The Silhouette - Spring 2006

Silhouette

what line are you on?

Silhouette

Literary and Art Magazine

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Katie Mitchell Editor-in-Chief Molly Bernhart Business Manager Jennifer Tomko Photography Editor Laura Cook Fine Arts Editor Hali Plourde-Rogers Fiction Editor Ryan Donnelly Assistant Fiction Editor Lindsey Key Poetry Editor Corinne Jeltes Production/Distribution Editor Kamau Rucker Graphic Designer Misono Yokoyama Assistant Graphic Designer Laura V. Cook Fine Arts Editor Laura Murphy Special Events Coordinator Joselyn Takacs Special Events Coordinator Jessy Hylton Public Relations Sola Ayeni-Bui Communications Director Grant Gardner Advertising Manager Jenna Saxton Promotions Director Andrea Cates Radio Show Co-Host Katie Sue Radio Show Co-Host Mike Arani Advertising Representative 27-

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Silhouette, Volume 28, Issue II, was produced by the Silhouette staff and printed by Inove Graphics, located in Kingsport, TN. The font used throughout the magazine is Adobe Garamond Pro. Silhouette Literary and Art Magazine is a division of EMCVT, Inc., a non-profit organization that fosters student media at Virginia Tech. Please send all correspondence to 433 Squires Student Center, Blacksburg, VA 24061, or email at [email protected]. All Virginia Tech students not part of the Silhouette staff are invited to submit to the magazine. All Rights revert to the artists upon publication. Visit us on the web at [email protected]. To become a subscriber of Silhouette, send a check for $10 for each year subscription (two magazines) to Silhouette’s address listed above, c/o Business Manager. The cost covers the price of shipping. For more information about subscriptions, submitting, or being part of our awesome staff, call our office at 5 40.231.4124, or email at [email protected]. Enjoy!

Lana Tang General Staff Katherine Brumbaugh General Staff Kevin Samigoudan General Staff Celia Lee General Staff Meghan Mogensen General Staff Frank Mariano Webmaster Katie Fallon Faculty Advisor

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Blues for Love / Nikki Giovanni Chicago, 1996 / Mimi McDonald Laleh / Andrew Fuller For Once I Felt the Fear / Jacob Barron Nest / Elizabeth Pacentrilli A Flame’s Soft Dance / Evan Alexander Primordial Reflections / Ted Martello Underneath the Magnifying Glass / Jacob Barron From the Clay / Elizabeth Pacentrilli

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Memories / Gina Xenakis

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untitled / Aamir Karim

24 Sonnet for Your New Life / Mimi McDonald

23 Desolation Row / Ted Martello

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21 untitled / Jesus Mendez - Sarabia

20 Unsettled / Ahnvu Buchanan

Quilts / Nikki Giovanni ** FEATURED FACULTY SUBMITTER!**

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Table of Contents

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Busy Bees / Elizabeth Pacentrilli Evergreen Plazas, New Orleans / Mimi McDonald Casa della Siosa, Firenze / Jen Bretzfield Every Night / Terrance D. Wedin Silence / Jose Miguel Peralta Uria A Walk in the Rain / Dominique Montgomery Roofs / Dominique Montgomery untitled / Jesus Mendez - Sarabia LSD Binoculars / Anhvu Buchanan Speak Slowly / David Grant Braids and Sand / Heather McMillan Clever / Mimi McDonald untitled / Ryan Amaudin Casualties of Arkansas / Ted Martello Think Cycles / Jen Bretzfield

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And cuddle near

And some old person with no one else to talk to Will hear my whispers

When I am frayed and strained and drizzled at the end Please someone cut a square and put me in a quilt That I might keep some child warm

I offer no apology only this plea:

I grow old though pleased with my memories The tasks I can no longer complete Are balanced by the love of the tasks gone past

I wish for those first days When just woven I could keep water From seeping through Repealed stains with the tightness of my weave Dazzle the sunlight with my Reflection

No longer do I cover tables fill with food and laughter My seams are frayed my hems falling my strength no longer able To hold the hot and cold

Like a fading piece of cloth I am a failure

Quilts (for Sally Sellers) / Nikki Giovanni FEATURED FACULTY SUBMISSIONS!

Maybe I’ll go to the Mall And buy myself A love

I mean there’s something wrong With me I need to find A remedy

And counting two Gets stuck on one

It’s like a walk Becomes a run

I try so hard To brush my gums But always end up On my tongue

Blues for Love / Nikki Giovanni

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Buddy Guy leaned against the back wall of his nightclub smoking a cigarette, smiling into the crowd, nodding once in awhile in the direction of the stage where his old friend, Pinetop Perkins played and I’ll be god damned if any man since has even come close to making me feel the way I felt that night, watching his lineless mahogany face lifted in a smoke haze, his smile open to the gifts of a blue night, as if the blues came from pure love, not the skein of despair, as if he was just a happy man and I was just a happy woman, as if this freezing February night was a reprieve from a blazing fire, watching warm and worryless as drunks fascinated with their hands, nothing’s been the same since...you can tell me what all you wish for in a man but I tell you one moment after is so different from one moment before, I won’t believe you and all shining things passing are really so beautifully crooked.

