The Silhouette - Spring 2008

Table Contents Tableof of Contents

6 7 8 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 36 37 38 39 40 41

It May Have Been August Vernazza Reflected Construction Site; an Approach to erapy Laughing Out Loud Love In Loving Memory e Bull Fight Ripe Museum of Hostages at Katzenstein Castle Walking with My Unborn Son Beauty Under Foot Graveyard Across the Road from Our Small Pond Ponders Laurel Gratia Plena Sinking in Shallow Water D.C. Religion Les Oiseaux de Paris Hand Bodies A Casualty of War Pollux Interrupted e Grieving under Diving Luce della Chiesa Breathe Deportation Train (Lithuania) In the Spring After Our Separation Fading Color Tangerine Scream Night Vision ree Trees

Caitlin Crowley-Feldheim Kristy Benoit Taylor Loy Alyssa Haak Jessica Schafer Benjamin Casey McGrath Evan Alexander Chapple Ben Kaja Taylor Loy Tom Dunn Jessica Schafer Katherine Brumbaugh Jennifer Pavlak Katherine Brumbaugh Joshua D. Crabill Orlando Dos Reis Katherine Swett Joshua D. Crabill Joseph Dunford Jessica Schafer Tom Dunn Joshua D. Crabill Chad Patrick Bailey Amanda Losch Nicole Field Caitlin Crowley-Feldheim Johanna Field Joshua D. Crabill Suzanne Day Alexandra Ford Riya Sarker Jessica Schafer

Silhouette Volume 30, Issue 2, was produced by the Silhouette staff 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 Garamond Pro and Handwriting-Dakota. Silhouette Literary and Art Magazine is a division of Educational Media Company at Virginia Tech, Inc. (EMCVT), a nonprofit organization that fosters student media at Virginia Tech. Please send all correspondence to 344 Squirers Student Center, Blacksburg VA, 24061. All Virginia Tech students who are not part of the staff are invited to submit to the magazine. All rights revert to the artist upon publication. To become a subscriber to Silhouette, send a check for $10 for each year subscription (two magazines) to the address above, c/o Business Manager or visit EMCVT’s e-commerce website at www.collegemedia.com/shop. For more information visit our website at www.silhouette.collegemedia.com or call our office at 540-231-4124.

Welcome to the thirtieth anniversary of Silhouette. rough a few persistent English students and a dedicated English faculty member Silhouette first published in the spring of 1978. Silhouette continued as part of the English Department until 1983, when it then joined the Student Media Board. In 1997 the Student Media Board became independent from the university to form the Educational Media Company at Virginia Tech, Inc. (EMCVT). Ten years later Silhouette is still a part of EMCVT, a non-profit, student-run organization.

Silhouette is dedicated to promoting the arts in and around the Virginia Tech community. e first duty of the magazine is to showcase undergraduate and graduate work of prose, poetry, fine art, and photography. e magazine also supports the artistic culture through readings and benefits. is spring, Silhouette is excited to continue the thirty-year tradition of showcasing student work. With the help of the faculty member who assisted students in publishing the first issue of Silhouette, Dr. Claude Clayton Smith, we have been able to make this spring issue a little special. anks to Dr. Smith and the English Department of Ohio Northern University, including students of Sigma Tau Delta, the staff of Shakespeare and the Classroom, and English majors who attended a benefit reading, we were able to offer a monetary prize for two pieces of creative writing. e prize was not given to celebrate Silhouette’s thirtieth birthday. Dr. Smith, an author of fiction, nonfiction, poetry and plays who recently retired as Professor of English from Ohio Northern University, gives the reason best in his own words: on May 25th, in a letter addressed to the chair of the English Department, Carolyn Rude, Dr. Smith wrote, “Last weekend, while attending my son’s master’s ceremony at the University of Wisconsin in Madison, I was moved by a large white board with a Virginia Tech logo in the center of campus, inscribed by thousands of students.” In remembrance of our fellow students, Dr. Smith has personally chosen the lucky prizewinners. e winners are the poem “Construction site, an approach to therapy” by Taylor Loy and the prose piece “I’m Sorry I Laughed at Your Funeral” by Alyssa Haak. When he announced the winners, Dr. Smith wrote, “Each piece controls its language within the demands of its genre to create some startling effects. And each piece can be read, of course, as an oblique response to the tragedy of last spring, while gaining power in reflecting ANY loss, large or small.” We now ask that you enjoy each and every piece presented in this issue. And for a little bit of fun check out some covers from the past thirty years on the next page. Sincerely,

Hali Plourde-Rogers and Jenna Wolfe

Welcome Welcome

Silhouette was originally published once a year in the spring until the 1988-1989 school year, when the university changed to the semester system. From then on the magazine was published once a semester, twice a year.

3030 Years Silhouette Yearsof of Silhouette

Vernazza Reflected, Kristy Benoit, Photography

It May Have Been

August

Caitlin Crowley-Feldheim

My world was a black and white movie with grey oak trees smudged into the skyline and memories of a certain shore where we would breathe our secrets into the sea. ese streets smelled like hot wet sin after a summer storm. It may have been August. As we’d lay on the wooden floor, half awake but somewhat sleeping, we left the curtains down to keep the cold and creeping shadows away. And we always willed the sun to stay buried beneath the horizon, so we could remain in the quiet imaginary bliss of black and white.

Construction site,

an Approach to erapy Taylor Loy

I’d rather be pouring concrete. If only to wake up mornings with a simple answer for every ache—to separate this day’s body from the last. To dismiss the myth that we survive our sleep. e wooden form is reassuring. Itself a stabilizing, a holding in of weight only to be knocked away when it becomes merely a holding on—when the wood’s strength becomes the weak home of termites colonizing the crawl space. In Glasglow Charles Rennie Mackintosh built a school of art of concrete polished so smooth that you’d swear it was marble. Inside he built a library from a forest—a garden enclosed in concrete. A second Eden where we, the damned, are free to eat. Is it wrong to enjoy this work, this toiling under the sun? e building of towers, the laying of foundations, the moving of stones from one place to the other.

[ ] Literary Prize WINNER

[ ]

Laughing Out Loud

Literary Prize WINNER

Alyssa Haak

I’m sorry I laughed at your funeral. It’s just that, to be honest with you, I had to laugh. It’s not like I threw a fit of giggles and clicked my heels in a jig; you know it’s not that. I’m actually pretty positive you would have laughed too, babe. I mean, it was so hot and stuffy in there. So awkward. So uncomfortable. e pews were overflowing with people you probably wouldn’t have even known; brief faces from the past or maybe just onlookers, I mean, people are always drawn to the deaths of the young. ey were all looking around, trying to get a better view of you in that ridiculous suit that you hated wearing. And then they’d wisely proclaim to the person next to them how awful it all was and what a shame; these two phrases were as personal as anyone would get. ey sat next to each other, fighting not to bump thighs or physically touch, not to even look in each others eyes. All they concluded was “what a shame.” Most of the people carried on conversations with their friends, like it was nothing. Nothing at all. Like they were happy to be at some social event and reminisce about their youth, a high school reunion of sorts, fighting smiles which, as most feel, would have been entirely inappropriate. eir faces were all the same: tightly contorted, self-conscious, and pinched. Every single one of them looked constipated, like they were trying to hold in a noxious belch. You, especially, would have found that hilarious. And they all whispered. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. e mock silence sounded like wasps, busying themselves with avoidance, and ignoring the tragedy right in front of them. I stood up front with your family as people began to file in, and I mean file. Like some elementary field trip; grown men and women with their kids alike stood in single filed lines to pass you and shake our hands. Most people didn’t look your way. Some of the smallest kids stared at you, horrified, and pointed at your posed-in-prayer hands. ey tugged at the skirts of their moms who promptly scooped them up and scolded them, apologizing for their behavior. As if it wasn’t what they themselves wanted to do. We had to greet them and comfort them and thank them for coming. I had to stand there and agree with your creepy Uncle Clyve and his wife Clingy Sue. Assured them that, yes, you were a great man and, yes, we were lucky to have had you for the

