DAVE RAWLIN
Sailor
Oil on canvas, 30" x 24" Sciotoville, Ohio
All art springs from the instinctive urge to name those imperishable aspects of the human condition. All else is not art but is merely decoration. When I painted this piece, I tried to remain true to my gut instincts rather than to a literal, superfi cial interpretation of the subject. As for the meaning of the piece, I have attempted here to communicate the plastic nature of identity and, by extension, of our perceptions of the world in which we now live. One of the wonderful qualities of the visual image is its ability to convey multipl", equally vulid meanings. The image should produce a chain reucti<m of ideas und emotions in the viewer's mind. This result I would find very gratifying indeed.
LeanneKinker, Emily Montavon
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TODD DE HAYS
The Game
Oil on canvas, 22" x 28"
Portsmouth, Ohio
I found the picture of the puppet and Michael Douglas in an issue of Rolling Stone. I was looking for something mysterious and co1orful-something worthy of being put on canvas. Before this painting, I had never painted on stretched canvas. The colors in the joker's outfit the puppet is wearing along with the accusing look he is receiving from Michael Douglas are what attracted my attention to the picture. When I chose this picture, I was unaware that it was from a movie, The Game, that had not yet been released. I still haven't seen this movie because I fear it may change the way I view my painting.
I had a lot of fun creating the background of this painting. The many shades of brown and the lack of detail make it easier to focus on the subjects. I also used a brush stroke which allows the light to reflect off the paint in different directions, which shows the pattern I used in applying the paint. I feel I made a lot of progress in the making of this painting since I had to learn as I went along. Basically, I try to paint the same way I draw, by recreating exactly what I see. Only now I have to account for color. It takes a lot longer to paint this way, but, in the end, and even though I think I'll never finish, I end up with something I can be proud of. Now I've started other works and can tell that painting is going to be something I'll always enjoy doing. Now that I've learned the trade, I can start to create paintings with a little more thought and meaning behind them.
DARREN BAKER
Poem
Portsmouth, Ohio
I stood on an empty airship and waved goodbye to my love. For I was to fight for my country, and my right to live, love and be free.
In the country of Nietzche and Hesse; I was witness to a land of waste, the land of war. In a trench, I took shelter from the rain of god and bullets. Very few times did I find myself out of my muddy habitat; inside I cried the fear of a giant.
And so I returned, undamaged but scarred. I found my life had gone on without me. My mother was still my mother, my father was still in the garage but my wife, my soon-to-be wife, had become invisible.
It seems that, on that one single moment in Europe when it stopped raining and the moon shone bright on the helmet; she calmed the rain inside me.
Now I stand beside a muddy trench, to say goodbye again. "Here you'll need these." I place two coins in her blue, innocent eyes, and kiss those cold lips once more.
As you go away, I stand waving goodbye, again.
BARBARA COSTAS
I will fall to pieces
Portsmouth, Ohio
She threw water on me and she howl-laughed, my grandmother, Eemaw, who's only five feet tall. We were in the kitchen, a place she likes but one I'm not fond of, my skills going no further than rice and grilled cheese. But she can cook anything and she knows all of the flowers in the yard and she can hit a bluejay with her BB gun. While she tried to teach me the Charleston (she's too young, but I pictured her in a fringed t1apper dress and bobbed hair like a 1930s movie star laughing and spinning like a carnival swing boys in uniform waiting to take a spin on the floor with the redhead with my future Eemaw) the kitchen became a glistening slippery sunbeam room. I'll remember this and remind her often. Do you remember helping me wash dishes? Do you remember Patsy Cline?
· sHANNAN CARVER
Untitled
Porcelain, 8112" x 2112" x 5"
Portsmouth, Ohio
My sculptures have their own character and, as in the case of this porcelain piece, they are often strangers to me. I don't feel as if they are mine. I'm also not used to having a piece that someone else sees. Most of my pieces are kept in my home where people don't require them to have a name.
I wanted to do a soothing, relaxing peaceful image of the female nude. The female figure is so much more complex than the male. It represents birth, life, death, God, realism, surrealism, beauty, ugliness. Women tend to internalize, as opposed to men who rely upon and release external forces. This woman embracing herself is pulling all her problems inward.
Normally my pieces revolve around big, round, busty women that evoke feelings of happiness, warmth, safety, and unconditional love with no walls restricting any of their affection. This is something that I trace back to my grandmother, a woman whom I still see as strong yet sensitive. In contrast, a slender woman, in my eyes, is uneasy and riddled with problems. This nude represents me less than my grandmother.
I believe, in sculpting all these women, I have felt a subconscious desire to provide my son with a support network. If I could, I would give him five grannies. However, as it is, I can only sculpt them.
