The Silhouette - Fall 2008

8/14/2019 The Silhouette - Fall 2008

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SilhouetteVolume 31, Issue 1, was produced by the Silhouettesta and printed by Franklin Graphics, located in Nashville, TN.e paper is 80 lb. Porcelain with a 100 lb. Porcelain cover. e fonts used throughout the magazine are Adobe GaramondPro and Lights Out BRK, and Papyrus. SilhouetteLiterary and Art Magazine is a division of the Educational Media Companyat Virginia Tech, Inc. (EMCVT), a nonprot organization that fosters student media at Virginia Tech. Please send allcorrespondence to 344 Squires Student Center, Blacksburg, VA 24061. All Virginia Tech students who are not part of the staare invited to submit to the magazine. All rights revert to the artist upon publication. To become a subscriber to Silhouette,send a check for $10 for each year subscription (two magazines) to the address above, c/o Business Manager or visit EMCVTse-commerce Web site at www.collegemedia.com/shop. For more information visit our Web site atwww.silhouette.collegemedia.com or call our oce at 540-231-4124.


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Welcome to the fall 2008 issue ofSilhouette.As this is our, Jenna and Halis, nal issue, we would like

to start by saying thank you to everyone who over the past two years has taken part in making this a great

magazine. We have been lucky to have a wonderful sta and dedicated submitters and readers. Without all

of you none of this would have been possible. We appreciate all your hard work and dedication to the arts in

Blacksburg and at Virginia Tech.

is issue is special to us not only because it is our last but also because of the tough submissions process

we went through to bring you the best of the best literature and art our campus has to oer. We strive to

show the community the variety of artistic styles and the artistic passion of the Virginia Tech students. Weare proud to bring art and literature to a traditionally science focused university. And excited to say that the

submitters come from all dierent types of majors, not just English and Art. In addition to the representation

of English and Art students this issue has work from students in Industrial Systems Engineering, Architecture,

Industrial Design, Civil Engineering, Biological Science, Materials Science and Engineering, Philosophy,

International Studies, Natural Resources Conservation, Political Science, Computer Science, and

Communication. It is exciting to have an issue so representative of the dierent backgrounds of the Virginia

Tech student body.

We would also like to thank everyone who worked so hard to make our last Greeks v. Geeks so wildly

successful. We had four fabulous bands play at Awful Arthurs this semester: Simply Supported (Geek), eFrat Pack (Greek), e House Floor (Geek), and Always Morning (Greek). Jennifer Johnson, our Special

Events Coordinator, worked hard to make the event absolutely successful. We had a great turnout and raised

more money at this benet than Silhouettehas done at past Greeks v. Geeks.

We hope that you enjoy reading this issue ofSilhouetteas much as we enjoyed putting it together. We are

proud to bring you the fall 2008 issue.

Hali Plourde-Rogers Jenna Wolfe

Editor-in-Chief Business Manager

WelcomeWelcome


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Literature

Yoga

e Light-Keeper

From the Depths of the Asylum

How It Happens

March 9, 2008, 11:05 , Route 81

Second Grade in a Chrysalis

Soul Food

Home?

I Live Inside

Remember

Untitled

Cow on a Hill

Charlottesville Stairwells

As Long as You Dont Like Argyle

I Remember Her By Our SaddestMoments

Mary

African Child

Handle with Care

6

8

11

12

14

16

20

21

23

25

26

26

28

30

36

39

41

43

MANISHA SHARMA

KAYLIE BRANNAN

E RIKRO LLWAGE

HEATHER OLDHAM

CAITLIN PLUNKETT

HOLLY KAYS

MOLLY TUCKER

LISA MINNER

KRISTINE KING

LINDSAY COOPER

GROVERMEWBORN

E RIKRO LLWAGE

MARK LAWRENCE EARLEY, JR

JACQUELINE LAMB

E RIKRO LLWAGE

ALISHA SCOTT

ANDREW ZIMMER

MANISHA SHARMA


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Fine Art & Photography

Her Dried Summer Noons

Savegely Beautiful

Eiel Tower

e Most Beautiful ings in theWorld

Limit

Airport R&R

Chill

Holding it all Together

Peeking Out

Jewish Museum, in Berlin

An Altered View

Wait

Snorkel Splash

Post Shinning Path

Quenching the Summer

Pipes

7

9

10

13

15

21

22

24

27

29

34

35

37

38

40

42

ABHIJIT PATTEWAR

COURTNEY MYERS

ERIK JAMES STANGE

MORIAH OBRIEN

COURTNEY MYERS

JEFF SMITH

AIMEE DRYSDALE

LINA GARADA

HOLLY ANN NICHOLSON

ERIK JAMES STANGE

HOLLY ANN NICHOLSON

TIMOTHY MULLINS

TRAVIS CHURCH

GLENN SORRENTINO

HOLLY ANN NICHOLSON

CLAIRE HOLMAN


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and she scrubs the blackbaseof a stainless steel potthat stayed too longover the hot, constantbeating of the blue-orange ame.

e black milk,once white

and bubbling in the cauldronof the bright, shiny steelis now condensed and concentrated.

