The Gallery Spring 2013

the

Gallery Spring 2013

the

Gallery Spring 2013

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allery

Volume 27, Issue 2 Spring 2013

Editors Editor-in-Chief Katie Demeria Managing Editor Jenny Lee Copy Editor Dana Wood Art Editor Ashley Brykman Poetry Editor Connor Smith Prose Editor Libby Addison Staff Kate Fleming D.J. La Velle Allie Nelson Molly Norrbom Jill McLaughlin Chris Wolfe Cover Art

Tribute to Cecile Agnes - Year After Year Michael Le, Colored Pencil See the complete work on page 12

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Poetry

Table of Contents

uptown Portraits of an Asylum For Rita Trahan McCullough I Should Have Stopped to Think it Through What Home means Food for Thought De Rerum Natura Androids, Unicorns, and Electric Sheep telegraph Somnia Unfamiliar Animal Advice to Winter

Connor Smith Allie Nelson Anna Rose Gellert Anna Rose Gellert

4 6 12 13

Joshua Burns Anna Rose Gellert Alex Cook Jessica Colbert

15 32 34 37

Connor Smith Jill McLaughlin Chris Patrick Jill McLaughlin

38 44 45 46

Gossip-Wolf and the Fox Strength to Believe Dad’s New Weed

Katie Demeria Ashley Kendall Ryan Jiorle

8 16 40

Marion Tudor Michael Le Eric Dale Michael Le Michael Le Michael Le Faith Barton Michael Le Eric Dale Michael Le Áine Cain Heidi Scanlon Jenny Lee Michael Le Áine Cain Eric Dale Matthew Hamilton Marion Tudor Irenka Tete Michael Le Jonathan Roth Irenka Tete Marion Tudor

5 7 11 12 14 20 21 22 23 24 26 27 28 29 30 31 33 35 36 39 42 43 47

Prose Art

Self Portrait at Age 22 Page 29 Flower Pot Year After Year Cry Self-Portrait Self Portrait Ame ga Futte Imasen Secluded Arch Depart Lucy Sentient Reflection Huis Ragazza Falena Maria Grand Canyon at Dawn The Kraken Matoaka Landscape Vessel Wake Up Wings Vessel Beautiful

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uptown on Manhattan bedrock but nothing is solid, not even the stoic brick façades of Spanish Harlem encased in spiderwebs of wrought iron: fire escapes escape? you scream beneath the sidewalk your fingers poking through the manhole covers, your voice

in the blaring horns on Broadway, your taste

in my espresso from my favorite café in Morningside. the 1 roars below 96th speeding away from you pressing on downtown.

Self-Portrait at Age 22 Marion Tudor, Woodblock Print

—Connor Smith

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Portraits of an Asylum Alizarin crimson through cheesecloth bandage wounds hushed secrets loosed from abayas in the mad tangles of her hair old scars cut by the moon. newly healed by stranger’s laughI brought my gods to the madhouse.

— Allie Nelson

Tribute to Wooster on Graphite – Page 29 Michael Le, Graphite

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Gossip-Wolf and the Fox Based on the story by the Brothers Grimm of the same title

By Katie Demeria They hastened toward the house because they were afraid of what it would turn into. Or, because they were afraid of what they would find out. That night the apprehension was palpable.

It hung in the air, and they had to put their heads down and push forward, driving through it. The wind sent leaves scattering along the road at their feet, and the trees clashed against each other, bellowing an unheeded warning as the townspeople made their way toward the decrepit Gossip-Wolf Manor.

There was a Fox in Taniere. A clever, supernatural murderer. They assumed it was otherworldly, at least. It had existed too long, through too many generations.

It killed with a methodical, maddening consistency.

“Tonight,” they whispered to each other.

“Tonight,” they called to the furious ocean at their back. Below their muttered exclamations was a steady, unquenchable hum.

Excitement pooled in their footsteps as they ascended the hill.

There were three men in the shabby entrance hall. The little mob, Taniere’s citizens, milled around them. Chill air settled on their hunched shoulders, and the fire mocked them from the corner.

It was a loud, fiery catalyst, making their veins tingle. Fear, though, was a familiar companion, and they settled into it,

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quieting as they watched the three men.

Mr. Renard lounged in a highbacked, tattered red velvet chair while Mr. Gossip-Wolf and the Sheriff stood facing him. None of them looked around as the townspeople entered.

The Renards were wealthy and welleducated, the only family to boast of such characteristics and still remain in Taniere. They had been there since its foundation, staunchly riding out the town’s immediate, steep decline. And Mr. Renard was a flawless example of the physical qualities his family traditionally boasted. Black hair, thin mustache, well-defined jaw, long, thin nose, and short, slender body – a handsome man. He had narrow, brown, dangerous eyes. He dressed smart and spoke elegantly. He generally impressed all those he met, if only because they didn’t know what else to make of him.

Mr. Gossip-Wolf was the precise opposite of his opponent. He was a thickset man with an unpleasing appearance. He was fierce, powerful, and frequently drunk. His excessive public brawls had given him a weak reputation, like his family. He had yellow, hungry eyes.

The Gossip-Wolfs had been in Taniere since the beginning as well, with as much defiance as the Renards.