Wise Mammy #2, 4" x 5112" x 4"
LEANNE KINKER
Anxiety Night
South Webster, Ohio
Pacing and pacing, in the living room, in the kitchen, in the hallway-wherever there is enough room to walk and think-I've spent the past hours. I've exercised, taken a bath, and even tried to sit and read a book, but I still can not make the tension inside of me go away. It's driving me crazy.
Tonight is a bad night for thinking about all the terrible tragedies that every person must go through at one time or another, except all of mine have happened within just a few years. I hope that the worst of them have passed but doubt it. Sickness, death, brutality, betrayal, and a loss of innocence and trust would, to almost anyone, give any normal human being a good dose of real life and cynicism for the world. It amazes the hell out of me what a family can do for you, as well as what it can do to you. Family is a pain in the ass.
All the responsibility is lying on my shoulders and putting me in bondage. I can't stop feeling the anguish. I'm too young to have to feel the heaviness of obligation on top of all my other harsh emotions so early in adulthood. It really sucks.
I've read novels in which a character screams inside him or herself, but that doesn't come close to what I'm feeling right now. Yes, something is screaming inside, and I believe it's my soul. It's not just screaming. It's thrashing faster than I can pace; it's trying to rip out of my body for some kind of escape. I don't know how much longer I can endure it.
I need some kind of outlet for my rage. If only my ex-husband were here. I need someone to scream at. I stop pacing. This is ridiculous and is getting out of hand. I've got to stop this before I drive myself insane.
Giving up, I reach in the cabinet to get coffee. Drinking coffee at three in the morning is crazy, but who cares. I'm going to
be up for the night anyway. As I pull the coffee out, a pack of cigarettes fall out. Hum, these things seem to work for my brother.
Still feeling the thrashing and screaming, I look for a lighter. Damn! He left his cigarettes but not the lighter. Wanting to punch out my brother, I turn a burner on instead and bend to light the cigarette. I can just imagine what my friends would be saying if they were here watching me. They love to make fun of me when I make a rare attempt to smoke. I'm definitely not a candidate for a smoking ad and look very stupid with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth.
I move to the porch, sit down on the steps, and concentrate on relaxing. It isn't working. It has to! I can't stand the tearing and ripping sensations any longer. I can hear the crickets rubbing their legs together, but they're doing it inside my head instead of outside where they should be. I take a long drag of the cigarette. Maybe I can smoke them out. Even I have to chuckle to myself for that thought. I think I'm finally going insane. Another drag on the cigarette and a flip to get rid of the ashes takes a smidgen of the tension away. I can't believe how much concentration it takes to smoke one of these damn things. I don't do it often. Besides looking stupid, smoking makes me physically ill. Hum, I'm not feeling ill yet. I think I'll take another puff.
The smoke is beginning to work-but very slowly. There aren't nearly as many crickets in my head. I think I'll smoke them out some more. Stretching my legs and leaning against the rail of the steps, I smoke and contemplate my life. It has been far too eventful, yet I've always pulled through. Of course, I never come out with just a few scratches; more often it is as if I've rolled in a barbed wire fence. Who cares.
People always say "Think of all the starving kids in the world when you feel your own problems are too much to handle." Well, I happen to think it very stupid to think about starving and dying children to try to cheer myself up. I chuckle and think about how idiotic people are-especially when trying to comfort.
My cigarette is only a stub now, and the crickets are chirping outside, instead of inside. The thrashing and screaming have
become me11ow and almost soft-like now. Hypnotized by the burning coal, I wonder which scientist said that cigarettes stimulate the smoker.•Surely that scientist was a man because he was full of shit.
Yawning, I stare up at the sky and only see blackness. At least the blackness is outside and not inside.
RITA ADAMS
Untitled (Right)
Oil on canvas, 31" x 24" Sciotoville, Ohio
When I started painting this picture of the Indian lady, I was working with a picture from a magazine. After losing my picture, I decided to finish my painting as an abstract in oil. It was really a challenge to complete, but I think it turned out well. The shell dress conveys the importance this woman had in her tribe.
GARY TOLLER
Stemwheeler Smokestack #2
Stoneware vessel with ash glaze, 27 in" x 91n" x 271n"
Portsmouth, Ohio
JOHN LI
Untitled Oil on canvas, 30" x 40"
Portsmouth, Ohio
JAMES T. ROCA fragile angel
Wheelersburg, Ohio
Her halo slipped down from her head.
The twinkle in her eyes said goodbye.
I hold your wings up and will not let you fall.
all that is earth cannot compare to her and I will miss you, when you're not here.
missing the steps I should take to bring you back to me.
separated by a sea of dreams.
I scream but no one can hear me. and you're over there.
walk me to the light. I want to see heaven. can I love you here, can they fix you there.
I know your wings are cracked.
But when you get up there, I do not want to see you looking back.
and see me cry and watch all my dreams fly away, and all I can say is goodbye. goodbye my fragile angel.