She pulls a ball of coconut ber,all brown as earth itself.In each strand, wiry-thin and identical,she catches a hint of ash from burned logsand like a drop of waterthat falls on the same spot of stoneover and over againto form a smooth depression,

she preservers, rubsthe black baseof the steel potand cleanses her soul.

YogaYogah karamasu kaushalam 1

Bhagwad Gita

1Yoga is skill in action. Eciency in workdictated by being one with the task is skill in

action.

MANISHA SHARMA

shepreser

vers,rubsth

eblack

base

ofthesteel

potand

clean

seshersoul


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HerDriedSummerNoons,

AbhijitPattewar,Pencil


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Feeling like a forlorn traveler, missing her compass

and drenched by the rains, I nd myself compelled to

pull out that rustic, old lantern. e black wrought iron

handle must have, in its early years, been clutched by the

worn hand of a tired mother, creeping in the darkness

to bed late at night. Covered in small, round beads of

glass, the bell-shaped glass hurricane surely magnies

and extends even the faintest ame. Now, it sits in my

apartment closet, collecting dust and awaiting the next

dark day that this lantern can brighten.

My mother gave it to me the day we closed River

Creek Gifts, our six-month-old whimsical country

gift store. Depressed and out of sorts, she loaded it

with a sigh into my arms, into the last box of unsold

merchandise: a hand-painted teapot clock, frosted

pinecone and cranberry garlands, a scallop-edged rooster

tapestry. After promising to get rid of it all, I found

myself in a Salvation Army parking lot with that tattered

cardboard box in my lap. I grabbed the cool, iron handle

and gently lifted it out. e smell overwhelmed me

immediately: cinnamon bun, apple butter, and banana

nut bread. Candles had been placed inside to show the

scrutinizing shopper its function (and to hopefully entice

them to purchase a handful of overpriced candles).

I couldnt help but take it home, hoping it would t in

somewhere. It really just ts in my closet. It ts in a dark

corner bombarded by pumps and purses. Days like today,

it ts perfectly in hands that miss my mother.

The Light-KeeperKAYLIE BRANNAN


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Savagely Beautiful, Courtney Myers, Photography


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Eif

elT

owe r

,E

rik

Jam

esSt

ang e

,P

hoto g

rap h

y


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Name tags claimed my stued penguinwas just a stued penguin

a cotton construct onlyHer black button eyes, drops

of ink holding nothingCardboard beak bent into a perpetua

grin. And tiny felt feet, worthless legs keeping her in one spotBut she shivers when I shake

and how is that dierent from people?Do I see people

as empty beingsOr is it that even the smallest comforts

reect humanity? Besides

shes alive because theysay she isntDenials a tradition, dating back

to jealous priests preachingthe earths sexy curves into straight

lines. Really preaching

that Gods as clueless as the rest of usHe, too, breathed life into dirt

I saw Him the other day, in the face

of a waitress whose rageheld the seeds of an ascendancy beyond

coee and eggs benedict. She hurleddishes against white plaster walls

Shed had enough, but I had to grinat the irony of having seen God and ying saucers

in the same sentence

I joined in the chaos and I shouted, Hitthe windows! Hit the

windows! Break them!Because who wants to live in a world

with shuttered windowswhere every door always opens

to the same roomand where stued penguins

never came alive

From the Depths ofthe Asylum

E RIKR O LLWAGE


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ats how it happens, I supposelike the storybooks say,whether I want it to or notyou, visiting a Synagogue in New York onsummer vacation, write mea lengthy postcard descriptionof thatoverly-spiritual open-minded child-orienteddark curly-haired single business woman with aNew York accent and a breeding rich family,sitting in the back row thinking, My God, hes it!

and how you looked up and stopped prayingfor your dream because it arrived oneblue Friday like a Tianys box, deliveredin white ribbon laced around her waist,trimmed just for your hands to come undonewhile Ill get the stamped, ocial part of you,tattered sentimental,engravedNew York is beautiful and perfect,shriveling in my hands becausewell both know you really meant to sayNew York is New.

How It HappensHEATHEROLDHAM


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Moriah OBrien, e Most Beautiful ings In e Entire World, Digital Art


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stop.what isthe rst thing I remember. the

rst thing that matters.was it:riding the ponies in the park, was it:hiding under the raft in the pool and kicking my legs to avoid sea monsters,was it: the red tricycle hatsqueaked when I turned left, was it:burying dead roly-polies in the dirt,was it: picking my rst dog and how all the puppiesclimbed over me in a hurried frenzy that made me giggle and my parentssmile. smile. my parents.

I cant remember us everbeing together.but then I think I know that we were.when my fathers beard was brown and when my mothersmiled in photographs and.when I would tiptoe to their bedroom at night and.stop.what does it lead to.it leads to this-the road ends quiet literally and all Im left with is the sound of my breakslike they are a part of meand then the quiet right before,

and its greyand there is an incredible heat and my arms go up and my head goes back.

and John Lennon stops singing.and I think of my parents and I think of whatI would say to them.I need you.the car stops crumpling and my head is buzzing and my heart isracing in my throat, each beat crawling through my veins,and my right arm goes numb andI push the door open andstep out and feel the nausea of life and the sicknesswashes over me and I am happy. becausethe rst thing I remember is jumping in rain puddlesas my father watches and my mother wipes mud o my cheek.

