital photography 52

Elephant | MIKE BURNS | mixed media on canvasboard 22in x 28in 53

Landscape Poetry by Nelson Williams

The verdant hills are like a loverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body: Legs, waist, and breasts beneath our grassy sheets, Her stone head rises, beautiful and rocky, Her mountain face smiles bright when kisses deep Have proved my love, but frowns begin to creep Across her eyes when I demand and stir To build or mine when needâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not mine. Her sleep, I frequently disturb. I am a churl, Who, selfish, would begrudge her rest to rest with her.

In Touch with Nature | IAN EDWARDS | charcoal on paper 14in x 11in 54

A Bar Forgotten Poetry by Jason Hill

The bar that sits beneath the mess forgets the warmth of natural light and dreams to be exposed to life. Forgotten hope, remembered sight. Above the chair, below the glass, the arms that rested there were known. To drive. To talk. To live. To love. The men that drank forgot their own. The glasses slid along the wood. The fellowsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; trust as strong as scotch. The glass that rests here now is dust. Time was lost, as with the watch.

Tree Man | HENRY COPELAND | charcoal on paper 14in x 11in 55

Attending a Funeral Poetry by Will Tucker

The trees gazed silently upon the scene: The body still, the skin so pale and clean. The widow shivered in the cold of night, Made no less frigid by the candlelight. Meaningless faces filled the empty void. Sadly they watched another soul destroyed. The quiet snow whitewashed the barren grave Where lies a frozen man no one could save. Another life is gone, it passes by, Like candle flames flicker then quickly die. Eternal rest awaits him evermore After he fought the ever-futile war, That hopeless life-long fight to reach, or stay Entombed in normalness from day to day.

>Dirt Man | SAUL SHIMMIN | mixed media on canvasboard 28in x 22in 56

The Salt of the Earth

MFK Fisher’s An Alphabet for Gourmets A Book Review by John Amos

You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt has become tasteless, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything… —Matthew 5:13

think I’m going to give up salt, or at least cut way back. I need to start thinking more closely about how I use the stuff. It’s not for health reasons, but rather to find out what things really taste like. I’m curious how tomatoes and asparagus, bread and pasta, soup, salad, steak, and potatoes taste by themselves, in their natural, naked state. I got the idea from reading An Alphabet for Gourmets, a book of food essays by one of my favorite writers, MFK Fisher. In a short essay titled, “U is for Universal,” she writes very sensibly about how salt disguises as much as it enhances. “I am convinced,” writes Fisher, “that coping with a saltless regimen should be part of every good chef’s schedule, at least once a year or so, to sharpen his dulled appreciation of food’s basic flavors…” She also writes that we’ve become so dependent upon table salt that we’re essentially addicted; and like all addicts, our senses have grown dull. Listen to this wisest of cooks: “One reason most people protest so passionately against giving up salt is that they, like morphine addicts, have set up an almost miraculous tolerance…to the lack of natural flavor in their food.” I get the addiction analogy. Sometimes I crave chips the way a wino craves cheap wine. And I’m

sure my sense of taste has been deadened by too often satisfying such cravings. I’m open to change, if only to discover whether an omelet can stand on its own, or whether it really needs that extra shot of sodium. Now that I think about it, I wonder if I honestly know what eggs taste like. I’m a bit nervous about this experiment. Fisher warns that salt is so universal in modern cooking that once you’ve gotten used to eating things unsalted, “most other dishes in most other dining places taste ghoulishly pickled and cadaverous, like warmedover slices of zombie.” That sentence goes miles toward explaining why I love reading MFK Fisher. The woman can flatout write. An Alphabet for Gourmets includes essays on dining alone and dining with family (she prefers the former). It includes an entire essay on the joy of fresh peas. There are also recipes: from the exotic (quail, pate, and herring pie) to the basic (fried egg sandwiches, hamburgers, and milk toast). Other books by MFK Fisher include: How to Cook a Wolf, Consider the Oyster, and The Gastronomical Me. Read her, by all means. But be careful. She makes so much sense that you might just have to change your ways.

love eating. This defines my life. I am the locust and the cafeteria is my innocent pasture. Burgers, hot dogs, barbeque, Philly cheese steaks—nothing can find refuge from my insatiable love. I’m no connoisseur; the food can come from a greasy dump in downtown Gastonia, NC or the Palm in Manhattan. Rather, it’s the action itself that I love so much: the delicate raise of a fork, slightly parting my upper and lower jaw, and the satisfying crunch of another delicious bite. Some see my mile-high stack of plates and assume I have a big appetite. I just can’t help going back for another…and another… and another. A classic case of hollow leg syndrome. The dining hall may simply be a fueling station for most students, but it’s my Mecca. I used to hate Woodberry food. The grease, fat, and canned veggies didn’t compare to my mother’s cooking in the slightest. I experienced deep depression and a horrible withdrawal my freshman year. But, after adjusting to the forever-fried meal plan, my eating addiction came back with a vengeance. Stacks of plates were decimated. Trays bowed under the weight of dishes. The locust descended upon Reynolds Dining Hall. Sure, people stare; they’re probably weirded out that I eat so much. I could care less. I love to eat, and until I hit that metabolic wall at thirty—when everything a man eats is another inch on his waistline—I’m going to eat everything I can. Hello, my name is Gibson Montgomery, and I’ve been an addict for my entire life. Half-Peeled | IAN MCDOWELL | digital photography 59 59