TOM JENNINGS The Fog
Portsmouth, Ohio
We moved through chill, billowing fog
Up
Between lean ghosts of trees
And the solid cliff that crowded To the edge, then fell away To suddenly throw its dark bulk Across the feeble cones of light. I slid from my father to the door, Father-door, as we dodged up The narrow mountain road.
LIGHT.
So sudden my father strained the brakes. We stood on the shore of a rocky isle, Golden in the early sun Winkling from its new blue bowl
Down across
A heaving sea of white which moved, And sinking, moved again Around a glowing path
Ever at my feet. Away another golden hill, And further out another, and perhaps again. "Ooooh!" I said, trying to see it all, And "Ooooh."
"Don't do that," he said, as the Car Jerked Forward.
"Men don't say 'Ooooh. "' And back we plunged into monochrome.
SCOTT HINOJOS
6 +12
Glazed Ceramic, 6" x 11" x 11"
Portsmouth, Ohio
I never thought of myself as an artist, at least not until I became an art major. I was sitting in Tom Stead's office when Bill Meadows, one of the ceramics professors, recommended that I take a ceramics course. I really didn't want to take it and considered ceramics to be a waste of time, but eventually Bill wore me down and I enrolled. Three quarters later, I am a ceramics major.
I chose to do this piece to challenge myself. Although the potter's wheel is a difficult skill to perfect, I wanted to stretch beyond its limitations by being forced to produce symmetrical objects. Making the panels of this piece match up square at the top and bottom and at angles on the sides was the most difficult part of the project. Compounding this difficulty was the clay's fast rate of drying.
The handles were extruded and then repaired and bent into their respective shapes. The extruder provided a way of maintaining an exact diameter with a set number of angles.
Although similar pots inspired me, I thought I could do better in creating my work. My goal as a potter is to be well rounded in all areas of pottery. By returning to the most basic skill of hand building in creating this piece, I know that I will never be a potter limited to just the wheel.
CHARLIE HASKINS
Run
Away
Portsmouth, Ohio
Run away! Somewhere....
But nowhere to go, If l must run somewhere, Why not home?
Home was a haunted house, Where the devil roamed, Beside his empty garden, Where evil seeds were sown. Rim away! Somewhere.... But nowhere to go, If I gotta run somewhere, Why not home?
My home was a refuge, Like a garden I was grown, Now home is a graveyard, And a marble stone.
Run away! Somewhere... . But nowhere to go, If I must run somewhere, Why not home?
Home was an unpaid debt, It 's a garden overgrown, Where the shadow of a hungry ghost, Claimed me for its own.
So run away, run away, run on along, Run away, run away, run away from home.
New Beginnings
Portsmouth, Ohio
I.
New Hopes running over the days of oldPurging the gone fantasies of yesterday's pathBringing fonh new questions which can only be answered with life, liberty and never mind all else which brings down the dark night of a thousand sunsets crashing about the shoreline's edgeAnd fear of the depth ... the depth of the footprints which lead you into a Sea of AmbiguityNo tranquility-just leaves dancing about the clouds with no feet to anchor their sights to the ground.
II.
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah-Well you know Everything is just go, go, go.... Like an asteroid barreling through the stratosphere with no hopes but crashing into a forgotten world, a fiery dynamo on a planet with five billion names, though I do not know my ownBut today is the day of new beginnings and forgetting yesterday's past.
Ill.
Sometimes it seems like there is always tomorrow, but I know there is only one today. So I write this poem to take advantage of this day-as one never knows when all of the world's "tomorrows" may go slip-sliding away.
JAIME TUGGLE
Untitled
Pen and ink, 8112" x 11"
Portsmouth, Ohio
About a year ago, I was sitting in my apartment thinking about what I believe in and what it is that I stand for. I was thinking mostly about the major issues and.situations facing the youth of today and how I would approach them were I a parent. As I sat there being thankful that I'm not a parent, an image began to work its way into my head. This piece is that image. On one side there is heaven; on the other is hell, and trapped in the middle is a generation unconcerned or perhaps unaware of the discarded values of the past. Different forms of birth control are passed out in our schools not because we want to teach responsibility but because we are losing this generation to A.I.D.S. and unwanted pregnancies. Premarital sex and its consequences have become pervasive factors in growing up. Nobody is willing to accept the responsibility and accountability for the disregard of abstinence. We, as a nation, have digressed into teaching protection in place of prevention thereby covering up the true face of the adversary. We continue to stand in our complacency as the stronghold of the hand of death tightens its grip on what could be the last and most important (yet most unprepared) generation on this planet.
STEPHANIE GEE
Awakening
Wheelersburg, Ohio
Youth
Body magically healthy Unknowing indestructible
As the years go by, With each moment of pain, tragedy heartbreak learning
The body is chipped away, Little by little Aging, rotting to the real self We lose the body learn the spirit love the Soul Real feelings of love I begin to understand life
Little by little, I let go of this wondrous shell called the body, [ came as loving spirit, in reality this is all [ am. Joy is known
Thank you God.
