ART & LITERATURE MAGAZINE Â· VOLUME 12
limited edition Th i s e di t i on wa s s p e c i a l ly h a nd m a d e f o r yo u by th e 2 018 T ri l l i um T e a m . T h i s i s a pa r t o f th e l i mi t e d e di t i o n coll e ct i on a n d w e h o p e yo u enj oy th e i ssu e a s m u c h a s w e e n joy e d p u tti ng i t to g eth er f o r yo u !
TRILLIUM ART & LITERATURE MAGAZINE Â· VOLUME 12
The Face of an Orphan
Life is the Most Difficult Exam
I Think Itâ€™s About Memories Jessica Hawkins
Box of Secrets Brooke Ethredge
In Mindâ€™s Eye
36 on tangles
43 My Grandfather is Fish Food
How to Set Up a Tent
LETTER FROM THE EDITORS
Ludwig Wittgenstein, the famous Austrian-British philosopher, once wrote: “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” One interpretation of this statement has been widely applied in sociopolitical contexts, and the idea is simple: if you want to promote cultural awareness, stress the importance of languages and language acquisition. Or, as the old Czech proverb goes, “Learn a new language and get a new soul.” This is the twelfth issue of Trillium, Piedmont’s award-winning undergraduate journal, and it’s an invitation for readers to view Wittgenstein’s proposition in a different light. Within these pages, you’ll find an ecumenical variety of literature, visual art, and photography—all of which provide a unique vision i nto our familiar world. After all, one of the functions of art is to defamiliarize us to the things we already know, and in so doing, to offer the world again for the first time. In this way, “the limits of language” refer not just to the words or foreign tongues we’ve never known, but to the modes of expression we’ve known well enough to take for granted. American poet George Oppen said it this way: I too agree We are able to live Only because some things have been said Not repeated Said We’d like to thank the Piedmont administration for its ongoing support, and we’d like to welcome you, reader, to Trillium. Call it a window, call it a mirror— we hope you enjoy the view.
In mindâ€™s eye ann wallace
This place is a box, The walls the width of a retina. The screen shows familiar things That I canâ€™t recognize. At what point am I allowed To yank the handle Of the unlocked door, Or do I pretend to belong To this cell until it dies? Or maybe I use this prison to scream Echoes to the world Of what exists within, Yet without, The tangible.
As a senior photography major, I wanted to explore photographing the human body with different shapes and textures on the skin. Using a screen projector, I projected this lace and polka dot texture onto a female nude model.
CASTING SHADOWS jessica cheij
o m b r ĂŠ brooke ethredge I am a senior at Piedmont College with a major in ceramics. My inspiration behind this piece was from the ceramic artist Tony Marsh, I wanted my pieces to be as memorable as his pieces are.
instauration ann wallace
Ruddy rainbows of autumn confetti Touch the ground in scrapes and crunches. Relief sighs through high branches, Which whisper blessings on the wind. The forest rains morsels of death upon itself In a declaration of survival. Gentle, easy, the snapping of stems. No leaf is free until itâ€™s stomped into earth.
wunder kammer samantha cat0ggio Wunderkammer is my version of the Renaissance Cabinet of Curiosities. I filled my composition with items that I thought seemed mystical and alluded to both life and death-- the skulls, the eggs, and the feathers.
I am a sophomore working on my BFA with a concentration in graphic design. My inspiration behind Encapsulation is the idea of collaging characters together to create one as a whole. The definition of encapsulation is the action of capturing the prime moment of a story.