twenty-one years that we did. Good ol’ Clyve struggled to see through my turtleneck the whole time and I can’t believe you left me with Clingy Sue. You promised me last Easter you’d never leave me alone with her, in awkward conversation, again. Your mom misses you, by the way. And with the best intentions she introduced me to all the friends and family I never met. is went on all morning and she rubbed my back as it did, wanting to feel like a mom to someone. It was sweet of her, but I needed to get away from all that. I was so frustrated with it. It felt like the way our wedding was supposed to, you know? She should have introduced me to people as her new daughter-in-law while you were off with your friends somewhere, sneaking another beer from the bar and chasing down those cocktail hot dogs you love. Instead, I’m introduced as your girlfriend, with no hope of being anything more. Were those the last times I will ever hear that? “is is Michael’s girlfriend.” I couldn’t and still can’t imagine another occasion where this would come up. I hated it; it’s the only time since it happened that I almost cried. I wanted to be anywhere but right there, thinking about the wedding I had been dreaming of for the past eight years we’d been together. I scanned the room and tried to get my contacts to stop burning holes through my pupils. at’s when I saw your entourage. Best friends since elementary school, they all looked so young and scared. All in desperate need of a hug, which I would have freely given them, if this wasn’t such a forced and rigid situation. Just like school again; we all had assigned seats, separated. Ryan, the first one who met my eyes, elbowed John who sat straight upright so fast you’d think he was caught sleeping in class again. John did his signature fake cough, you know the one, and Sam and Kyle fell into line, both smoothing their hair and fixing their ties. ey all looked worried. Like any moment I might collapse and implode into a galaxy of pieces, or maybe snatch up a ruler and scold them for not paying attention. I saw them as grown men; I knew them as young boys. ey squeamishly looked at me and fidgeted like guilty children. It made me bite back a smile. It’s just freakin’ uproarious. I mean, look at the mess you left us all in! I looked a lot like them, too. We all became skinnier

than usual and pale, though my appearance a little bit cleaner, I hope. I worked extra hard to make sure my hair was perfect and my makeup was pretty and the way you liked it. As if you would pop up and say, “wow babe, I forgot how gorgeous you are, let’s go snuggle.” Haha, see? I’ve lost my mind; it’s just so damn funny. I mean, just last week you were here and everything was going as planned and everyone was happy. A god-damn week ago today, football was on and I was making your favorite dip for you and your friends. You were all so big and tough then; fighting each other over whose fantasy team was going to win and tossing the football at the back of each others heads. Laughing like idiots at the thud it made and the victim’s following reaction. You came in to try the dip to “see if it was poisoned.” You are, or were, so corny. Remember? Next you put your arms around my waist and whispered in my ear from behind that I was perfect and if I ever change you’re “outskies.” What kind of word is outskies, you dork? You are a dork, What kind of word is though you tried so hard to be smooth. e pictures in the slideshow proved it in front of the entire crowd. You would have been so embarrassed by the old ones of you: studying, which you never did, and reading, which you never did. Wearing clothes you never willingly wore in a way you never willingly wore them. You tried your hardest your whole life to overcome that exact image. And there was even one of you paying attention in class? I mean, what? Isn’t that how we met? I was the one who paid attention during class and I was the one who studied and took notes while you were the one who charmed me off my feet and into helping you out. It’s funny how people choose to remember others. If the guys and I picked the pictures instead of your family and old teachers, you would have been portrayed as you were, not as the model boy. ere would have been pictures of you caught sleeping in class, or rolling your baby blues behind Sister Catherine’s back since she was the teacher who always got you in trouble. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Sister Catherine read your eulogy. See? It’s all a real knee-slapper. Almost all pictures would have been of you genuinely smiling or making ridiculous faces for a laugh. And none would have your uniform worn the way it was supposed to be. Instead, you’d look slightly but purposefully disheveled. I would have picked the pictures of you that showed the always present mischief in your eyes as you decided upon your next prank

or joke. See babe, it was all so fake and unreal, so forced and unbelievably inaccurate and awkward. How could I not laugh?! I lost it when the priest introduced “our next performance, in honor and memory of Michael James.” Haha! See, it was a performance. You were the main actor in the role they wanted you to play. It wasn’t a remembrance of who you were. A teenage girl in a full-on leotard came marching down the aisle in ballet slippers, carrying a ribbon wand in one hand and a candle in the other. She twirled and danced with the ribbon and candle, doing all kinds of weird bends and poses, holding each one out as if expecting applause. For the finale, she dramatically snuffed out the candle with the ribbon; Get it? e flame was symbolic of your life! is was too ridiculous, babe. So I’m sorry. I had to get up from my front pew and calmly walk to the back of the church and try not to interrupt the show. My wool skirt was itchy and my heels outskies, you dork? were blistering my feet. I didn’t think I could hold it in any longer so when I saw the door, I broke into a run. I busted through. e cold air was the only thing that felt real as I let out one long and broken laugh. I laughed so hard, love, so hard that I actually started crying. I was finally crying ‘cause I was laughing. See, I couldn’t help it! I fought it as long as I could; I promise. I didn’t cry at all, since it happened, ‘til I started laughing. And it was just so funny, the fact that you left me to do this alone. With no one to guide me or tell me I’d be ok. You left me in an outfit I would only be caught dead in, to fend from the eyes and awkwardness of Clyve and Sue, to comfort others and watch stupid pictures of you that weren’t actually you. By myself, I sat. And listened to the teachers you hated, and who hated you back, speak that you were the ideal student and perfect angel. I sat there, alone, and tried to hold it back when the acrobaticpyrotechnic-ribbon-dancer beautifully ended your life for everyone to applaud. I was there, by myself, all alone, empty, and left to stare at you lying there. All by myself. And babe, you looked just awful and I’m sorry I laughed, love, but don’t you see? It’s all so fucking hilarious.

“There’s even a chance

that we locked

eyes”

Love, Jessica Schafer, Medium

Not yesterday, not ever, I never got the chance to tell you I love you. But, today I will.

Loving Memory In

Benjamin Casey McGrath

I’ve seen your faces and I’ve walked by your sides. ere’s even a chance that we locked eyes. Now you’re gone and a university cries. I wish I had the chance to say goodbye.

ough we survived, the strong were the ones that died. So we keep you in our hearts and minds. Beautiful and perfect, you will be the strength that helps so many to live out the rest of their lives. We are the face of change, the light inside that burns bright, an everlasting flame. But without you here to grace us with your eager smiles this place will never be the same. If I had the voice, I’d sing you something soft and sweet, much like a lullaby. If I had the voice, I’d tell you all the things that I’ve been thinking about regret and time. And if I had the voice, I’d scream at the top of my lungs with arms raised to the sky to tell you I’m left speechless. So, sleep well lovely children. Rest easy in your better place. I hope you know how much I love you, and that a better life awaits.

Bull Fight The

Evan Alexander

Chapple

With sweat and wine we watch the matador sweep the bull left and right. “Olé” we scream but I don’t know why. e grace is concrete; one cannot doubt this man owns his body, bending like a tree in the wind, passing the bull like the wind. is is nature’s art; he is the sun on your back, your last full breath. e arm is raised; the sword is the man, not a tool he holds or a weapon he wields. And this man, who is Man, who is the end we all must live, steps and then: the touch. e girl to my left says: “I have never seen anything die.” But if you haven’t seen death, you haven’t seen life.