VINA GILLIAM
Pitcairn Woman
Oil on canvas, 30" x 22"
Lucasville, Ohio
A Hero's Hardship
Portsmouth, Ohio
Aside from the badge that was pinned to his chest, nothing in his demeanor suggested that he was a Hero, much less a hero of the Order of the First House Royal. His clothing was nondescript and not of the fine quality usually associated with the great Hero Guilds in the Southern Kingdoms. He was of medium height and build, with a shock of auburn-colored hair that shot out in all directions from his head.
A servant came in with a stein of ale which the man took silently, leaned back on the plush divan, and closed his eyes in thought. The sound of the door opening caused him to open one eye lazily toward it. A short, thin scribe was entering tlie room, parchment and inks in hand. He watched the scribe cross to the table and set the writing things down. The scribe looked confusedly at him and then around the room. Clearly this had not been what the functionary expected.
"Yes scribe, it's me that you're here to see," the man said.
"But you're not crowned in black locks; you have hardly a hint of ebony at all," he said. "And you're not even as tall as the regular Heroes."
"We never are." replied Koramyr The Black. The scribe frowned slightly, unconvinced. "You would have me believe that it was you who single-handedly.... "
"I do not care what you choose to believe," Koramyr replied, tossing his badge of office across the room at the flustered scribe.
Turning the badge over in his soft hands, the scribe's eyes widened as he discovered it to be genuine. "But ... you display no colors or standards of the major houses," he contested. "How can I be expected to honor this seal?"
"Don't be an ass!" he snapped. "I am Koramyr The Black; what does your opinion mean to me? I am here at the request of your lord and will not be scrutinized by some self-righteous ink dauber. Ask your questions, scribe, so I may be about my business."
The scribe felt an unaccustomed dampness in the palms of his well manicured hands and swallowed with some difficulty. "Ah " He coughed to clear his throat. "Shall we begin anew? I am Derf of Ensol, scribe to the court of King Plim-tyro, of the Kingdom of BRI-ROC."
"Yes, yes," he waved his hand negligently. "Do get on with it."
"Very well," the scribe replied with scarcely concealed frustration. "How does one such as yourself become a hero without the support of the Houses?"
"The support of the Houses!" he muttered an oath. "The Houses are little
more than leeches draining away the true heroes of this land. When I began, there were no Houses, only brave men defending the right and just. When I began, it was just a man, his weapons, and his mount facing the denizens of the world. When I began, there were no rates for services rendered and no guild dues to pay."
"But what of Garif, Timin, and Halcor?" the scribe countered. "Surely they are great representatives of the Hero Guilds, and men whose valiant deeds shall live on in the hearts of the people."
"Garif and Timin can barely sit in the saddle, much less take on the berserkers as they claimed, and Halcor is a lover of boys."
"You slander great heroes, sir...." Derf began.
"I speak the truth, Derf; I would gladly test my steel against theirs, singly or jointly. The point is that most of these deeds of valor can be ascribed to staying too long in the drink, or to just plain wishful thinking."
"WeJI what of your deeds, great Koramyr?" he demanded.
"They are no different-the efforts of men to make story where there is none."
"They say you slew a dragon single-handedly; what of that?"
"Aye, 'tis true that I dealt it the death blow, and that it nearly killed me, but only after a three-day battle where a hundred men took the battle to it ...." His eyes took on a faraway look and became moist. He blinked it back and looked to the scribe. "And only Five of us survived to tell the tale. My companions were more than generous in giving credit, but the credit lay with the ninety-five who did not return. Tell me, Derf, have you ever seen a lizard?" Derf nodded. "Imagine a lizard one hundred times bigger with wings that cover the sky and a mouth that can crush a wagon between its teeth and spit a liquid fire that can cling to a Knight's armor and bum until there is nothing left. That is what a dragon is like." He looked hard at the scribe, and held his gaze. "Why a fart alone could blind and choke a normal man to death."
For a moment, the scribe just looked at Koramyr; his eyes squinted in concentration and confusion.
The sound of laughter boomed across the room as Koramyr clutched his sides and stomped his foot on the floor.
"By the Gods man, lighten up a little It's the problem those Guild Heroes have. They take themselves too seriously. They're beginning to believe the stories they're telling about themselves. Being a real hero isn't all it's cracked up to be."
"What do you mean by that?" Derf asked.
"Where do you want me to start?" It's a long story-too long for a mug that's so empty." He banged the flask on the table. The servant who had been standing discreetly in the comer came to refill the mug.