Chicago, 1996 / Mimi McDonald

Laleh / Andrew Fuller

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I a visitor from a distant divided land to a distant divided land felt the rumble in the line that split the bridge into opposing sides

it was not in the vapor trails the flashes of green that burned beneath the golden dome that split Imam Musa Kadhim it was not in the blaze for I had felt the warmth or in the wailing for I had grown comfortable with wailing

I felt it over the Tigris on the Aimma Bridge it spread like a virus among my brothers on the bridge

it had grown hidden and stale as white bread in the sun for two years but now it was near

for once, I felt the fear from a great distance

For Once I Felt the Fear / Jacob Barron

hidden behind a rumor and nurtured by the past and i, a visitor thought casually that once i felt the fear i had begged for the blast but it had come too near and now i am no more all washed up on the shore

it was the fear

and into a pile as long as a river

it rattled up their feet and shook off their shoes sweeping them from their dirty, callused skin

it shook with the force of a century

Nest / Elizabeth Pacentrilli

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midnight

Primordial Relflections / Ted Martello

A flame’s soft dance, more proud than any waltz, Can quell the bitter chill of frosted limbs; Draw weary travelers from old assualts, Amidst midnight, like pitch, where moon shows dim. Made like fine art to burn nature’s intent, With steely, yellow orange declarations; Man’s greatest tool - estrus with no dissent, Lays sulfur quick upon dry foundations. A rarity, impressed in such power So plentiful, it soothes bodies abound. Yet what earthly force may bring to flower, The depths of man, that flesh and form surround. Naught but a fire that two hath lighted, Can thaw a heart that once was benighted.

A Flame’s Soft Dance / Evan Alexander Chapple

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IV The park sat on the outline of the city. It was the last section of vegetation growing freely for another 50 miles. The only foliage beyond the park was squeezed between alabaster and brick eyesores and spewing out of cracks in poorly-constructed sidewalks; each panel looked like marble in a way, due to the thousands of cracks pervading each square. Both the gravel-like consistency of the paths and the numerous dandelions sprouting through each crevice served as reminders of the city’s atrocious misappropriation of transportation funds and as an example of the fact that if you let anything be ugly long enough, it becomes beautiful. I didn’t like the park. She wanted to come here, and so I acted like I wanted to go too. Children were playing just beside the playground. They seemed to be playing with some invisible form of entertainment which was difficult to verify from an outsider’s point of view; some sort of competition or conflict between two groups of boys. I could never watch children play for too long for fear of appearing a pervert or pedophile. I could also never stand to watch children who seemed to come from good families imagining up forms of entertainment. It was almost certain that the parents of these boys playing here had enough money to buy them toy guns and toy cars and whatever other plastic contraption that they had ever wanted. But instead, they played freely using invisible figures and mere collections of air as houses, guns, swords, shields,

III My birth has nothing to do with my story.

was a woman and she was married. I was birthed by Caesarian Section. My head was too large. I will not describe more about my birth.

II I was born in a hospital. The walls were probably white. My mother

I I started writing stories seven words ago.

VIII I was forced to work for a period before finding any activity for this particular evening. I scribbled down lines of information on a story for a newspaper that I worked for (I write for several). My editors like me because I fail to inject any opinion into my sentences and phrases. News writing is like filling in the blanks and I always liked filling in the blanks. Not because it was easy when we used to take fill-in-the-blank tests as children, but mainly because there was only one answer that could fit in that sentence. The person who

VII This will make perfect conversation fodder for the evening.

VI Though it had rained all day, the sun shined through just prior to its defeat by a rather ruthless night sky. The sunset had been memorable with ribbon pink clouds punctuating grey-lavender forms that surrounded the sun. Orange spilled across the entire scene. It was the fourth of July.

V I took Theresa home. I screened my phone calls. I avoided her. I never spoke to her again.

baseball bats, and basketballs. It bothered and confused me to watch them do this. Perhaps I was jealous. I didn’t think too hard about it. Theresa, however, loved the park. She wasn’t an especially smart girl, but she was especially pretty. She came from a strong moral background which I found fascinatingly attractive. Her eyes were the color of the Pacific Ocean, a typically romantic detail that I remembered solely to conquer last night before the park. She walked slowly, clinging to my arm in an infantile fashion. Inside I felt my eyes roll and my chest release an exasperated, irritated sigh. On the outside I had filtered these emotions through a set of balances that kept Theresa unaware of my displeasure. Human beings need balance. I was a balanced person.

Under the Magnifying Glass / Jacob Barron

XII Afterward, I thought of the four and sought the company of a female.