On the thirteenth day without sun, I wore 3-D glasses with the shades drawn tight—I needed change. I cooked pumpkin soup on the stove, the steam thick with cloves and cardamom. Outside, all the apples were falling from the tree one by one—some fall and rot, others are eaten by birds and squirrels. e aroma is like sex— sweetbread, cinnamon, and sweat, but it is still un-mistakenly crushed apples. e soup bubbled and splattered like lava from below, burning

instead—it was delicious. Soft and ripe with a bite already taken before I found it.

Ripe

We follow the paths of madmen who walk in straight lines, who keep the grounds clean, who do not go beyond this boundary of trees. ey call this exercise to clear their heads of demons. ere are enough, already, in the bullets implanted in this reclining hill, And these, we hope, will never grow. e trees mended each spring over scars and knots to help children climb. We notice young men still scrambling up the hillside to breach the weariness of the forest’s sprawl, to find that distended border and resting where they cannot hear their mother’s shouts: Come back home.

Museum of Hostages at Katzenstein Taylor Loy

Castle

Ben Kaja

my arm and hand. I walked outside to pick an apple off the tree and decided to eat one that had fallen

Walking MyUnborn T.M. Dunn

With

My five year old son slips his tiny hand from my grip. His run is like the trot of a colt, heavy hoofed and headlong. He chases ducks coming up from the riverbank. ey flutter their wings with irritation, delighting him in their escape back to the water. “Daddy, I love ducks.” He locks his hand back with mine, scraping his feet in the dirt path. e leaves of the trees chime their delicate song, catching his attention. We step off the path to sit under a giant Oak, floating like an emerald cloud. e sun weaves through branches and leaves, my son stares up from the trunk with wonder. “Daddy, I love trees.” Our feet dot the dusty path like footprints on the moon. My son grabs a stick from the ground, poking at the earth as it passes. Sweeping wind picks up the grainy dirt, swirling it into the sky. e heavy air pushes against our chests, my son spreads his arms and pretends to fly. “Daddy, I love wind.” He stops in front of me, smiling with his mother’s lips. How did we create something so beautiful?

Son

Beauty Under Foot, Jessica Schafer, Soft Pencil on watercolor paper

“Daddy,

I love ducks.”

Graveyard

Gravel Road Small Pond

across the from our Katherine Brumbaugh

In the winter you can see them from our drive, the gray stones and spilled green baskets of faded plastic flowers. I won’t walk there alone, though when I walk with my parents I will linger there far longer than they, and abruptly find myself in solitude among the dead and the birch trees. ere is no order, not like the chalky regimental monuments up home, at Arlington. ere is no museum or hall of portraits honoring those who have fallen. ere is no grass, whose maintenance disallows upright monuments, like where Grammie and Grampa are. I remember when we first found the place, back before we’d built our cabin on the adjoining ridge and were still camping out with ants and ridiculous flocks of wild turkeys. I crouched over every bronze plate, peered at every lichen-covered stone, finding the dates and the reasons. Here and there among the leaves rested moldy wreaths and bouquets: I imagined the deer had moved them only far enough to discover that they’d been fooled by imitations. Now the graves creep with the ground-cedar over a small knoll; some hide among the trees and some lean wearily into the earth. When I visit, if I visit, I no longer acquaint myself with every story but rather find fresh mounds, red patches among old greens and browns, and think with each new arrival that when I must, I’d like to join them there.

Ponders, Jennifer Pavlak, Pen

L

l e r u a augh

mb e Bru n i r e h t

Ka

She’d come home that day different, somehow. Something in her aspect and the way she avoided his eyes as she tapped around the kitchen, pulling out knives and chicken and bell peppers spoke of it. Patrick observed her excessive attention to the children, Mark and Tom, and felt the silence she directed toward him as acutely as if she were plucking out his chest hairs one by one. ere’d been signs over the past few months; signs he should’ve recognized for what they were rather than dismissed as fantasies induced by his characteristic paranoia. Her sudden desire to learn Spanish was peculiar, and her refusal to practice any of what she learned with him or the children was markedly opposite of how he predicted she would behave when learning a new language. Still, he found her shyness endearing, and bought her English-Spanish dictionaries, translated books, and even proposed that they plan a vacation to a Spanish-speaking country so that she might use what she’d learned. ey hadn’t had a real vacation together in years, anyway. She accepted his gifts with doleful grace, her deep gray eyes cast down or searching wherever they happened to be for some means of changing the subject, of moving on from the awkwardness of the moment. atrick never claimed that he understood his wife. From the moment he first noticed her—managing the front desk at a testing center local to their university, brightly explaining directions to a test-taker over the phone, russet hair continually slipping from behind her ear to hang in front of her ocean-gray eyes—she mystified him. It was part of what drew him to her, the way she somehow existed in loveliness while doing the most common things. Later on in their relationship, he fell into her quiet humor while her desire to overcome her propensity to speak only of herself, of her own feelings, struck him as sweet and wonderfully feminine. He adored her. Every day he tried to do something to coax that laugh, like the tumbling of a spring, from her lips. When he did do wrong, he read her letters (she communicated best through writing) with confusion, shamed that he could have failed, afraid that she might see him differently for his mistake. When she

said she’d marry him, his world became immaculate and a few shades brighter. When their first child, Tom, was born with his chestnut eyes and her slightly curved nose, he felt that greater perfection could not be achieved. Lately, however, he felt a threat lurking in his pleasant life, hidden somewhere behind the coffee-maker or flitting from blade of grass to blade of grass in the front yard, watching him as he came to and from work, played catch with his sons, and sat on the front stoop at night with her, his Laurel, watching the lightning bugs drift by. It started with the ringing of the phone. He’d been molding ground beef into patties for burgers when it rang, and had to hurriedly wipe grease from his hands before picking up. But there was nobody there. Silence, and a click. e incident would have meant nothing had it occurred only that one time, but dozens of times after that the same thing happened, while each day Laurel looked at him less and less, and turned away from him after they flicked off the light. He told himself that the phone calls were from friends of Mark and Tom’s, playing games. He reassured himself that Laurel’s reticence was due to the stress she’d been facing at work, where her superiors were considering her for a promotion. Despite this, his world felt separate from hers, and he felt powerless to stop the riptide that carried her further and further away from him. Patrick missed seeing her face last before he fell asleep, missed their conspiring glances that said everything they couldn’t say in front of the children, and watched as his gifts piled up and gathered dust. at day, her attitude was worse than before. No longer did she seem distant; she didn’t seem there at all. At least not for him. He’d chosen that day, too, as the day he’d confront her. His desire to return to their lost state of bliss outweighed his fear that what he’d long suspected to be true could actually be true. As he’d planned his speech on the drive home from work that day, he reasoned with himself that no matter what, he could love her. No matter what, he could share the house with her, raise their boys, if only she would look at him. Just look at him. e boys noticed their father’s silence when he came to pick them up from after school care, and said nothing, fearing the cloud covering his disposition could

prompt him to lash out. He studied her closely as they ate dinner, tracing the lines of the face he’d known intimately for so long. ere was the scar she got when she tried to surf on her radio flyer as a girl; there, just above the right cheekbone. ere were her eyebrows, which she kept plucked in a careful arch, and the minute dent in the line of her upper lip, which he still daydreamed about kissing when he became bored at work. She kept her eyes away from him, focusing them instead on the vegetables Mark didn’t eat and the mysterious bruise above Tom’s right eye. When they’d finished eating, she waved the boys off to the den, and tapped around the kitchen once again, clearing dishes and wiping down the table. Patrick remained sitting, following her path over the linoleum with his look, waiting for her to sit back down with him. Finally, realizing she had no intention of even acknowledging his presence, he spoke. “Laurel.” She clanked dishes into the dishwasher and shut the door with a thud. “Laurel.” She flipped the lever and turned the knob to start the droning hum of the washer. “Laurel,” he said, urgently. “What, Pat.” “Sit with me.” She looked at him, suspicion painting her visage, a frown tugging at that dent in her upper lip. “Come on. Please? Just sit,” he intoned. Slowly she walked over, and sat down on the corner of the chair across from his. ey stared at one another for a moment, each searching for a way to determine what the other was about to say. “I need to ask you something,” Patrick said as he leaned forward, his forearms pressed into woven plaid placemat, “and I want you to be absolutely frank with me.” Patrick stood out on the back deck, staring into the blues and grays of his predawn yard. He hadn’t slept after his conversation with Laurel, this matutinal stroll being merely a continuation of a journey he’d begun the night before. A damp, chill wind blew the smell of rotting leaves in his face, and caused a clammy finger of air to work its way into the

