Volume 34 Issue 1Fall 2011

Literary and Art Magazine

Letter from the Editor

Katie HaganEDITOR IN CHIEF

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,

literary and art magazinevolume 34, Issue 1. Fall 2011

3 4 4 S q u i r e s S t u d e n t C e n t e rB l a c k s b u r g , V A 2 4 0 6 0s i l h ou e t te @ co l l e g e m e d i a . comwww.si lhouette.collegemedia.com

Adjoining Moments Teal Sioux Falls Icarus Good Person of Szechwan Bus EightNews Ink Mint and Sawdust Up and Away Genuine All Eyes on You Dissonance Dragonfl y Layers of Refl ection Underwater Fireworks Americano Shades of Shades Cold Fire Kindling Grass Cats

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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 nonprofi t 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 e-commerce website at www.collegemedia.com/shop. For more information, visit our website at www.silhouette.collegemedia.com.

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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GRACE FRIEDHOFF6

7GRACE FRIEDHOFF

MELISSA CHENAULT

The problem with describing tealis that it hangs in the in between;one arm slung over greenthe other stretching, brushing againstblue. Not true to either.

The trouble with talking about tealis it demands attention in its momentof existence, its glimmer in the tossing wave.It is a brief color.

See teal is a feeling colorIts hard to say it’s the waythe sky feels hanging after a storm,the way the peacock’s pride feels;Most often teal feels forced.

The issue with telling you tealis I can’t tell you exotic and familiarthings 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 beneaththe 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 fl ames deepens each of your wrinkleswith vividness.

8

MATTHEW GLOE 9

LAUREN WHITE

Stand closer.Feel these metal feathersCut across your palms.I wanted to tell youThat the beauty of these moments,Where we stand closeAnd off er 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 closerAnd watch these fl ocks above us:Figures of silver wings,Their shine cutting the skyUntil it bleeds from blueTo black.In this darknessMetal feathers glitterFrom the candle light of your eyes:The fi re that consumes you.When you stand closeI don’t catch fi re,I burn from youUntil I melt to mercury,And then I burn.I burn for you.And I will go like Saint Joan,Singing your nameAs your fl ames consume me.Your lightning eyesWill be the halo guiding meTo Heaven.And like the silver knife wings,Cutting the air,I will fl y too:My melting wingsDripping like tear dropsAs I fl y too high to you.Too high to crash,But surely fallen.

10

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 off ended 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 fl icking 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 fl y-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 traffi c 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 infi nite 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 fi lls those things out, Theo.” I didn’t even look at him while I spoke. We passed a bowling alley. I used to

13ALEXANDRA THOMPSON

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 fi rst 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 traffi c 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 stuff y, 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 fi lls 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 fl awlessly 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.

ALEXANDRA THOMPSON14

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 stuff ed 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 fi xed 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 fi ve 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 fi rst thing I saw was Theo’s larger-than-life 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 fi rst 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.

15ALEXANDRA THOMPSON

MELISSA CHENAULT

Between his smooth fi ngertipshe clutches my crisp pagesand stares intently through thick glasses.I wait patiently, He’s an avid reader,while I examine yet anotherworn fl annel shirt.

I smell like fresh ink,He smells like mintand sawdust. Diff erent, but both we bondhaving information we eagerlyexpel. Both a little outdated,a little under appreciated.

On me the man has spilledLipton lemon tea, oatmeal, apple drippings.I might mind more but he never spills meon the fl oor 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. Knowinghe can do about as much as meto change the words I whisper.As placid as his response,the man cares.

The older he gets the more he seemsto need the quiet reclusion,the regular hum, of my smudged sheets.The older I get, the more I valuegood men like himwho read the newspaper, every day.

16

,

MELISSA SAMWORTH 17

LINA GARADA18

LINA GARADA 19

LAUREN WHITE

I held two hearts last night,Beneath a rib cage cracking from the Pressure of unsaid words.My heart was the down beatTo your double time echoAgainst my Adam’s bone.Your drumming cadenceSlid 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 collarWhere 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 cableLit 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 wallsAre whispered in subterranean tones for our safety.Because, out loud, they kill.

Grating tickle of phone space static.Killing words fi nally tapped out:A rhythm to march my execution,My heart the only metronome.Your dagger heart stingsOnly when I stomp away.

Our silent blue lit room was safer,With its cold warmth:The icy neon light,And your fever hot embrace.

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JED GRUBBS 21

CURTIS GOULD22

CURTIS GOULD 23

RACHEL FITZGERALD24

Powerfully pounded by mortar and pestleand brewed into concentrated caff eine suave, yet gritty, roasted richnesspercolated into an intoxicating swig

He’s a sinful spice of hazelnut, cinnamon and fi gbeneath lies liquefi ed dark chocolate molassesbrooding, he sweats and fumestemptation mounds with every aroma

A porcelain beaker of pungent perfume,he lures you in with an enticing fl avoryou breathe him in and then,linger

Be careful: he’s a double shot of despaireach sip blisters and bristles the tonguehe’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 andyou’ll realize he’s not as pure as you thought oh, how the taste burns!

