The Talon Spring 2011

THE TALON | SPRING 2011 Woodberry Forest School Woodberry Forest, VA 22989

SPRING 2011 WOODBERRY FOREST SCHOOL VOLUME 62, NO. 2

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Ava Lonergan

SENIOR POETRY EDITOR

Bryce Peppers

SENIOR PROSE EDITOR

Charles Perkins

JUNIOR EDITOR EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS design poetry photography art prose

Jason Hill Allen Jones Wilson Kuhnel Ian McDowell Willy Sherrerd-Smith Nick Workman

ART REVIEW BOARD

Jay Mitchener, Charley Hilliard, Christian Dolan, David Lee

PHOTOGRAPHY REVIEW BOARD

Frederic Lamontagne, Sam Mebane, Rags Coxe, Brennan Cumalander, Addison Winston, Nick Gambal, Mark Petrone, Brian Pecheles

POETRY REVIEW BOARD

PROSE REVIEW BOARD

FACULTY ADVISOR TECHNICAL ADVISOR

Lat Peak, Stuart Huston, Nelson Williams, Charlie Moore, Tripp Grant, James Crabb, Parker Nance Starling Gamble, Charlie McGee, John Moylan, Cary Jones, Eli Exum, Kyle Kenney, Trice Moore, Thomas Doughty, Nick Workman, Peter Shelton, Gibson Montgomery, George Sutherland Karen Broaddus Richard Broaddus

FRONT COVER DESIGN Ava Lonergan BACK COVER DESIGN Bryce Peppers & Nick Workman TITLE PAGE BROOK TROUT Henry Holmes 18 x 24 inches marker on paper > REFLECTION Ben Park 18 x 24 inches acrylic on paper

8 13 14 20 24 27 32 39 45 50 54 61 66 70

RIP AWAY Walker Wiese 1919 WORLD SERIES Charles Perkins DIVORCED FROM INNOCENCE Qawi Austin DOUBLE PLAY Kiefer McDowell HOW TO PLAY CROQUET Ava Lonergan AN UNHOLY UNION Wilson Kuhnel THE WONDERS OF HIS LOVE Stephen Kowalkowski SAVOR Walker Wiese A WRESTLER AND HIS COACH Cary Jones FILL James Crabb MONROE Bryce Peppers TRY TO WALK A MILE Eric Ways THE TROUBLE WITH MADAME NHU Charles Perkins TO WOODBERRY—MY HOME McGregor Joyner

11 13 17 23 28 29 34 42 46 53 58 64 65 68

ONOMATOPOEIA fiction Dixon Cashwell FANTASY microfiction James Crabb THE OTHER PEOPLE fiction McGregor Joyner NUKED SANITY nonfiction Brett Berger A LANGUAGE nonfiction Anna Grey Hogan GRAMPS nonfiction George Sutherland WOKE UP NEW fiction Dixon Cashwell WAR IN D'NEALIAN nonfiction Charles Perkins INVISIBLE HAPPINESS fiction Peter Shelton A BLUFF TAKEN TOO FAR nonfiction Allen Jones AARON nonfiction Jack Pidgeon THE HIDDEN TRUTH microfiction Pierre Courpron THREE COURSE MEAL microfiction Walker Wiese SURFACE TENSION nonfiction Bryce Peppers

9 10 15 25 38 40 41 51 52 56 57 59 62 63 65 67 69 72

THIRST David Lee SINISTER MURK Charley Hilliard THE LAST AGE David Lee EMPTY CHAIR Jay Mitchener CHASING TRUTH Willy Sherrerd-Smith DESERTED Ian McDowell SAVANNAH SUNSET Matt Laws INDIAN SUNSET Henry Holmes SUPPRESSED THOUGHTS Chris Milton PARROT Willy Sherred-Smith BUST Christ Milton WOMAN WITH RED BACKGROUND Chris Milton BLAZED Charley Hilliard OBLIVION'S GRASP Charley Hilliard OUT OF REACH Willy Sherrerd-Smith FINDING MY WAY David Lee BANKSEY TRIBUTE Chris Milton SITTING BULL Charley Hilliard