XI I do not intend to try and explain or explore my fascination. I like fireworks.

X While the four lay on the grass, exchanging romantic gestures and comments, I stared into the night sky as the lights and explosions cut through the evening air. I watched as if my future depended solely on the performance of these soulless items flying into the air at comparatively slow speeds, only to violently rush out and fizzle back to earth. The blues and the greens spoke of past sorrows and the reds of bloodshed. I could not explain what I felt. I could explain over and over how the speed with which the incendiary device was fired off determined the height and how fire caused certain elements to explode and how certain elements make different explosions different colors, but I could not explain my fascination.

IX I was mesmerized by the fireworks.

created the question had one word in mind to fill that beckoning void on the page and it was up to me to fill it in with the proper collection of syllables. I met with four people whose names I knew but wouldn’t consider friends. I behaved outwardly nice to them but I made certain that they knew nothing about me and that they never would know anything about me except that I am a male, I write for newspapers, and I enjoy the company of women. It was approximately 9:30pm when we met and it was at this moment that the fireworks started just over the hill across Main Street in town.

XV My twenty-first birthday was uneventful as I’d hoped it would be. In fact, all a birthday meant was an easier approach to the matter of sex. Mechanically speaking, sex was no different on the night of my birth than it was on any other night, but the ease with which I reached it was greatly increased. Instead of the normal lines I’d sneak into a female’s ear, I’d simply mention casually that it was indeed, the day that I was brought screaming into existence covered in neo-natal jelly with an extra tube pouring from my center, my marrow (describing it in such a manner wasn’t smart; I merely called it a birthday; the idea of neo-natal jelly or anything of or pertaining to childbirth is not helpful in the art of seduction). A wink and some pre-tested jokes later, I was riding in a yellow automobile with a small patch on the upholstery of my headrest and a slightly

XIV I am twenty-one years old today. I am officially an adult. This changes nothing.

XIII I need to get off of this soapbox.

I do not mean to say that I sought to express the foolish phrases of love to another; I mean to say that I sought the physical company of a female and the sexual release. That’s all I ever wanted and that’s all anyone ever wants. Those words exchanged in the tender moments between those two pairs of lovers rang false in my ear. Even under a dark sky lit only by ejaculatory booms and bangs, these four lovers cling to their sentiment. It seemed to me, a roundabout way of getting what I pursue directly, full of sidetracks and dead ends. I see no need for espousing an emotional doctrine except in a conniving attempt to gain what I’d like to gain, and as much as other men of my demographic might laud the importance of communication and mutual respect, all any of them want is of a sexual nature. Love is only a means to sex. Love has never been pretty. Love was ugly when it was first uttered. Now it’s beautiful, because it’s untrue. If you let anything be ugly long enough, it becomes beautiful.

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with an insufferable “i,” I tolerated her and she inevitably succumbed to my treatment. She was Catholic but not as Catholic as calling her Catholic makes her seem. She had wants, needs, and weaknesses like all humans, and I used those, along with my date of birth to my advantage. The cab sped off a little quickly. It sputtered up the hill past the establishment where Kelli and I exchanged what I found to be idle chatter, but what Kelli found to be charming palaver. She spoke in the car as I mechanically moved my arm around her right shoulder. Her head lay at a forty-five degree angle against my shoulder and her right arm moved algorithmically in a pattern across my chest and genitals. “You’re a reporter right?” she asked, obviously already aware of the answer. “Yes” I replied without a second thought. “Does it ever bother you? “Does what ever bother me?” “I don’t know.” But she knew. “The world…all the sad things…”she asked with an odd quiver in her voice. “I don’t know that I can answer that” I said. “I don’t know what you mean.” “Don’t the deaths and the lives do anything to you?” People die all the time, I thought to myself. It’s natural and it’s predictable. It’s explainable. No machine works properly forever. Most don’t even work properly for ten years. “I suppose it does” I said, unable to truly deliver an answer on a matter that I knew nothing about. “It bothers me.” Her voice was like a whimper. “I don’t know if I could stand it, being around murders and guns like that.” She let out a hard yawn, and I refrained from making anymore comments for fear of saying something inappropriate or worse, something that would jeopardize the evening. She kissed me on the mouth and replaced her head on my shoulder. She began to nod off. My eyes went out of focus and stayed that way till our arrival at my building.

nauseating odor of onions and cigarettes. Tonight, it was a girl named Kelli. Even though she spelled her name

XIX Clocks ticked. Moments came and went. So did women. I often awoke in the morning with the greasy residue of women’s lip balm on my mouth. I licked it off when I could stand the taste of it (which was surprisingly often). I lived well. I conquered some dozen women after Kelli. I continued to write stories for newspapers. I worked day to day,

XVIII A week later I succumbed to a severe bout of the flu. I nursed a fever that sat around 101 degrees for more than a week. I missed work. I angered my bosses. I felt the sweet bile taste in the back of my throat for days and smelled it with each gasping breath that I took through my mouth and nose. My legs ached for each moment that they were required to support the weight of the rest of my body. I went to the doctor and took antibiotics. I returned to work. I felt fine.