But they had fared worse, becoming poverty-stricken along with the town.

Their vicious, perpetual rivalry with the Renards had not treated them well, either. Their enemies had flourished under the competition, but they had maddened.

“Mr. Renard,” the Sheriff started, his small, watery eyes darting around the room. “Would you be so kind as to tell us where you were two evenings ago?”

With the beginning of the interrogation, a hush settled over the onlookers. They craved what they assumed was coming. “Certainly, Sheriff,” Renard replied, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I was at home, having come down with an exceptionally draining cold. And, considering the weather we have been experiencing, I don’t think that can come as much of a shock.”

“Liar,” hissed Gossip-Wolf through clenched teeth. His hands were fists, eyes bulging.

“Mr. Gossip-Wolf, please,” the Sheriff muttered, trying to handle the situation in his usual ineffective manner.

“Now, Mr. Renard, I know that you, uh, have admitted to having a meeting with the late Mrs. Gossip-Wolf earlier that day—” “Why are we doin’ this?” GossipWolf snarled. “Why are we even doin’ this? My family knows, Sheriff, my family has known forever. They’re Fox, Sheriff, and us Gossip-Wolfs have known since they come to this town.

Just look at his name! And ask him, Sheriff, just ask him. What’s Renard French for?”

“My family is unfortunate enough to possess a surname that links us to the nickname given to the infamous culprits of Taniere,” Renard retorted through clenched teeth. “Do not lower yourself

to such base accusations. My family has proven itself time and time again and even Brynne—” “Don’t you dare use her name.”

A hush followed. Renard watched the floor, his fingers now gripping the arm of the chair.

“Ever since you lot been here,” Gossip-Wolf said, his voice dripping with desperation, “there’ve been murders and unexplained events that—” “The same is true for you, Mr. Gossip-Wolf.”

“The Gossip-Wolfs have been here since the beginning!”

“As have the Renards.”

“And the murderers! Which means your family—” Renard glared at his opponent. “You drunken fool.”

“Are you suggesting,” Gossip-Wolf snarled, realization sinking into his simple mind, “that my family is Fox?” “I am simply pointing out that the arguments you are using against me in your unsound case are the same ones that anyone could use against you.”

Renard’s eyes became slits, his voice lowered. The crowd could sense his excitement. Theirs doubled. “An old family rivalry is not sufficient evidence to charge someone with murder.

Nobody can deny the fact that you have clung to the old hatred of my family.

You have latched on to outdated ideas.

What, are you next going to demand that we search my person for a tail? You are an ignorant drunk, Mr. Gossip-Wolf, and everyone in this room is familiar with that fact.”

Gossip-Wolf was red. His bulbous cheeks were tear-stained. “My Brynne…”

Renard was trembling with

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a suppressed exhilaration. He was menacing. “Your Brynne made me your newborn son’s godfather. She was trying to bridge the gap, to put an end to the squabbling that has cost this town too much. But you were not happy about that, were you, Mr. Gossip-Wolf ?”

“What are you sayin’?”

“We all saw you! Every single person in this room saw how angry you were when you found out. How drunk. How murderous.”

The crowd was intoxicated by Renard’s rhetoric. They were itching to blame, desperate to commit their own murder. They hissed consent, and several of the men stepped forward, understanding on their brows.

“How dare you,” Gossip-Wolf growled, not noticing that the circle around him was getting smaller. The Sheriff eyed him. “How dare you accuse me of killing my Brynne. They found her covered in acid, you vile — she made a mistake, that’s all, making you his godfather, and you took advantage—” “Made a mistake by attempting to end hate? By trying to pull Taniere out of its ruin? All these people knew and loved her, Mr. Gossip-Wolf, and we all know that you only gave her grief, always stumbling about in drunken rages.”

“I loved her.”

“But not as much as you loved boasting of your family’s pedigree, or your ‘place’ in Taniere. Am I right, sir?

You have accused more people of being Fox in this town than any other person.

Was that in an attempt to draw the attention away from your family?”

The bestial crowd fed off his excitement. They were trembling, edging toward the wounded man. They were muttering in agreement. “Yes, yes, it’s

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true, all true.” “I saw him hit Brynne once.” “His family has always been awful – why can’t they be Fox?” They were pressing in on the Sheriff and, because he could think of only one way to save himself, he turned his weak, watery eyes to Gossip-Wolf. “I have some questions to ask you.”

They swarmed, then. They gripped Gossip-Wolf in their fear-ridden, mobbing hand. His yells were muffled as they forced him toward the open door, yells of “No! ‘E’s tricked you! ‘E’s tricked you!” “This is my house, you can’t take me from my house!” “My son, please, my son!”

He was engulfed, but through the mass of bodies that swarmed around him he met the Fox’s eye. “Do you think you’ve won?” he growled. Renard could feel the question reverberating through the floorboards. “You may’ve gotten me and Brynne, but my boy — my boy won’t be taken by you.”

Renard’s smile revealed a mouth overflowing with teeth. “I’m not doing a thing, Mr. Gossip-Wolf.” His words slithered toward his rival, beneath the frightful jeers of the mob. “This isn’t my victory. They’re finally crumbling, you see. Because they have nothing left to do but crumble.”