"Good man, good man. Now, in the hero business, there are basically three rules that apply to all situations. Rule one: a King's Treasury is as deep as the sea 'til the job's finished. Then, he starts whining about the upkeep of his
kingdom and how his vassals are already threatening open rebellion if he asks for a single copper more in taxes to pay for what has become a questionable service rendered. Rule Two: the level of difficulty for a task increases proportionally with me initial reward offer. If, for example, King "X" offers a thousand gold for the return of some kidnaped progeny, one can assume that it is an easy task. like thrashing some bandit lord. But, on the other hand, if he starts off promising gold and titles, you had better grab your ass and hang on because you can count on at least a mage and a netherworld denizen or two. Rule three: beautiful virgin princesses are rarely beautiful and, still rarer, virgin. If a King offers the hand of one of these lovelies for the completion of some "Noble quest," one would be better off to negotiate some sort of cash settlement."
"But, this sounds all so, so ... " the scribe began.
"So calculating, so unchivalrous?" the hero replied, grinning.
''Well ... yes. Noble sir, the common view is that heroes pursue adventure out of some sense of duty to the common good or to follow some higher purpose-not for gain."
"Tell me, Derf, have you ever considered the cost of the hero business? Well let me tell you that it isn't a cheap business to be in. For example, I have five Retainers. They are younger Knights following me for the purpose of," the hero paused and rolled his eyes sarcastically, "For lhe purpose of learning the Knightly trade and learning how to be a noble and chivalrous knight. If you think for one minute that these good and worthy men would follow me simply for the glory and honor of Knighthood, you're sorely mistaken. If I didn't line their purses with gold, they'd be gone in less time than it takes to gut a street thief. In addition to that, I have sixteen men-at-anns to pay; plus upkeep on mounts, armor, weapons, and food for feeding the ravenous lot. It simply isn't good business to get all romantic and starry eyed about this line of work."
The scribe was crestfallen. In a few short minutes, his conception of the knightly quest had been severely shattered, and he wasn't quite sure on how to proceed.
"I can't write this; the King would throw me in the street, or worse .... How am I going to explain this?"
''Dear Derf, the answer is quite simple." Koramyr starred. "Use your imagination."
"You mean lie?l" Derf exploded.
·'Well, not exactly lie, maybe expand the truth just a little. Nobody will be hurt by it; as a matter-of-fact, you'd be helping the heroes out quite a bit. I mean after all, we do perform a valuable service slaying monsters, rescuing princesses, saving kingdoms and the lot. Just think how much ea~ier it would be for us if those who read your marvelous tales were so moved by your wordsmithing that they would open their purses wide and dump gold on us. For example, have you ever tried to clean up the mess created by slaying dragons? There is the body of course: 70 to 100 feet of the nastiest, foulest smelling lizard in the southern kingdoms stinking up the countryside. Why I nearly
went broke paying the men to just get rid of the oody. Do you think the local lord helped in defraying the cost of that? Koramyr snorted derisively. "Why the bastard damn near wouldn't pay me at all until I gave oath to get rid of the miserable beast. Not only that, there was the cost of the damage caused by the battle itself. Two villages were destroyed outright, and the deep at-stand was damaged heavily. I very nearly had to pay for the restoration of them-if not for the negotiations of my solicitor-and that solicitor didn't come cheap either." Koramyr paused and looked with a narrow eye to the servant standing in the comer. The steward refilled the mug while giving the hero a strange smile.
"But ... to color the truth in any way-wouldn't that be dishonest? or against the Knightly code of honor?" ·
Koramry snorted.
"Look, Derf, you wouldn't be lying but just making the truth more pleasant to the ear. And believe me; my honor wouldn't be the slightest bit sullied if you helped to make my job easier. It is easier for me to pay my men by gold than by trying to divide some "beautiful" princess, (who would scare the warts off the ugliest troll in the hills of Am) with twenty-one men."
Derf looked aghast.
"You wouldn't. .. ?"
"No, damn it, I was speaking in the figurative sense. I do have some sense of honor. What I am saying is that you would be doing a great and noble service to the heroes of the land if you would ... help us in this manner."
"My lord, this has been quite illuminating to say the least; I will have to give this some consideration. I mean, to take such licenses with the King's histories. Well, it is such a risk . He is a very particular man when it comes to the recording of the happenings of the world, and he wants to be known as the "Light of Knowledge" to the peoples of the Realm."
"Well I'll admit that your king is quite full of himself and his place in the scheme of the world, but think of this too. Your tales would be the talk of the realm, and kings can be very generous when giving rewards."
Derf's eyes brightened.
"Perhaps there is some merit in 'augmenting' the truth a little. I will give it some serious thought, sir; you have indeed given me much to ponder. He gathered his writing instruments together. "I will ... wax a little poetic, when recording the deeds of you and your compatriots and see what happens."
Koramyr crossed the room and slapped him on the back heartily.
"Good man, Derf. You'll see; everyone will benefit-you, the king, me, the other heroes, and even the people who read these tales. Their spirits will be lifted by the tales of noble deeds and quests of the great Knights of the Realm. Now be off, good Derf, and spin those tales of valor."