XVII The day after my birthday was like any of a selection of comfortably normal days in my tenement. Kelli had left my room in an obviously appreciative condition: my colognes and sprays were organized by height, my floor devoid of dirty clothing, an uncharacteristic shine from the glass on my television. The only thing that was in the same condition it was in when we went to sleep was me. After burning her note, I felt a brief moment of regret that was washed away with the oils on my skin as I took a shower. I had nowhere to go, but I was not so vulgar as to spend an entire day wallowing in the oils of yesterday and the sweat of sex.

XVI I penetrated her physically. I had no interest in penetrating her in any other way. The other way was none of my concern, though I had seen flashes of it at the fireworks. We spent the night together. She left me a note on my bureau. “Call me later” it read. I burned it with a magnifying glass on my balcony to pass the time in my otherwise unstructured day.

XXIII After I left my building, I crossed two streets and entered the newspaper office. It was a tall building, that wouldn’t have fit in this cityoutskirt landscape had the town been flat. Since it was built into a hill, each building, though actually shorter than any others, actually seemed to be level with every other building.

XXII I must not have slept well. I don’t make sense.

XXV The steps in the office building are steep. I tripped and collapsed down them. I felt blood in my mouth and sting in my bones. I heard cracks like children breaking sticks and pointing them at each other like guns.

XXIV I ascended the stairs to the office and went to my desk. There, atop a pile of notes and various other forms, sat a rectangular piece of pink paper, mocking me from a position that seemed so much higher than where I stood at that moment. My editor stalked behind me. He began to speak and I put my hand up to silence him. The reasoning was quite simple. I had been assigned a task and failed to perform it without giving any reason for my inaction. Years ago (two years ago) I was instructed by my editor to keep running tabs on a particular type of stat about a particular news item. The item had come up continually for the past several years and had only recently stopped being news. The editor wanted to collect the info and put it all together for a feature in the paper. I neglected to do this and failed to turn anything in, which left my editor without any story at all. When I see my stories published, I delete them and burn the notes (much like I burnt Kelli’s note two years ago). As I packed my belongings, I wondered why I did these things. It was then that I hung my head and slumped my way out of the office.

XXI The route to work had never been hazardous. I often got dressed and hopped down the steps of my building to the front door which had recently been painted a deep, forest-colored green. The wear from years of abuse could still be seen through what must’ve been ten or twenty layers of outdoor paint. Still, the new door gave the building a certain significance in a collection of predictably stacked lofts and brick-themed businesses. But the forest door was dark and deep and led me to think things that I never had before; about what eternity lay through the door that I went through each day, each morning, again and again without a thought of what might happen tomorrow or in a year or in ten years or in ten thousand years, in my lifetime or in someone else’s, or about life or god or death or any of these supremely vast entities that seemed to swirl around in the scratches and rot-spots of my tenement’s front door.

XX Two years pass. I am now 23.

Nothing about these two streets was dangerous, but on this particular day, I nearly got hit by cars at both locations. One car was a behemoth-sized pickup truck that slammed its brakes in just enough time to avoid swallowing me beneath its eye-level bumper. The driver shook his wrinkled fist at me as I turned away and continued down the street. I scowled at him, not because he had almost killed me, but because his truck was peppered with magnetic flags and sentimental, idealistic stickers. I did not like this man. The second car was turning from the main road onto the street that I was crossing. It was a large van, painted with a variety of pinks, purples, greens, yellows, and blues. The long-haired driver waved as if to apologize for nearly ending my 23-year tenure on this divided planet. I did not like this man either. I didn’t think much of these unlucky occurrences. I must not have slept well. I should be more careful.

planning meetings no more than a week in advance. My tenement remained as it always had. The sun rushed in through the windows on autumn mornings and I awoke to the smell of women’s perfume on my own hard, often chalky skin. I occasionally awoke in a cold sweat, breathing heavily and wondering why this was happening. I felt lost in my own bed, my own home where I had created such a stronghold; my tenement where I normally felt safest and where I could comfortably pursue the momentary future. I reasoned out these instances in my head and cited stress as the only explanation for my sudden, unpleasant awakenings. This was only an excuse. Still, I felt satisfied.

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XXVIII Days fade into one another. Six years pass. I watch the world as an observer, an idle being trespassing on property I once controlled and manipulated. I sleep for most of the day.