And Gossip-Wolf disappeared into the night.

It happened with such promptness and ease that, at first, Mr. Renard didn’t think it was done. He leaned forward in his chair to watch the bloodthirsty crowd swarming around the screaming Gossip-Wolf, forcing him away from his home and toward the thundering sea while the Sheriff attempted to disentangle himself from their savagery.

He sat still for a few moments,

relishing his success. Then the cry of a child echoed from somewhere within the house. Renard stood, warmed his hands by the fire, bent to make sure his

red tail wasn’t visible from the bottom of his trousers, and moved toward the sound. G

Flower Pot

Eric Dale, Photography

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For Rita Trahan McCullough I wish, I wish, I wish I could Go back and meet you once again As you tip birdseed from your palm; I’d ask what you were thinking then.

I wish, I wish, I wish I could Remember more than how you’d smoke, Your tiny self, your thin firm hugs, The rasping laugh after a joke.

I wish, I wish, I wish I could Ask why on earth you mothered nine, Or taught in slums, or left the faith, Or did crosswords, or gave up wine.

I wish, I wish, I wish I had Stayed longer by your hospital bed— I, still with questions, still a child, And all these words I left — Anna Rose Gellert

I Should Have Stopped to Think it Through I thought I was in love with you, Just one of Cupid’s dizzy prey.

I should have stopped to think it through.

To worship what I barely knew Seems silly in the light of day-I thought I was in love with you.

I blame the wind, the sun, the dew, Your smile on that cloudy day; I should have stopped to think it through.

I fell, like movies told us to, In such a shallow, rootless way.

I thought I was in love with you.

What else is there for me to do, But shrug and sigh and walk away?

I should have stopped to think it through.

The lesson’s sad and sadly true, That hearts and eyes will lead astray.

I thought I was in love with you; I should have stopped to think it through.

— Anna Rose Gellert

Tribute to Cecile Agnes - Year after Year Michael Le, Colored Pencil

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What Home means

Cry

Michael Le, Graphite

Roof rats step in for dentists occasionally, on occasion.

This chandelier is a stone’s throw across a pond. “Tell me about rivers,” I say. They say, “Pester me about rivers.”

What will benefit the sand being pulled away will help waters from not encroaching gardens. A sinking feeling clears the throat from where it had locked its clasp. Tornado fuss about nothing but the T-cells could sweep the berm as infrequent as a cat’s tongue. I uphold Medusa. So Kat upholds Katdusa. You’ll be turned to milk, a cow’s jet in the roar.

Jet noise jars top refrig erator.

— Joshua Burns

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Strength to

Believe

S

o, you’ve been there? You’ve really been there?” Beth asks, her voice full of doubt.

“Oh yes, many times. I went there a lot when I was younger,” Sarah replies, her pale blue eyes clouding over as she recounts a distant past. This seems odd to Beth, since she knows Sarah is the same age as her, twenty-one.

“How old were you when you first went there?” Beth shifts in her chair, letting her feet in soft, cotton slippers graze the cold, tiled floor.

“I was eight. They took me when I was eight. We went on a lot of adventures, but when I was sixteen I couldn’t travel with them anymore.”

“Who took you?”

Sarah responds by gesturing Beth closer. Her slim arm rises briefly out of her gown, the thin, long fingers patting the side of her chair for Beth to come to her. The arm is exposed enough for Beth to see the scars. They are mostly long and silver. Some bear the look of healing skin, while others have the fresh fiery red of a new cut. Those in charge had warned Beth of Sarah’s tendency to self-mutilate. Their specific words were, don’t stare. If you pretend she’s fine, she will be.

Beth had told them she could handle it, but up close she wasn’t so sure she could keep her eyes away from the

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by Ashley Kendell

wounds. They are beautiful in their own way. The wounds wind around her arm, creating shapes and symbols. The silverwhite scars on her tanned skin seem to glow.

“The faeries.”

Beth’s green eyes widen. She pushes herself away from Sarah, her mind buzzing with the new information that Sarah had provided about herself. Beth knew that Sarah was depressed, that’s why she was in the group. She had no idea that Sarah was crazy though. This revelation that faeries had taken her somewhere was completely out there.

How is she not on any kind of medicine? She knew that she had to be polite, though.

It was the condition placed on her freedom. Be nice, be polite, be free. This was the mantra Beth had been chanting for the past two weeks.

“So, the faeries took you to heaven?”

Beth sits back in her chair, pointedly less interested due to Sarah’s blatant inability to recognize what was reality.

“Oh yes. Heaven is beautiful.”

“Are you sure it was faeries? I mean angels have wings. They could have taken you to heaven. The nurses told me you were very sick as a child and close to death many times.”

Sarah’s arms rise to her temple. Her hands begin to rub furiously, trying to

erase Beth’s words. One hand slips into her golden hair, and twists and pulls.

“No, you’re wrong! The faeries took me, they did! Don’t you see?”

Beth looks around the room. None of the nurses have noticed Sarah’s disruption, so she takes the opportunity to place her hand on Sarah’s shoulder.

Sarah immediately calms down.

“Sorry.” Sarah runs her hand through her golden hair smoothly. “I don’t like it when people deny that they exist.”