Koramyr led him to the door.
"I will indeed, Sir Koramyr. Thank you for your words of wisdom."
Koramyr eased the door shut and walked across the room smiling broadly. The servant came out of the comer from which he had witnessed the exchange
between the two men.
"Well, Koramyr, do you think the good scribe bought our little ruse?"
"Jorin, he was blinded by my audacious brilliance. I do believe had J not chosen to become a noble knight, l could have easily become a confidence man stealing the gold from out of the king's own hand."
"Well, don't get too cocky, Rolo. 'He' should be arriving any minute and it will be hard to ~xplain that outfit of yours."
"You're right. Help me into my mail shirt."
Rolo had just slipped the wolf's head tabard over the mail shirt and w<1s adjusting his sword belt when the door opened. A large knight entered the room. He was a hand-span over six feet and thickly muscled. He wore plat armor burnished to a silvery brilliance. A stem expression covered his face, and the 1oops of his bushy black mustache drooped below his chin. He walked to Rolo and held his hand out for the offered badge.
"D-did h-he co-me RR-OOO-lo?"
"No, my lord Koramyr. A servant came to say he would be unable to meet with you and to suggest another time."
The burly knight looked a little relieved.
"T-then ll-let u-us b-b-be away; we m-must bb-e in Kith-Sarath www- within a ff-fon-tnight. A-assemble t-t-the mmm-men, wwe-we-rrrr-ride within t-the hour." He turned and strode out of the room.
Rolo grinned at Jorin.
"See, I told you, no problems at all."
"Yes, but what's going to happen should Halcor, Timin and Garif hear of what you told the scribe?"
"It's all true, so what's the fuss? You know how he feels about those fops. Anyway, J don't think that any of them have the nerve to confront Korarnyr on it. Let's leave it lie and see what happens," he grinned wickedly. "Maybe they will try something; and we'll get to see our liege split a few heads."
"Rolo, you're a mean man."
"Aye, that's what my dear mum used to tell me all the time, but 'tis a cruel, mean world out there. A man has to protect himself and his lord. Let's go see about the horses and get our Hero on his way to Kith-Sarath."
Jorin agreed, and the two men left the room.
SANDRA ADDIS
Ghost of Bus 26
Black and white photograph, 8" x 9114''
Portsmouth, Ohio
FRANCESCA STEAD
Climbing to Brackenridge in November Rain
Otway, Ohio
My heart opens to the wet of the woods
The dark of the night shimmers with car lights
Reflected on trees and puddles
Winter wears a liquid dress
The purgatory of metamorphosis
From the liquid of fall
To the crystalline of winter white snowflakes
Clear spiral horns of eaves icicles
Morning's snow melts sending
Furrows of water down the hillsides
To stream down Shawnee Road
Splattering tires and windshield
With halos of prismed dark
Light rainbows
Feeling of going home
In November rain
JOHN GA LT
I am a firefly and this is my picture: your dark world is my field.
Portsmouth, Ohio
When mnning at night along the river with your bathing suit in your hands you were my sea nymph, my mermaid. I was just a little fleck, a transient spark at the tree line. I hid for the fear that you, beautiful and blond, galloping like love itself ... that you, humble and incarnate hope ... that you, my only vestibule of faith in that black space that you too might be hiding a jar behind your naked body ... for fear that you, even you, might want to hold my body in a glass for the bizarre pleasure of light for fear that you, even you, could harm me.
In that time I glide just outside the heat of your body. I have the light of a million centuries glowing in me for you. I skirt the surface of you, always returning to the tree line, to the dark pockets of my forest. It is from this distance that we see one another.
When running at night along the river with your youth outgrowing you in your breasts, you were my hope. You were my virgin, and I was your lesser god. Surely we would love someday and bring children into the world ... flying blond children of dark woods and yellow glowing bellies. But even hope collapses.
You plunge into the icy chill of dark water, naked and alone. But I have seen the future and you are not always alone. You, of course, were to become our sacrificial virgin ... the one given over to the pushers and the pimps. The peddlers of human flesh. You were to be our sacrifice.
Still I float here. Today a lone button on a black sky. Today a single star on the horizon. From a cascade of water you rise out as mist and love and memory. You mix with the sky in a sea of my forgetfulness. I am a firefly and this is the picture: your falling-apart is my history. I know you because you know me. I am a fledgling firefly here near the sea.
JENNIFER COPELAND
Untitled
Oil on canvas, 24" x 26"
- McDermott, Ohio
LEANN SHULTZ
Guise
Oil on canvas, 36" x 24"
West Portsmouth, Ohio
The Blindfold Merchant
. Wheelersburg, Ohio
Dr. Barnabas' auto-dwelling rested, as it did every summer's end, on the cracked concrete of a park-and-ride, which lay on the outskirts of Rivertown. Every year the good doctor peddles his tech-wares to the credit poor from the back of his vehicle which is camouflaged in a myriad of colors-the same colors as seen in the artificial forest which surrounds the town. The credit-poor buy the tech-wares, as they are desperate to keep pace with the chip-driven gems of the Pacific Rim Union.