16 18 19 21 22 26 29 30 31 33 35 45 47 48 49 55 60 64 71

OUTLINE Chris Milton MEET VIRGINIA Anna Grey Hogan HOMEMADE William Figg ON THE LINE Chris Milton SHADOWS Willy Sherrerd-Smith RUSSIAN WEDDING Addison Winston SUNDAY AFTERNOON Peter Shelton ELEVATORS FALL Tripp Grant TANGELO ICE Tripp Grant REACHING TO HEAVEN Ian McDowell DARKENED LIFE Jason Hill MASTER Rags Coxe PUPPY EYES Frederic Lamontagne SIGHTS Jason Hill ENDLESS STARE Stevie Keller SCOUT Sterling Street NIGHTLIFE Sam Mebane WHAT'S UP? Willy Sherrerd-Smith MIRROR, MIRROR, ON THE WALL... Willy Sherrerd-Smith

POETRY BY WALKER WIESE

Black clouds and puffs of smoke rose o’er the sea.

Bright flashes bashed the splashing, cracking waves.

The splintered rods fractured the roaring night and broke the day-long hold of silent calm.

“The storm has come,” she said and shook with fear.

A raging tide attacked the rotted stilts, which creaked with every hit upon the wood.

“We can’t expect to live like this,” he spoke.

But Sarah pained to see his teary eyes, a window deep into his passing soul.

“But what is there to do with fear that comes?”

The rain arrived and pattered tin with speed.

“We’ll leave tonight. Escape the coming storm.”

He grasped her close and stroked her long, dark hair.

“We’ll both be fine,” he said. The sky grew dark, but close, their hearts, like drums, in rhythm beat.

The flags begin to tear with biting air, which quakes and rips the house’s wooden floor.

Both hold the passing minutes as their last and save false hope in life and their escape.

The gray cords ring against the creaking pole, and flags that clung by single threads of rope now rip away along the twists of sky.

> THIRST David Lee 19 x 25 inches acrylic on paper 8

FICTION BY DIXON CASHWELL

I

ask the fat mortician how my father was killed.

The mortician turns around, a bloaty, gas-filled thing. He sighs and tells me that my father was shot by a policeman.

Apparently, my father was in a woman’s apartment last night. Apparently, the woman didn’t want my father to be there. Apparently, the woman called 911.

And apparently, my father charged the responding officer with a knife and then was apparently shot three times in the chest and apparently he is dead on the slab in a morgue in front of me.

He looks awful.

His face is craggy. One eye has gone a kind of shocked and dead gray-blue. He’s looking down at the three brown holes in his chest, flecks of dried blood spackled around them. His skin’s gone gray, and I think it would’ve been that color if he was alive.

This is the first time I’ve seen him in fifteen years.

The fat mortician unwraps a Jolly Rancher that he took out from a pocket in his lab coat and tosses the candy into his mouth. There’s no sound, except the buzzing of fluorescence and the slick clacking of the candy against the mortician’s teeth.

“No offense man,” the fat mortician says, “but your dad was fuckin’ stupid.” He laughs. “Knife to a gunfight. Fuckin’ classic.” When the fat mortician laughs, little droplets of spit made green by the

candy fly out of his mouth and land on my father’s dead and broken chest.

M

y father would always go fishing.

Not in the way most sons talk about. Not the kind of fishing where a son learns how to bait a hook, the kind where a son and a dad walk back into their house telling a mom about how the fish they caught was this big. Not the kind where a family is served the fish for dinner as a dad and a son happily chat about how big a fight the little sucker put up.

No. Not that kind.

The kind of fishing my father did killed me.

Six, seven times a year, I’d hear my mom and my dad screaming. I’d hear dishes smash. Sometimes I’d hear a blow land. And then the next day, I’d see my dad holding a fishing pole, walking out the front door. Always, always, I’d ask him where he was going.

“Not now, son.”

He was gone for a month once.

Weeks of my mother chain-smoking on her recliner. Weeks of sobbing whenever bills came.