collar of his sweatshirt. His life had never seemed so false, but after a night of walking and moaning and running flat out only to stop and suddenly sit on the neighborhood pavement, his mind was finally calm. Nothing else could be thought about; he’d worked over every detail in his mind. Masticated every memory. He turned back to the house where his wife had gone to sleep, finally, and where his boys dreamed pacifically under SpongeBob comforters, hands softly curling and uncurling as their dreams swayed between the beatific and the horrifying. Walking through the kitchen, he stopped briefly to remove a key from the hook by the refrigerator, then continued down the hallway to the room he shared with Laurel. Gently pushing open the door, he crossed the threshold. She lay on her side, facing away from him toward the window, softly hushing as the line of her silhouette rose and fell. His finally blank mind wriggled a moment with renewed thought, then returned to its peaceful state as Patrick pulled his gaze away from his wife’s sleeping form and instead onto his bedside table. He opened its drawer, rummaged softly for a moment, then pulled out a locked box. Turning the key he’d retrieved from the kitchen in its lock, he lifted the lid. Tendrils of fearful anticipation felt their way into his ribcage; he slid his fingers gently over the short length of his father’s old pistol, stood up quickly, and left the room. Two hours later, a neighbor girl would hear a scream and look up, briefly, from her cereal. She’d think nothing of it until she saw the ambulances and heard the whispers at school, yeah, his wife found him, out on their deck…

Gratia Plena, Joshua D. Crabill, Photography

S i n k i n g

We spend so much time trapped in this continuous loop we call our lives that we completely forget time travels in a constant, straight line. We pay more attention to the watch on our wrists and our feet on the ground that night and day become black and white, our lives the dull gray connecting. We become so numb in this perpetual purgatory that we pray for death just so we can be reassured that at one point, we were alive. And then we stop. We take one good look at the lifeless face staring back at us in the mirror and we wish for a way to go back. We wish for a way to change; to make things better. And then we realize time travels in a constant, straight line.

in S

hallow Water Orlando Dos Reis

Joseph Dunford

and H

The wrist is awkward; knobby bone junction and tangled veins, joining and dividing into blue streams, bright and obvious yet strangely beautiful, winding between abrupt ridges of taut tendon and shifting bone, until the blunt overlarge knuckles coated in creased, lined, elephantine skin. Curling further around the knuckle, across pale scar, the only memory of some long forgotten accident, then along thin finger, flow broken once by swollen join, deep lines creased with motion, then the slight bump of second knuckle, and finally down to blunt fingertip and smooth clear plane with jagged tip, torn with the nervous motion of one nail against the other.

Bodies, Jessica Schaffer, Medium

D.C.Relig Katherine Swett

ion

On these early August Sundays we resurrect ourselves from the white starched sheets and make breakfast our communion, Christ’s body manifests in waffles and sweet jams. We don’t think of September, waiting for us like cool cream as we sit in the square swearing at the heat over our paper-cup coffees, sweat making graffiti of our bodies and watering dry bones. Instead, we listen as scorched wheels squeal high like cornets, jazzing the feet on the streets in a hymn, rat-tat shoes encoring the world away from death, bringing us to our feet. With blisters on our toes we bake like bread and waft past the t-shirts, the pins, the one-way signs, content with the city’s gospel, knowing that it does not expect to be understood. Union is our cathedral, our deliverance from a 20-stop separation, but come Monday, the station shade will fall like dirt on our bodies. Chins in hands, we’ll sit on the stale benches, trains blowing hot air into our mouths as we realize again, as if for the first time, that the giving hand equally takes away.

Les Oixeaux de Paris, Joshua D. Crabill, Photography

A Casualty T.M. Dunn

of War

e mop of an old limping custodian soaks up a fresh puddle of cranberry juice. With each gentle glide across the cafeteria floor, the white dreadlocks of the mop become heavy with fruit blood. Dropping his head, he wipes the sweat from his leathery face, resting the mop against his shoulder like an urban farmer. Before he can look up, a young man no older than 25 surprises him from behind, and embraces him like a boy who missed his father. e young man is a Marine, his left arm hangs in a sling. “Oh, I missed you so much.” the old man says, shaking his head and hiding his tears. “One of those bastards shot me, Dad.” A Purple Heart displayed in his son’s right hand, the old man runs his fingers over the cold face of George Washington. Reaching into his breast pocket, the old man’s son pulls out a small stack of pictures. “Don’t worry, I killed 16 of those animals.” He hands the old man 16 pictures, ghosts of men, women, and children. e old man continues touching the Purple Heart, realizing it is the only one his son has left. He rubs the heart in his hands harder and harder, praying for a beat, his eyes fixed on his son, a casualty of war. e old man’s son grabs his father for another hug. “I’ll see you at home.” whispers the young man, leaving his father standing with his mop, frozen. Slowly walking to his yellow bucket, the old man raises his mop dried with cranberry blood. He whispers to himself, “My little boy,” and washes his mop clean.

He hands the old man

16 pictures,

ghosts of men,women, and children.

Pollux Interrupted, Joshua D. Crabill, Photography

under Grieving e Chad Patrick Bailey

Earlier that morning they had been playing in the yard. Justin, a slender boy of eight years, had started it by pelting Roger with a handful of mud. Roger, slightly taller at eleven years, had responded by wrestling Justin to the ground, making a muddy mess of them both. Sweet little Susie, with her blonde pig-tails and sunflower yellow dress, was wise beyond her six years and unwilling to dirty her dress in any fashion whatsoever, so she hooted and hollered and cheered for Justin from the porch. Even the oldest had momentarily abandoned his work to join in—seventeen year-old Richard, with a wicked grin spreading across his face, had quickly run to his wrestling brothers and turned up the pail of water he was carrying, making them and the ground they struggled over even more of a muddy mess. Paul had taken a short break from his own work while he wiped the sweat from his face and watched for a short while, amused. But being the father and head of the farm meant making sure the work for the day was done by sunset, so he had told them that was enough after a few minutes, and sent them back to their chores. ey had complied, as always, and Richard retrieved more water for the animals while mudsoaked Justin and Roger began to disperse the feed. ey were good boys. Now they were dead. eir corpses lay side-byside, in a neat row, face up, staring at the clear blue sky and nothing at all. Richard was bloody all over, despite the single bullet hole over his heart. He had either shot one of his murderers at close range with