ENCAPSULATION bre kendall
B y r d Amy Roberts
I often wonder if people know when something ain’t quite right. I wonder if they get a hint when they wake up in the morning—they hear a different bird singing or smell a smell they ain’t quite sure about. I wonder if they then get a slight ringing in their ears, like the soul is fine-tuning to pick up that unknown, foreign frequency. I wonder if on that late fall morning, Byrd felt something was out of sorts. Byrd liked to ride around and drink with my Papa; they were kin somewhere down the line (as was everybody in that part of the county) and that must have carried over into their addictions. The sort of shared trait that meandered down through the generations, strengthening each time it was passed to a squalling boy born there in one of the dog trots alongside the fields. Papa and Byrd and any number of the other town drunkards could usually be found riding in whatever car they could commandeer—most times to the detriment of their wives, who were left to hitch a ride to work or town with just whoever they could flag down coming or going. This morning in particular they had in their company one of Byrd’s neighbors down the road named James. All of them were well on their way to a good solid drunk before dinnertime, spending the rest of the day in and out of ditches and shade, swapping bottles and lies and propping one another up. As the day inched on towards suppertime, James asked to be taken back to his house, as he had stuff he needed to do before time to eat, and avnyhow, all the liquor was gone. This was where the story got fuzzy and Papa could never quite pin down what happened next in any sort of “make sense” order, but the results were still just as final and permanent. It seemed that as soon as the car lurched to a stop, James decided that was a good time as any to bring up to Byrd that he thought he had made moves on his missus the last time they dropped him off. As the words got more heated, so did the car; the dirty windows fogged up something fierce. At some point Papa and Byrd placated James enough to get him out of the car, all wobbly and unsteady as a new calf, and Papa drove on out down the road and let Byrd off at his house. Evidently the more James thought about it, the more elaborate the delusion got, and it wasn’t long until he had thoroughly
convinced himself that not only had there been ample flirting going on, but that there had been action taken by both parties. It was at this point that he staggered down the rutted gravel road to Byrd’s house and perched himself over the mailbox. Screaming at the top of his lungs, declaring that “Byrd Patterson was gonna pay,” James issued a call for Byrd to come out and talk to him like a man. However, James had no intention of talking, as he had already presided over the trial he’d been hosting in his head, and Byrd was to be sentenced directly. To this day, no one knows what was said between the two, but the next scene was witnessed by Byrd’s oldest boy Wayne, and it would be forever etched in his mind. Wayne saw James draw on his daddy, and the look of confusion and shock on Byrd’s face told that he wasn’t quite believing what was happening—he never even put up his hands to ward off the shot. As Wayne jumped off the porch, lunging towards James as fast as he could, James leveled one shot straight into Byrd’s chest. As the smoke and dust cleared, Byrd was crumpled in a heap, with his pack of cigarettes shot clean through his chest. No move was made by anyone for what seemed like an eternity. James sobered up as quick as a flash, and Wayne stared in disbelief at his daddy’s body, unmoving, in the road. Wayne was the one who made the first move, struck by the realization that James had just killed his daddy. This revelation ignited an animal rage deep inside his heart. He drew his fist and connected with James's jaw so loud that Mrs. Threlkeld up the road heard the pop of it dislocating. Wild as a panther, Wayne tried his best to kill James with his bare hands; gouging and clawing and punching for all he was worth.This time it was James that didn’t make a move, standing (as best he could) and taking the blows he wished he could give to himself. By now the clamor had been heard by some of the other men in the neighborhood, who all rushed to the road and managed to pull Wayne off of James. Standing there, covered in blood and dust, stinking of stale cigarettes and sweat and homebrew, James looked down at the lifeless body of his good buddy. I wonder if regret started to swallow him up, if he felt like he was falling down a hole and couldn’t get his bearings about him. I wonder what he said to Byrd’s wife and children, as they waited patiently for the Sheriff to get there to haul him off to the lock-up. What could he say? There was no bringing Byrd back; no going back
in time and changing anything. I wonder if he started bargaining with God—“Lord, if you keep him alive, I’ll never touch another drop again as long as I live”—knowing good and well that the fleeting promise was too little too late. The Sheriff came and led James off to the car, him hunched over and crying his eyes out; he served a bit of time and moved from the community, obviously marked and unable to blend back in with the herd. Crimes of passion, as these were so easily called, were not treated as harshly as, say, a crime against a child or someone “innocent.” It was looked at that if you were out acting a fool and drunk as Cooter Brown, you deserve whatever fell on you while in such a state. And usually they were right. It wasn’t long until Byrd’s widow remarried, having another round of kids and going on with life such as it was. Although she remarried, in the end she wound up in the New Town Cemetery, right beside Byrd, only a good many decades later. Byrd laid there many years, his grave unkept and covered in fire ants and rogue cactus that plagued that cemetery, sort of a calling card for what happens to you if you chose to be a drunk your whole life. Women would leave church on Sunday mornings after preaching and lead their wayward sons over to that grave, and tell them the story of Byrd Patterson. Each time, adding more wood to the fire, depending on how wayward their son was. And each time, the same look crossed those boys’ faces as what crossed Byrd’s, right before he stepped off into eternity. A little not believing, and a whole lot of scared to death. But they would steady themselves, run a finger or two through their greasy hair, and draw a sigh of relief that it wasn’t them a-layin’ there in that cold, red mud, covered in ants and cactus. It couldn’t happen to them like that. I thought about many things as I stood there over his grave. I wondered if that morning, when he woke up, if he felt like that, too.