Marc

h

9,

2008,

11:05

a

.m.,route

81

CAITL

IN

PLUNKETT


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Limit, Courtney Myers, Photography


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Second Grade

HOLLY KAYS

in aChrysalis

I am walking through the scratchy, tall meadow grasswith my big sister, Audrey. We are looking for Monarchcaterpillars. e air is hot outside, like summer. Some leavesare turning dry and brown, though, like theyre getting readyfor the fall. Every year at this time, Audrey nds a bunch ofthe squirmy, striped caterpillars and takes care of them untilthey become Monarch butteries. I tried to do it last year, butmy caterpillar died. Audrey promised me that this year shewould make sure my Monarch hatched. I cant wait to havemy very own buttery, just like Audrey.

School is the other thing I cant wait for. is year I will bein second grade. at means that I will ocially stop being alittle kid, because Ill go to class up on the second oor withthe big kids. I cant wait to climb those steps in my new, bluesneakers, and to see my friends, especially Jenny. is summershe went to stay with her Grandma in Alabama, and I haventseen her since June. It has been two whole months since wemade silly faces in the mirror or played a game of tag.

Mom told me that some things might be dierent thisyear because of what happened this summer in the pool. Stu

like it had happened before, like the time I was rolling downa hill and suddenly realized that I couldnt see or move. Itscared me, but I never said anything. I thought that maybe ithappened to everybody. is time was dierent. I was doggypaddling in the deep end of Bridgeeld Pool when, suddenly,my body just stopped. I could still feel the water swirlingmy hair and then lling my nose, creeping down my lungs.I could hear the other kids yelling and splashing. I saw the

bottoms of their feet, high above me. eir voices soundedlike bubbly sh language. But I couldnt move. I just sankand sank. My legs bumped the bottom, and the world turnedblack.

I woke up in the hospital. A nurse came in and told methat I had slept for a long time. She said that she had to dosome tests on me. ey were dierent kinds of tests than whatwe did at school. Instead of giving a grade, they said that Ihad a bump in my brain. Mom told me it was called a tumor.

She said it wouldnt go away, but I had to take medicine everyday now. She said that if I always took the medicine, then thething that happened at the pool wouldnt happen again. Momtold me the word for it, but it was really weird-sounding,and I cant remember. I think it was sasure, or seejur, orsomething. en she told me that the bump was the reasonthat so many things, like writing, talking, and self-control,were so hard for me.

*********************************************************

I walk to the bus stop on the rst day of school knowing

that this year will be dierent. I will have to go to the nurseevery day to get medicine, and Mom says that I will have aspecial teacher to help me talk better. I dont worry, though.After all, I am wearing my new, blue shoes. I will go tothe second oor today, and I have my very own Monarchcaterpillar at home.

At school, I nd out that Im in Mrs. Burketts class. Sheis wearing a long denim skirt and a T-shirt with little kids


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faces sewn on the front. I give her a hug and say, Hi Mrs.Burkett! Mrs. Burkett doesnt smile like the kids on her shirt.Instead, she says, Go nd your seat, Gracie.

I go look for the desk with my name written on the redapple sticker. It is right next to one that says Jenny. Mybest friend! I see her coming to her seat from the coat closet.Before we sit down, I wrap my arms around her real tight andshout, Hi Jenny! I get my rst Shush from Mrs. Burkett.en she starts telling the class about rules and how the classleader is picked. I want to be leader, and so I make up my

mind that Mrs. Burkett will like me best.Our rst assignment is to write ve sentences about our

summer. I try my very best, even though, for me, writing isthe worst part of school. I think about my familys campingtrip to Maine. at was fun. I start to write, is summer Iwent camping in Maine. It takes so long. I lean over to seehow far Jennys gotten. ere are already three sentences onher paper in pretty, round, big kid letters.

Suddenly, Ashley raises her hand and says, Mrs. Burkett,Gracie is cheating o Jenny.

I wasnt I start to say, but Mrs. Burkett interrupts me.

Get back to work, Gracie, and keep your eyes on yourown paper.

Everybody else lines up for lunch, but Mrs. Burkett saysI have to nish my sentences. By the time I write the wordsand get my medicine from the nurse, everybody else is eatingat the new cafeteria tables. I see Jenny, sitting with Ashley,Marissa, and Lauren. ere is an empty chair beside her, andI start to put my tray down. en Ashley says, No babies atthis table. is is Amys seat.

At rst I dont think shes talking to me. Ashley came tomy birthday party last year. She gave me a purple Polly PocketLocket. I thought we were friends, but she is looking at me.

I-Im not a baby, I say. I look at Jenny, but she is staringdown at her plate of gluey macaroni.

Yes, you are, says Ashley. Big kids can write, and theydont hug teachers either. Marissa giggles when she says that.

Jenny doesnt say anything.

My throat burns as I turn and sit at an empty table, myback to my best friend. I dont understand why she wont helpme. I cant gure out why Ashley doesnt like me. I just wantto go home.