“Why? Does Tinkerbell die if you refuse to clap for her?” The foul tasting words leave Beth’s mouth before she realizes. Crap, this is the type of comment that brought me here. Not able to function properly in a normal social setting. Lashes out at all that approach…

Luckily for her, Sarah seems to have not heard. Or she was choosing to ignore the snarky comment. The latter seems highly unlikely due to her obsession with faeries. Beth couldn’t help but wonder if she should leave before Sarah went into another tantrum.

She feels that she can’t afford to have another mark against her. Last week she had managed to make another girl cry, though she was still pretty fuzzy on the details why the girl had become suddenly upset. Beth’s curiosity takes over the better part of her judgment, and she asks Sarah another question.

“What does heaven look like?”

“Blue. Lots of blue. Many shades all stacked on top of each other. Green, too. And pinks, light purples. The best color is yellow. It floats through the air, like flower blossoms. The mixture of color clouds your senses. There is a big forest and an ocean. But there is no black. There are no dark colors. When you touch the fruit of the Able tree

you’ll turn a different shade of blue. You should recognize the tree by the light purple leaves and orange polka-dots.”

“How do you get there?”

“The faeries. They have to like you.

Not everyone can see the faeries. If you are special you will be able to. Then they will take you from your sleep. You wake up in a field of orange and walk towards the sun. Then you will be in heaven.”

Sarah pushes up the sleeves of her gown, exposing her slender arms again.

Beth stares at the scars. She notices that they start to look like designs.

“That one is a blossom, and that one is a dragon.” Beth points at spots on Sarah’s arms.

Sarah smiles wide. “Yes. Did you know that no one can see them, unless they are special? You can see them. You could visit heaven. Are you a virgin?”

Beth is taken aback by the personal question, but she answers anyway. “Yes.” “Good. The faeries will take you. If you weren’t you would have missed out on a chance to go to heaven. Would you like me to show you how to call the faeries?”

A young girl in a blue dress running towards Sarah interrupts their conversation. Her golden curls bounce up and down. She is holding daffodils in her right hand. The girl jumps into Sarah’s lap.

“Hi, Mother!”

“Hello, sweetheart. This is Beth.”

The young girl turns to Beth. Her pale blue eyes flash as she smiles wide.

She sticks out her left hand to Beth.

“I’m Allison. I’m five. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“The same age as Mother, then. Oh, Mother, I brought the flowers you told

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me about. The faeries will like them, won’t they?” Allison turns back to face Sarah.

“Yes, daffodils are their favorite.”

Sarah looks outside the big windows standing behind her chair. The day is full of beautiful sunlight and a very blue sky with puffy, white clouds.

“I want to visit them now. Let’s go outside!” Allison jumps down from Sarah’s lap, her black shoes making a small thud sound on the tile floor.

Sarah stands up slowly from her chair.

She opens the door in the corner of the room. Allison uses her left hand to pull Beth from her chair as well. All three walk out into the cool spring afternoon.

They step down the brick patio into the grass. The backyard is closed in by tall bushes, to give it a sense of privacy.

Allison sits down in the middle of the yard, and Sarah follows.

Beth stands close behind the pair as a quiet bystander.

“Close your eyes. Lay on your back and place the daffodils on your chest.”

Sarah speaks quietly. She picks up the flowers from Allison’s chest and places them in a circle around the little girl.

The girl’s breathing becomes deep, as if she has fallen asleep. It is a soft rhythm, like that of the ocean.

“Does she visit often?” Beth steps up to Sarah.

“Yes. They let her come every Tuesday and during the weekends.

Sometimes on holidays. She’s in foster care for now, but soon I will be released.

Then we can spend much more time

together.” Sarah looks back on the house in disgust.

“So when you told me you couldn’t see the faeries anymore, it was because of your daughter?”

Sarah kneels on the ground next to her daughter. She brushes the soft, golden curls away from Allison’s face.

Sarah closes her eyes to blink away tears that had started to fill her pale blue eyes.

“The faeries only come to those they believe are meant to live with them. It is a very rare occurrence for them to deem you able to come to heaven. Once you step foot into heaven, you are changed forever. You need to keep yourself pure, so they can finish transforming you.

These symbols are placed by the faeries.

They symbols are part of who you are as a person.

This blossom is for beauty, and the dragon is for strength.”

“Then what are those marks?” Beth points towards the short horizontal marks that cross on Sarah’s wrist.

Sarah pulls her arm closer to her chest. “They wouldn’t let me go with them anymore. To see something that beautiful and no longer be permitted it takes a toll on you mentally. That’s what these marks are.” Sarah rubs her arm, softly skimming over the fiery red spots.

“You wanted to get away from Earth?”

“Yes. Everything I ever knew was lost when I became pregnant. I never wanted to have a child. I knew that if I wanted to be with the faeries I could never have one. I was content and transforming. I

“ ” ‘So when you told me you couldn’t see the faeries anymore, it was because of your daughter?

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was almost at the point where they take you from Earth for good. But then I was forced to stay here forever. The pain of almost finishing the transformation, and then being shunned from the faeries was too much for me to handle. I decided I couldn’t stand the pain anymore.

Everything hurt, on fire. When Allison told me she could see them, I decided I could live a bit longer. I can live to show her, guide her so that she can stay with them forever.”