I was inspired to make this piece after seeing a video of an â€œinfinity mirror.â€? I thought it would be an interesting challenge to take the traditional art of fine woodworking and see how to balance it with something as modern as LED lights.
T H A N O S ethan phillips
the face of
I am a senior mass communications major at Piedmont College. In June of 2017, I was able to visit the Dominican Republic for a month as an Intern for SCORE International. I remember walking through many different villages and orphanages and seeing children like the ones in these photos. I believe each picture shows both the happiness and hardship of children in third world countries.
h o m e leslie pritchett
Southern tradition e m i ly p i e r c e
inverted magnolias twist towards the earth, their roots held up, a battle flag, that lofty foundation viewed in a rose tint. but what do you know of their roots? they ignore each hollowed-out place, but they are not ignorant. each hallowed place, each blessed heart, the arrogant gleam in their leaves, those distracting flowers year-round forfeit the eyes, the ears, the memories, the future, of those who look too close.
life is the most difficult exam (contemplation of the mind) kaaitlyn bergeron I am a senior majoring in 2D studio art with a concentration in painting. This painting was a study of light over the female form. The title came from the emotion portrayed (thoughtfulness), which I thought was captured quite well in this piece.
typical l u n a
c o x
Fixed points on a map That glib way you smile when drunk Hold me, letâ€™s just sway
aurorA, susannah terrell
hell and your youth are over. you reach for the prick your wrist bent comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.
now: create your emblematic shotâ€” have you forgotten ambrosia? what scent to track: coffee grinds and clove.
slip on that dress that hangs differently over the nose and out the door. now, how could I use you? tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre dĂŠlicat.
you forget yourself at witching hour the mask hovers down on you: eyeless, inexpressive, unrelentingly hungry. forcing breath back into your lungs.
the stars call from the window to your answer: spidered gray hands creep between the panes, spindle and spinning wheel beckon. tout vaporisĂŠ par ce savant chimiste.
oscillation lauren rittler I am a senior at Piedmont College majoring in art therapy with a concentration in ceramics. For the last three years, I have focused on creating functional pottery for others to use. I was inspired to create a sculptural piece in order to explore something that was unfamiliar. This interested me because I had to overcome new and different challenges when creating this piece.
HANAHAKI L E I
W A R D
I am a junior IDS: conceptual art and design major here at Piedmont. This piece is inspired by a fictional disease originating in Japanese culture in which the afflicted is plagued by an unrequited or complicated love so much that flowers bloom in their lungs and slowly suffocate them. If the patient goes untreated, they die because of the disease; the illness is known as the Hanahaki Disease.