XXVII After a few days, a group of doctors enters my room, each bearing a clipboard and staring at me ominously. I presume I have broken something severely, though I cannot feel what it could possibly be through the cloud of morphine that I’ve been floating on for the past few days. I looked at myself. I notice an oval-shaped red mark on my right arm. I had noticed it before, but now it seemed larger, more pronounced than ever. “We took blood samples after your accident” said the moustachesporting doctor whose head shined like Jesus in those frescoes from the renaissance. “We didn’t find anything wrong that had to do with the injuries you received from your fall.” He took a breath. “We did find something else.” The air was crisp but rank with the cleanliness and efficiency of any well-thought-of hospital. The doctor sat on my bed and pointed to my arm. “Do you know where this red mark came from?” he asked. I shook my head. “These marks can be caused by random skin problems or from other things more serious, such as an immune system disease.” “What are you getting at doctor?” I shot back at him. I was surprised to hear myself speak in such a manner and quickly adjusted my expression to subdue my embarrassment. He looked down. “HIV” he said. “You had HIV. Now you have AIDS.” I stared blankly at his bald head for an extremely long period of time. The air smelled like the smoke that swirled out and stung my eyes as I burnt Kelli’s note with a magnifying glass the morning after meeting her.

green.

XXVI I am in a hospital. The walls are probably white. I wish they were

XXXI I stopped writing stories seven words ago.

XXX Another year passes. I weigh very little. I am incarcerated in this white room, under these white sheets. Former co-workers and former acquaintances send flowers of different varieties and colors. All I see is white. I hear a slow beep. I wonder if I am beautiful, after having been ugly for so long.

Kelli comes by one day. I barely recognize her and am shocked that she remembers where I live. She knocks on my apartment door. I use every ounce of strength in my deteriorating body to keep myself from strangling her. She brings a young boy with her. He is nine or ten years old. He looks like me. I feel a sudden sting in my chest and crumble on the floor. I scream at both of them. “CALL ME LATER.” My voice echoes through the dark halls of my development. The words run like needles in my neck. The two rush down the steps, out of my life and stumbling toward our mutual demise. I vomit on myself. I pass out in my own inner warmth and feel the sun’s heat as it seeps through the windows and becomes more concentrated on my skin.

From The Clay / Elizabeth Pacentrilli

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i was a bit unsettled when you called late last night. i had just put my life back together as if it were a five hundred piece jigsaw puzzle, recently discovered in the corner of my garage. suddenly, everything fell apart again with the soft whisper of your hello. my ears tingled as you told me of your summer excursions. i longed for my voice to be within lip-lengh of yours and with every description of the windy city i thought of how i left you scraps of my heart on a porcelain plate in the center of your mahogany table in between the shelves of your good china and the kitchen you never used. darling, you left it there to spoil in the warm july summer. and i wondered if the wind blew anywhere other than chicago?

unsettled / Anhvu Buchanan

untitled / Jesus Mendez-Sarabia

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Desolation Row / Ted Martello

Rooms randomly decorated, Knick knacks accompanied by pictures Each telling a story Of some far away land they visited. The trinkets rusted, 50 years of kids and grandkids Playing with the mini water fountain And the wooden men from China Each time a meal was had at the dining room table. The water no longer flows, And the men have no arms. They join her for each meal

Margaret Z. Xenakis Sabbas N. Xenakis 5301 Greenbrook Dr Portsmouth, Va 23703. Return address on letters, Heading on the checks She refuses to take off his name

Memories / Gina Xenakis

The everyday reminders The love never lost

Electrical engineering literature Litters the tables, Hides under cushions of couches, Collects dust. It hasn’t been opened in at least 10 years. They will never meet the recycling bin, Or the used books store, Just to glance over them makes her happy

Worn chair in the corner, Splattered with spaghetti stains. Impressions in the seat and Fabric rubbed away at the head Perfectly mold a 220 lb 5’11 Greek man. No one sits there anymore, But she sits in her chair and faces it everyday

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For your once wicked and kind life.

And if you do get the old bed what’s really changed, But the way you sleep now with legs Curled up, as if holding the strange Space each breath has disappeared into, begs

Even the credit cards say so, offer to you your New life joyously, solicitous and horny They phone, your limit’s been upped, only one Of you, you know will get the bed – sure You’re not the one, and the sheet set comes free With your new bed, so all is not lost, all is not gone.

One night you fall asleep with the bills All scattered by your pillow, Tongue to teeth to lips there is no Getting around it, even when your will Rubs down hard, the letters strange still, The invisible ink in the old name throws No magic change in juxtaposition, your O Remains your O, for sure the M’s killed.

