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SLAM


LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Dear Reader, The Silhouette sta chose to portray the talented artists and authors on the Virginia Tech campus using shapes and Southwestern colors. We chose to carry over the simplistic color scheme and our now familiar body font. Our graphic designer, Sean Simons, created the intricate backgrounds you will see throughout the issue. I would like to thank the dedicated sta that worked hard all semester to produce this wonderful issue. Also, thank you to the gifted authors and artists who submitted to the magazine. We hope you enjoy the stylistic selections we chose when creating the magazine, as our main goal is to spotlight your work adequately. Thank you to Sean Simons and Sarah Fitzgerald for providing a tremendous amount of support throughout the semester. Your dedication is overwhelming, and I know this magazine exists because of all your hard work. I hope you enjoy reading this issue as much as we enjoyed creating it. Sincerely,

Rachael Leon Editor in Chief


SLAM SILHOUETTE LITERARY & ART MAGAZINE VOLUME 35. ISSUE 1. FALL 2012.

344 SQUIRES STUDENT CENTER BLACKSBURG, VA 24061 SILHOUETTE@COLLEGEMEDIA.COM WWW.SILHOUETTE.COLLEGEMEDIA.COM


TABLE OF CONTENTS Field Observations and Wishes Handscape Baby, Let’s Disssociate Completely Appalachia South African Orphan 5 Cave Painting Editor’s Choice: Prose Through the Side Door For Preston Necropolis Casa de Pilatos Crescent City The Silence of Hip-Hop Editor’s Choice: Photography South African Orphan 3 Amber Lightning Bug Study

6 7 8 9 10 11 12 16 17 18 19 20 22 24 25


Manscape Sea Nymph May Flowers Handprints Oh Snap Editor’s Choice: Poetry Eyes-Close Blues Prekestolen, Norway The Same Editor’s Choice: Art Abstract Atmosphere On Truth Held Back or Left Behind?

26 27 28 30 31 32 35 36 42 44 45


Field Observations and wishes Josette Torres

Composed while my ENGL 1106 students completed a brief observation assignment outside McBryde Hall, April 2008 Stop time for twenty minutes and watch the patterns repeat: the slow purr of trucks, the patience of campus buses, the worn paths of students heading from Point A to Point F. The behavior I model is a copy of a copy of a copy. Someone text messages I wish I had your job and it takes all my self-control not to laugh. My students are on the wall behind me, observing their surroundings. I wish I was that unrushed. A year ago I couldn’t imagine this spring. This life was wild theory, an application in a mailbox, a thought I had while sitting in workshop. Be careful what you wish for, I want to tell myself. Be grateful for what you have now.

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handscape Caleb Mathews

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Baby, Let's dissociate Completely Tom Minogue

I took a bath with madness during sunrise: she dove in the hot springs where I was simmering, her lips perched surprisingly on my still mouth. Above the transparent water was a mist she and I cleared with our breath, exhaling till we might break the surface. When my lungs were empty her arching back gave them oxygen. My ďƒžngers ran through midnight hair, a tactile map of quiet hours slipping in with other lovers. Is this my spring or hers? There’s no velvet gasp as my palm slides above her knee, only dawn silence and pillows of fog rolled clear: she proceeds with them, rivulets of water running down her skin to these bloodshot eyes.

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Appalachia Emily Blair

Don’t know what you don’t know, A rst world tragedy, Burrowed deep in your gentle valley, Eyes hidden from any opportunity Beyond these rolling mountains of old, A grand life waits across an ocean you’ve never seen— You know more about the moon! At least you visit in your dreams. But all your reasons have run dry Like Cripple Creek choking in June On its own dusty breath— No longer can you croon That no greatness befalls Poor white trash with holey shoes Scrounging for money at the end of each month— Where will you nd your next excuse? Your bags sit packed and tickets bought To any place you wish to be, In a day or two you’ll spread Unclipped wings to catch your breeze— And it’s the day you will recall When hands grow gnarled and temples gray, Because tomorrow brings the rst dawn That you move out of your own way.

