Spring 2010 - The Silhouette Literary and Art Magazine - emcvt

Silhouette
Literary and Art Magazine
Volume 32, Issue 2 Spring 2010
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Poetry
The Floodgate ..........................................................................8
Cornhusk Doll ...........................................................................9
The Loving Reader .................................................................11
Widow o’Flies .........................................................................12
Apple and Cinnamon ..............................................................13
Sliver .......................................................................................15
Noture .....................................................................................16
Forty-Three Years ...................................................................17
Discretion ...............................................................................18
Showing Herself Off ...............................................................19
Black Woman Affair ................................................................20
Holding Fortune ......................................................................21
Chapter 3: Prose
The Soloist........................................................................34-39
Chapter 4: Art
Contemplation ........................................................................41
Laurel ..................................................................................... 43
Ceramic and Yarn .............................................................44-45
Lazarus I ...........................................................................46-47
Interior Design ..................................................................48-49
Monk ..................................................................................... 50
Girl ......................................................................................... 50
Grisailles Hands .....................................................................51
Chapter 2: Photography
Fallen ..................................................................................... 23
Overlook ................................................................................ 24
The Transition ........................................................................ 25
Isolation ................................................................................. 26
Stealth & Silence ................................................................... 29
Sometime Ago ....................................................................... 30
Ancient History ...................................................................... 31
Editor’s Choice
4 5

Chapter 1
Poetry
6
6 7
7

The Floodgate
Grace Cardwell
Cornhusk Doll
Leigh Anne Coble
She was still, doing her crossword puzzle.
On the TV in a distant room, there’s a muffled voice, calling for rain.
Moving mechanically from the couch to the window seat
and looking up —
The sky had never seemed so low.
Then all at once the clouds started screaming
and tears of frustration were thrown at the earth.
What sin so evil had the earth committed?
The floodgate was broken, and though she was inside,
she watched.
And watched for an undetermined sect of time.
The rain slamming onto the roof
was pounding in her head.
She hovered to the sink,
and turns the handle, and kept turning it
urgently, wanting to feel the surge of power
of the rain.
And the water hit the tub hard,
and it splashed in her face,
and the faucet shook and screeched,
and it scared and amazed her,
and it made her step back,
but it wasn’t the rain.
Carrie Mae’s house held that smell –
of overcooked cauliflower,
of carpets long since vacuumed.
It was that smell,
of the worn-down and the sickly,
that made me cautious.
Even at the age of turtleneck velour
sweaters and lace-trimmed socks,
I knew that the smell meant sickness and that sickness
meant death.
Oh, but her dolls were alive
as if her life were being siphoned into theirs.
Is that why Mom, in an urgent hush, warned:
“Honey, don’t touch.”
Is that why Carrie Mae’s hands,
whether from defiance or hard hearing,
ignored my mother’s wishes and placed
her most precious dolls in my arms?
And is that why my mother came to me, gently,
as if I were a porcelain doll, delicately painted,
from Carrie Mae’s top cabinet shelf
with words, once more hushed, but this time, soft:
“Sweetie,
Carrie Mae loved you very much...”
I learned the meaning of a will:
I could pick out one doll.
Nestled to my chest – with its simplicity,
its rough skin, and its ability to absorb
the smell of the ages,
the smell of my Carrie Mae –
rested a cornhusk doll.
8 9