********************************************************

I walk in the door and head straight to my bedroom. Iwant to see my caterpillar. Before I get there, Audrey grabs mefrom behind and pretends to be angry, yelling, What are you

doing here? Its a game we play. She tickles my neck, and weboth laugh. I forget for a minute that Im sad.

en, I run to the pink, plastic cage that holds mymonarch. Its yellow and black stripes stand out like fabricpaint on a white T-shirt. I take it out of its cage to feel itssuction-cup legs crawl on my skin. To it, my knuckles aremountains, and the oor is deeper than the bottom of theGrand Canyon. ats kind of how I feel, too. Like Im sosmall, and everything around me is so big. It is so easy to falland get hurt. I make sure my caterpillar doesnt, though. I amcareful to always keep my other hand under the one it crawls

on, just like Audrey taught me. I dont tell her about whathappened at school. My eyes get wet whenever I think aboutit, and Im sort of afraid that maybe shell agree with Ashley.Maybe I am a baby.

*********************************************************

I wake up dreading school. I am afraid to sit next toJenny all day. In my mind, I take back the hug I gave heryesterday, and replace it with something else, like maybe astinky, muddy sock on her seat. I tell Mrs. Burkett that Icant see well enough from the back of the room where Jenny

and I sit. I feel bad about lying. Silently, I tell God I wontdo it anymore. But I cant sit with Jenny, I tell Him silently,hoping that Hell understand. I move closer to the front, nextto a new girl with red hair named Trish. Trishs dad is in themilitary, and shes lived in a lot of places. She even lived inGermany for two years! I ask her if she knows any German,and she teaches me to say Guten tag. It means good day.

Trish and I eat together at lunch, too. I tell her all about


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Just then, a red Jeep pulls up into the driveway. I seesomeone with red braids get out. She is carrying a pinkpackage with a bow. Its Trish. I wipe my face on my pillowand then race downstairs to pull the door open.

Trish! I yell, giving her a big hug. Why, um, arent you

at h- Ashleys?

Its more fun to come here. Were best friends, and youwerent going to be at Ashleys, she says. And, she didntinvite you, and thats mean. But I got her a present already, sohow about we pretend its our birthday? Can I go see Cli?

At her last sentence, the smile that has been growing onmy face drops a little. Cli died, I say.

Trish opens her eyes wide. I dont believe it! Let me see.

We climb the staircase to my room. See? I say, waving

my hand towards his cage. He turned all-

Hes not dead! Trish interrupts me. Look! Hes abuttery!

Shes right. All thats left of the black chrysalis is a clear,thin shell. Clis orange-red wings are wrinkled and wet, buteven now I can see them getting straighter. I call Audrey andtell her all about how Cli came back from the dead.

He wasnt dead, she explains. Monarch chrysalisesalways get black like that a day or so before they hatch. Its

not as pretty as the green, but it means a buttery is comingsoon.

I tell Cli that he chose the perfect time to hatchrightwhen Trish came to see him. en I want to see him y, butAudrey says that it will be a whole day before Clis wings dryout enough. Trish calls her mom to ask if she can spend thenight. She wants to watch Cli y away too.

Next, we open Ashleys present. I kind of feel like Im

getting back at her, taking her birthday present for myself. Itfeels good. Beneath the pink, owered paper is a game calledPretty Pretty Princess. Inside the box is a game board and allkinds of plastic jewelry. We play, and I win! e winner getsto wear the only tiara in the box, and when I put it on, Trishsteals it from me. I try to steal it back. Soon we arent playing

Pretty Pretty Princess anymore. Instead, were playing tag withjewelry on. We dont sleep much that night.

Still, we wake up early and rush upstairs to check on Cli.Last night, he hung quietly on his empty chrysalis, but nowhe utters impatiently around his cage like a trapped bird. Igo shake Audrey so she can come watch Cli go. Shes a littlegrumpy that I woke her up at 8:00 am on a Saturday, but shecomes.

I open the cage, but Cli cant nd the door, so I reach mynger in and let him grab on. His thin, black leg tickles my

nger. I pull him out of the cage, and he rests on my pointernger for a little bit before spreading his wings and sailinginto the air. Trish and Audrey and I watch him go.

I feel so happy. I think how much I like Trish. I have morefun with her than with anyone else, even maybe more thanI had with Jenny. I knew things would be dierent this year,but maybe dierent doesnt have to be a bad thing. Cli iesover the tallest pine tree and disappears. I watch him withTrish and Audrey, and then we go inside. Trish lists all thefun things we should do before her mom comes. I dont thinkwell get to do it all this morning, but I know that there will

be lots of other days.


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I said, Whaaat?!Ya dont dance in the kitchen?!Ya dont dance in the kitchen?!Good lookin, stop your cookin.

Toe tap on the tile.Clappity clap with the hands.Badabing badaboom.Ping pang on a pan.

Stool pigeon! Youre missin out.Cause the kitchens where I got my soul!Shake a leg, shift a shoulder.e oven aint the only thing thats hot.

Bend low, turn it up.Raise hands and whirl about.

Overhead spotlight sets the stage.And my apron? Hell, my apron? It glitters!

e audience, dog & dad, stare.Cha! Cha! Cha!Cause Im so talented.And Ill fry that up in a pan.

I said, Didnt your mother ever teach you to dance in the kitchen?!You know, some things are just more important than othersAnd my mother, well, she taught me to dance in the kitchen!Cause a watch-pot, baby, it never boils.