his shotgun, or his brothers’ blood had soaked him while he held them. Justin and Roger were mostly covered in dried mud from that morning’s wrestling, but a small stream of red trickled from the holes in their chests, and a dark red pool had formed beneath them. Paul stood over their corpses for a long time, transfixed by their lifeless stares. e empty, silent yard that he now stood in was a stark contrast from the lively scene he had witnessed that morning. He had known something was wrong immediately upon his return from town. Chip, the one dog they owned, had not run out to greet him as he always did. His horse, Chester, had seemed reluctant to walk all the way up the trail to the farmhouse. Paul had worked with animals all his life, and at times it seemed to him that they had some sort of sense for trouble that men did not. is was one of those times. e eerie silence of the farm didn’t ease his worries, either. Upon seeing the bodies of his sons, Paul had dismounted so hastily he had nearly fallen from the saddle, not even thinking at first that the killers may still be watching, waiting. Once he realized they were dead, which took a few terrible, long seconds, he remembered himself, and in one swift motion crouched and drew his revolver. His beady eyes scanned all around him as he ran half-crouched for the house, screaming for his wife and daughter. “Susie! Heather!” he yelled what seemed like a half hundred times as he ran through the two-story farmhouse, throwing doors open, pointing his six-shooter around every corner. But there was no one to be found. e murderers were gone, and Susie and Heather with them. He had a glimmer of hope that they had somehow made it to the hideaway behind and beneath the house, but they weren’t there either. His first thoughts of what could have happened ran to Indians, but the plains Indians had not been seen in these parts in quite some time. And it was not like them to use guns, though it happened sometimes, as they acquired

them through trades with white men. A single note pinned to the door dispelled that theory entirely. Paul had not even seen it during his initial rush into the house, but noticed it rather easily now. A single, simple message was inscribed, which appeared to have been written by a child, if the large, asymmetrical lettering was any indication. It read: “CONSIDER YOUR DEBT PAID IN FULL”. Paul knew at once—Wessick. Paul had served as a part-time deputy with the local town ever since his boys were old enough to mind most of the farm chores themselves. e extra income was a big help, and the job was fairly low risk, as the town of Westville was a simple, peaceful community in the middle of the plains. And the aging Sheriff Winston welcomed the help, being too old to do much of what was required of him these days. It didn’t hurt that Paul was experienced with the use of firearms, either. Like all men with a badge, Paul did occasionally have to deal with trouble, though. On one of these occasions, Paul had crossed paths with James Wessick in one of Westville’s few saloons, e Watering Hole. Paul remembered him and the encounter quite vividly. On this night Paul had wandered into the saloon, where he spent most of his patrols, since it was most likely where any trouble would occur. His eyes had been drawn to Wessick by the loud jests and curses that the man frequently let loose; he was easily the loudest man there. His mood, and whether he uttered a curse or jest, seemed to depend entirely on whether or not he thought he was holding a winning poker hand at the moment. He was a man of medium build built entirely from ugly. A long, scraggly beard with strands of gray among brown adorned his filthy, weathered face, and his large bug eyes sat under even larger, puffy brows that nearly joined as one. Atop his head sat a crumpled cowboy hat that looked as if it had been used as a pillow on many more occasions than one. A large gut, which Paul guessed to have been formed just as much from whiskey as from food, rounded out the ugly picture. Paul had sat on one of the bar stools for a while, chatting with the bartender and some of the more friendly locals, watching Wessick out the corner of his eye all the while. A man that had drunk that much was likely to do one of three things: start a brawl, shoot someone, or pass out. Either way, Paul expected he would be escorting (more likely dragging) Wessick to a cozy jail cell before the night was over.

Hopefully it would just be for public intoxication, and not fighting or murder. It wasn’t long before Paul found out which one. Close to midnight, Wessick had abruptly stood, and drew his revolver in a swaggering motion that left no doubt as to his drunkenness. “Cheat,” he stammered several times before the word was clearly audible over his whiskey drenched tongue. “No man accuses Wessick . . . I mean me, myself . . . I think . . . of being a cheat!” He reeled, dangerously and unintentionally swinging the revolver in a wide arc around the saloon. His eyes glistened with the intensity of anger and alcohol. e man Wessick was confronting, whom Paul later found out was an old rival of Wessick’s, was at a loss. His eyes were the size of saucers as he raised his hands to protest, insisting that it was a harmless comment, that he had only said someone might think a man had to cheat to have the luck Wessick was having. e man never even tried to pull his own gun. When confronted with such a situation, Paul usually let it play out. Rarely did a man have the courage to kill over a game or insult. A scuffle might ensue, but usually no permanent harm was done save for a few broken chairs. Afterwards, Paul would lock the men up and let them bleed out their scrapes and their foolish pride for a while, charge them a fine for any damage done, and that was the end of it. He had a feeling tonight would be one of those rare ones, though, if Wessick’s eyes were any indication. He had sprung from the barstool and smacked Wessick over the head with the butt of his revolver. e man was so drunk he never even realized Paul was there, and it was over in a flash as Wessick crumpled to the floor, dropping the weapon. Paul had managed to diffuse the situation in seconds, and everyone in the saloon was grateful, most of all the man at gunpoint. At the time, Paul had felt relieved to have settled the issue with such ease. He should have known better. Trouble stuck to men such as James Wessick like maggots on a cow pie. Another deputy on duty, Frank Richardson, had assisted Paul in dragging Wessick to the town jail, a small, one-story building with two cells just large enough for the bunks they held and room to stand. Paul had informed Frank of what happened while they dragged Wessick along by the

arms, his feet dragging the whole way. “Good thing you wore no firearms out in the open. acted so quick, we might be havin’ a murder trial on the “State your business,” Paul had said. ‘morrow if ya’ hadn’t,” Frank commented. Frank was not “We heard there was some trouble at the saloon with my fond of trouble, and Paul had little doubt that they would brother James, and I see it must be true, with him passed out be having a murder trial tomorrow if Frank had been in the in your jail cell there. We’ve come to get him.” saloon instead of himself. Frank was not a man of action so “at won’t be happening tonight,” Frank had said before much as he was of talk and politics, and he likely would have Paul could. Now Frank did surprise Paul. “He was drunk watched Wessick shoot the man before doing anything about to the point of stupidity, and drew his weapon in a public it. Paul wasn’t sure as to how Frank ever received a badge. building with many innocent folk about. He’ll be sleepin’ it He supposed people in a town like Westville developed a false off here.” sense of security about themselves, and so figured having a “Surely we can arrange something,” the man had said, crew of capable lawmen wasn’t a high priority. at was the implying bail or a bribe, however you wanted to look at it. only explanation for the tolerance of the incompetent Deputy “Not tonight,” Frank had said, “come back in the mornin’ Frank and the aging Sheriff Winston that Paul could think of. and we’ll discuss it then. Your brother will likely be standing e lawmen of Westville were not altogether helpless, though. trial for attempted murder.” Paul counted the well experienced Deputy William Barber “at’s a shame. I know my brother would never do such as capable as any man, as well as himself. ey had both a thing in his right mind. I doubt he’d do it drunk, either.” seen their fair share of conflict and strife during the War, and “He would have,” Paul said and stood from the seat wished to see no violence pervade their peaceful hometown. behind the sheriff’s desk, where he had observed the two men ey took their jobs seriously, even if it was rarely required while they spoke with Frank. “I was there, and I can always that they do so. judge a man’s intent by his eyes. ey never lie, sir.” Paul met After throwing him down on his bunk and locking him the man’s eyes with his own. “I didn’t like what I saw in your up, Paul and Frank had brother’s, and I’m not likin’ what He fell to his knees, and cried for I see in yours. Leave, now.” And discussed what they should a short while. Then he kissed charge Wessick with. “I Paul had rested his hand upon the each son on his forehead... s’pose public intoxication gun at his hip. was his only real crime,” “Ben, are the horses saddled Frank said. “If t’other man hadn’t insulted him, I don’t s’pose up and ready to move on?” the man asked his partner, who nothin’ would’ve ever come of it.” had been silent thus far. Paul glared at Frank, angry but not as surprised as he As the two men met each other’s gaze and Ben answered, would have been in the past before he had come to know “ey are,” Paul knew their intent before they ever reached Frank. “He was about to shoot a man in cold blood. Yes, he into their coats to pull their guns. Paul drew his own and was intoxicated, but that don’t make his bullets any less lethal. shot the closest first, Wessick’s brother, before he could pull He should be charged with assault, at least. I’m not givin’ his the hammer and fire. A split second later, Paul unloaded gun back.” a round into the other man, Ben, but it was a split second “He’ll jes’ get another, Paul.” too late. Ben had already drawn his weapon and shot Frank “True enough, but not in this town. Not in my town.” in the shoulder. Paul was the only man left standing in It wasn’t long before they heard footsteps on the walkway the room. Paul’s ears rang; from the adrenaline or the loud outside the door. Paul heard a firm knocking at the door, gunshots in the small room, he could not say. to which he responded by cracking the door to inquire as Wessick’s two companions lay dead; Paul’s shots had to whom was there and what they wanted. “We would like found their mark as they usually did. Frank lay on the floor, to discuss an urgent matter with you, sir,” twisting and clutching at his shoulder, cursing in pain. He a polite voice had said. Paul let the two had never even drawn his weapon. He’s not meant for this, men into the room; they seemed decent Paul had thought as he hurriedly ran out into the street and enough. ey were cleanly dressed and hollered for the first friendly face he saw to fetch the doctor.