p o s t apastalyptic ann wallace
I checked all three locks on the door, and closed the curtains over the boarded front window. The only other avenue into the house was the window in the bedroom, which I’d recently resealed with scrap metal. I walked the perimeter of the combination living room and kitchen by candlelight, one last time, checking again that the doors to the bedroom and the storage bunker were securely fastened. I counted all six keys on the ring dangling about my neck to be certain that they were all in my possession. This time, nothing was getting in or out of the house. I’d already gathered everything I needed in the center of the kitchen, including the nest of firewood I prearranged on the tile floor. I stood my metal cooking frame over it, and set a wide pot of water atop that. Assorted cooking utensils, a colander, tomato sauce, and a blue box of spaghetti noodles all sat in a bowl beside the makeshift stove, with the spare wood. I squatted over my setup, looking everything over twice. I waited until I could see a handful of stars through the smoke hole punched in the ceiling, then began my work. I pressed my candle against the fire kindling, begging it to catch. I didn’t want to waste any more matches or lighter fluid than I had to. When it accepted the flame, I stuffed it deeper under the pyre. I snuffed the candle and placed it with the rest of my supplies. As the fire grew, a bloom of heat spread across the room, accompanied by the handsome scent of smoking oak. It wasn’t terribly long before vapor rose in streamers from the pot. I held my hands over the vessel, letting the steam soften my callused hands. While I would feel much safer cooking in the storage bunker, there wasn’t enough room between the packed shelves of stored goods, nor was I willing to risk setting my supply ablaze. The disintegrating carpet in the bedroom wasn’t any good for a fire pit either, so I embraced the vulnerability of the living room for the sake of my pasta. I glanced at the spaghetti box and pulled a handful of stiff noodles from the tattered cardboard. They clacked like Mardi Gras beads as I ran my fingers through them. I couldn’t help but smile at the sound, stroking them as I waited. Every now and then I shoved
another wedge of wood under the stove. The water purred as it came to a low boil. When the bubbles started sputtering droplets into the fire, I slid my handful of spaghetti into the pot. The water hissed as the noodles settled into complacency. I grabbed the tomato sauce, and pulled a bulky little knife from my supply bowl. I stabbed the can open, clumsily tearing the top off, then dug the container into the growing pile of embers. I stirred the pot with my spaghetti spoon as the pasta softened. Eyes never leaving the fire, I rose and walked backwards to the front door, checking the deadbolts again. The sweep of a boot across the floor confirmed that my machete was still waiting in the corner—the only object with a permanent residence in the living room, just in case. I ambled back to the fire, counting my keys between my fingers as I kneeled over it. I drew up a spoonful of noodles and pinched one out of the wiggling glob, biting off the end. Almost ready. I dropped the rest back into the pot, and was about to fish out the colander when I was stopped by what I would’ve sworn were footsteps. I held my breath, listening. All I could identify were the huff of the flames, the gurgle of boiling water. I almost thought my mind deceived me, but again there came the crunch of feet on pine straw. A low “Hello?” rang in my head, there was a light knock at the door. Shock clutched my ribcage; no one could have spotted the smoke in the night, no one should be able to find me. It had been months. Months since I last encountered drifters, months since my last fire. They couldn’t be here now. I remained crouched over the fire, frozen. After a minute, the footsteps wandered around the house, probably checking for another entrance. They knocked again, harder. I remained quiet, and the knocking became pounding. Their determination to enter matched my own resolve to keep them out, so for the sake of my door, I called out. “Screw off!” The clamor only paused for a moment. “I barely have enough to feed myself. Go on, get,” I hissed. They continued their advance on the door, relentlessly striking with increasing force. Just when I was sure the door would shatter, a breath of silence.