“So the daffodils…”

“Any bell shaped flower can work.

Bluebells, Canterbury Bells, but daffodils are their favorite.”

“Why is that?”

“Daffodils symbolize faith and honesty, and they always return. The faeries will always return every spring, no matter how harsh a winter was.

That’s why they like daffodils best.”

Sarah and Beth look over at Allison.

Her breathing seems to have stopped.

A shining light flickers briefly over Allison’s body. The light turns into a silver girl with wings, a faerie. Beth’s green eyes widen. She runs her hands through her curly brown hair in astonishment.

“The faeries, they exist!” Beth cries out.

“Of course they do. And you can visit with them. Will you take my daughter with you to heaven? Will you guide her, as I cannot?” Sarah looks towards Beth.

Beth thinks heavily on this. She isn’t sure if she would be able to get access to Allison. Allison would be in foster

care, and it seemed like a big hassle for something she had not believed in a few moments ago. Something is telling her to say yes, though. “Yes, I can do that for you.”

“Beth…Beth…Your mother is here for you.” A nurse calls out from inside the house.

That’s right. I’m being released today.

Beth stands up. She pats Allison’s head once and turns away to walk into the house. As she does Sarah rises to her feet and pushes a piece of paper into Beth’s hand.

Beth collects her things from the front office. She walks out to the car.

Her mother holds the passenger side open, but Beth gets into the back. She feels like a little kid again as her mother starts driving. Beth opens the piece of paper that Sarah gave her. It reads: The faerie world is heaven. Not many ever make it. Many have tried to find its secrets, but they have failed. The faeries will only share their secrets with those they deem special. In this note I have written detailed instructions for you.

This will start your journey to a new world.

The faerie world is full of blues, light shades sparkling everywhere. There is a forest and a field. The field is full of flowers. The flowers are shaped like bells. The grass is tall, taller than you. It consumes your body. The forest is a maze of trees. There is no end in sight. The faerie world has many colors, except blacks and greys. Dark colors are not permitted. Once you enter the faerie world you will never want to live on Earth again. Proceed with these steps if you no longer have the desire to live in this world. I promise you, you will never be disappointed with the faeries. Good luck, my friend. G

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Faith Barton, Oil on Canvas

Self Portrait

Michael Le, Pastel

Self-Portrait

Ame ga Futte Imasen Michael Le, Colored Pencil

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Secluded Arch

Eric Dale, Photography

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Depart

Michael Le, Colored Pencil

Lucy

Ă ine Cain, Pastel, Collage, and Pencil

Sentient Reflection Heidi Scanlon, Oil on Canvas

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Michael Le, Colored Pencil

Tribute to Cecile Agnes - Ragezza Felena

Jenny Lee, Photography

Huis

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Eric Dale, Photography

Grand Canyon at Dawn

Ă ine Cain, Pastel, Collage, and Pencil

Maria

Food for Thought I once, like a python, Digested forty-four new ideas In a half-hour, And that didn’t sit well with me.

I’ve choked down, without relish, proud retorts To questions like,

“Who do you think you are?”

and “How dare you?”

And that positively turned my stomach.

But until I traced the obnoxious footsteps Of my insolent appetite

All the way back to Socrates,

I never realized just how dangerous Strange diets could be.

—Anna Rose Gellert

The Kraken

Matthew Hamilton, Clay

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De Rerum Natura An aged shovel sharp with rust, and blood is clotting disembodied on the spade the bulb to sprout a bloody flower bud atoms of me, atoms of it on the blade that dug six feet beneath the red mud-earth to bury Walt, my robin ‘neath the mum; “my corpse will make good manure” for your birth a flower-robin-red you will become a sprouting headstone, tendriled petals will spell the wordless epithet, deathless as words, as the rusting iron metal, the chrysanthemum life-full and breathless as the old marbled Samian Epicurus whose wise words were, “Death is nothing to us.”

Words of the Greek, “Death is nothing to us,” ring soundless echoing in tombs of word “immortal death” bound up in wordy truss the motes of the earth resounding dull, unheard in ancient alphabets, animated by metaphor, a virulent divine life infecting atoms with soul conjugated, “indivisible” by sharpest knife even Frankenstein’s scalpel proves too dull that fused “Adam” back together again “the beginnings of things” that made its massive skull of language, Victor holds the master pen that wrote life into blank unholy skin of leather-bound “insect” crawling deep within.

Matoaka Landscape Marion Tudor, Woodblock Print

The same leather-bound insect crawling deep within the verdant veins of the chrysanthemum imbued with lively deathless words of Whitman, “There really is no death,” in every atom lifelessly immortal as Virginia clay that forms around the springing bulb again as concrete gray as cold tombstone bouquet that sprouts in technicolor by the pen that wrote it that way, never being except a figment of my word-full mind that shaped twisting black letters, forging serifed rods of iron and word entwined in shape of a spade deep sunken in the mud an aged shovel sharp with rust, my blood.