Fiction Editor’s Choice
The Loving Reader
Zaki Barzinji
Thoughts from Zaki
“This piece was born out of complete frustration with my inability to say
anything of meaning. I was on a plane home from Cairo (where I spent a
semester) and trying to get back into the swing of writing for the coming
semester of English courses. I felt (and still often feel) this unshakeable feeling
that to truly succeed as a writer, there is this tremendous pressure to say
something profound, witty, out of this world, just dripping with brilliance
with every word. I couldn’t take it. I wrote the first lines of this poem, then
wrote “I can never think how to begin/So caught am I in this race for wit/
Twist some new cliché and polish/ Shiny new bowl for the same old shit”. As I
threw my head back in exasperation, with babies crying left and right, choppy
shouted Arabic pelting my ears, and Hannah Montana playing on the tiny
screens before me, I shut my eyes to escape this strange, squawking, stupid, and
brilliant world called language. And then –cliché alert- all I saw was the face
of the most beautiful woman I had just met in pyramid land… and it wrote
itself. That’s it, and that’s me.
“
How do you put feelings to words?
Squeeze letters out of sunshine?
Can seas of black ink ever begin to cover
The blinding rainbow of joy that courses through life’s pen?
So why try?
Why reduce the infinite prism of the universe
To the mere cracks of language?
You may scribe a thousand delicious words,
But paper shall forever have but one taste.
A single scent.
Fill it with every last wondrous sound rattling in the mind’s ear,
And all it will ever sing is the gentle whip of a rustle.
So. Then.
You will be my language.
Your eyes my adjectives, for lost in them do I see the world described.
The sway of your hips, my cadence and meter.
Moans and murmurs, my onomatopoeias and colloquialisms.
And your voice... the quill, your heavenly song... the ink.
The only calligraphy I ever want etched on my soul’s parchment.
I only want to speak you,
To turn each of your pages,
Love every crinkle, smudge, rip, and tear,
Because they mean
You are.
A pristine book whose spine has never been cracked,
Just another done-up, pretty cover,
Is not worth a single glance,
From the loving reader.
10
11

Widow o’Flies
Lauren White
Come closer, love, draw nigh
Along this veil of spindled water
I’ll sit in the center, watch you come near
Along the thin veins,
The tangled web I weaved.
This is my trap, devised by God of old
A solution to loneliness and hunger
Hungry eyes watching, caught each other in cross-gaze
You’re so wary, I’m so ready
Why don’t you move faster,
Why let my hunger win?
Flies around us struggle
Bound too tight to move.
God, I’d free them if I didn’t eat them.
If they didn’t consume me.
This den, my lovely picture silhouetted in the light
You’re enraptured of my strands of hair,
The water drops hung there, softly glinting,
Just so enticing. Won’t you give in?
Eyes fed on sight, legs entwining tight
Oh, how the flies surge, fin’ly break free
I am one and you are so,
And since you are I’ve captured you too.
Turn this way, my lover, I’ll show you my sweet smile
Come closer, lover, I’ll hold you dear.
Ah, why did you move so slow? Why did you tempt me so?
I will not resist you, fly that you are.
So fast it’s done, my earth shakes
It is stronger than steel but broken by whispering lies,
Floating away in strands of our struggle
The flies settle, I wrap them up tight
I’ll keep them safe
For another you on a different night
While with steady legs I weave that tangled web again.
Apple and Cinnamon
One day I
promise to quit
pretending that
leaves are made
of fire and sunrises,
capable of bursting
into stars at
will.
Maybe, in a year,
in a day, I’ll trace
their dead veins
and not think of
the crimson
mortality in mine,
ticking a fickle
Judas heart, with
no warning
when it will finally
stop.
Like summer,
where life is
infectious and
hope a disease,
some things are
too good to last,
not just for lack of
Grace Hayes
trying.
12 13

Thoughts from Brooke
“Last year as a freshman four of my new best friends and I borrowed a
car and drove down to the New River to star gaze. Since it was only
early spring we brought a ton of blankets to snuggle up in and stay
warm. We stayed until early morning talking, laughing, and relishing
our independence and friendship. This night was one of my very
favorite memories of my freshman year, and I wanted to capture it in a
poem so I could always remember it. I named the poem Sliver
because the fingernail moon was only a sliver in the sky, and my friends
and I felt like only a miniscule sliver in the universe.
“
Sliver
Brooke Reynolds
Sky stretched out before us
like heaven’s art project,
sprinkled with handfuls of silver glitter
and a pasted paper moon.
Girls huddled together
squirming, giggling, snuggling, teasing,
and chattering on a blanket.
River rushing by in too much of a hurry
to stop and mingle, leaving us
with only a passing gurgle of hello.
Spring teasing
the cool night air with soft breezes
and playful pockets of warm currents
embracing youthful skin.
Backs to the grass, eyes to the stars,
fingers intertwined like wisteria vines.
Hearts and minds soaring up, floating
until adrift among the palette of stars,
which held secrets of life, ramblings
of thoughts, and our energy,
so fresh and raw that freshman year.
Peaceful quiet settling
over the night, hushing bodies
into a quiet, rhythmic hum.
Sending rays of contentment,
simple and pure, echoing
throughout the universe.
Feeling smaller than ever before,
yet never more empowered by the vastness
of that sky.
It was just us.
Beneath the blankets,
beneath the trees,
beneath the stars.
Five heads connecting
in the middle of the fleece,
forming
our own earth-bound star.
Poetry Editor’s Choice
14
15