MOLLY TUCKER

Soul Food


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I mailed you my lawn mower this morning,in one of my prettiest envelopes,

for you to cut your roses with when it rains.

Do children still grow against the fence,and twist and climb their wayto the roof of the house?

Are small dreams still bloomingby the oak tree in the backyard,underneath that little dead swingthe breeze kicks?

I know Sunshine died last yearwhen clouds became cancerous.row the circuit breaker.A fork is being put to deathin the bathtub.

Home?

LISA

MINNER

AirportR&R,JefSmith,Photography


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Frozen Lake, Aimee Drysdale, Photography


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I live inside a music box, spinning to the high notes, resting on the lowWatch my feet dance adorned with satin and laceGracefulness wrapped in a pretty pink illusione invisible audience lauds the performanceMy arms are growing weary holding this perfect poseBound to someone elses wooden box painted white

I live inside a light bulb, romanced by the evanescence, frightened by the spee

Watch my skin glow to the manufactured promise of natural lightBrightness trapped inside a fragile glass shellAn intentional switch and the world fades to darkMy eyes aware of the persona mimicking the sunBlinded by the energy of someone elses masquerade

I live inside a volcano, comforted by the heat, cautious of the explosionWatch my body reect the crimson embers of magma

Energy suocated beneath the surface of the earthe imminent release threatening destruction or changeMy body trembling beneath the promise of decompressionBroken by the mutiny of someone elses revolution

ILiv

eInside KRISTINE KING


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Holding It All Together, Lina Garada, Photography


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Sitting at a red light, the paint on the car beside me catches me o guard,the windows grati-ed with words that will not be washed away.e date, in what was once maroon, has faded to a cracklingdried-blood red in a gruesome reminder of where weve been.

ere is a name, painted on the back window, and I feel a connectionto someone I dont know, someone I wontknow, and to the girlwho smiles as she drives right by. She looks happy and I wonderwho she is, who he was to her, how she gets from day to day.I wonder if he sat in that car, if he held the steering wheel that she nowruns her hands over in a familiar motion, if he changed the radio stationand held her hand, both of them laughing in that same small space.In my minds eye, I watch her carefully write the letters and date sheknows so well, tears falling as she does, staking a claim andpromising to never forget, the way we all have done.

Re

member

LINDSAYCO

OPER


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A cow named Caramel waitedon a melting hill, shiningsnow festooned with redCamellias like a festivalwhose clipped grass odors oatedlike childhood memories. Mooing

and squishing mud, Caramel stoodapart, her two brown spots shapedlike Texas and Africa, waitingfor the farmer whose cobbledwooden cart rolled overthe sticky dirt and whose hands

so often stroked Caramels fur, not

even aware that Caramel waitedfor his touch.

Cow on a HillGE RIKR O LLWAGE

rough dark fen and dense fog, by frigid night and freezing rain,I wander on fatigues and weak, dragged down by bitter pain.My eyes are lashed by stinging winds but if my eyes were not,Still I would cry, and still would I let fall where all else rots,A trail of life- small beads to burn bright and light the dark.

UntitledGROVERMEWBORN


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Peeking Out, Holly Ann Nicholson, Photography


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Charlottesville StairwellsMARK LAWRENCE EARLEY, JR.

the stairs pushed up hard against my backside

the walls a pale, smoked yellowwith small bumps masquerading

the device heated my hair, earand burned into my headand left my hand clammy

as she cried my eyelids pinched together as two magnetsmy breath was hot and moist enveloping my thumb and forengerthe scratch and quiver of my voice annoyed and goaded me

an arm was down my throatthe st pumpingexpanding and contracting

the cold replaced the warmth, but I was still hotthe brick replaced the walls, but it was still hardmy brother replaced the phone, but I still couldnt speak

he crackled and recoiledI motioned, unhelpfully, non-descripthe opened, I opened, bit what was said

explain to him somethingexplain to me somethingthe silence, the only accurate thing.


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JewishMuseumInBerlin,ErikJamesStange,Photography


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A simple phrase, I like your shoes, he says. I am sittingcross-legged on a bench outside the middle school where I sitand read everyday, but Ive never seen him before. He likesmy shoes though, and I must say he has good judgment.Now, had he chosen something dumb (like my marshmallowcoat or peacock earrings), I probably wouldnt bother toexplore conversation. But to notice and appreciate my navyblue Chuck Taylorsnow that intrigues me enough to grantan eye-lift o the page of Anna Karenina.

ank you, I say. is boy seems to be a fan of plaid. Atleast, hes wearing a red plaid shirt and also holding two orthree similar ones. I like your plaid, I say. is statement issomewhat true. I do like plaid, though Im not sure what Ithink about an abundance of it.

ank you, he says, and continues on with standing. Icontinue on with sitting, and after a moment passes withoutany occurrence worth attending to, my focus is back withTolstoy. A few sentences later, I look up to see that my plaidvisitor has left, extra shirts clutched to his chest.