—Alex Cook

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ANDROIDS, UNICORNS, AND ELECTRIC SHEEP tiny folded-newspaper horn spiraling screaming RENEGADE REPLICANTS, REPORT piercing the electric caul of dreams full of false memories, photographs, smiles long faded from the glossy paper soon to be folded

Vessel

Irenka Tate, Clay

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by gloved hands, creasing tormenting truth, catching reflecting eyes, showing emptiness full of light

—Jessica Colbert

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telegraph “watch the sleet” she warned before I left the small apartment where she lives now, guarded and safe and crossed into the world I’ve inherited where my frozen breath drifts up, blue cloudy incense mixing with wafts of garlic from the fancy restaurants on King Street and the sound of my footsteps on the icy platform are drowned by the the cheerful “doors closing” of the Metro where the freight train rolls by and sounds its whistle like my grandmother’s call in Franconia Park: “careful!”

Wake Up

Michael Le, Graphite

warning me of dangers I couldn’t fathom, of the world so complex that wasn’t yet mine.

—Connor Smith

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d e e W w e N s ’ d a D

by Ryan Jiourle

My parents couldn’t get my brother to stop smoking weed. Maybe they could have if they really wanted to, but they didn’t believe in getting the police involved. After all, it was only weed.

It’s no secret that Dad burned his fair share of joints, and he probably thought it would be unfair to go legal on my brother.

One day he came home around three in the afternoon completely blazed.

“What did I say about skipping school, Nathan?”

“I didn’t skip, Mom.” “You’re high!”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t go to school.

If it weren’t for pot, I don’t think I’d even be able to focus. It relaxes me, and uh, helps me keep my grades up.”

My mother shook her head. “How do your teachers let you get away with this?”

“I think they’ve given up.” It was true; I’d even heard one of them use that same phrase. Mom wanted to respond, but Nathan wasn’t really there mentally.

“Maybe I should give up, too,” which wasn’t really directed at anyone, but that was pretty much the end of it as far as she was concerned. Whenever it would come up, she’d say something empty like, “Boys will be boys, I suppose,” and dismissively shrug her shoulders. Dad didn’t give up, though, which was weird because it seemed like he gave up on

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lots of other things in life by this point.

Maybe my father didn’t want to see his first-born son fry his brain and lose the emotional breadth that he no longer had. Regardless, my dad was a really smart guy, a brain surgeon as a matterof-fact. So he knew what was up with the dopamine, the receptors, and all the other whatnot.

Anyway, one day he came home to Pink Floyd blasting through the halls of the house. But instead of running upstairs and tossing Nathan’s stereo out the window, he ran over to his computer.

After three hours of him sitting there with his gigantic headphones on, I tried to ask him what he was doing. He just kept holding up his hand and wagging his finger. I noticed that he had about fifteen Youtube windows going at the same time, so I decided to leave him alone. I had never seen him this focused on anything.

The next morning I came downstairs, unable to comprehend the situation being registered by my eyeballs. Dad was still at his computer, headphones on—only now there were just two Youtube windows and what looked like an audio editing program (likely pirated).

Most surprisingly, one of Nathan’s glass bowls was lying next to the computer’s mouse. And of course the smell. “Aww, what the hell, Dad?” “Don’t worry, Patrick, I’ve done it.”

He managed to open his eyes, not that

they were focusing on anything. “The alternative, I’ve done it.”

“Alternative? Dad, are you high?”

“Yeah, but I had to be…for the experiment. To see if the alternative was better. Totally fuckin’ is, son,” he squeaked, followed by a soundless chuckle.

“Patrick,” my brother yelled, coming down the stairs. “Have you seen my bowl? The clear glass—Oh, what the shit, Dad? Is that my weed, too?”

“Doesn’t matter anymore, Nate Dogg, now that we got the alternative.”

“What does that even mean?”

Nathan looked at me; I just held up my hands.

“All right, all right. Come here, you squares. I’ll show you.” The two Youtube videos were Pink Floyd’s “Dogs” and some Dutch house techno song I’d never heard or heard of.

He pulled up the software window and hit play.

I don’t know if I can explain what ensued. It seemed like he took that really sick breakdown from around the fourteenth minute of “Dogs” and spliced it with a part of this Dutch electronic stuff. Before I knew it the three of us were dominating a tray of Bagel Bites, laughing like crazy. I’m not sure how they got there, but Nathan was still wearing two monkey-shaped oven mitts. And he was actually hugging my dad.

What came to be name as the Alternative was like God’s gift to… well, everyone. It didn’t impair motor functions or reaction time. It had no adverse effects on the brain. And as long as you kept it to two plays per day, you didn’t build up any significant tolerance. Same fuckin’ high, every time.

Naturally, everyone started “using,” since my dad released it online for free. He just made sure that he was given credit for the creation of the Alternative. And it led to all sorts of other fantastic things, too. And I’m not even talking about feelings anymore; I’m talking about societal shit. So many, in fact, that people jokingly started calling them “side effects.” Crime went down in low-income areas. Test scores went up in every state except Colorado and Vermont. The U.S.-Mexico border became way less volatile, and most of the drug cartels lost their stranglehold on the Mexican government. People were just happier.

And of course a bunch of imitators tried to come up with more, better Alternatives. Like alternatives to the Alternative. They would lace Dad’s with shit like the Beatles, Burning Spear, even LMFAO. Others tried to come up with a completely new formula, with different types of electronica foundation, or none at all. I heard about some moron who laid the guitar to Jimi Hendrix’s “Voodoo Child (Slight Return)” over a track of sperm whale songs and crashing waves. A terrible experience… from what I’ve heard.