Forty-Three Years
Brooke Reynolds
Noture
Zaki Barzinji
I would have relished the fresh
crunch of crisp leaves,
If not for the slimy smile of slugs beneath
Would’ve salsa’d with the sun
beaming from ear to ear of corn,
But it’s the UVs, you see
She couldn’t have been my mother, for my
lips would touch no mossy bosom,
And my father had already a mistress,
I could converse with wind and trees
if I troubled to learn woosh and bark,
But why can’t they all just
speak English? This is America.
I’d live deep and suck out the
marrow of life,
But I’d rather save my tongue
for tastier things
In short, I’d bother to live in harmony
with the earth and sing verses with the universe
till the smiles smote all the swords and
weapons surrendered to the power of words,
and beings loved outside their herds,
and all of us flew with the birds,
If it wasn’t so fuckin’ inconvenient.
Summers, autumns, winters, and springs slipped
by. Clustered together forming forty-three years
since she moved to the beach.
Waking to seagulls’ throaty cries,
thick, salty air enveloping tan bodies,
surfboards piled on wooden Volkswagens,
sandy carpets, feet, and beds.
Building her life at the sea
out of dribble castles and empty
bottles of sunscreen.
Raising children
then grandchildren at the edge
of the unbound Atlantic.
Letting life ebb and flow
with the changing tides, while sitting
on a beach chair wearing Hollywood sunglasses,
relaxing, soaking, being, knowing
that the moon is in control.
Forty-three years of pouring
vinegar on jellyfish stings, studying
the sunset as it airbrushed the sky, chewing
on salt-water taffy. Living
watching, listening, absorbing, blending
into the ocean.
Wrinkles, sun-browned skin,
blonde-streaked hair,
tough bare feet all year long.
Keeping life
beautifully simple. Moments
became days, days became weeks,
weeks became
forty-three years.
16 17

Discretion
Caty Gordon
There are no secrets,
there is only privacy.
And everyone has the right to privacy.
But the linen dangles dripping in the backyard,
little lies we hide forming clever puddles in the grass.
There are no secrets
because the walls carry our confessions
and the mirror will always recall
the way nudity clings to you.
The mortar will allow whispers to escape
into the street and the neighbors, the nosy kind,
will catch wind of how good the sex is.
There are no secrets because the yellow mug you left
in my sink is cracked and the morning smile from
your lips will slide down the drain,
through the sewer and streams,
and finally form a frothy ripple in a crescent wave
of an open ocean.
There are no secrets, you see, because pieces of you will drip
and carry and reflect and escape and slide away
from my hands.
There are no secrets,
there is only privacy.
And you have the right to privacy,
just like I have the right
to
my
own
heart.
I look damn good.
Hell yeah.
Ooh this old thing?
You better believe it.
This look works for me.
But not for you honey,
Not just for any young thing attempting to strut down that street,
I own the street, it is my make believe stage.
Closing my eyes, playing my role, I walk with the gradual swing of my hips,
the quick swift but jolting pop to one lucky side,
They think I’m all that.
All that... ha, a whole lot of nothing.
Street stopping,
maybe just to you.
But who’s the girl hiding on the side,
afraid to show herself to the real world?
Showing myself off, it’s a lot different from showing myself.
Take my bright blue sapphire sinful sparkling eyes
“You like?”
With a quick wink from my shadow pasted thick on top,
never to smudge or fade,
Combined with my luscious lustful red lips
“Gorgeous?”
I’ll give a quick smooch
one quick pucker together,
“Come and get it baby.”
And smack — it’s all been done,
But really
in the end, it’s all a show.
Now Presenting:
Sophisticated
Beautiful
Envious
Showing Herself Off
Laura Jensen
“Jealous?”
I knew you would be.
18 19