Reflections on Dorian Gray (A.K.A. Myself) Poetry by Wilson Kuhnel If I could wield the wit of Oscar Wilde and turn a phrase for innuendo’s sake, then what would flit from page to page would sing an opera of beauty’s scarce remains. A love of art is not enough itself to rescue man from time’s enduring pledge, to wind the clock and ruthlessly rejoice at wrinkles wrought by marring humbleness. But if I could ensnare my age in paint, a deal of death Mephisto would enjoin, then could I live while never having heard what beauty says apart from pomp and camp? To you, my King of Tongue and Brash Hurrah, if you do jest in Hades’ courts below, though you have preached la jolie vie brillante, I cannot say I truly comprehend The Importance of Being Wilde.

<Native Eye | HENRY HOLMES | pastel on paper 15in x 15in 61 61

Blind Faith Fiction by Wilson Kuhnel

eeping a sound mind about such things was quite the test of faith. Mary Kircher went on to examine the television man’s argument. If in fact Jesus were a myth, as he suggested, why had he returned to her as a floral arranger? He called himself Joel—probably to avoid media scrutiny as the come-again Christ—and he brewed a wonderful array of teas. Most notably, and certainly most profitably, he had written The Additional 95 Theses on Why My Father Sounded So Angry on the Phone. He was funny like that. This, needless to say, made him a celebrity at the 75% off paperback section of Borders. Mary never planned to divorce David, nor did her family find the idea kosher. The whole affair reeked of pale ale and shredded manila. Night after night David rallied the partners to white-out what they could save and liquidate what they couldn’t. Religiously he read through the corporate tax code in order to find a saving grace that could bail the bad money out of the floundering company. He took to burying things, like a squirrel before winter, a winter that was fast approaching with a vitriolic hail of commonwealth attorneys. It was sad really, until Joel arrived. He walked in the door under the pretense of auditing their tax returns. But Mary knew better and claimed him as her own. “Hello, is this the Kircher residence? I have been sent here by my superior to…” From that, Mary knew that he bore a message of hope, one that would save her from this unsatisfying, and ultimately inconvenient, marriage. There was evening,

and there was the morning after. It then came to pass, on the eve of her divorce, that Joel accompanied her to the local Oyster and Clam Bake. They brought the food onto her parents’ boat, “The North Star,” and ate as the water calmed and caressed the distraught woodwork.

never got to ask where you’re from,” Mary inquired, eyes wide as if she already knew the answer. “Far north of here.” That was enough to convince her. No beard, no long hair, no turban (or whatever they wore). That was all of no consequence. Joel proved himself to be eloquent in his sayings, knowledgeable about everything— especially his tea. He wore linen whiter than polished ivory and veiled himself in a passive silence that she found absolutely titillating. She so inspired him, she observed, that through her he gained a newfound hope in humanity. Why not celebrate with humanity as a floral arranger, instead of punishing it as a covert IRS agent? Over Thanksgiving dinner, Mary presented her new boyfriend to her parents. “Well hello, Joel. We’re so glad to have you in our home,” welcomed the Kirchers. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Kircher. I brought you this decorative lawn ornament. Mary and I decided it was a porcupine, but we can’t be sure. You didn’t have to go so far out of your way.”

Flowa | TUCKER JACKSON | digital art 63

“Ah, well thank you,” the Kirchers continued. “We spruced it up special for our Mary’s new beau. We were especially careful with the flowers, these carnations here. We’ve never entertained a floral arranger, so we dared not make a bad impression.” “You should have bought Easter lilies. Those are his favorite, aren’t they Joel?” Mary interjected. “Well actually my job as a floral arranger is temporary

him and reminded him of some past injustice. Mary never asked about it. Against the Kirchers’ insistence, Joel took the teapot himself, and the stove set itself alight at his touch. At this point, a crowd had gathered: Mr. and Mrs. Kircher, Mrs. Kircher’s brother Peter, and his wife and son Martha and Paul, all in awe as to why the boyfriend was whispering to the pot. On cue, the pot began to whisper back, louder, until a chorus engulfed the room, one that

until my father comes to get me.” “Oh yes, Mary mentioned he lives in Maine?” “Somewhere up there, yes.” Mary glanced to Joel knowingly, and Mrs. Kircher caught on. “Uh, won’t you please come in?” Joel took care to unruffle his white linen shirt. It had gotten stained somehow, and he chastised the stain. Oh, how he cares for the simpler things in life. I have so much to learn, Mary thought. As usual, Joel requested tea, since wine perturbed