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south african orphan 5 Kenzie Grasso

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cave painting Ian O’Bryan

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editor's choice “Through The Side Door” is a simple piece full of imagery and emotion. It paints a portrait of a morning after that alludes to memories that everyone has experienced at some point in his or her life. The vivid descriptions take over the story, and even though there is no dialogue and only one round character, you are transported into a place where you may or may not have been before. It at rst just seems like a party scene, but the metaphors in this piece make you think long after you stop reading.” - Sydney Morgan Prose Editor

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through the side door Caitlin Bellinger Blue lights slashed across the kitchen with whip-like speed, trailing neon wounds through the shadows. The corpse of a closet door, its mutilated hinges hanging limply, had been tortured into a at position over the humped shoulders of two chairs. Twin crimson ruins huddled at opposite ends of the door, their former pyramid shapes decimated over the course of the night and lying scattered across the oor. Bare feet, pale as death, stabbed into the room through the gaping doorway. The body that belonged to those feet lay across the oor of the next room, motionless in drunken slumber. Several others were ung about the room in painful positions, as if thrown there by turbulent winds, instead of turbulent events. Music emanated from a square hulk along the wall, bass pounding senselessly from the speakers. One girl sat propped up against the giant television, letting the bass thrum through her skull, while the blue lights sliced across her eyelids to a faster tempo. With a sigh, the girl stood and stepped over her fallen comrades on her way across the kitchen to the third room. This room was darker than the rest, shut off by one of only two surviving interior doors. She opened the door, which clung desperately to an off-kilter doorjamb, and stepped inside. More sleepers littered the oor, but these were unfamiliar faces, mere refuse. The girl ignored them as she walked across the room to the bathroom. This door, normally serviceable, was rendered useless by a wedge of unconscious human esh. The girl stepped over that body, only to nd another slumped lazily in the bathtub. Half-lidded eyes looked up at her, slits above a slit of a smile, but the girl did not respond in turn. She only washed her hands, struggling to keep the cyclical motion of the act from derailing the steady spinning of her head. She dried her hands on the towel that the bathtub boy was using as a blanket and left the bathroom behind.

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She walked slowly back through the bedroom, pausing at the dresser to collect a few of her things. Tears spilled down her cheeks, but she hardly noticed. She was used to crying—it was second-nature. Her eyes were constantly wasting tears, belittling their meaning. These were not sad tears, only souvenirs of the past seven months. They dripped from her chin and tangled in the carpet at her feet, determined to leave another sign of her presence here. There was no need; there were signs everywhere. The girl held her belongings to her chest and looked around the room, a nostalgic smile moving her still face. This place had been her home for so long. It was a haven for after closing time, a shield from the judgment and the predatory games that permeated the bars and the clubs. Here, she had found a collection of vastly diverse equals. All so different, but all the same where it counted. She knew she would never nd this again and that she was too young to miss something that wasn’t even in her yesterdays yet. But, standing here, surrounded by the wake of this last night, she missed it with all her heart. Nineteen was gone and, with it, the ghosts of this life. She moved into the kitchen and sat among the dispersed bones of the beer pong pyramids and the spilled blood of butchered Tilt cans. She closed her eyes and imagined that she heard the dying refrains of “Please Don’t Go” by KWS. When she’d rst heard that song, it had been the rst time she had walked through that front door. Her new friends had been dancing, drawing her in among them. Now the lyrics repeated in her head, begging her not to leave through that very same door. She stood before the song’s memory could deepen the ache inside her. She touched the makeshift table one last time, recalling every game she had won or lost on its surface. Trailing her ngers along its ragged length, she stepped into the living room. Smiling, she tickled Kari’s pale feet and quietly thanked her notorious reputation for keeping them safe from the blue lights. Next, she looked down on the sleeping face of Will and laughed quietly at the memory of his many “performances.” She moved past him to the side door and loosely cupped it with numb ngers. The last of their small group, Jamie, was fast asleep in the bedroom. There would be no shadowy goodbye there. It had already been said, so many

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times before, though neither of them had been aware. Real goodbyes never amounted to one word, or one last touch. They were sealed in silence and nailed down by the growing miles in between. The girl rested her forehead against the door and stepped back with it as she slowly opened it. Late spring air, its edges laced with a hint of summer, rushed in through the crack and rustled the trash on the ďƒ&#x;oor. The blue lights were not as bright on this side of the house and, though they crept into the room in a pulsating ribbon, they did not wake Kari or Will from their sleep. Keeping her forehead pressed against the door, the girl edged around it until she was standing on the other side. KWS pounded frantically inside her head, condemning her escape. Her heart raced to catch up with the change in rhythm, but she did not let the words ensnare her. A harsh outtake of breath matched the sudden whoosh of expelled, liquor-laden air as she pulled the door closed. Her ďƒžngers snaked down its length for another second and then released. Through the side door, she said goodbye.