I uncross my legs, then re-cross them. One thing I reallyappreciate about this bench is the smoothness of the wood;Ive never once been inconvenienced with a splinter. Its sucha kind bench, of a brown nearly the same shade as my hair(which makes me think we are of the same family). No matterhow tired I am after the school day, I come here, and theatmosphere always feels like morning newness. SometimesI swear I can even taste the happy nausea of daybreak in mythroat, with that impression of sticky sleepiness still tuggingacross my eyelids. Ill open a book and awake in a new world,

forgetting the dreary drip of school.

e bench sits to the side of the school, framed by a fewlumps of forgotten shrubbery. Its a pretty contrast against thebrick of the school wall, kind of like a disheveled Christmasdisplay that no one has cared to look at for a very long time.eres a path that moseys its way in front, and, sometimes,Ill see people walking by. Usually its not highly-frequented,though (or maybe Im too busy frequenting ctional

landscapes to notice).He shows up the next day, too. No plaid today, I say,

observing his charcoal-colored shirt, and he shakes his head,shifting from one foot to the other.

Whats your name? he asks, and I tell him. Margaret,he says. en again. Margaret, as if my name is a great newtheory to be contemplated. May I walk you home whenyoure done reading?

A pause to slow my spinning thoughts. What if Im notgoing home? I ask. Im not rude about it, but I do think it is

a legitimate point. After all, I could be sitting here waiting fora ride. I could have big plans to skip through the soccer eldlater.

I guess I didnt think that through, he says. Maybeyou dont have a home. Some people dont. Fascinating.Although I certainly do have a home, it is a valid possibility. Ismile a little just because Im so amused with the idea of beinghomeless. e boy attempts a few smooth head-nods as heleaves my reading zone, nodding away like a broken robot.

As Long AsYou Dont Like

ArgyleJACQUELINE LAMB


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e next day my eyes are scanning sentences, but my mindis attuning to every foot-shue and grass blade-shift in thevicinity. Sure enough, he bumbles by on the path after a fewminutes, charcoal-topped like the day before. His eyes are seton some xture straight ahead, but I can tell by his stride thathe is very much aware of my presence here on the readingbench. I do have a home! I say, and he stops his bumblingto absorb my sentence.

Hello Margaret, he says, feet changing direction.Hello... you.

Ervin, he says.

Really?

Yes. My plaid-loving friend has quite the name.

More standing on his end, more sitting on mine. Its notthe kind of silence that makes you want to start dgeting andadjusting your clothes. More the type that makes you curiousabout whats to happen next. We both inhale at the sametime, ready to oer a phrase to the encroaching quietness.en, there is the simultaneous laugh-chuckle that follows.en, another sharp inhale and coinciding syllable utterance.What an obeat verbal rhythm.

en, nally. Im glad to hear you have a home, saysErvin. I wouldnt know what to say to you if you didnt.

Yes. Maybe a full-sentence response would have beenmore encouraging to this exchange.

Well, let me walk you home today, he says.

How about tomorrow, I say, though Im not sure why.

Okay. He bumbles back to the path, and I notice ascrap of plaid material peeking through the opening in hisknapsack.

e next day he is wearing that same charcoal-colored shirtagain. Are you ready to walk? he asks. My Chuck Taylor feet

are ready. So we bumble on together. My house isnt too far;a few blocks past aspiring forests, a leap over criss-crossingrailroad tracks. Soon we are going down sidewalks sparklingof suburban glory.

Do you read on that bench everyday? he asks.

Yes, but only every day that is a weekday, I say.

Maybe Ill sit and read with you sometime.

is idea pokes at my armor somewhat. Maybe you will,I say, because sure, there is a chance that he will (in the vast

blurry spectrum of potential future events). My head feelslike a bowling ball. After all, Ervin seems to have a thing forplaidand who knows what else? Maybe argyle, too. ereis certainly no room on my reading bench for anyone with apenchant for argyle.

e next day is not a weekday, and neither is thefollowing one. On Sundays, I wake up sometimes with asurge of immediacy, usually corresponding with a jump outof bed that propels me towards my closet. Ill nd a dress


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out of the led like row of clothes and comb my hair beforehiding it away in a braid. By this point, my mother is awake,

having surfaced from the sinking water bed where she sleepsalone each night. Ill wait until she has anchored herself inthe kitchen before emerging to brush my teeth in the hallbathroom. When shes buried in a clatter of pot-banging andcabinet-scouring, it is usually safe to duck outside, and so,unconstrained by motherly inquiries, Ill nd my way to thatpath.

Days like this one make me think I could be religious.e expansiveness of the world around me dispels anysemblance of claustrophobic space (where burdens generallylike to thrive). As I walk downhill, I approach the humble

Catholic church. ere are round stones leading up to thedoor and in my head, I skip from each one to the next likestepping stones in a pond.

rough the door into the much-darker sanctuary, Ialways choose a seat in the very back row. One time therewere no seats, and I didnt know what to do; so, I just pivotedaround and walked the path back home. I wasnt angry oranything; I have no dened place there. I just like to show upnow and then because of osmosis, because I really just wantsome spirituality to diuse in and ll me up.

Today there is a space for me, so I climb over a few setsof knees and a cherry purse to ll the vancant seat. FatherGunter is a jovial man, with pleasant gural outlines andnothing angular about his face. Maybe he worked as ashopping mall Santa Claus before his righteous days; if so, hehas since trimmed the beard, but other than that, he is still allthat is merry and jolly.

e sanctuary lays itself out in the form of an expandedsquare, with an absence of ninety-degree angles. e wallsballoon from the corners, pushing to break free, and the result

is a feeling of openness that can really be quite terrifyingsometimes, especially when the service makes you feel

particularly guilty. (Another reason why I like to sit in theback.)