Paul had feared that their might be consequences for that night. Frank had survived, and turned in his badge, admitting he was not cut out for this particular line of work. at much turned out decent, at least. But James Wessick was not dead, and his brother and Ben (whom Paul later found out was a beloved cousin of the Wessick brothers) were. Wessick had been tried and found guilty of reckless endangerment, something that earned him an extended jail sentence. But Paul knew it was not enough. If the man’s brother and cousin were killers, he knew this Wessick was, too. e man should have been hanged, but you can’t hang a man for what his companions do, so Wessick had been released after serving his time. On the morning of his release, Paul had never forgotten the look in Wessick’s eyes as the man looked at him and said, “It seems I owe you a great debt, sir. It will one day be paid in full.” It was a clever veil of a threat, one that couldn’t be openly taken as such. Paul grew angry as he imagined a fool of a man like Frank saying, “He merely meant that you had helped cow his wicked ways.” Paul stared at his sons’ faces, thinking about that night. I should have never let my guard down, Paul thought, and his anger flared, then it was overcome with grief and guilt. He fell to his knees, and cried for a short while. en he kissed each son on his forehead, in the order they had come into this world, covered their bodies with an old blanket from the house, and said a short prayer. He asked God why his family had to pay for his own actions. When he got no response, he was consumed in anger once again, and was not certain if he was angry with himself or Wessick or God. He had enough to go around. ere was still hope for his wife and daughter, though. He had not found their bodies anywhere near or in the farmhouse, and he doubted that Wessick and whomever had assisted him would bother dragging them anywhere dead. He would have left them out in the open for Paul to see, as with his sons. So Paul saddled up on old Chester, with revolvers and rifle in tow, and rode for town hard as his aging steed could manage. Paul couldn’t help but think of his time in the War as he rode. He always thought of it, after seeing a man die, for that was where Paul had first become acquainted with death and killing. e War Between the States was, until now, the most terrible experience of Paul’s life. He had lived in and fought for the South, not necessarily because he agreed with everything his confederate brothers said, but because it

was his home. He had killed men invading his homeland. He had seen his brothers die. Paul survived physically, but there were times that he wondered if his mind, his soul, had survived. Perhaps the only reason he had carried on at all afterwards was the beautiful young woman he had met and taken for a wife shortly after returning home. Heather was a great comfort for him for a while; in her arms he found peace again. But even she hadn’t been enough. His home was tainted with the blood of his brothers and strangers, and it would never be the same again. So, shortly after Richard was born, they headed west, and settled a few miles outside of Westville, where they built their farmhouse, and he rebuilt his life. Paul had been happy ever since then, mostly able to forget the events of the war during his young adulthood. Heather had bore him two more sons after Richard, and his beautiful daughter, Susie. He lived for them. And now they were gone. But he had a chance to get Heather and Susie back. e thought of what Wessick and his men might do with them alive was not something he wanted to think about. He hoped that they merely intended to ransom them. When Paul at last arrived in town, Chester was soaked in sweat, and not likely to make it much farther at that pace. He would need a new horse when he set out again. Paul quickly approached the jailhouse, and related what had happened to Sheriff Winston and Deputy William Barber, whose help he was counting on most of all. After the initial shock wore off their faces (for this type of thing was almost unheard of in Westville), William began collecting his guns, and inquired if Paul had any notion as to where they might have gone. Paul showed him the note, and William understood at once. “Wessick,” he said, in a tone of utter disgust. Paul nodded, and then said, “Bartley.” William again took his meaning at once. “ink he’ll talk?” “We’ll make him.” After the incident in the jailhouse with Wessick’s brother and cousin many months ago, Paul had investigated all about town, figuring out who was kin or friend to the Wessick brothers. He needed to know who was likely to assist

Wessick in carrying out his threat in any form or fashion, so that he could be ready. Small good that had done him so far, but at least it gave him a place to start now. e only man that resided in town whom Paul could find had a link to the Wessicks was Jonathan Bartley, a middle-aged man that ran a small bar at the end of town. He was a distant cousin to the Wessicks. He wasn’t a killer, as Paul had heard the Wessicks were from numerous sources, but he wasn’t a saint either. e man was a thief, known to steal from his patrons as they became too drunk to know the difference. Paul looked to Sheriff Winston. “I’m not gonna promise I’ll handle this in an entirely legal fashion. If you have to take my badge, lock me in a cell, or, God forbid, hang me for what I do to Wessick, then so be it. So long as I get my wife and girl back home safe.” e Sheriff stood, on wobbly old knees, and looked Paul in the eyes. ere was a hint of a great man still in those old gray eyes, Paul noticed not for the first time. In his youth Sheriff Winston had been known for his iron will and enforcement of the law, which is perhaps another reason he retained his position well beyond his ability to perform it. “Do what you gotta do, but know that I’m gonna do what I have to do when you return.” Paul nodded, expecting to hear something of that nature. “Of course,” the old man continued, “if Wessick is simply never heard from again, then I don’t suppose there could be a murder trial, now could there?” And through his snow-white beard he smiled a crooked grin that miraculously still had some teeth to it. Paul nodded once again, and would have smiled if he could have. “I’ll need your help, too, Sheriff.” e old man’s eyes grew wide. “I’m afraid I’d only slow you down, son. Back in the day I’d be the first to grab my gun for ya’, but those days are long gone.” “Not with those,” Paul said, nodding his head towards the guns on the wall. “With shovels. I didn’t have time to bury my boys, for fear of Wessick getting too far with my girls. I’d be much obliged if you gathered Frank and the Reverend and gave

them a proper burial. ere’s a large oak tree about thirty yards from the house. Me and Heather wish to be laid to rest there, and I think it will be more than suitable for the boys.” “Consider it done,” the Sheriff replied, and he was off after Frank and the Reverend faster than Paul had seen him move in years. As they strode down the street towards Bartley’s, William spoke up. “Do you think an old man and a man with a crippled shoulder were the best choice for grave digging?” “No, but they’re the only ones I’d trust with such a task.” Paul entered Bartley’s with the silent determination of a wolf stalking his prey. When Bartley spotted them, with their revolvers around their waists and shotguns resting on their shoulders, he looked more scared than surprised, throwing up his hands and exclaiming, “I don’t want no trouble here! I don’t give a damn what my fool cousin gone n’ done, I had no part.” Paul didn’t hesitate; he shoved his double-barrel shotgun under the man’s chin, and pressed him to the wall. “Where is he?” William stood point, watching the few men playing cards in a corner. Bartley didn’t respond. He only stared down at the gun best he could, looking terrified. “I swear, I don’t know,” he said. “You do. Tell me or I’ll open you up.” “I know you, Paul. You wouldn’t murder a man in cold blood. You’ve killed, maybe, but only when you had to,” the man stammered, his voice high strung. He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself more so than Paul. “If you know what’s happened, then you know I might have to now if I want to see my wife and daughter again. Talk.” “Oh, dammit, I don’t know!” the man screamed, hysterical, near to tears, and Paul noticed a growing wet spot at his crotch. He wouldn’t be able to make himself hurt this man. Paul suspected he was telling the truth. “You know some of his hideaways, do you not?” “I’ve heard him speak of them, yes . . .” “Well?” And so they knew where to go—an abandoned outpost that the army had used years before while pushing away the Natives and settling the plains. According to Bartley, who was no worse off save for smelling of piss, the outpost was about ten miles from town, to the southeast. “I’ll need a new horse. Let’s head for the stables,” Paul said, and they headed back down the street. ey were