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For Preston Kim Schatz Our eyes met— Chilled, crystal blue and warm, rich hazel twirled around each other in a hazy dance of smoke tendrils. Simultaneously individual and uniquely melded: changed by each other.

I didn’t expect to care, but then you. I didn’t expect to feel… I was a person — detached-— but then you.

The moment dissolved, dissipated into the room — thinning out — imperceptibly, stretching into each corner, polluting the air — coloring the room with pure energy.

You touched my hand. And walked away.

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Necropolis Emily Clark

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casa de pilatos Victoria James

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crescent city Caitlin Bellinger

among the whispers of Spanish moss, a city remains whole, preserved in the days before winds swept away streets of vague memory and vibrant color, days when feet took rst steps and chubby ngers reached for the voiceless. never will I see the city as it was then, before its walls fell and its jig-saw pieces scattered. never will I trace the lines of my rst chain-link boundaries and smile to know I escaped them the way they couldn’t escape the rust. but I have returned now to bury my memories above-ground, and sprinkle them along that opaque river, with jazz swaying the bejeweled trees and my back never turning on the lights of a city too bright to tarnish.

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the silence of hip-hop Travis Thompson

I’m bound to silence like the hood is to violence. I keep my mouth shut as they load their weapons up. And hip-hop can’t save you because it’s already tried to save me; it struck out, and got caught looking at strike three. But sometimes eeing is the best thing, see. It plants the seed, the seed of hope, the seed of prosperity, and how to put away the dope. It’s no joke, not a friendly hello, like a Facebook poke. It’s yelling get the hell out, and nd a different route because the streets aren’t the place to get your life gured out. But we aren’t allowed to say that, they tell us to stay back, and stick to rappin’ about gats and how other rapper’s rhymes are whack. Screw that. I’ll say what I need, and catch heat like the temperature’s a hundred and three. I’ll tell you to be free, and stay away from coveted OG’s because they only teach you how to cock and squeeze releasing bullets from your camouaged Desert Ease. And who does that please? It pleases the crowd and those that doubt, those who think the hood is only a place for people whose morals go south. But that’s not what we are about; we are about so much more. About more than killing sprees, and pimpin’ out dirty whores. I implore, that you listen to what I preach and not what they teach, hanging on to their words, call you a leech. We do it to ourselves, we put each other through hell and then threaten to kill those who tell on us. So hop on the bus with the rest of us and get a one way ticket to an early grave, because we look to the government to save our weak and depraved instead of

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changing our ways, and the way we pray. It’s on us to get out of this system, and knock it out cold, like a punch from Sonny Liston. Make it better for our children, and their children after, take the skeletons out of the closet, and dust them off the rafters, making the process of lling the room with laughter, a little bit faster. Reform isn’t what we need, but instead a conscious nation, conscious of what we are, and the avoidance of temptation. Fight the sensation to fall into the norm instead of nding yourself in jail, nd yourself in a college dorm. Hip-Hop doesn’t know what they are saying, and what they are teaching the future by claiming the only way to end a problem is with a suture. It’s time to put an end to this trend, throw it in the lion’s den, and switch from the gun to the ballpoint pen. Get straight with you and Him, spit out negativity like it’s phlegm, and most of all, don’t listen to Slim. Because Slim refuses to trim the lies and lines out of rhymes, and recognize what kind of movement is on the rise; he wants us to just listen to the beat and dance like it’s Hammer Time. But listen to the words and what he says, he claims our lives are doomed and destined to be full of dread, but I refuse to tread, the water of the internally dead, and bleed for this game any more than I have already bled.

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editor's choice “What I love about this image is that the photographer could have chosen the obvious route and taken a photo of an upset and crying orphan but she chose this natural subject that solely through his eyes conveys the entire tone of the picture. To me, that minimalistic approach is beautiful.� - Christine Aker Photography Editor

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south african orphan 3 Kenzie Grasso

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amber Alexandra Gavis Amber goes unseen. She must be dug up. Uncovered—fossil-life. The siren’s sounds trap men in her sap. Amorous ways light loud ecks in quiet eyes. Blink at the distant star. Amber is the fall. Amber is the rise. She ambles with a slow drip, burns like desert sand and honey on a chapped lip. Ample wine drunk On amber nights. A man speeds up at the second light. Amber lightning strikes light, loud ecks in quiet skies. Trouve un coup de foudre.