Black Woman Affair
Thomas Beckworth
Labeling her like she a file folder
because she won’t let you degrade
her body and insult her integrity,
telling everyone she got attitude,
she already peeped your game.
She refuse to be placed in a cabinet
or up on a shelf like other women
you have dated and trashed like you were
slam dunking a basketball. She’s strong,
black, educated, won’t be barricaded
in misery or have spells cast on her.
You a pretentious brother —
Arrogant, conniving and controlling.
All your homeboys know, the only thing
you trying to do is smash and play with her
like you spinning the bottle. Too bad.
She confident, sophisticated, and dedicated.
If she get to know you, she might as well
audition for Tyler Perry’s I Can Do Bad All By Myself.
You shadowing her move, saying that black woman
have an attitude.
Did you forget your momma black?
Knot your tongue, tape your mouth,
freeze your brain, she don’t wanna
talk to you and your attitude.
Holding Fortune
Hayley Dodd
I knew I could love your hands
before I knew your last name
or that I was dying.
They were big
like old burly motorcycles
and the thought of holding them
made me feel safe,
even without helmet.
One of them could easily hold
the responsibility
of an entire basketball,
which is far more voluminous than my head
sans hair,
which led me to believe
you could love me bald.
This is an important quality in a man,
ever since the palm reader
read the lines across my hand,
like a foreign language laid down in Braille,
like a net over my flesh.
I remember laughing and gasping
as your big
and benign
hands held the tarot cards
she gave us for free.
We found amusement in the future
before it found us
in the bright room
with 18 chairs, like the dentist’s,
but my teeth were being cleaned by only vomit,
And while my body was letting poison
wash my organs
My forehead rested
in your big blanched hands.
20
21

Chapter 2
Photography
Fallen
Lesley Ann Stowe
22
23

The Transition
Hanna Teachey
Overlook
Hussein Ahmed
24 25

26 27
Isolation
Hanna Teachey

Photography Editor’s Choice
Thoughts from Hussein
““I took this photo at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum. I was amazed at how
this snake looked so alert. I was fortunate enough to have the snake enclosed in an
aquarium, but using a polarizing filter, zooming in, and using a wide aperture
for the shallow depth of field, I was able to capture the beauty of that fearful
creature. With those great eyes, unique scales on the head, and the intricate scales
overlapping like tiles with adjacent rows diagonally offset, this made for a great
picture of a remarkably beautiful, yet horrific beast who eats his prey alive.
“
Stealth & Silence
Hussein Ahmed
28
29