Then things got bad.

There was this kid, Alan Putnam, and apparently he had a playlist of songs for when he played Diablo II online.

He spent a lot of time logged in; there were 296 songs on the playlist before he decided to add the Alternative. One day, he had the playlist shuffled, and the Alternative came on sandwiched between Nine Inch Nails’s and Johnny Cash’s versions of the song “Hurt.”

At the conclusion of Cash’s heartwrenching rendition, Alan Putnam

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suffered a massive brain aneurism and died. Of course people wanted to call it a coincidence, but they looked into it and somehow connected it all, testing on mice and pigs (or should I say, “Pigs on the Wing?”). It was the only fatal two- or three-song sequence on Alan’s playlist. It didn’t even happen if you switched the two versions of “Hurt.” The odds of this event were insanely low: 295 out of 25,934,040, or a 0.001375% chance if you wanted to know the details. I certainly didn’t figure

it out myself.

So now we’re all waiting for the government to finish their trials to determine whether or not there’s a formula for predicting a fatal sequence.

Until then, the Alternative is banned, which means the race is back on to find out the next big thing. The black market is back, although at a much smaller scale since most people still have the song.

Personally, I think the ban is nonsense and the solution simple: just don’t mix your shit. G

Wings

Jonathan Roth, Photography

Vessel

Irenka Tete, Clay

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S omni a

Unfamiliar Animal

Always those hot winds, when the waves pushed shells and crab skins into our nights. We’d lie, humid and restless, turning and thrashing to find a cool spot in our memories,

I was a feral Rapunzel, a quiet little beast of massive untamed mane fat cheeked and stern browed writhing silently in the sand of the playground tangled in thoughts.

eventually lying still, like a fly given up to the web. Staring blindly into the thick dark air, as men and rooms of so many winters past sought refuge from the winds,

Her hair was a rope that let the outside in but mine was a wall and I was an unfamiliar animal caged behind thick bars of curl, keratin collecting in shafts to shelter and enshrine.

in our minds. All we wanted was protection, to find the eye of the storm and cling to it, pulling sleep in before the next barrage began. If they hit us in dreams, no matter we forgot most before morning and it’s always possible to laugh off dreams. Ridiculous, we’d say, so bizarre.

The dreams were a buffer, we slept unaware of the storm ravishing the stale summer night, the minds twisting memory.

—Jill McLaughlin

Some girls with big hair are golden-spool headed commodities, protected and pined for. But others are wooly afro-ed skinny limbed gremlin children that wriggle and run when their mothers try to brush their hair or shove on their shoes.

We are not wanted.

But we are the girls living liberally inside raging wild minds, unburdened and unaware.

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—Chris Patrick

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Advice to Winter First steps hard on the frozen ground.

He gasps, glass shards on his tongue. Wrapped merino nooses tight, hard diamond breath still, stings his neck. Toes numb, his squinting gaze never moves from the dirt-feathered earth. He staggers to the nearest shelter, into familiar lemon light and warmth. Like most, he never pauses, never feels his way past the immediate cold, through the thin ice, never notices the soft snow on birches, the burgundy cardinal’s cheer, the calm lull of air in after-wind.

Observant winter-walkers are few, and often quiet hold onto them, preserve them, like lovers’ midnight dreams.

––Jill McLaughlin

Beautiful

Marion Tudor, Linograph Print

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Contributor’s Notes Faith Barton: I’m a senior at W&M (soon to be super-senior), double majoring in Studio Art and Gender, Sexuality, & Women’s Studies.

Joshua Burns answers primarily to Cha, Housefire, and The Bakery with rogue elements pitching tents at elimae, C4, Handsome (soon), and The Gallery. Áine Cain: I am a freshman at the College from Westchester, New York. I am currently undecided in my major.

Jessica Colbert is a sophomore. She majors in English and Film Studies and plans to go on to the education school. She enjoys obscure literary theory, silly high-brow films, and being the Mistress of Pretense. Her works tend to contain pop culture allusions, and she loves playing with structure, especially line breaks. Her inspirations are T.S. Eliot, Oscar Wilde, Neil Gaiman, Stanley Kubrick, and David Lynch.

Alex Cook: I’m an English major at the college. If I were to say that I abide by any certain philosophy, it would likely be that of Epicurus. Though the ancient Greek’s name has been co-opted by foodies, and that is largely what his philosophy is associated with, his system of prudent rationality, the seeking of pleasure, and the limiting of pain, along with a materialist view of the natural world is a robust and inherently modern way of seeing the world, and one that I’ve been extremely thankful to encounter.

Eric Dale: When my father bought his first digital camera, he probably didn’t expect me to commandeer it as much as I did. Whenever I could, I borrowed it to take photos; after developing compositional skills and the ability to carefully approach wildlife without scaring it, my parents encouraged me to enter a photography contest at a local park. Winning honorable mention floored me, and I’ve been an avid photographer ever since. I primarily focus on nature, but also enjoy candid portraiture and landscape photography. Check out my blog, Shoot Me A Story, at shootmeastory.com.