Then all at once a desperate banging at the window that rattled the planks nailed across it. The front window had the fewest reinforcements; they found the weak link. “Hey!” I roared, but the banging continued, with the heft of an axe. I grit my teeth, loath to desert the fire. “Please... please.” I was inclined to wait out the assault when the give and snap of a board struck my ears. I growled, leaping up. I snatched my machete from the floor, and switched open the deadbolts. Flinging the door wide, I tore through the air with my blade, which met nothing but the window frame, where it lodged itself. I was alone in the moonlit forest, the only feet stomping through the pine straw being my own. I studied the surrounding darkness, searching for any sign of life, but even the frigid air stood still, mocking me. I whirled back into the house, praying that this wasn’t happening. I stooped before the darkened room, and my throat forced out an anguished groan. The spaghetti pot was upturned on the floor, the fire reduced to a smoldering mound. The contents of the supply bowl lay scattered across the kitchen. Falling to my knees, I dragged myself over to the pot. Not again, not again. I flipped it over to be certain, but I already knew the noodles were gone. I scrambled for the spaghetti box—I had about a handful left. There was still time. This time—this time it would work. Replacing the pot on the stove, I rushed to the storage bunker for another gallon of water.
i think itâ€™s about memories j e s s i c a h aw k i n s I am a junior working on a Bachelor of Arts degree. This piece references the impact of modernity on memories. It also alludes to surveillance both actual and perceived.
linework ann wallace I am a sophomore with a concentration in drawing. For this project, I was trying to imitate Paul Strandâ€™s black and white photography. I love his work because of the abstraction of space, mostly by focusing on light and shadow.
m e d i u m b o t t l e chance hunter
I am a graduate student pursuing a degree in art education. Glazing is the finalization of functional ceramics, and through trial and error amazing effects can be achieved when glazes of dissimilar melt together. These thermally induced chemical reactions are my favorite part of making pottery and I enjoy discovering what I can do and how far I can push my ceramics.
I am a senior at Piedmont College with a major in ceramics. My inspiration for this piece was to make the best connections that I could and to become a better craftsman with my art.
b o x o f secrets brooke ethredge
lightly hadley cottingham
I’d longed for sleep for many days, and it eluded me like the sun did the Pacific Northwest. On the third day, my mind ached so much for the absence of thought that it forced my body to flee. I arrived at an ocean lit only by the moon; I stumbled from the shore to the water in a haze somewhere between drunkenness and a dream. The water was warm, like bathwater, and as I waded in further, I felt myself begin to melt away. First my skin, my organs, muscles—the meat. It dissolved into water. The salty arms of the sea shaped my bones into shells and delivered them to the creatures of the shore. They bore my burdens on their backs, and they were grateful. By the time I had gone up to my neck, my body was absent, and my soul was free. The ocean—she and I—were one. In the night she began her dance with the moon, which pulled her in and out of motions. They said nothing, and nothing needed to be said. They danced elegantly and with a love impossible to match. The waves were gentle and yet they were strong. In the morning, the sun warmed her surface as far down within her as his light could reach. She was warm. “But what about further down, where he can’t give you his light?” I asked. “Why,” she began so proudly, as the creatures living in the darkness began to glow, “I made my own.”
I am a senior psychology major. Blind was inspired by the paradoxical unknowing state between living and dying in SchrĂśdingerâ€™s original thought experiment.
b l i n d travis harrelson
ove rworld ann wallace
I am a sophomore with a concentration in drawing. Iâ€™m fascinated by clouds; at times they seem like strange alien landscapes. That idea became the inspiration for this print.
on ta ngle s susannah terrell
on tangles the sherbet oozing over glossed lips. the cicadasâ€™ lament
a lighter pressed to the throat.
quartz ballooning from
an open mouth.
in cupped hands
milky ribs penetrating a sternum. never
enough context to read into.
the little deaths that come
and go. the imprinted
finger. the mouths
with no other meaning than
off the bed
off the night
eyes that scale
off the phone the bodies like
slobbery tongues searching the word: the aftertaste of twisted guts. there is no fire
no sacrificial knife
dine in bryson gunter
I am a sophomore working towards my BFA with a concentration in painting. Dine In was my largest painting of the semester and was inspired due to an interest in the weird behavior and odd mysteries surrounding the octopus.