I had never been inside the Doctor's mobile market but had driven by his encampment several times. Each trip I witnessed Dr. Barnabas warming his hands over a fire burning in a steel drum and whispering to himself. I was as anxious to discover what he was muttering to himself as I was to complete my mission to rescue my beloved Marida.
Marida, with her rich lips, pale eyes, porcelain skin, and her lethargic entrance into the classroom, had rendered any attempts at learning futile for the summer. The vid-lecture became static to my ears. My eyes refused to focus on anything but her. l swatted the great ideas of Marinelli and Nietzsche away from me like annoying little gnats. Marida was all I could think of. Scenarios ranging from the awkward exchange of pleasantries to the truly torrid plagued my mind. Yet, those lapses were crudely interrupted one afternoon as I watched in horror as my angel placed on her brow that hideous tech-parasite which slithered its black plastotentacles over her precious eyes.
Though many refer to it as the "opt-filter," I have always called it a blindfold. Whether it blurred the images of the dwelling-challenged or those stricken with various solar sicknesses was of no consequence to me. It was apparent that the "blindfold., had been forced upon my angel by the masses who sit
securely upon the shores of life fearing the murky waters before them and never understanding th~t those filth-ridden waters still cleanse the soul of dross.
I pulled my auto behind the Doctor's encampment. I felt the rush of the brisk fall winds and caught the words, "Fair is foul and foul is fair," as I opened my door. The Doctor leaped from the fire, bounded towards me with a shark's smile, and outstretched his arms. "How may I be paid and you be satisfied, young sir?" he inquired.
The good Doctor gladly supplied me with a "blindfold" seemingly superior to the model that had strangled my beloved's soul. For a modest fee, the merchant's large black hands skillfully installed a modified chip which would slowly clarify the world for my angel's eyes-allowing her for the first time to see life as it truly is. Once freed from the illusion of mirth, she would be ready to understand the questions and perceptions that I have kept bound within me for too long.
The good Doctor whittled away with a smile. He muttered a saying as he traded the device for my 30 silver credits: "They made love only during a total eclipse of the sun because they wouldn't take off their clothes unless it was dark outside"; and then he laughed loudly. I paid it no mind. It is easy to forgive eccentricities when on such an important quest. As I pulled away from the good Doctor's encampment, he stood over his fire again and shouted into the air,
"Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. Oh no! It is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken.
It is the star to every wandering bark, whose worth is unknown although his heights be taken. "
But then again, "'Tis said that some have ...." And having heard enough of his ramblings, I gunned the engine and sped away. I fondled the device during the long drive home. Fantasy
upon fantasy filled my mind. One would barely begin when another would forcefully interject itself. The fantasies always began with her seated alone somewhere with a deep look of loneliness upon her. I would coolly approach her, and she would barely regard me. I would sit next to her and quote a line steeped in nihilism. She would tum to me with a look of shock and relief for she would realize that her soulmate had emerged from the darkness. We would talk for hours and make love for days. All it required was the freeing of her soul. All it required was the slaying of the parasitic "blindfold" which shielded her from the evils of this world-this world which also holds the only truths.
I hid outside of Marida's dwelling for hours and waited for her to enter. Once my beloved gracefu1ly strolled inside, I placed the device inside the chem-screen. I tied it to the door handle with a red bow and placed an anonymous note filled with the fluid passion of Joyce in the delivery slot. Running home, I was barely able to focus my plans for the two of us once she was emancipated from the bondage of banality. My visions of our future were augmented only by the speculation of the number of days it would require to bring my beloved into my world.
It was, of course, one of the greatest disappointments of my life to learn of my Marida's demise. Her lapse into mental illness and subsequent suicide brought heartache that I am sure only Ophelia's admirer has ever known. Obviously, it was my failure to intervene for it was clearly those around her that convinced my angel that she was mad. Only the years of clear vision and the entrance of my siren, Sara, into the fall classroom has saved me from Hamlet's fate. Sara! With her lion's mane of blonde hair and wild smile. Unfortunately, she too has been forced to view the world through the censored eyes of the "blindfold." But I am a patient being who shall calmly count the days until summer's end when Dr. Barnabas will return, and I will assume my predestined role as my siren's savior.
THE KIP Everyday Words
Portsmouth, Ohio
i devised the master plan of mass produced alter egos. no more copper wrist turned green. no more talk of roads nowhere USA. no more unpainted pallets. no. nothing but colors. 500 dollars and a case of scotch. (how much horse?) no shirt no tie slept-in suit. on stage scream.ing madness. Lucky Strike g-man put out in my beer. cold back rooms up against the wall and a kink in my neck. where do the seams lie in between? for the professional vagabond.