stopped by Frank just a short ways down the street. Paul Your fire will draw them out, or turn their attention to the spoke before he could; “I ain’t got time to listen to any front at least, while we take’em from the rear. If any women protest, Frank. If ya’ ain’t gonna’ help the Sheriff and the happen to come out the front first, hold your fire.” Reverend, so be it, but I’m going to do this. My way.” “Wessick is likely to hold your lady at gunpoint once he “I meant no protest, Paul. I want to come along. e realizes he’s under fire,” William said. Sheriff can handle the gravediggin’, I’m helpin’ you.” “at’s why we need to do this quick, catch them off Paul stopped in mid-stride. “Frank, I mean no offense, guard, end it before they can even think. And just so we’re on but . . .” the same page here, we’re killing them to the man unless they Frank cut him off. “I won’t be much use in a gun fight throw down their weapons. ese are outlaws, thieves and up close, that’s true, but I’m a decent shot with a rifle. I’ll murderers, and they won’t hesitate to kill us or the women cover y’all’ from a distance.” if they think they can save themselves. We cannot take that “Come on then.” ey resumed their brisk pace in the risk. direction of the stables, now with Frank. “I don’t know how “Agreed,” William said instantly. many there will be, exactly, it may be that we’re ridin’ to our Frank looked down for a moment, in silent deaths. I figure there had contemplation, before he to be at least three or four. realized that Paul and William If you ain’t got the gall to pull that ey would have needed were looking at him. “Agreed,” trigger, then you just sit right here that many to haul off he said at last. under this tree. Heather and Susie.” “Are you sure you’re in “What do you this, Frank?” Paul urged. “You propose we do when we get there?” Frank asked, looking sure as hell better be,” he said, not kindly. “A moment’s nervous. hesitation can cost us our lives and even worse, Heather’s and “We’ll scout the place, ride around in a wide arc, try to Susie’s. If you ain’t got the gall to pull that trigger, then you see how many. It’ll be dark when we get there, so we maybe just sit right here under this tree.” can sneak in unnoticed if we dismount a ways out.” “I do. I’m ready. I remember the sort we’re dealin’ with. “We’ll need to find a good spot to position Frank with I remember every mornin’ when I pull on my shirt and feel the rifle, too,” William pointed out. the pain that webs through my shoulder. I have no kindness “Yes. Most definitely.” When they reached the stables, in my heart for these men, or mercy.” Paul hurriedly saddled up the finest looking horse they had “Good.” Paul was satisfied with his response. Frank and turned over his payment to the stable hand. William and tended to be too relaxed, and Paul needed him to be a little Frank saddled up their own horses and they were off. angry, a little mean, for what was about to happen. He e sun was just setting when the outpost came into needed the man to be capable. view. Paul studied it for a moment, straining his eyes in the Dark came soon enough, a giant shadow slowly creeping twilight, before they retreated a few yards and stopped under and settling over the grassy plain. And sure enough, lantern a tree just out of view of the outpost. light shown through the small windows of the buildings. “How do you want to handle this?” William asked, “Time to go,” Will said, and they tied the horses to the loading up his rifle. lower branches of the tree they rested under. “From here there looks to be two small buildings, facing “Alright, listen up,” Paul said, looking Frank in the eyes. the same direction, and that’s it. ey have to be in those You set up about seventy-five yards out, in a spot in between buildings. If we see a light come on when it gets dark, I’ll say the two buildings so you have a good view of both doors. that’s a good sign they’re there. Frank, you’ll get into position at might be a bit closer than you’re comfortable with, but about seventy-five yards or so from the buildings, facing the they won’t be able to see you in the dark anyhow. ey’ll have front. Me and Will are gonna’ go ‘round back, see if there are to come to you, and they likely won’t be brave any windows we can shoot through. Once we’re in position, enough to do that.” if any man comes out those front doors, let’em have it, Frank. “I got it. I’m ready.”

Will added, “Don’t shoot into the buildings. e women at was more than Paul had hoped to see, but it made no will be inside, and we might be too if we can find a window difference in what they had to do. large enough to climb in. Just worry about any that come Paul heard the door of the building Will crouched behind outside.” swing open, and then the footsteps of a man crossing the “Once you’re in position,” Paul instructed, “make certain earth between the two. His gut tightened, and his heart to give us plenty of time to get around back. We’ll have to fluttered, much like it used to before a battle during the War. circle ‘round wide to avoid being seen.” But he knew before long that his adrenaline and instincts A short while later, Paul found himself edging around the would take over, and that would all go away, replaced by the outpost, keeping a careful distance and crouch-walking. He thunder of guns and the hammering of men’s cold hearts. rounded the corner of the building and pressed his back to is is it, he thought. it. He glanced to his right, behind the second building, to But as the man crossed the open space, no shot rang out look for Will, but he wasn’t there yet. Some light streamed to throw him down. Instead, the man crossed the distance as out from a small window. Sliding further down the wall, Paul casually and unaware as his boys must have been just before realized it was not a window but a gun port. Small chance of they were killed, and entered the building Paul crouched climbing through that, he thought. behind. Dammit, Frank, what are you doing out there? He needed to get some idea of how many they were up “A’ight,” he heard the man say through the gun port, “my against, though, so he edged closer. Once he was almost turn to watch.” directly beneath it, he reached up to remove his hat, and “Past your turn, I say.” realized for the first time that he wasn’t wearing it. He must “Well, I could go back . . .” have set it down at some point during the chaotic events of “You won’t be doin’ that. Sit your skinny ass down. I’m the day. He slowly, ever so slowly, stood to the point that goin’ to get me some whiskey.” he could peek in. He was a bit surprised that he had not “Wessick drank it all.” heard any voices until he saw why. In one corner, huddled “All of it?” close together, sat his wife and daughter, still wearing the “To the last drop.” same dresses they had that morning. ey were filthy, and “at drunken bastard. I paid for my share of that.” their hands and feet were bound with rope. Neither of them “Well . . .” was gagged. Small wonder, Paul thought. Not even loud“To hell with what Wessick says, then. If I can’t have mouthed, little Susie would be heard by anyone out here. somethin’ t’ drink I’m gonna’ have a woman. Soon as I get Paul figured they would have gagged her just so they wouldn’t some somethin’ t’ eat I’m comin’ back. Me and the misses are have to listen to her. gonna’ get acquainted.” In the opposite corner sat a lone guard, who looked bored Paul heard Heather’s voice now. “I wouldn’t recommend to tears. Wessick must have felt quite safe here to place only trying that,” she said, and Paul could tell she was trying to one guard. e man had guns of course, but Paul didn’t sound brave, but her voice was strained. intend to give him a chance to use them. Paul ducked back “You just sit there, pretty, and I’ll be back real soon. down and looked over to the second building, which Will Watch the little one, Greg. She bites,” and Paul heard the man now crouched behind in the darkness. Paul could barely shuffle out the door towards the second building. make him out from the small stream of light coming from Not for the first time that day, Paul found himself the building’s port. Paul overwhelmed with anger—and held up his pointer finger then, for some illogical reason, Not for the first time that day, Paul for Will to see, indicating on his feet, rounding the found himself overwhelmed with anger. the one guard inside, and corner of the building. He then jerked his thumb drew his twin revolvers and towards the wall to signal that Heather and Susie were inside. strode straight for the man. Out of the corner of his eye he Will nodded, and held up an open hand, then made a fist saw Will rushing to the corner of the other building, silently with his thumb up to indicate at least five inside his building. pleading for Paul to get down, to get back. But nothing