Mary would later describe in her journal as “the mating call of Heaven.” “The tea is ready,” Joel said. Wanting to avoid discussing the boyfriend’s strange behavior, the Kirchers instead invited everybody to sit down at the table. Mary took the teacup from Joel—his hands were so immaculate, so soft—and placed it at his seat, slightly left-center, but close enough. Mary sat at his right. “So Joel, where’s the rest of your family?” Mrs. Kircher began.

Garden of Eden | TUCKER JACKSON | digital art 64

“Joel has a brother, don’t you Joel?” Mary interrupted. “He ran off a few years ago. Cracked his father’s bank account and ran out with half. They hired an investigator to find him. Turns out he’s living in some…alternative establishment in Singapore. Sad, really. But these kinds of people always have a habit of showing back up, don’t they Joel? That’s how the stories go, right?” “Indeed. We’ve been planning his return party for years now.” He began to clean his fingernails. “I see,” Mr. Kircher said with an uncomfortable glance around the table. “Let Joel tell us about his book. I’m in the publishing business, you know. I don’t want to give you a sermon, but maybe I could help out.” “Listen, Tom. Consider the lily that is the church; it has formidable roots and an impressive plume of petals. But its stem, its essence is rotten. If Jesus were around today, he would pluck it from the ground, a flower not worthy for a gas-station bouquet.” “Those are quite the bold statements, Mr. Joel. To each his own I suppose. I’ve never known a floral arranger to be so philosophic. Principled, maybe. I guess we are more of a traditional Christian family here. Methodist, right hon?” Mrs. Kircher’s feverish eyes but softened smile battled for her emotion. Mary tried to get a word in and did not succeed until Joel had dispensed with every blog article that labeled Richard Dawkins and Bill Maher as either lovers or extraterrestrial charlatans. She had always grown up reading the Gospel, but now that she was actually dating Jesus, the whole curtain surrounding her comfortable existence had torn in two. Sure he was strange. Her friends called him strange, like after he ordered a hickory bacon salad without the bacon. She assumed it was because he was Jewish, but then why not order a normal salad? Pondering these things, she spoke up. “Joel here also likes to fish” was all she could come up with in the way of normality. This frightened her. Mary had turned her attention to the wall cross that gazed down on the affair in mockery. She knew it would most likely offend Joel, but she would rather see him

handle it appropriately than her making a big fuss over it. It had been quite a long time since then anyway. The dog, which was under the table licking gravy off Joel’s shoe, became irritable. She shuddered past in a whirl of vindication, like a ricocheted bullet. It foresaw something, and Mary knew it was time. After the meal, Joel and Mary got in the car. The Escalade to be exact. Wouldn’t Jesus drive a Prius or…a cheap used Mitsubishi? Mary never noticed it before, but she remembered her mother’s words. “Faith is blinding.” “Joel, my parents seemed to like you. Don’t worry about feeding the dog. His stomach erupts after eating most foods.” She let out a disheartened laugh. “Normally I’m good with animals. That one seemed to lie there longer and more stubbornly than usual. He must be neurotic or engaged in witchcraft.” “I can’t see you anymore.” With the image of her vomiting dog in her head, Mary suddenly and uncontrollably spat out what she had meant to say since the odd teapot incident. If this meant she was condemned, then so be it. She could no longer date Jesus. Too much baggage, too much willingness to resist normality. That just wouldn’t do, and she pondered giving David a call. At least he went to Yale. “I understand. I had thought about returning to my house on the shore anyway. However I must let you know that the time is drawing near when my name will be spoken in every household. Books will be written about me. See? I have a purpose, and I thought maybe you could be a part of it.” Mary listened, her hand moving across the transmission to meet Joel’s. “I have begun work on a garden fence that conforms to its environment and conceals your house. Makes it completely invisible. Stuff of the future, Mary! Bet you’re feeling pretty sorry now.” Before she was able to give that idea even an ounce of credibility, she was halfway across the lawn. She figured she should stay with her parents tonight. She would give Jesus three days to leave the apartment.

Lockjaw

Poetry by Anna Grey Hogan

Behind these pearly gates, the truth is locked inside, for what a face relates is not the best of guides. Hiding feelings of pain, these lips tremble not, nor do they seem to contain any hint of real thought. With the pretense of grace, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d not think me hostile. To see my shining face warped into this false-shining smile. Allâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hidden in a sheath by the skin of my teeth.