Note: “Coup de foudre” is a French gure of speech meaning love at rst sight. However, its literal translation is “Lightning strike.” This line in the poem can be translated as “Finding love at rst sight,” or “Finding lightning.”

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Lightning Bug study Amy Harris 25


manscape Caleb Mathews

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Sea nymph Matthew Reihing

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may flowers Alexandra Gavis April showers bring Maybe Maybe the growing green Met last night and Came together to Celebrate the moans Of toads frogs and Grasshoppers Rejoicing With the morning dew What if The buttercups perked Up Alone with their picture perfect Suns that you Scrape under your chin Playing Practical fortune Teller Trying to see Who you’ll marry The crimson seeps The chromatic sky A tryst between the sun and sea So many present To bear false witness They swear by the book And call it the truth I do believe Rigor mortis falls away The arms of trees begin to stretch They point at you But I would too At least Part of you So pardon me I still believe Thy kingdom come Thy will be done

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But sins like these Don’t get forgiven They will stay Like the leaves One way Or other On the oor Or on the arms Of green-topped men Or not yet—but They will stay And the rain may Bring them out Who revels in reveal It brought us out of Eden The tree of life was not fullling Its fruit not leaves Much worse than sin Can’t make parts whole again So maybe Maybe we should Avoid the spring (It’s just coiled metal) Trying to keep summer Close to winter He’s a winner Opposites attract Again and again We slapped the mosquitoes On our necks To stop the marks They would have made They’re just trying Maybe To live Like the rest of us.

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handprints Silvia Davis

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Oh Snap Silvia Davis

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Editor's Choice “With poetry, you’re always looking for a voice that stands out. Something that doesn’t sound exactly the same as what everybody else is writing about these days. That’s why I chose this piece. It was refreshing to hear something different for a change.” - Shelby Ward Poetry Editor

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Eyes-Close blues (that's the only way to listen) Kyle Gardiner Eyes-Close Blues (that’s the only way to listen) Eyes closed, I let the twang of loose guitar strings and tapping feet narrate my Saturday evening. Goin’ down south, I’m goin’ down south. A mason glass, tipped over, is freshly painted in between the name. “The Whisky Jar” reads the sign that greets me as I step off Main Street and into a bar competing between equal parts saloon and parlor house Either way, it’s enjoying its debauchery. The building itself was intoxicated, a boisterous mess of tucked-in plaid shirts and cowboy boots. I ght my way to a seat along the bar, positioning myself as an impartial observer of the scene before me. The bartender recognizes me and in a few seconds I’m clutching a glass of bourbon on the rocks. Goin’ down south, I’m goin’ down south. Is there a line about blues that hasn’t been written? Is there a man or woman who doesn’t feel in their soul that simple chord progression? C-F-C-C7 th C-F-C-C7 th But there’s a condence in this man in the corner of the bar, even in the assured wobbles of his voice. Bottleneck in hand, his notes seamlessly slide over the frets, humming a tune of pain past by.

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Eyes closed, I hear an ancient voice, a force only at home in the Delta that he’s from. Eyes closed, and I hear the exhalation of sorrows and regrets of generations past. Eyes closed, I hear an old black and blues man who might as well have named his guitar Lucille 2. Goin’ down south where the chilly wind dun blow. Eyes open, and I’m watching the ice swirl and cut through the beguiling-honey color of my drink, wincing even though I know it’s watered-down because I fucking hate whiskey. Eyes open, and half the folks in the bar are too drunk to even hear the wisdom in his song. Eyes open, and I’m staring at a skinny white kid with stringy blond hair who I’m pretty sure I took physics with back in high school. Eyes open and the magic’s lost. But I’m not ready to go, not just yet. So I order another round, close my eyes, and head back down south where that chilly wind don’t blow.