The sun is one of our sources of life. Through my personal â€œplanet brandingâ€? technique, I have created an adequate tribute to it that makes one squint if he or she sees it up close!
o r b i t l a u r e n p at r i c k
How to set up a tent Dale zaboroskie
Regardless what you have heard, setting up a tent while camping is quite easy. Usually the manufacturer of the tent has taken all of the obstacles of setting up a tent to mind and removed any barriers that might hinder a novice camper. Remember, I said “usually.” The manufacturer has very carefully considered the words that are on the outside of the tent box. They will use words like, “Easy to Set Up!” or “Sets up in Minutes.” Unfortunately, they have already “suckered” you into believing that you will spend a warm and cozy night inside their Camp Hotel, when in reality you will be relentlessly tossing and turning on a bed of pebbles within arm’s reach of the box, instructions, poles, and stakes, shivering, still trying to figure out what went wrong. What went wrong was you bought a tent. What is worse is that you are suffering from hypothermia because the sleeping bag you bought at the same store you bought the tent from also had words like “Easy” written on all the ten thousand tags attached to your warm cocoon. But you couldn’t get the bag out of the other bag that it came in because someone at the sleeping bag manufacturer thought it would be funny to tie a triple-half-hitch survival knot that couldn’t be untied by a triple recipient of the Eagle Scout Award! However, this is an informative essay on how to set up a tent and not the downfalls of camping. So here are the steps on how to set up a tent. First, buy the most fashionable tent you can find. Especially look for the type of box that has a picture of a whole family gathered just outside the tent around a warm fire roasting S’mores, while the family Labrador is laying peacefully at his master’s feet. Stay away from tent boxes that say, “Survival Tent” which actually means that the bear will eat you a second or two after he realizes he can’t unzip the tent and it is much faster running through the mesh front door that is supposed to keep mosquitoes from eating you alive. Second, make sure you completely remove all contents from the tent box. There is always one crucial piece to the tent puzzle that has somehow managed to fasten itself to the inside of the box all the way from Chi Toa Banglore, Indonesia, and still does not want to be found. Third, unroll the tent out on a smooth surface, preferable a level spot of ground that has been cleared
by a previous camper that has moved their tent numerous times because they had found a rock that was embedded just under the earth’s surface causing a sleepless night of agony. Remember that if there aren’t numerous pre-camping tent setups scattered in the woods where you will be camping, then you need to move to another area. Try a Hotel 6. Remember that’s the hotel you passed on your way to a wonderful night of leisure in the middle of a snake-infested wooded area that you will call home for at least two to three hours. Fourth, remove all the staples, pins, twist-ties, or any other sharp packing materials that will find their way into your sleeping bag. I still don’t know how that happens because if it took me four hours to untie the triple-half-hitch survival knot, how did they manage to do it in half the time? Fifth, start putting the poles together after reading the instructions. Of course it is always a good idea to not build a fire before setting up your tent, because a good strong wind might blow the much-needed instructions right into the raging inferno that had been doused with a gallon of lighter fluid, but why digress. Sixth, without using the half-burnt instructions, insert the tent poles into the little material sleeves that go on the outside of the tent. Be careful in doing this because some novices have the tent inside out to begin with and the poles just won’t work that way……trust me they won’t…..no matter how hard you try….or how cold you are. Finally, set up the tent while giving the evil eye to those words on the box that say “Easy to Set Up!” Now for those that like to camp but don’t want to set up a tent, talk your wife into buying a $100,000 motor home that you will use two or three times every five years. Yes, I know, very expensive, but if the wife will go along with it then it is worth every penny. Or, you can do what I do, especially if you can’t afford a $100,000 motor home or your wife just laughs every time you mention the words, “Motor Home,” “Fun,” “Exciting,” or “Relaxing.” Whatever you do, never say “$100,000” because it gets you nowhere….trust me. So here is what I do. Find a buddy that really likes to camp and is a true outdoorsman and invite him camping. Suggest to him that you will start the campfire while he sets up the tent, then from the comfort of you portable lounge chair roast a few S’mores while sipping a steaming and delicious cup of cocoa. If your new best friend doesn’t have the tent up and ready for use by the time you get really sleepy always remember that you have the closest Hotel 6 in your car’s GPS. Sometimes camping is best done with a remote control in one hand and a hot brew in the other. Sleep tight.