Ancient History
Sarah Tanner
Sometime Ago
Hussein Ahmed
30
31

Chapter 3
Prose
32
33

The Soloist
Adrienne Rush
The girl did not want to go to church. It wasn’t because she was sick, or
because she had to sing a solo today. She simply thought that today, on this
Sunday, of all the Sundays in her life, she should do something else. Take a
walk maybe. Or perhaps finish the last few chapters of Cat’s Cradle. She liked
Kurt Vonnegut. He was honest.
She opened her bedroom door and then turned and sat on the edge of her
bed, listening to her family run through their Sunday morning routines. Her
father’s curses came careening down the hall as he tried in vain to coerce the
skinny part of his tie into becoming shorter than the fat part. “Goddamn it!”
he shouted. Then more quietly: “Ellen.” It wasn’t a command or a plea, but the
familiar completion of a habit. “There now,” soothed the mother’s voice after
a minute, “don’t you look handsome.” The girl heard her mother walk across
the room to her vanity to finish putting on her makeup, her shoes click-clacking
against the wooden floor in measured steps. As the organist for their church,
the girl’s mother couldn’t wear high heels while she played, but she insisted
on wearing her three-inch pumps to and from the service, maintaining that
without them the difference in height between her husband and herself was
simply unsightly.
Thumph. Whap. The wall behind the girl’s bed vibrated as her brother John
threw his basketball in an arc across his room so that it bounced off their
shared wall and back into his waiting hands. Thumph. Whap. The girl leaned
back and closed her eyes against the familiar beat, trying to recall just how
much of her life had been spent in gyms hearing that leathery slap against
palms—warm, sweaty gyms that reeked of battle and echoed with the furious
cries of indignant fathers. John was talented on the court, more talented than
most boys his age, and his talent was a great source of pride to his father. Well,
to his mother too, but then she’d be quick to tell you that she was proud of both
of her children as long as they tried their best. The girl supposed she was proud
as well, though she could have thought of other things to do with all of those
weekends—weekends spent traveling up and down the East Coast to various
tournaments, of sneakers squeaking and whistles blowing, of MVPs and
trophies, of high fives and grateful fingers pointed skyward in thanks. Thumph.
Whap. Thumph. Wha—
“What’s the matter with you?” The girl opened her eyes and looked up into
her father’s face, his lips pulled down at the corners into an irritated frown.
“Look at you—not even dressed yet,” he boomed. “The service starts in half
an hour, your mother and brother are dressed and ready to go, and you’re laying
here half asleep!”
The girl said nothing. She looked up at her father and thought to herself that
he had too much skin; the way it bunched up around his wrists and his neck
in thick fleshy rings made him look rather like a hippopotamus. She wondered
why it hadn’t occurred to her before, this resemblance, and decided that since
he had maintained such an ample weight for as long as she could remember, she
had just never taken the care to notice. He peered down at her.
“Are you sick?” he asked, his voice tinged with confusion. She shook her
head. He sighed impatiently. Suddenly, with a pleased look of realization, he
leaned down to her. “Nervous about the solo, is that it?” he prompted, with
a smile that pushed his cheeks up into round doughy balls. Again she said
nothing, but her father’s chest puffed out in self-congratulation, like a pigeon’s
after it has found a half-eaten candy bar on the street. “It’ll be fine, sweetheart,”
he said, slapping a meaty hand on her shoulder just as he’d do to his son after
an impressive win on the court. “Mom’ll be right there, playing along just like
at home,” he added. The girl smiled and nodded. “Right then, we’ll meet you
downstairs.”
For the first time they parked along Maple Ridge Drive, which was a few
blocks from the St. James parking lot. The mother remarked that they’d never
arrived to see the lot full but she supposed that that’s what happened if you
were late. They hurried through the great red doors and right into a crowd of
people milling about, apparently awaiting the opening of the doors that led into
the nave.
“Why look, there she is! Oh Ellen, Ellen!” They turned to see Mr. and Mrs.
Thomas approaching them, flanked on either side by their sons, Dave and Billy.
The Thomas family all shared the same unfortunate hawkish nose and thin,
spindly frame—the girl was often reminded of a flock of storks whenever she
saw them all together. Dave and the girl’s brother performed a complicated
handshake routine and then disappeared into the crowd to find the rest of the
basketball team.
“We were wondering where you all were,” Mrs. Thomas exclaimed, “but
I kept telling Bill that there must’ve been a problem that held you up.” She
smiled expectantly at them. “Well? Is everything all right?”
“Oh, just fine, just fine,” the girl’s mother answered. “Just running late, you
know.” She smiled back, a broad shiny smile that looked as if it took more effort
than it should, but was really quite easy for the mother. She wore it often. As
34 35