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Preikestolen, norway Sarah Sundberg

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the same Caitlin Bellinger

Renz Thatcher wasn’t a praying man. It wasn’t for God that he ended up on his knees, forehead on the ground. He didn’t hold his arms out in front of him, or clasp his hands. Instead, his arms hung slack on either side of him, with the tops of his hands pressing into the rough material of the carpet and developing the same itchy, red spot that manifested on his forehead. The marks always remained for several minutes after he rose. No, he wasn’t a praying man, hadn’t been since Iraq. Outside, his dog barked and snapped him out of his meditation. It was about time for Gunner to come check on him. He pushed off of the ground and walked into the bathroom to scrub his face and turn the red mark on his forehead into a universal splotch. He had meant to get up sooner, to give his blood ow time to push out the carpet ridges and remove the red naturally, but time had a tendency to get away from him. Knuckles tapped on the front door, as if to remind Renz that time was always, always within Gunner Carmichael’s lasso. Renz dunked his entire head under the tap, to get his hair wet and make it seem like he’d taken a shower. He walked to the door, ruffling and patting his hair dry on the way. “How’ve you been?” Gunner asked once the door was open. His thick red hair, which had earned him the nickname Copper Dean in high school, was a little at today—he’d probably been wearing his baseball cap while he drove over, windows down. He was out of uniform and dressed in one of those bland brown shirts they’d worn PT-ing. His jeans were old—denitely a pair he’d kept from high school—and had likely been Wranglers before the logo patch had worn down. “The same,” Renz said, stepping back so Gunner could enter. Gunner performed a cursory look around Renz’s sparse living room. “To be honest, Renz, I’m not sure what ‘same’ means to you anymore.”

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Renz sat down on one of his two mismatched couches. “Think back to day one after we got back here. That’s when ‘same’ started.” “I can hardly think beyond yesterday,” Gunner admitted. He sat down on the opposite couch and leaned forward to place his elbows on his knees. “But how about we change something today? I’m thinking of shooting over to Charlotte for a bit. I could use a travelling companion.” “For a day trip?” Renz asked doubtfully. “Someone has to switch out the CDs. You know I can’t drive distracted when I’m not in officer mode.” Renz spared a slight smile. “I know. Remember how your rst truck went down?” Gunner chuckled. “Only because of the scars.” Subconsciously, Renz reached up to touch a place just below his collarbone. “I don’t think I’ll go, Gun. I guess you’re stuck with one CD, so pick well.” “How long has it been since you’ve been off this mountain?” Gunner asked. “I’ve seen Kimber bring you your groceries.” He stood up and walked over to the bay windows that made up the rear of the trailer. “My grandma was a recluse, before she passed, but at least she went out once a week to get her own damn groceries.” Renz didn’t respond. “What are you afraid of?” “I think you’re the only one besides me who knows the answer to that question.” Gunner closed his eyes suddenly but opened them even more abruptly, as if prompted by a silent gunshot. He took a deep breath and looked back at Renz. “You’re right. I am. I guess what I should be asking is: why do you let that fear keep you inside?” “The fear has nothing to do with it,” Renz snapped. “There’s just nothing to see out there. This is about more than Iraq, don’t you see? We saw so much—so many places—and then they shipped us back here and expected us to be content in our little boxes. I was pissed about that.” He motioned to the front door. “Then I stepped through there and realized they were right. I can’t be what I was—in the Army or before it—so I’m…this.” “I’m neither of those things, either,” Gunner snapped. “But, when I came up with a new role for myself, I sure as hell didn’t settle on nothing.”

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Renz lurched to his feet and was out the door before his visitor could react. He realized he wasn’t wearing shoes as soon as he stepped off the porch, but that didn’t slow him. Ignoring the excited advances of his mutt, Renz stalked off into the woods. Cursing, Gunner rushed after him. “Wandering into the woods doesn’t count as ‘getting out,’ Renz!” he shouted. Renz kept walking. He obviously hadn’t lost his mountaineer senses because he twisted through the fallen trees and clusters of laurel without tripping or causing a single disturbance. Gunner had enough training and muscle memory to maintain his footing but not to keep from making a racket while he was at it. Renz looked back at him, a hint of his adolescent self in the disapproving look on his face. “Where are you going?” Gunner asked once they had crested the mountain and started down the other side. Surely, Renz’s property line didn’t extend much further. “Give me a second, and I’ll show you,” Renz said impatiently. A few minutes later, he stopped at a steep portion of mountainside, dropped onto his rear, and skidded forward down a small drop onto a rock ledge. Gunner followed suit and took a brief look around. There were several logging trails below the ledge, and the trees around were much younger than those on the other side of the mountain—a result of the Thatcher’s and Hassel’s selling their timber a decade or so ago. To his left, a small stream cascaded off of the drop-off and disappeared into a cluster of laurel. “Okay,” Renz said, calling attention back to himself. “Here she is.” Gunner whipped around. A gaping hole had opened in the mountainside, and Renz stood just within it, cast in the dim radiance of a large ashlight. Behind him stood what Gunner immediately recognized to be a trio of moonshining stills. “Holy—” “It’s not as bad as it looks,” Renz said, grinning. “I only operate one of them.” Sure enough, only one of the stills was dust-free enough to be in operation. It was somewhat oval in shape, made of steel, and long enough to serve as a coffin. Dozens of crates rested beside it, each lled with empty gallon jugs. Gunner took a step inside. “Why did you show me this, Renz? I’m a cop.” “I know you won’t tell,” Renz said. “It’s not like I’m