Replace him, and you quiver, wantinghe’s your weakness, your unquenchable thirst the drug of your desire will continue to summonand you’ll give in again, tomorrow

CAITLIN BELLINGER 25

Brown-tinted sunglasses,Turning to amberAll but the unmistakableAsphalt char ofUnrelenting bare feet.

Faded honeysuckleStains the leaden air,Lending fl avor to The cotton fi elds, fl uff edInto shaded gold.

Ironed miles stream away.There is fi re in their holdOnly mountains can smother,Reducing to ash what evenBrown-tinted sunglasses cannot stain.

EDITOR’S CHOICE

LAUREN WHITE 27

3:32. 4:18. 6:05. a.m.I hold to sleepLike children who restrain catsThat 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 fi re 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 coldSeeping through my window glass,Blanketing me.There is no curve of your hip and shoulder,Fine lines of your sinew and bone,Acting buff er to the window crack Where polar air leaks in to douseYour rarely present fi re. In sleep you incinerate,Blaze inside to out,And melt me to your skin:Arms braced round meTo ensure I burn full out to ash.The winter air is my rebirth.The surrounding cold and star silenceAct as bas-relief and Reveal your absence:I pull my eye blinds down:Darkness unveils ultravioletBlue, lime, magentaAfterimage:Always more beautiful.I never get your eyes right,But it’s worth it to alwaysSee you for the fi rst 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.

DAN CONWAY

The dew gave the scuff ed 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 cuff ed 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 specifi c signifi cance, but an innate sense told him that interior cuffi ng 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, fl imsy 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 off ering 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.

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KENNA ALISE DAY 29

CHRISTINA ROWELL

Trembling Moonlight streams upon my face,while He climbson top of me.

Unyielding hand on my backdragging me in,scent of pot smokeon his breath,He tastes of vodka and lime.

Powerful lips crushing mine,a suff ocating vice,His hand on my breast,,He is

strength between my legs. Pinned down, unable to move,I am a fl yon a web,rhythmic motions telling meIt’s not over yet.The moonlight, it’s gone.

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KENNA ALISE DAY 31

KYLIE SUTHERLAND32

The morning catches me off guard.All three clocks in my bedroom—one wailing a horrible song thatI used to almost like—accuse me of laziness.They wrench me from my bed, andI 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 ofmy scariest ever teacher,every guy I’ve ever had a crush on,and everyone who ever mocked me.I was about to give a speechwhich I hadn’t prepared, andI’d forgotten to wear shoes.Maybe that’s where the night went.I may have folded it up andtucked it away for safe keeping inone of those forgotten shoes,like a cell phone in a hotel room,so that I wouldn’t leave it behind.

KYLIE SUTHERLAND 33

But maybe I lost it earlier than that.I remember before that I wastaking a quick fl ight over the mountains,borrowed wings lifting me above the treetops towatch the leaves catch fi rewith their autumnal yellows and oranges.Maybe as I fl ew past,the night slipped out of my pocket,fl uttered to Earth,and laid itself over the mountains like a blanket,to guard the naked trees against the winterwhen 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 wereweighing 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 fl oat 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 memasquerading under some new name.Something like “Tomorrow Night.”

MATTHEW GLOE34

KENNA ALISE DAY 35

KEVIN PEARSE EATON

I love her – skin like buttercream frostingon a wedding cakesoft and metallic.

A crystalline tingle as I hold her in my mouthshe 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 oaksawareness amplifi edby the risk.

Each fl icker a climaxas our passion smolders – a bliss ignorant offutile feelings.

She loves everyman the samewhite hard amount –

gram by gram.

36

MATT LAYMAN 37

THERESE NOONAN38

THERESE NOONAN 39

EDITOR’S CHOICE

ABIGAIL RICKARD 41

DAN CONWAY42

I want the recipe to muted, scratchy bluesI want to know how many burlap collarshow much speckled ashhow long to marinate in slick, black mud underneath sweltering southern porchesfor weariness to seep up from bare solesand swell through open gullets

HANNAH CAO 43

KENZIE GRASSO44

KENZIE GRASSO 45

CAITLIN BELLINGER46

She walked on acornsShe didn’t relish the snap of a boneOr the death throes of a crushed bugBut she loved the sharp crack Of an acorn reduced to dust

It had a crisp, solid soundThe chime of destructionUnlike the powder that remainedAnd was silenced foreverFor there is no voice in dust

DIANA TUNG 47

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Bellinger, Caitlin 25, 46Cao, Hannah 43Chenault, Melissa 8, 16Conway, Dan 28, 42Day, Kenna Alise 29, 31, 35Faton, Kevin Pearse 36Fitzgerald, Rachel 24Friedhoff , Grace 6, 7Garada, Lina 18, 19Gloe, Matthew 9, 34Gould, Curtis 22, 23Grasso, Kenzie 44, 45Grubbs, Jed 21Layman, Matt 37Meredith, Austen 11Noonan, Therese 38, 39Rickard, Abigail 41Rowell, Christina 30Thompson, Alexandra 13Tung, Diana 47Samworth, Melissa 17Sutherland, Kylie 32White, Lauren 10, 20, 27

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