she lifted a hand to adjust her necklace however, the girl noticed a trickle of
sweat that ran down the side of her mother’s beige silk blouse. Odd, considering
the cool autumn weather. Odder still, the fact that her mother hated to
perspire and so rarely did.
After exchanging a few pleasantries with the Thomas’, both of the girl’s
parents went off to mingle and she was left alone in the middle of the crowd,
surrounded by greetings and warm small talk. She felt a familiar hollowness;
the words bounced around and over her as if she were an empty tureen
forgotten in the middle of a dinner table during a lively meal—the talk friendly,
of peas and tomato soup.
“Megan, that skirt is gorgeous—you absolutely must tell me where you
got it Oh you don’t think it’s too simple Oh no, it’s elegant you know, not too
fancy but really just stunning Well, thank you, I bought it just last weekend at
that new Talbots that opened over on King Street Oh yes, I know the one you
mean, over by the Starbucks right That’s the one So Doug, whadya think bout
that match-up tonight, huh It’s gonna be a real fight, I’ll tell ya Steve, that new
quarterback they got outta Michigan State is gonna put up some big numbers
Kid’s got a good arm, huh? It’s more than that though, he can really see the
field, you know, can really stand big in the pocket, so we’ll see if the o-line
can give him some support Oh, and Kathy, don’t forget about scrapbooking
on Tuesday night, and remember you signed up to bring brownies I’ll be there,
we’re meeting at Lori’s, right Frank, remind me to show you the new TV when
you come over later for the barbeque I don’t even think I want to, I’ll bet I’m so
jealous I can’t even stand it Heh, I can still hardly believe Jen let me get it, but
you know, you only live once and--”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
The girl raised her eyes to Missy Johnson, who was standing awkwardly in
front of her, not quite sure what to do with her hands. Missy was a tall girl,
with a pinched face and drooping eyes that were expertly rimmed with heavy
black eyeliner. “Didn’t even see you there, with all these people, you know?”
Missy smiled at the girl. “Have you seen your brother? I haven’t been able to
find him yet, and my parents were hoping he would sit with us for the service.”
The girl studied her brother’s girlfriend, noting that her pointed features
became even more pronounced when trying to convey a forced friendliness.
Missy really was quite pretty, the girl thought—beneath the makeup and
the orange skin that clashed violently with her shiny bleached hair. She
remembered how much like a child Missy had seemed last Friday afternoon,
when the girl had caught her and John hurrying out of the Planned Parenthood
over behind Fireworks Pizza. She hadn’t meant to catch them. She had simply
“And the girl
smiled back at the
prodigal son.”
slipped out after
chorus class, through
the door behind
the gym, and found
herself downtown
with no real plan or a thing to do. Wandering past the antique stores and
banks, she happened across them exiting the building that they—as two officers
in the Abstinence Club—had often picketed. Missy had been crying; her face
was red and splotchy and the black from her makeup ran in little rivulets down
her face, while snot collected in a small wet pool just above her mouth. None of
the three had said anything at first; Missy wiped her face and searched for a lie.
John gawked. And the girl smiled back at the prodigal son.
“I swear to God,” he finally managed, “if you tell Mom or Dad!” They both
had stared horrified at the witness, resentment coloring their faces, as if she had
intruded upon them in a moment of prayer.
“Look,” he tried again, “it was an accident. You don’t know how— Please.”
Please…
“Please,” said Missy softly, her voice just barely carrying through the crowd’s
buoyant chitchat. She touched the girl gently on the arm, then looked down at
her hand and pulled it away nervously. “You didn’t say anything, right? I mean,
you won’t? John can’t deal with this now, with the State championships next
week. He can’t have that stress, you know? For him, at least, okay?”
The girl nodded. Missy smiled at her again, relief softening the sharp angles
in her face. The smile almost reached Missy’s eyes, and then she sniffed once,
turned, smoothed her dress with her hands, and slipped back into the current of
the crowd as it surged through the now open church doors.
The girl’s eyes flitted to the leaf-strewn street outside and she considered
making a run for it, but the crowd swept her up and minutes later she
found herself wedged in between her father and the Jacobson family on an
uncomfortably hard pew, the underside of her thighs sticking to the smooth
wood. She tugged at her skirt and tried to shift her position slightly to relieve
the discomfort, but her father’s bulk kept her pinned firmly against Mrs.
Jacobson’s bony, polyester-covered hip. She let her head fall back, and she stared
up at the dark wooden ceiling, curved like an upside-down boat. The stainedglass
windows threw slants of colored light into the pews, and she could feel the
dappled blue and red shapes rest warmly on her face.
Just then her mother’s hands banged out the first chord on the organ,
signaling the service’s start, and the girl stood with the rest of them. She
watched as her mother played with joy, a look of pure contentment resting on
36 37