By now, Mass is getting through its planned sequenceof events. Father Gunter rises to deliver the homily, and Iam hoping very much that it will be something good (notconscience-abusing) today. God is our Father, he begins andcontinues on to develop this four-word concept. God is theperfect father, he knows us better than any other father could,he has fought the evil forces of sin to adopt us.He will never leave us as our earthly fathers might.Now it is time for all designated Catholics to rise and

partake of the holy supper. is means I sit here un-shielded,humming to myself while the others rustle by for crumblingbread and inexpensive wine at the front. To expedite thisbusiness, I usually turn to the pre-planned daydreams Ivethought up beforehand. But today, there is no need for mind-lling.

e service ends, and I stand up, stranded for a fewminutes as those around me turn about and sort throughtheir jackets and things. We all shue through the great, oakdoor and sunlight slaps our faces. God is our Father. He willnever leave us. e phrases boil about my thoughts in my

overactive teakettle of a head. Such abstract concepts; but theyare beautiful ones, touching a smiling place often shrouded inmy soul.

e day after Sunday, and it is raining. An unfortunateoccurrence of nature that loves to wedge itself in and disruptmy prose adventures. So Tuesday now, and Ervin appears witha book in hand. No more charcoal, the plaid is back.

e plaid is back, I say, and his face becomes astrawberry. He looks down at the intersecting lines as if he


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forgot he had chosen them that morning.

Yes... I didnt mean... well What a strange boy. Mybook is closed now, and Im staring at him. Plaid... yes... hesays, but I am noticing his clementine colored hair, his eyesthat remind me of my rusted metal bike in the corner of ourgarage.

Usually I am not the type to care much when othersare drowning in squirming speech. But Ervin is starting tobecome like the familiar railroad tracks I know, so I save himfrom his stuttering. Even though it is clear he wants to invademy reading bench, I say, I see you brought a book.

But then, Yes, its for you. He displays the treasure. I

noticed youre almost nished with that one. He hands thegift to me, a novel by Kundera, and invisible pressures beginto pinch at my vocal cords. Although words of thanks llmy head, I know there is no sound in the cave of my throatto become even a feeble utterance. I nod my head like anapproving drill sergeant. Ervin kicks at nothing and a strobe-light smile ashes on the corners of his mouth.

Whats with the plaid? I ask. ese words fall out withease, with no obstructions in the passageway from thought tolips to sound. But then he leaves, bumbling back to the path.His tall gure shrinks and shrinks until he disappears behind

a tree in the aspiring forest. I get the strange feeling that myreading bench has expanded, and I wish very much that therewere just a simple park chair in its place.

I see him going by the next day, and I know its my cue fora statement. He has gone back to his charcoal top (but shirtsseem better left unmentioned). Hello! I say.

Absorbing this word, his feet change direction. Im wearyalready of inventing speech, but here is a second cue forsomething. So my apology for being plaid-nosy translates intoa shift on the bench, and I allow him to sit next to me.

Ervin, now-beside-me, unfolds a ragged photograph fromhis pocket and oers it to my gaze. A man and a young boy,

standing together in front of a ladder. Gleaming helmets,tools, and spacious smiles. Both of them wearing plaid. iswas my father, says Ervin. How miniscule the bench is,seeming insucient to hold the discomture. My plaid... hesays. I know its strange... my mom says I need to stop, and Itry...

You miss him.

Yes.

In times of loneliness, Ive often wished the bench couldbe a friend. Now I wish the same for Ervin, that my dear

bench could swallow him up and hold him in sturdy woodenarms. I dont have a gift for healing hearts. I dont know howto bandage soul-deep abrasions.

God is a father who will never leave, I say. Stolen wordsthat have nestled in my beingand maybe they belong here?

He goes on with his sitting, and I go on with my sitting,too. Its the kind of silence that you plead with in your headto go away and return another time.

anks, says Ervin, and his rusty eyes say, I know about

you.A harsh breeze surprises the moment, the aspiring forest

swaying and aching with our revelations. Ervin slides over onthe bench to set a steady arm around my shoulders then yelpsspringing up a little. He bends and nds the cause of thesudden pain: a splinter burrowed in the skin behind his knee.

We go back to sitting, his arm around me, my head not(yet) on his shoulder. In the distance, just before the sparklingsidewalks, a train rumbles about on the criss-crossing railroadtracks.


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An Altered View, Holly Anne Nicholson, Photography


35/48Wait, Timothy Mullins, Digital Art


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I remember her by out saddest moments

Like, when I realized we would never kiss againand she said, yeah.

Or when I thought her hair was beautiful and she did not listen.She cut it short and I thought that was beautiful too.

Often we met by the pond,pretending chance brought us separately.Among lily pads and soft willow trees,we sometimes talked.other times we just held hands.

Once we stretched ourselves along the asphaltand drew pictures in the sky. I could not seethe buttery I pointed out.

Most of all I remember that Valentines day:the rose I painted for herthe bucket of words she gave to meMagnetic, attracted to me, and me to themfor the rst time and ever after.Now it sits on my ckle desk like a poem.Like all my poems, Hersbut she doesnt know.