ILLUMINATED rebekah kanipe
I am a junior with a concentration in 3D design and graphic design. This image was taken using long exposure techniques. This was inspired by Alvin Langdon Coburn, a 20th century photographer using film and long exposure. I found this technique intriguing and fun to attempt for Digital Photography.
I am a currently a junior with a concentration in graphic design.This relief serves as a memory manifested from childhood. Ultimately what doesnâ€™t kill you gives you a dark sense of humor as a coping mechanism.
COCKTAIL kristen adkinson
My grandfather is fish food e m i ly p i e r c e
A pale old man lies on A hospital bed That, somehow, Invaded his home. It is tilted and he Is propped up so that He can watch the birds.
The bay windows and the Skylight illuminate The combined living and dining. The table has been moved, But chairs have Been pulled over To the bedside.
The man himself is thin. His lips are cracked And bleeding. His hands are night; More darkness, More black and blue Than light.
An old boombox plays Old hymns and the Man in black. The old man hums Along. At night, he Asks about his Grandchildren.
He hums along until he Doesnâ€™t. He breathes until He doesnâ€™t.
Six months later, at the lake Where they went every Summer, where we Went almost Every summer, we gather Where three years before We celebrated his 75th.
We took what was Left of him out on The boat. Each child and Their families were given a Piece of him. Each child said Something and Scattered him.
The next morning, we woke To his recorded voice singing the man in black.
HADLEY COTTINGHAM Hadley Cottingham is a freshman English major at Piedmont where she writes for The Roar, as well as manages her personal writing for Yikes, Hadley. There are only two things she loves more than writing: coffee and her cat.
LUNA COX Luna Cox is a theatre arts and technical theatre double major. She enjoys hiking, rafting, writing, and binge watching.
EMILY PIERCE Emily Pierce is a junior English major, social justice minor, and one of Piedmont’s Lillian Smith Fellows. She has a leopard gecko and enjoys spending what little free time there is as a college student writing.
AMY ROBERTS Amy Roberts is a lover of local history, family trees, southern food, dirt and herbs, her family, and most of all her Savior.
SUSANNAH TERRELL Susannah Terrell is a senior English major at Piedmont College. After she graduates this May, she is planning to take a year off to work before applying to graduate school. She’s a gluten-free foodie who, like most millennials, enjoys taking pictures of her dog and sharing quality memes.
ANN WALLACE Ann Wallace is a sophomore here at Piedmont. She is double majoring in art and English. She is a member of the school’s art club, and has also joined this year’s PC Dance Project.
DALE ZABOROSKIE Dale Zaboroskie has been married for over 35 years to his lovely wife, Nora, and has two sons, both married: Gunnery Sergeant Dale Jr, and Edward, who teaches drama in Marietta, GA. He is currently an Educational Specialist candidate at Piedmont College. He received his MAT from Piedmont, BS degree from Toccoa Falls College, and his Associate Degree from Pennsylvania State University. He teaches 7th grade at South Habersham Middle School. He was born in Pennsylvania, lived in Alaska for 11 years, and moved to Georgia in 1995. Dale likes to write, and he enjoys hunting, fishing, camping, and boating
COLOPHON FACULTY ADVISORS
Dr. Timothy O’Keefe, Literature Advisor Assistant Professor of English Tyler Mann, Crative Director Teaching Fellow in Graphic Design
Nathan Blackburn Sean Kennell Lanae Ramos Vanessa Smith Katelyn Woodward
ART DIRECTORS Allie Nunnally Caitlin O’Brien
DESIGN DIRECTOR Chase Kane
Bryson Gunter Bre Kendall Ben Thornburgh
Bryson Gunter Rebekah Kanipe Catherine Swanson
Kristen Adkinson Lauren Patrick
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT Ben Thornburgh
Printed in PRC
Trillium | Art & Literature Magazine at Piedmont College