was stopping him now. When he was about five feet away he pulled the hammers back and pointed both barrels at the man, who heard the hammers cock and wheeled to face him. Paul lifted the revolvers to the man’s face, one at each eye, so he was staring down the gun barrels, and the man realized he was defeated, throwing his hands up rather than trying to draw his own weapon. “My sons,” Paul said. “My daughter, my wife!” and he pulled both triggers at once. under sounded, and the force took the man down hard and fast, as if he had been struck in the face with a wooden beam. Paul wheeled to face the second building, having already pulled the hammers back again. Both doors flew open, and Paul was caught in between. He was dead, he knew it, but he was taking some with him. Paul raised his revolvers and opened fire on the doorway of the building to his right, the building Will had stood behind, where the most men were. A loud boom sounded behind him, and out the corner of his eye he saw the lone guard from the left building fall, and he thought, Frank!, somewhere in the back of his mind. Paul aimed and pulled until his guns clicked empty. ree men lay motionless at the foot of the right building’s door. But Will said at least five, he thought, and crouched and reloaded his weapon. By then Will was around the corner, with both of his guns drawn. e whole thing had transpired in seconds. “ere should be at least one more in there,” Will said. “Wessick. I don’t see his bloated carcass among those lying at the door. He should be the easiest one.” And sure enough he was. Just as Paul had heard the man say, Wessick had drunk all the whiskey, and was passed out on a small bunk inside the building. “ink we got a rope that’ll hold him up?” Will said. Paul stood over Wessick, looking down at the filth of a man that had taken his sons. He cocked the hammers on his revolvers, and stood there in silence for a long moment. “Back in town, we do. Bind his hands and gag him; I don’t want to hear him utter a word once he wakes up. If he drowns in his own up-chuck, so be it, it’s no better than he deserves. I’ll get the girls,” Paul said, and he eased the hammers forward and turned to leave the room. On the ride back home, Paul was lectured by Frank for

not sticking to the plan. “I nearly fainted when I saw you step out in the open. at was foolish,” Paul thought he heard him say at least half a dozen times before they reached Westville, but he was too busy with his own thoughts, a strange mix of relief and grief. Heather didn’t say a word; she just rode the whole way in silence, with her arms tight around his waist. She shared the grief and pain he felt. Paul wondered if they could recover from this. en he saw little Susie, looking down at her filthy sunflower dress in disgust, and smiled for the first time since that morning. ey’d be alright. ey hadn’t lost everything.

Diving Amanda Losch

God and I made a pact walking down my gravel driveway – I told him the snails lodged in the rocks didn’t crunch the same anymore. I said, is it your will for my friends to die alone, scared, barricaded behind their open fingers? He can’t answer me – he speaks no English, only some Nature – wind, trees, fawns, birds – all that you need more than braille to feel. I couldn’t find any answers in the swaying branches so I grabbed an axe and hacked them to kindling – hacked them past recognition and asked them to sing for me as I threw them whimpering in the fire. ey never sing, though, gone as quickly as I create them, consumed, dissolving, losing each other as solids and crying for each other as gasses. Face over the water, I see nothing of comprehension in the reflection so I plunge my head in, hoping I might delve past surface into darkness – where the fish churn the truth and the plankton blanket it with their numbers. God took the form of a trout and swam my eyes down where my fingers can’t reach, where human heads (unable to expand), implode with the sheer reality of it, with a simple thud – lost to the molecules, hand-holders, another layer of guardians. When I called it too muddy to see, God made himself an eagle, holding me in his talons, flying me above cracked roofs and rusted trucks – up and up and higher until he released his grip, letting me fall in horror until he softened piles of sand, and when I asked why he dropped me, silence heaved its inaudible sigh, brushing my hair, implying something of the great fall, of choice, of rebirth out of brokenness. At night, the crickets offer up their condolences in imperfect sonatas. Bugs, stealing and bottling up the lightning for themselves, flash their accomplishments at a pair of window eyes, taking care to only share their twinkling with the stars and the straining street lamps – never selfish, always stoic.

I asked the moth borrowing the light from the moon if he might convince God to paint my heart with some of the same, but he flew away, using his wings to mutter that he could not lobby for nor stay with me – he does not ignore me, having mosquitoes relay the message through the screen, through my blood… Nothing easier than self-deceit, nothing harder than personal faith – And, much later, I knew – angry, lost, I jumped to tell the lizards on the rod-ironed gates around the pool what it is to drink of the other side.

Luce della Chiesa, Nichole Field, Photography

Her winter was not white, it was colored pink and grey. Land and love once beautiful, now barren as she fell further away from faith. Hearts and branches buckled under February ice. Inhale. Her skin smelled of snow. Exhale. Her soul stuck to the windshield. e cold air and truth felt sharp inside her lungs and across her face.

Breathe

(ere would be nothing warm about tonight.)

Caitlin Crowley-Feldheim

Deportation Train (Lithuania), Johanna Field, Photography

of spring our

In the

separation Joshua D. Crabill

Fading We become sickly pale, beginning with the fleshy pads of our aging fingertips as disease works its way to the heart, and we rest.

You left my heart as a snowman leaves fair weather diminishing your stature. You slipped away into the soil your meager form becoming less appealing, less imposing, more manageable. e wind’s kisses stole you away along with desire. Empty, peaceful breezes that left you wanting, left me wanting, No more— but I admit I still slip on the soft ground.

Color

We sail offshore to become more intimate, legs tangled as we relax under the salt-saturated sky as tired waves settle in comfort underneath. e burning wick melts the surrounding wax and all that is substantial dissolves into hot liquid, and we drink ourselves into believing that all is merely at rest.

Suzanne Day

e night was scintillating drunk as any Friday, we walked like scarecrows under the prickling gaze of the purple, bruised November sky, stuffed with straw, but blithe with spirit. Stars appeared in chaotic disarray of dwindling dreams in intoxication eyes. We walked; hugging tree-trunks, loving the humility of the grass; kissing the crisp air. You aimed at the stars. en at the giant trunk of the Oak Riya Sarker hitting the trunk with a stone. “Who moved that tree?” you cried, missing the mark, by a yard or so. We patronized your failure with jocund cheers. What is nobility but a murmur in the soul? We climbed up the Oak, clutching its branches wildly, like a flotsam in the wreckage. e tree bore us silently like a womb. Huddled together on that branch; swinging our legs in air we gazed at the condescending constellations, taking lessons in astronomy and planetary movements. “You can never get lost if you know the stars,” you had said back then. Our thoughts diffused into air like concentric smoke rings, on how a bubble could make a difference in the universe? Or the truth and the nature of love. Such incongruity; such disparity. We do not remember dates, hours and months, but we still remember the bonds of friendship, faith trials of life. Ignominy in obscurity. en you called for a closer shot. Standing up on the branch for a stellar performance. e bough snapped under the strain. We came crashing down on the ground, unceremoniously, screaming, laughing, panting like sullen toddlers, as the mother Oak banished us out of her belly. Even the Orion smiling at us, as we crawled to our feet.

N

i ght Vision

Tangerine Alexandra Ford

Scream

Today the oaks scream tangerine just loud enough to make the clouds blaze wild; one last defiant burst of life, as if to say they’re brighter than the rainbow Christmas bulbs that wrap their lovers’ arms on Winter nights.

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