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hurting anybody with it. I just wanted to re-open granddaddy’s business.” Gunner stepped forward and inspected one of the jugs. “Business…you’re selling the stuff ?” “Only to keep myself from drinking it all.” “People still buy it?” Renz laughed. “You don’t know the people around here too well, do you? The old-timers prefer it. It’s cheap and it’s potent—why wouldn’t they? Besides, the economy isn’t at its best, in case you didn’t notice that, either. People need their liquor more than ever but don’t have the money to spare. That’s what moonshine’s for.” “I just…I didn’t even know your family moonshined,” Gunner said. He took in the massiveness of the three stills and the piping above that he could only assume directed water in from the nearby stream. He thought about the mass amounts of land the Thatcher’s owned, and the plantation-style house Renz’s grandfather, “Cooner,” had lived in before it had burned down and taken him with it. “But, come to think of it, it makes sense.” Renz tapped his ngers against the cleaner of the stills. “When Granddaddy got older, he cut down to just running this one, for his own private stock. After he died, Daddy kept it in good condition and, on my sixteenth birthday, he showed me how to use it. But he never drank. I think he just wanted to keep the tradition going. I’ve brought it back to life.” “Why didn’t you show this to me sooner?” “It’s the Thatcher family’s only-kept secret,” Renz said “And weren’t we all braggarts in high school? If I’d told you, word would’ve gotten out, and my Dad would’ve killed me. That fear was enough to keep my mouth shut.” “How do you sell this if you never leave your mountain?” Gunner asked. For the rst time, Renz looked guilty. Gunner looked heavenward, then rolled his eyes downward to stare at Renz. “Please tell me Kimber isn’t your runner girl.” “I wish I could.” “Now that I can’t tolerate. She’s, what, sixteen?” Renz sighed. “It’s not like she’s drinking the stuff.” “How would you know?” “If there’s one thing Kimber doesn’t do well, it’s lie. She’s so bad at it, I sometimes wonder if she really is my sister.”

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“And I suppose that makes it okay?” Gunner demanded. “Because you asked if she was? Renz…” Renz leaned over and turned off the ashlight. He grabbed Gunner by the arm and dragged him out of the mountainside room, then shut the hideaway door behind him. It was so cleverly made that Gunner forgot where its creases were almost as soon as it closed. Renz leaned back against the door and crossed his arms over his chest, which meant he was feeling defensive. “Look, I only showed you so you’d get off my case…so you’ll stop feeling you owe me a life. I’m not just bumming around, like everyone thinks.” Gunner started to say something, but Renz continued, louder, “What I’m doing isn’t bad, Gun. It’s illegal, but not bad. These people need something in their lives, and many of them have decided that something should be liquor. I’m just helping them get it without going dirtshit broke.” Gunner dropped down so that he was sitting on the edge of the ledge with his legs hanging over and his boots scraping the tops of the laurels below. “In a way, it’s a relief to know you’re doing something. But…” He stopped himself from adding: “But you always pick the wrong moments—the wrong ways— to play the savior.” “But nothing.” Gunner chuckled. “Okay. I’ll look the other way. But don’t complain if I give your sister the occasional breathalyzer test.” “I’ll tell her it’s just a side-effect of the PTSD.” “That’s not funny.” But it was. Gunner yawned to dismantle a smile that he knew would transform into laughter. Renz, lying down on his stomach and resting his chin on the edge of the rock shelf, laughed hard enough that the mountains joined in. “We should talk about it, someday,” Gunner said, after the laughter and its echoes had subsided. “I don’t think we can be the friends we were until we do.” With a single push, Renz  ipped onto his back. “You’d think we’d be better friends because of it. Closer, you know.” Bitterly, he thought to himself: You’d think I’d still be looking out for you, now that we’re back, instead of the other way around. You’d think you wouldn’t have been the one who was able to forget and revert back to a kind of normal. Gunner stared down the mountainside. “You’d think saving a life wouldn’t be as complicated as taking one.” “That’s where it gets muddled, though,” Renz said. “By