>That Look | WILLY SHERRERD-SMITH | acrylic on canvasboard 12in x 16in 66

#1777

Poetry by Will Tucker, inspired by Emily Dickinson The fragile flakes break on my Skin— The wind—a deathly chill— Leaves me as I sink deeper in, My Flesh becoming pale— The Bank of snow buries me whole— I hear no more—nor see— It muffs the howl of Anguished soul Departing—with a Sigh— The sobs can’t penetrate the Ground— Deeper still I head— My frozen Body—moribund— Into the hands of Death! The gleam of Snow—gives way to dirt— My breath slows silently— So stops my old, cold, beatless Heart And mind—unknowingly— The crowd departs—not me, I stay— My soul remains firmly On earth, the last reminder of This Funeral for me.

>Gone With A Hop | CONNOR FORREST | digital photography 68

Habakkuk 2:14 Poetry by Wilson Kuhnel

“To understand the world, you must first understand a place like Mississippi.” —William Faulkner I sit in a bleached wicker chair, strained by want of recognition. The threads lash out, writing in harsh script that begs for impunity. It is a chair, a simple grace. I see the juniper of Mississippi branch out before me. People stroll by and kick up the dust that had settled well and now sets the weathervanes in frantic twirl. At this wind’s behest the church bells ring. The sound, by some crass reduction, sordidly ambles beyond our ears. The customers stumble on and pay the somber lilies no mind. I pump the spigot, but they’ve broke that too. So I sit in my bleached wicker chair with the kiss of sand on my tongue. The sun fills the air without recompense as the waters cover the sea. The sun sets to my South and wastes not a twinkling of starlight on this repossessed garden of soot and storm. Leave us be with our ghosts, we ask, ghosts who cast no shadow and want not for eternity.

>Constellations| HENRY HOLMES | acrylic on canvas 60in x 35in 70

The Plum Blossom Poetry by Tommy Fang

In the rimy dales I stood. Amidst the frigid gales I blossomed, Stately, upright, and proud. All flowers, noble and wretched, looked up to me, awestruck, For none in this world could shiver my soul. Since time immemorial, my virtues were extolled By mighty kings and gentle lords of man And renowned bards who roamed the land. The Emperor upon his dragon throne summoned his myriad lieges. From the glacial steeps, they ushered me into his garden of eternal spring, Crowned me in the golden pavilion inlaid with pearl and turquoise, Whose luster and glory endure for a thousand autumns And ten thousand generations forevermore. By the jasper tree along the tranquil marble path, Under the evanescent moonlight, I, the flower of flowers, Fade into dust and oblivion On my resplendent throne.

<Summer in Tyrol | SAUL SHIMMIN | digital photography 73

Faรงade Poetry by Connor Forrest

Lightly dusting pitted fields, Erasing all blemishes. All is beautiful, All is well. Not a speck in sight. Beneath is different. Roots wither, Stems shrivel. Snowy flakes veil all, For the birth of beauty Breathes the death of life. All is well.

<When One Focuses on a Stick in Tuscany | JASON HILL | digital photography 75 75

Out with a Bang and a Whisper Poetry by Nick Joynson

As dark winter winds rolled ‘round our chilled frames, The fuses were struck. The box was sent up. And we watched as it burst into flames. As light morning showers marked the dawn of the year, I ate from my plate. You measured your weight. And we knew that your end had drawn near. As we all lay on the sand like poor beached whales, You soaked up the sun. I got up to run, And I noticed your face was still pale. As the sun sank behind the gold, auburn trees, We looked at each other. You said, “Goodbye, brother,” And you stopped with a soft, little wheeze. As dark winter winds rolled ‘round my chilled frame, The fuses were struck. The box was sent up. And alone it just wasn’t the same.

Colophon

The Talon, first published in 1949, is the biannual literary arts publication of Woodberry Forest School. The editors encourage submissions from any member of the Woodberry community. These works were selected through a process of blind review by student review boards. All opinions expressed herein are the property of the authors and artists and do not represent the views of Woodberry Forest School. This magazine was created on an Intel-based iMac using Adobe CS5. Titles and art credits are set in Baskerville, Brush Script Std, Herculanum, Matura MT Script, Rockwell, Rosewood Std, Silom, Zapfino; body text is set in Myriad Pro. The Talon is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association. CSPA recognized The Talon with a Gold Circle award for first place in overall design in 2011 and a Silver Crown award in 2011 and 2012.

For further information: The Talon 898 Woodberry Forest Rd. Woodberry Forest, VA 22989 karen_broaddus@woodberry.org www.woodberry.org/talon

<Tiger | BRENT OH | acrylic on paper 5in x 5in

THE TALON | SPRING 2012 Woodberry Forest School Woodberry Forest, VA 22989 www.woodberry.org/talon

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