Sonnet for Your New Life / Mimi McDonald

untitled / Aamir Karim

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Evergreen Plaza, New Orleans / Mimi McDonald

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I passed the Garden of Memories, made my way down Jefferson to St. Charles, then Canal, then Decatur, through the French Quarter, five times, and back again to the Garden. Midnight, then one, until I found Veterans Memorial. Lost from the moment I began, I stopped, inquired about a room at the Evergreen Plaza. I didn’t notice the strangeness of the place, my eyes murky from hours on the road, the evergreen in plaza comforting. The concrete floor was clean enough. The bed was nailed to the floor, the remote fastened tight to the night table, the bedspread was brown paisley with cigarette burns, perfect holes revealed white sheets beneath. I turned on the TV in bed, preset to the porno channel. In there, an ample brunette and her Nordic knight were alive and well. I was still driving but couldn’t take my eyes off the two of them. If I looked long enough I’d forget the dark highway through the swamp, I’d forget the stones thrusting out of the Garden, the angels appeared to be staring through me, each time I stopped at the railroad tracks before them, looked up and asked, what now? If I looked long enough, I’d forget the weeping moss, I’d forget that it was early morning alone in New Orleans, drapes pulled shut, the blackness out there, the night dripped like everything else. At least, I am not weeping. Discard all the above. Not one word of it matters. Five months have passed. the stone angels say, At least you are weeping.

Today, at every door there is an alligator. They are the new emperors. Today, the swamp has come to stake its claim. And there are refugees – our own – fleeing to dry land. Today, I swim its thick water, its weeping twisted trees, its dripping smell, its bed of dead things making life…

Now, it is the beautiful Indian I think of, with his long, slender fingers and perfectly rounded nails, in his curio shop across from the Market, the only dialogue I understood from our words was his question, are you married? I bought an alligator tooth hung from a leather thread. Now, it is the Café DuMonde, my finger pressed into the powdered sugar to lick it off, shake into my latte, no tip was large enough. The young woman smiled, said, you are too generous, asked if I had a man. We talked. Now, it is the zoo during lunch, fascinated by the pink grace of the flamingoes, and the constant praying of the cranes. There is the purchase of a VooDoo doll with her box of pins, Jackson Square to learn I had nine previous lives as men, and one life as a woman – the only one who lived past forty. And there was music, always music.

He had reached a point where not the problem of a small personal grief but the very will to act was in itself an issue... (Antoine De Saint Exupery, Night Flight)

Casa della Siosa, Firenze / Jen Bretzfield

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Every Night / Terrance D. Wedin

It was Friday and my teacher always said that I should “Thank God” for Friday. I don’t think I would ever want to go to school on a weekend, but she really must not have wanted to. Dad picked me up and said hello to Mr. Euster who was my schools principal, while I got myself buckled in the backseat. Dad said goodbye to Mr. Euster and we started driving home. I could see the treetops blowing to one side in the glare of the windshield, and a cloud that looked like a cumulonimbus. “Dad, Can you roll up the window?” “Sure thing, buddy.” Dad didn’t even know it was going to rain and I was glad I saved him from getting wet. He turned onto the street that Jimmy lives on and I tried to sit up enough in my seat to see if Jimmy beat me home. Dad listened the boring radio station that put me to sleep on long car rides, but turned it down to talk. “So how was school?” “It was okay. Jimmy fell on the playground and had to go to the nurse.” “Well I hope he is okay.” “Dad?” I said, thinking of how to ask him. “What’s gay?” I knew I had said something bad. Dad never turned around in his seat while driving unless I said something bad. “Gay? Did someone say that to you?” “No. Well. Yes.” “Who?” There was a long pause as Dad waited to turn onto the racetrack. I could hear the click-click-click of the blinking light. I tried to start speaking between the clicks but it was too hard. “Well, at recess Kate said you were gay because I don’t have a mom.” Dad concentrated on driving until he was in position on the racetrack. “You have a mom.” “I know…But.” “Do you think I’m gay?” “Well.” I could see Dad smiling in the mirror upfront. He must have seen a funny bumper sticker. “You don’t know what gay means do you, Rivers?” “Well…What does it mean?” “In Kate’s case, it’s when two men are in love with each other.” “You love me. Does that make me gay?” “No, son.” “Then why would she say that about you?” “Because people say nasty things sometimes.” We had been talking so much I barely noticed that we drove right by our house. “Dad, you missed the house.” “I know. We’re not going home yet.” He kept driving until he got to the park near the 7-11. We parked next to the blue bug car. The leaves on the trees were brown and falling in line as each one hit the ground. The ground was soft and the wind was blowing and getting out of the car Dad helped me put my jacket on and we started walking to our serious-talk park bench. Whenever we had to talk about something serious we came to the bench and sat down. Dad never said much but when he did I listened carefully. We were almost to the bridge that was the halfway point between the car lot and the bench. Overhead it was getting dark and scary; I grabbed at Dad’s skin pants and he put his hand on