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preventing you—by saving your life, I took something, too. I took your choice away. I was in over my head, and maybe even selsh.” He snorted. “I’m lucky you came back saner than me.” Gunner swallowed. “You know what? On second thought, let’s not talk about it.” “What should we talk about then?” “I don’t know. What did we used to talk about?” “Girls. We were always talking about girls.” Gunner sighed. “The girls we talked about aren’t girls anymore.” “Let’s pretend they are.”

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editor's choice “Amy Harris is a very innovative abstract painter within the Virginia Tech community. She is able to take realistic ideas and compose them in such a visually interesting way through her use of color and intense brushstrokes. It’s always exciting to her new work and understand how they personally represent who she is as an artist.� - Denise Borges Art Editor

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ABSTRACT ATMOSPHERE Amy Harris

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on truth Kim Schatz The truth is hard to come by – Balancing what you wish had happened, what actually happened, what you heard about what happened,

and what you forgot about what happened. Blending them – fuck, who am I kidding?— Pureeing them into an intelligible, sensible, stream of words and punctuation that maybe someday, someone will read, relate to, and be inspired.

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held back or left behind? Shantala Samant

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Staff RACHAEL LEON editor in chief

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SARAH FITZGERALD business manager

SEAN SIMONS graphic designer

MIDORI OGLESBY graphic designer

SHELBY WARD poetry editor

D’ELIA CHANDLER special events chair

CURTIS STANFORD assistant poetry editor

CHRISTINE AKER photography editor

TAYLOR MILLER communications chair

DENISE BORGES art editor

MEGHAN MCDONALD promotions chair

SYDNEY MORGAN prose editor

ANISSA ADAS public relations chair

KATLYN GRIFFIN assistant prose edior

KATIE CHOE production manager

SARAH GROAT alumni relations chair

DARIEN FOSTER webmaster


index Bellinger Blair Clark Davis Gardiner Gavis Grasso Harris James Mathews Minogue O’Bryan Reihing Samant Schatz Sundberg Torres

12,, 19, 36 9 17 30, 31 32 24, 28 10, 22 25, 42 18 7, 26 8 11 27 45 16, 44 35 6

47


CONGRATULATIONS,

S ED U C T IVE FLUX WINNER OF GREEKS VS. GEEKS: SPRING 2012!

BAND MEMBERS; JOE CIURLINO, GERRY HUDAK, DITO HERCULES, CHRIS MENZEL, ROB LYERLY, AND JAMES MILLER


MISSED GREEKS VS. GEEKS LAST SEMESTER? WANT YOUR BAND TO PLAY THIS SEMESTER? VISIT OUR WEB SITE FOR INFORMATION INCLUDING BAND APPLICATIONS, CONCERT DATE, AND VENUE.

SPECIAL THANKS TO: TOP OF THE STAIRS, PKS, BOOKHOLDERS, THE LYRIC, AND SHARKEYS FOR YOUR GENEROUS CONTRIBUTIONS. WITHOUT YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS, GREEKS VS. GEEKS WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN SUCH A HUGE SUCCESS.


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Special thanks to Silhouette patrons!

This creative work consists of – but is not limited to – prose, poetry, artwork and photography. Silhouette devotes itself to promoting the arts in and around the Virginia Tech community through a bi-annual magazine, readings, workshops and supporting other local arts-oriented organizations. Silhouette is also devoted to providing Virginia Tech students with real world experience in all aspects of magazine development, design and production.

eserving Hokie mories since

1895

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SILHOUETTE LITERARY & ART MAGAZINE VOLUME 35 ISSUE 1 FALL 2012

Profile for Silhouette Literary and Art Magazine

Volume 35, Issue I  

Published in Fall of 2012

Volume 35, Issue I  

Published in Fall of 2012

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