I hope she never doesthese days I panic under the stars massive weightsand hide in empty sheets of my bed.eyre cold but they were not always so.Nor will they always be.

IRe m

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adde

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E RIK R O LLWAGE


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Snorkel Splash, Travis Church, Photography


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Post Shining Path, Glenn Sorrentino, Photography


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Marys sitting by the bay tonight,smoking cigarettes.

Marys sitting by the bay tonight,Mary, dont you need a light?

I can see her watching the cars go byon that bridge that looks so far away,and I know how she longs to be a night passengerinstead of a driver through the blinding day.

And I can tell that she wears all of her scarslike electric lightning in the twilight.How I wish I knew what she could blame,but its these same phantoms that I ght.

Marys sitting by the bay tonight,smoking cigarettes.

Marys sitting by the bay tonight,Mary, dont you need a light?

e air is growing crisper every passing hourand the cold shore is closing in on her bare feet.Its New Years Day now but the only way she knowsis by the echoes drifting in from the street.Maybe its time she should go back inside to wherethe oceans glitter cant provoke hidden memories.I know how she likes to dwell on these things,but I can see a piece of her oating out to sea.

Marys sitting by the bay tonight,letting go of her regrets.

Marys sitting by the bay tonight,Mary, dont give up the ght.

MaryALISHA SCOTT


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Quenching the Summer, Holly Ann Nicholson, Photography


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He screams in terror whenDark forces pry him from his mothers panicked grasp.His face is blushed red, an apple carved sad, trapped.Forms of dank prisons, wood, boats.He lies still.

On dark nights he dreams ofJungles and plains, he dreams of his mother, gone now.He sings work songs with the others, but at nightHe dreams of his freedom.Left behind.

ey came in white, clouded.Later, much later, sails turn to sheets, chains to crosses.Whips and work without pay to terror, unequal rights.

Soon its an insult toRide the bus.

Men come to speak, stand talley have marches, they have sits, but most of all, dreams.Now we have freedom, Roots hold strong but dont divide.Once we traveled underground, o to Canada,Now we live in some peace.Black and white.

African ChildANDREW ZIMMER


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Pipes, Claire Holman, Photography


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Determination marks herforehead the blood red bindi andcrimson sindoor owing as a perennialcreek bisecting her henna-dyedorange-brown and black hair.A carefully draped turmeric yellow

sari ballons round her legsand she pullsPulls back

the thought of her banana tree trunklegs into oblivion. With her heartpulsating like a edgling bird scared of its life,she shields the bone china cupcupped in her palms.

Tender as a ower stalkthe handle on the cup seems feminine.O-white, edged in gold, weightless.

It is heavy in her hand.e artist in his moment of divinity,ego-less, drew a few strokesand there appears a mantra: honey pink lilies,bend as she bends,over tender grass-green leaves.

A partner in her antiquity,the bone china tea set arrivedtwo decades ago with her.She, a virgin bride, the setcelibate. Complete. Carefully layeredbeneath crumpled accounts of the globe,it was guarded beyond a single crack.Made in Sri Lanka transported to Indiaand with her to USA, it was only specialpeople who toyed with its celibacy.

Cool to touch, its translucenceand o-whiteness talks to herin its nirvanic stance of intactness.Careful, with soft linen she touchesher ne thin ngers to each

of the set in a bung act.It is the time for a betting guestto taste tea in the size of the closed tulip,the bone china.

e eyelids of this special guest

are like curtains without ripples,with a wheatish skin tone,at 4 feet 8he stands tightand slim.

As he holds the cup,she fears what if he droppedand cracked it beyondrepair.He takes a sip, places the cupatop the transparent glass table top,

clears his throat, You know...I know the cupNo. Yes. is cuphas powdered ox bonesthat make it strong.

Bits of her beamed into the broken brittle.

e cow to me means the entire sub-human world, extending mans sympathies beyond his own species. Man through the cow isenjoined to realize his identity with all that lives...e cow is a poem of pity; one reads pity in the gentle animal.-Mahatma Gandhi

Handlewith Care

MANISHA SHARMA


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StaffHALI PLOURDE-ROGERS

Editor-in-Chief

LANA TANG

Poetry Editor

SUZANNE WATKINS

Prose Editor

JEFF ANDERSON

Fine Art Editor

KALYN SAYLOR

Photography Editor

MATT BRUBAKER

Graphic Designer

JARED CLIFTON

Assistant Graphic Designer

MELISSA BRICE

Production Manager

TIRNA SINGH

Webmaster

KATIE FALLON

Faculty Adviser

Editorial

Staff


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JENNA WOLFE

Business Manager

JENNIFERJOHNSON

Special Events Coordinator

ELIZABETH MCCLENDON

Communication Director

KATI ANN LEONBERGER

Distribution Manager

JESSIE RAUDALES-PERDOMO

Promotions Director

DANIEL DOWNINGAlumni Relations Manager

ELIZABETH COLE

Public Relations

MONICA ALVANO

General Sta

ALEXANDRA FORD

General Sta

Business


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The Silhouette - Fall 2008

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Transcript of The Silhouette - Fall 2008