the top of my head. “It’s going to rain.” Dad looked up and thought about it. “It might. But I think we’ll be okay.” We kept walking until we got to the park bench. As we walked by two girls that looked as old as my mom ran by in their underwear. “What about them?” I asked. “Too sporty.” Dad replied. We sat down on the bench, my feet were hanging off and I kicked into the air like I was kicking a hundred soccer balls. “Son.” Dad said and then paused, this was my cue to pay attention. It was the beginning of our serious talk. I looked overhead again at the trees swaying in the wind. I was sure it was going to rain. The pause felt like half of a television show. “Do you remember Mom?” He said slowly like he was making sure every word was right. “A little.” “From pictures? Or stories I told you?” He asked, like a question. “Well, yeah. I’ve heard those one thousand times.” He smiled a little and looked away from me. “Rivers, I wish you had known your mother better.” “Me too. She was a beautiful woman, I wish she could see how handsome and grown-up her sons become.” Dad ran his hand over my head, making my hair wild. “Daaaaad.” I smiled but became serious as his hand met my shoulder. “Do you wish you had a new mom sometimes?” He looked at me and it felt like an older version of myself looking back. Grandma always said I was his “spitting image”. I thought about the pictures of my mom that my dad kept in his office, and if I looked like her anymore or if that was erased. My mom looked so happy next to my dad in the picture and her green eyes were so pretty. I thought she was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. “Sometimes I do.” Dad put his arm over my shoulder. He looked sad. I put my hand in his jacket pocket. “Is that why you think Kate called me gay? Because of what happened to your mother?” “Yes.” “Does Kate know what happened to your mom?” “No.” I said and lowered my head into my chest. I didn’t want to cry in front of Dad because I didn’t want Dad to cry. I wanted to hold my eyes tight together to soak up all the tears. “Do you want me to find you a new mom? Is that what this is about?” “No, Dad.” I pushed harder and thought about deserts. “What do you want buddy? I want you to be happy too you know. More than anything.” “I want to remember Mom.” Dad looked at me in his most serious face. The clouds overhead were beginning to look like black smoke and my jacket was getting dotted with raindrops. “I want you to tell me about Mom every night. I want you to remember every time you were together and tell me about all of them. I want it to be like I was born before you guys met so that I could watch you from a telescope.” My face was wet. And by the time I realized that it was my tears and not the rain, I was in my dad’s arms and we were walking back to the car. All around us raindrops fell. A runner who was all wet passed us. His panting was the only thing breaking up the sound of rain. “Every Night?” Dad asked as we walked, pulling back from my chest. “Every Night.”

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A Walk in the Rain / Dominique Montgomery

Do you hear me when I lose my voice? Wondering in conversations memory provoked Do they find you in the silence? Whispering secrets you always knew Do you offer your reply? Wilting under questions never asked

Silence / Jose Miguel Peralta Uria

Roofs / Dominique Montgomery

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untitled / Jesus Mendez-Sarabia

and while you lay up against a cold dark tombstone fading away word by word the animals rise from the ashes and parade past your childhood in swift movements like a ghost wandering back home

however, you went skinny dipping in the fountain ( of youth ) only to leave wet, cold, and a bit wrinkly. dripping gray you brought a book of poetry to a knife fight but you can’t recite sonnets when you’re covered in red

beside you a beautiful buxom blonde’s yellow locks motion to you like a tangible golden invitation and the only way to get her attention is to sweat green

the blue of their eyes all sparkle underneath the six lane california highway.

LSD Binoculars / Anhvu Buchanan

at four in the morning you sat in an abandoned train station and the train tracks spoke to you in song lyrics rail by rail with sweating palms held closely to your ears you listened but the rats were as loud as firecrackers and the muted colors you knew so well were bare bone and secret less beneath the dingy black platform

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Braids and Sand / Heather McMillan

Braids and Sand / Heather McMillan

Speak Slowly / David Grant

Speak slowly when you read me those lines again, below the candles, lying on the floor. Speak slowly because I am watching the fireflies carve up the slow dark. Speak slowly when you read me those lines again, friend, because you wrote them for the me I missed the first time. Speak slowly because I am letting the words settle on my brow, run down my face. Speak slowly when you read me those lines because then I will think you know what I do not. Speak slowly because though your song is sung we share the silent language. Speak slowly when you read me those lines because though you only think you know, my tarnished anchor needs your deeper water.

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- Ho Xuân Huong, translated by John Balaban

born clever. See her now, sure she’s missed the point, the way in.

ripe high up, hollow soft if left too long. She wished she’d been

two mouths one, her flesh new as a baby’s. Fruit falls hard when

She wished she’d been born clever. One long slim limb gliding, her

Clever / Mimi McDonald

Whatever way hands may shape me, at center my heart is red and true.

My body is white; my fate, softly rounded, rising and sinking like mountains in streams.

untitled / Ryan Amaudin

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for Fall 2006!