the woman’s slender face. With eyes closed, her fingers sought out the keys with
ease and her feet flew over the pedals in a graceful dance. The girl reflected that
she hardly ever saw her mother in such a state of bliss—in fact, she realized
that the only time the woman was quite as peaceful was when she had her third
after-dinner glass of wine, coupled with a Vicodin. She felt a sudden urge to
hug her mother, this happy mother; she wanted to grab her and squeeze her
tight, and give her a kiss. She found herself smiling at the thought, knowing
how fussy her mother became at unnecessary displays of affection.
After the congregation had re-seated themselves, the hundreds of bottoms
hitting the pews like a rumble of thunder, the girl felt her father’s hand on her
knee, giving an encouraging squeeze. She did not know what to make of this
second touch of the day from him—he had not touched her for weeks, ever
since she had found a big, jangly gold earring between the cushions of the
living-room couch. Her mother did not wear big earrings—gaudy, she called
them—and the girl herself did not have pierced ears. She had slipped it across
the kitchen table to him the next morning, as the two of them enjoyed their
usual school morning schedule of Raisin Bran and crossword puzzles. His face
had paled just one barely noticeable shade, and with a savage grab he clutched
the earring. The girl brought a spoonful of flakes to her mouth and munched
on in silence. She had waited for a declaration of innocence, a hurried excuse,
the explanation behind a silly misunderstanding—but he had just stared at her,
his eyes pleading.
Please…
Her father’s touch reminded her that it was time for her solo. She stood and
made her way along the spongy red carpet that stretched down the middle of
the church, splitting the congregation in two. She took her place in the middle
of the front line of the choir and smiled back at her mother’s childlike grin. The
church seemed cavernous then, a whale’s jaws stretched wide in front of her—
threatening to swallow her whole. Everything was so still she thought a single
sneeze might blow Mr. Seymour’s toupee right off of his head.
As the first chord sang triumphantly from the massive pipes, the girl stepped
forward, opened her mouth, and let out a scream. It was louder than any sound
she had made in her life. It was so loud, and so long, she almost forgot it was
hers. She heard the scream echo throughout the space; it ricocheted off the
giant curved buttresses and grazed the twenty-foot-tall Jesus emblazoned
on the stained glass window. As she ran out of breath, the end of the scream
was coated in sandpaper as it tore from her throat. She swallowed and tasted
something hot and coppery—truth, she thought.
The girl breathed heavily through her mouth, her eyes flashing, as she faced
the sea of Os—wide and blinking, and pink and fleshy. She caught her mother’s
horrified stare, her delicate skin flushed with shame. John gaped up at her with
loose wet lips, like a deep sea bass just plucked from the water. The girl met her
father’s gaze evenly. She couldn’t tell if he was trying not to cry or laugh. He
simply sat there, and sweated profusely. No one moved.
“Goddamnit!” she prompted. The church erupted, as women shushed their
children and men shouted angrily. The girl watched the chaos unfold, strangely
unsatisfied. The next thing she knew she was outside, sitting on the curb next
to her father. He was looking off over her head, almost afraid of her. She didn’t
like that.
“Dad?”
She reached out to comfort him. Just as her hand touched his arm, he
grabbed her in a tight embrace, resting his cheek against the top of her head.
Normally the girl didn’t like her father’s hugs—he was always so sweaty and
thick. But this time she didn’t mind his clammy hands holding her close, and
she breathed in his salty smell. He didn’t try to understand her in this moment,
and she was glad. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and then stood and rejoined
the rest of the girl’s family.
She watched the three backs as they returned to the church without her,
explanations and excuses already on their minds. Her mother’s shoulders were
slumped, as if someone had struck her in the stomach and knocked the wind
out of her. The girl felt a slight squeeze inside her chest; she didn’t like seeing
her mother wounded like this, hurt and confused like a child. She watched
with an odd sort of yearning as her mother smoothed her carefully highlighted
hair back into place, and the family re-entered through the great red doors.
38 39