SHERRI KILGALLION
Moon Flower
Black and white photograph. 10" x 8" Blue Creek, Ohio
Her long hair dances around her finger, like a gentle spring breeze. Her eyes shine as the moon on water. Her skin captivates the winter snow. She is my Moon Flower, forever blooming in my heart.
This photograph of my daughter Elizabeth was part of my first assignment in photography class here at Shawnee State. Elizabeth became a part of my life about nine years ago. She has often expressed an awareness that she is different from other kids. This always leads to a discussion of how our differences make all of us special. I know that her maturity and sensitivity are the qualities that make her a very unique individual.
JEFF KLEIN Oasis
Portsmouth, Ohio
Miles upon burning miles
Kicked up in foaming clouds of dust Here we are still on the road, part-time escapees from the world
Strung out like mad dogs in the sun from days of wild terrain where speed limits are just a toothless concept and radio giants howl through the static Comfort was left behind in Flagstaff along with road maps
The desert is free but we've got to break now or break down City lights of Laughlin call out from along a miracle mile of the Colorado
CHARLES M.WHITT
Dream #32
Beauty Ridge, Kentucky
When present technology is obsolete poor people will probably box in the giant transmission towers and live in them.
Hang laundry from the big steel arms on top. Signal each other with mirrors while dangling one-handed half way up.
Already I can see a wheel-less 747 with Christmas decorations in the windows, and wood smoke billowing from a chimney mounted on top of its silver fuselage.
Technology of the future bypasses super highways, forgets suspension bridges, abandons asphalt.
When computers become vials of plasma implanted in our mastoid cavities they will stack the old plastic boxes in the middle of the freeway and raise pigs in them.
Children will collect ancient memory chips like arrowheads and display them in transparent cases wondering how useful something that crude could have been.
When grass is extinct, and oak trees develop spines in the place of leaves to withstand the warming earth, a shady overpass will rent like a condominium at Myrtle Beach.
But right now, along U.S. Route 32 pushing back into Appalachia those towers, and overpasses, plastic boxes, and web of wires connected at unknown points, carrying the most intimate of life's messages, carrying, sometimes, life itself indirectly makes me yearn for the ultimate journey. Forward or backward, it doesn't matter which.
STEVE SKAGGS
Ov«rlooking 3rd Street
Oil on canvas, 4' x 3'
Wheelersburg, Ohio
For the most part, I have the need to work directly from life. While many artists these days are using photographs, I find it better to have a person right in front of me, or to be actually out in the environment I'm painting. This enables me to get a truer sense of my subject and to be able to receive much more information from it.
When I began painting Overlooking 3rd Street, I did very little preliminary drawing. However, I spent a great deal of time working out the basic composition in my mind in order to determine what the main focus would be, which areas of the subject I thought would work, and which areas wouldn't work. Then, with a brush and a thin wash, I put in the main directional lines of the street. I lightly filled in blocks of value and decided where to place the houses, sidewalk, and oval at the bottom right and horizon line. Next, I began the process of building up detail. At times I used a palette knife to work in areas where a brush was less effective, such as in the flat planes of the concrete or houses. I also used the palette knife to build up hard textures, such as in the poles and trees.
I usually come away from each canvas I paint having learned something I previously was not aware of. This keeps up my enthusiasm for painting.
HARDING STEDLER
High on Green
Who will always be "from Portsmouth"
There is no longing for the snowdrifts when November's name is called. No longing for those icy winding hills where Appalachia sleeps.
I no longer wrap in thicknesses of quilt to ward off frostbite or to keep blood platelets afloat, indoors.
I no longer have the need to mount the shaft of snow shovel when white piles high on green.
Being high on green is why I left behind cold climes, whose heart beats loyal-north.
I ride a south wind here in Dixie, in December, Gulf or desert wind, and ride treetops in my shirtsleeves.
A breath of green is all it takes to step high beyond a winter.
SHERRI BOLDEN
Here We Go Again
Oil on canvas, 3' x 4' Portsmouth, Ohio
Well, this is actually a combination artist statement and farewell speech. This is the last issue of the Silhouette for which I will hold the title of art editor. It's been a long year, but I think we've made beneficial changes for the Silhouette. I want to thank all of my fellow artisans in supporting me for the past year, and I wish them luck in their future endeavors. Without you, I could not have performed my job to the best of my abilities. Again, thank you and good luck. I wish Dave Rawlins and Steve Skaggs luck with forthcoming issues.
The idea for Here We Go Again first came to me when I started dating my current boyfriend. Once I saw that we were headed toward a •semi-serious' relationship, I thought "Oh God, here we go again" because it seems as though every relationship I have with a man breaks at some point and leaves me feeling flimsy as if huge pieces of me are missing. And while the pieces always grow back again, they do so in such an altered way that the process leaves me forever changed .