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staff quotes, cont’

Katie Fallon “Better a cruel truth than a comfortable delusion.” -Edward Abbey

Misono Yokoyama “You must be the change you wish to see in the world.” -Gandhi

Lindsay Key “Remember these four things about anyone you meet: 1. They’re afraid of something. 2. They love something. 3. They’ve lost something. 4. They are dreaming of something.” -Anonymous Kamau Rucker “The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe.” -Gustave Flaubert

Jose Miguel Peralta Uria “Porque resulta que eso de la dignidad es contagioso y son las mujeres las más propensas a enfermarse en este incómodo mal. . .” - Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos

Jesus Mendez-Sarabia “Silence is argument carried out by other means.” -Che Gueverra

Terrance Wedin “It’s a shame that the only thing a man can do for eight hours a day is work. He can’t eat for eight hours; he can’t drink for eight hours; he can’t make love for eight hours. The only thing a man can do for eight hours is work.” -William Faulkner Aamir Karim “At that moment we looked into the sky and saw your reflection in it’s purest being, like a blanket of clouds forming the same trees below..” -Aamir Karim

Jacob Barron “’Do you know how many good men live in this world? Too many to count!’ -from Sherman Alexie’s “What You Pawn I Will Redeem” “Thanks for reading.”

contributors quotes

Jessy Hylton “Look to the shadows. You will find yourself there, naked and beastial.” -Jessy Hylton

Meghan Mogensen “Each friend represents a world in us a world not born until they arrive and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.” -Anais Nin Laura Cook “I take a simple view of living: It is keep your eyes open and get on with it.” - Laurence Olivier Corinne Jeltes “Certain brief sentences are peerless in their ability to give one the feeling thatnothing remains to be said.” -Jean Rostand

Hali Plourde-Rogers “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past” -F. Scott Fitzgerald

Laura Murphy “That’s a big bowl of wrong” -Jeff, Curb Your Enthusiasm.

“Occasionally you find things in life that make it all worth while. You’ve just got to find it. For me...its that one song lyric that touches your soul, the chords of a guitar that will play the music of your heart. when you realize that someone else in the universe feels the same way you do, and the world for a second feels a little smaller, safer, and less unknown.” -Lana Tang Joselyn Takacs “I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untravelled world” - Tennyson “Ulysses” Katherine F. Brumbaugh “You can play a shoestring if you’re sincere.” -John Coltrane

Lana Tang

Katie Mitchell “You don’t bring your lunchbox when you are going to a buffet.” -Anonymous Grant Gardner “There were so many fewer questions when stars were still just the holes to heaven.” -Jack Johnson

staff quotes

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Casualties of Arkansas River / Ted Martello Think Cycles / Jen Bretzfield

business manager

Finally, I would like to say to the other EMCVT student leaders: the link would have been infinitely more crucial if Silhouette had enough money to come along. :)

I would like to thank the EMCVT Financial affairs committee as well as all of our advisors who have been patient with a non-business person attempting to execute all the duties of Silhouette business manager. I hope you find it as funny as I do that I am on the Investment Committee.

The business and editorial staffs this year have been great. I would especially like to recognize the efforts of several people working in the business and promotion of the magazine because the magazine simply could not happen without them. Grant, Joselyn, Laura, Jessy, Corinne, Kamau, and Frank, you have all done a tremendous job this year.

I would also like to thank my past business managers Mike Gilbride, Katie Norton, and Zaid Haider. Thanks for showing me what it means to be passionate and dedicated to our magazine.

I would like to thank my editor-in-chief, Katie Mitchell, who is by far the most easy-going and fun person I have ever had the opportunity to work with or play pool with at our events.

It has been quite the semester for Silhouette. We began the fall with only six returning staffers and after publicizing like maniacs our current staff became the largest in Silhouette’s history. It made for a fantastic yearbook picture, too. We look like a super popular organization… which we are because of our amazing staff.

Yes, I chose motorcycles. Ohhh yeah! *revving noise* Fortunately for our readers I resisted the urge to quote half of “Born to be Wild” or “Leader of the Pack” for fear our advertisers would begin ignoring our calls.

“For the editor-in-chief and business manager pages you have a choice—kayaks or motorcycles?” – Katie Mitchell

editor in chief

Enjoy, Katie Mitchell

Oh and not forgetting to be a little cliche-- I want to thank my friends and family, whom I’m not completely sure they know exactly what it is I do with Silhouette, but yet have always been my number one supporters.

Lastly thanks to the EMCVT professional staff. You are always there to help in some way.

Thanks also to Molly, my crazy business manager. There is never a dull or dry moment with this girl.

I also want to send a huge thank you to the submitters and readers of Silhouette. Especially Nikki Giovannni, our featured faculty submitter this issue. Without you, there would be no magazine at all.

Being the Editor-in-Chief of this magazine is probably one of the hardest things I have ever accomplished. Fortunately, I have had a wonderful staff this year to back me up and to bear with me. I want to thank everyone for their hard and dedicated work they have put forth this semester, and a big thank you in advance for your hard work yet to come.

I joined Silhouette four years ago. My first year I was on it, I almost quit. Now look at where I am.

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Silhouette

[email protected] issue 28, volume 1

[email protected] Spring 2006 Volume 28 Issue II

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