Katie Demeria is a senior and doesn’t really know.

Anna Rose Gellert: I am a junior English major from the bustling suburb of New Providence, New Jersey. Here at William and Mary I divide my time between track practice, schoolwork, Catholic Campus Ministry activities, and on the weekends, friends and/or sleep. #twamplife Matthew Hamilton is currently a biology major of the class of 2015 at William and Mary. After taking ceramic art classes he became captivated by the use of clay as a medium.

He is especially interested in sculptural forms that can be achieved through hand building techniques, as opposed to throwing clay on a wheel.

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Ryan Jiorle is a senior from Phillipsburg, NJ. In addition to writing, he enjoys surfing, snowboarding, fishing, and playing table tennis. He is an aspiring Renaissance Man. Ashley Kendall is a freshman studying Psychology at the College of William and Mary.

She hopes to Major in Psychology and Minor in Creative Writing. She enjoys reading, writing stories and poetry, and composing piano music.She aspires to become a well-known author, and hopes to spend many of her future days writing in a house out in the country.

Michael Le: Like every other kid given paper and pencils, drawing was a favorite past time.

But unlike every other kid, I never grew up. As I grew older, it became almost an obsession, and I found myself being lost in the discipline and intricacies of my work. I never took a formal art class until this year, which is why my drawings felt so raw and imperfect. Pushed by necessity and pulled by attraction, I sought to challenge myself with every piece. Now, with only my pencil to guide me, I hope to further my abilities and myself.

Jenny Lee is a sophomore who has lived overseas for over half of her life. She doesn’t like to stay in one place for a long time; hence college is a long time committment.

Photography is her thrifty, savvy way to remember the places she’s been to.

Jill McLaughlin rocks.

Allie Nelson is an aspiring author whose hobbies include ballroom dancing, nature, and Thai food. A Biology-turned-English major, she can usually be found haunting secondhand bookstores and searching for the perfect burrito.

Chris Patrick: Sophomore, neuroscience major. Not a boy Chris.

Jonathan Roth is a sophomore from Glencoe, IL, majoring in Marketing and Hispanic Studies. He enjoys photography, cycling, and traveling.

Heidi Scanlon: I am a senior art major with a 2D studio concentration and an affinity for the human figure that has been with me since my toddler days. As an artist, I enjoy toying with reaction. We live in a world where perceptions differ and we must constantly be making decisions based on events that we cannot control. I like to amplify this is my work by creating honest marks worked specifically as a result of my most immediate perceptions.

Connor Smith divides his time between W&M, Bangkok, and Real Housewives of Atlanta Marion Tudor: I’m an androgyn extraordinaire: art major, illustrator-wannabe, community college graduate, and soon-to-be super-senior. I strive to study my joys and work through my anxieties in my artwork and hope that I can create pieces that contain personal significance, but also reach out to others. As someone who suffers from ADHD, PTSD, and an anxiety disorder, I owe so much to my friends and family who support me and I consider every completed piece a success.

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Editor’s Note

Dear Reader, This issue of The Gallery is all about whimsy.

And I think that is a fitting theme. Not only because it is reflective of the student body’s present artistic leaning—we didn’t scour the inbox for whimsical pieces, but rather accepted the best we received—but because it gives the issue a nice springlike quality. Of course, all spring issues of The Gallery should not center around the season (butterflies placed prominently in the centerfold should be a rare occurrence), but I am at least happy for that quality in this issue. I am graduating in May, and even though The Gallery has been a major part of my life for the past four years, I am now leaving the magazine in the competent hands of the rising editors.

This could be a very emotional editor’s note. It is the third I’ve written, and I have to admit that I’ve jumped the gun on the other two—they were pretty emotional, probably unnecessarily so. But now that I actually have an excuse to bewail graduation and overwhelm myself with nostalgia, I have no desire to do so. Maybe it’s the spring season or the butterfly in the centerfold or the colorful cover. The whimsy could be going to my head. Even though my future is uncertain, I know that the future of this magazine is not. This issue, and the few that were published before it, acts as a testament to not only the skill of our staff, but of the student body as well. It oftentimes feels like student talent at the College of William and Mary is overlooked—we are a relatively small school, after all. Each issue of The Gallery, though, works to reverse that misconception. We are certain that students at this school are incredibly talented.

This issue proves that fact, and it does not require emotion—it requires celebration.

Whimsy, then, seems to fit this issue, at least from my point of view. So I will say congratulations to the current staff, good luck to the new editors, and, above all, thank you.

—Katie Demeria

Colophon

The Gallery Volume 27 issue 2 was produced by the student staff at the College of William and Mary and published by Western Newspaper Publishing Co. in Indianapolis, Indiana. Submissions are accepted anonymously and through a staff consensus. The magazine was designed using Adobe Indesign CS5 and Adobe Photoshop CS5. The magazine’s 52, 6x9 pages are set in Garamond. The cover font, along with the titles of all pieces, is Majetto. The Spring 2012 issue of the Gallery was a CSPA Gold Medalist with All-Columbian honors in content.

Check out the Gallery online www.wmpeople.wm.edu/site/page/gallery www.facebook.com/wmgallery @wmgallery

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