Chapter 4
Art
Contemplation
Digital Art
Anthony Irwin
40
41

Art Editor’s Choice
Thoughts from Christine
“In this piece, I wanted to capture light and color on skintone
and hair...the human figure in general. When I first
started painting I used acrylics, but it doesn’t have the same
luminosity as oils. I use a lot of layering techniques in my
paintings and with oils, the layers show through much better.
I used straight lines in the background to break up the color
”
field. The title of the piece is actually the name of the model,
Laurel.
Laurel
Oil on Canvas
Christine Munchak
42
43

Ceramic and Yarn
Colleen Dolinger
Spring Green on Bright Yellow
Black on Bright Red
44
45
Claret Fleck on Colonial White

Lazarus I
Elise Birnbaum
46 47
Screen Print on Book Cover

Interior Design
Computer Generated Perspectives
Sibie Ohumay
Eclectic Bedroom
Eclectic Dining Room
Contemporary Living Room
48
49

Monk
Micron Pen
and Color Pencil
Anthony Irwin
Girl
Micron Pen
Anthony Irwin
Grisailles Hands
Oil on Canvas
Christine Munchak
50
51

Silhouette Staff
Index
Monica Alvano
Editor-in-Chief
Elise Chretien
Photography Editor
Alyssa Haak
Fiction Editor
Brian Ivasauskas
Poetry Editor
Brittney Trimmer
Art Editor
Katie Hagan
Business Manager
Rachel East
Communications
Director
Allen Jung
Promotions Director
Alex Pirillo
Distribution Manager
Kristin Walker
Public Relations
Director
Briana Bishop
Production Manager
Kelley Junco
Assistant Production
Manager
Kayla Clements
Graphic Designer
Wei Hann
Graphic Designer
Darien Foster
Webmaster
Ahmed, Hussein M. 24, 29, 30
Barzinji, Zaki 11,16
Beckworth, Thomas 20
Birnbaum, Elise 46
Cardwell, Grace 8
Coble, Leigh Anne 9
Dodd, Hayley 21
Dolinger, Colleen 44
Gordon, Caty 18
Ohumay, Sibie 48
Reynolds, Brooke 15, 17
Rush, Adrienne 34
Stowe, Lesley Ann 23
Tanner, Sarah 31
Teachey, Hanna 25, 26
White, Lauren 12
Vanessa Williams
Alumni Relations
Director
General Staff:
Taylor Chakunda
Sarah Janosik
Rachael Leon
Mika Rivera
Hannah Soh
Hayes, Grace 13
Irwin, Anthony 41, 50
Jensen, Laura 19
Munchak, Christine 43, 51
If you currently are an undergraduate or
graduate student at Virginia Tech,
Silhouette welcomes your
submissions. You can submit your work
in person at 344 Squires Student Center
or you can e-mail your submisstion
at submit@collegemedia.com. More
details are located on our website
www.silhouette.collegemedia.com.
52 53

Congratulations
Mendoza
Winner of Fall 2009
The Bugle
The Yearbook of Virginia Tech
Preserving Hokie Memories since 1895
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Letter from the Editor
Dear Readers,
Ever since I began as a general staff member of Silhouette, my goal has
been to best showcase the creativity of the Virginia Tech student body.
I am proud to say that this semester Silhouette has taken great strides
towards this goal. This issue is the first full-color issue of Silhouette.
Restructured into chapters, the magazine’s contents are now divided by
media. Each Editor chose a favorite piece, and these are accompanied
by thoughts from the artist as well as the artist’s silhouette. All of these
changes were made to present creative work as it is meant to be seen,
and to provide insight through its back-story.
For this accomplishment I owe many thanks. To my family and friends,
thank you for supporting me in every way. To EMCVT, thank you for your
outstanding contribution to our community. To Melissa Brice, who took
big risks with this magazine, thank you for inspiring me to take a chance
and run with it. To the entire Silhouette staff, thank you for taking that
chance with me. And to our readers and contributors, Silhouette is all
about you.
It has been a privilege to serve as Editor-in-Chief for a short but sweet
semester. Katie. you have been the best Business Manager ever and will
be an amazing Editor-in-Chief.
To our loyal readers, I hope you enjoy the change. For our new
followers, this is only the beginning.
With love,
Monica Alvano
Editor-in-Chief