Weeks of staring at the empty and malicious telephone and waiting and waiting and waiting for a call we knew would never happen because it had never happened before when my father was gone, and it never would happen ever.

And then he’d be there.

I’d come home from school, and he’d be there.

< SINISTER MURK Charley Hilliard 18 x 24 inches marker on paper 11

Because he just needed to get away for a while. And because it was nothing to worry about, son. And because why don’t you go see what your mother’s up to. I’m tired right now.

And after he got back, he’d take out a fish from a cooler, and he’d filet it. He’d open a drawer and pull out the crusty filet knife, the blade a dull, offwhite color, stained from years and years of use with chunks and strips of flesh stuck on it always.

And the sound it would make when he cut into it.

It was a greasy sound. A wet, slick slice that would never, never end. The kind of sound that drips and pools in your ears and will slosh around your head for years.

Shlick. Shlick. Shlick.

I hated the sound.

I hated the sound, I hated the fish, and I hated the fucking knife.

I want to say that one time he went fishing and never came back. I really do. Whatever would’ve happened after he left would’ve been better than the pathetic years he spent with us.

But he didn’t. He always came back. Sometimes it’d be days. Sometimes weeks. But he’d always, always come back.

And there was one time when he came back, and I knew that he’d start cutting up the fish soon.

I knew that every room in the house would echo with the shlick shlick shlick of the crusty knife slicing the flesh of the confused and dead fish.

So I left.

I haven’t seen my father since.

And now he’s dead. And I’m identifying his body.

“I’ll need you to sign this,” the fat mortician sprays.

He hands me a piece of paper on a clipboard. The

12

board smells sterilized, like Clorox and embalming fluid. It makes me want to throw up for a second, so I wince the sick down.

The fat mortician notices, laughs. More green spit flies onto my father’s dead chest. It’s starting to collect; little green rivulets of fluid are flowing in the folds of my fathers’ peaked nipples, a tiny green oasis here and there in the gaps between his collarbone and his shoulders.

The paper says that the corpse I’m identifying is, in fact, who it’s supposed to be. I sign, and I hand the board and the paper to the fat mortician. He starts to chew on the remnants of his Jolly Rancher, open-mouthed. The chunks of the candy in his cavernous mouth are dollar bills in a dryer.

If I have to look at that fucking man for one more second, I will kill him.

So I turn. I leave. And I’m back in my apartment.

I’m back to being twelve. The walls are alive with the wet, wiggling pulse of the knife doing its work.

And even though I’m under my blanket, and even though my mother is almost, almost drowning the noise out with her screaming and yelling and coughing, the noise still scratches, cuts at me.

Shlick. Shlick. Shlick.

My mother screaming. My father cutting. Me crying.

These sounds, these memories, they’re all I have left of my father.

Memories of screaming. Of fishing. Of pain and misery and indifference.

And memories of the noise. Of the visceral and wet cadence that has branded itself in my brain and will dog at me until I am like him, like my father.

Dead. Gray. Cut up by a fat man in a lab coat.

Shlick. Shlick. Shlick.

1919 WORLD SERIES POETRY BY CHARLES PERKINS

When Kenesaw was in control, he cleaned the cheaters out.

He even kept the big leagues white, to check the public's doubt.

FANTASY

MICROFICTION BY JAMES CRABB

Y

ou aren’t real. I’ve known that for a while, but it doesn’t bother me. The ketchup slides down your tender sides. I can’t keep from salivating when I think about licking it off your crisp body. You’ve been so hot before that you burned my lips once when I kissed you. It will never be the same between us because now you are all real white breast.

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POETRY BY QAWI AUSTIN

Sometimes we live in sand castles, not knowing they will collapse when the tide hits.

We mend ourselves and our castle.

Nothing can measure what has been done to us.

Someone told us it was brick.

Someone told us it would last forever.

When you try to talk, you can’t.

Something ignites.

You build your own castle of brick, one that will last forever.

You do good, but you don’t know if things will change.

You don’t know if things will ever be the same.

> THE LAST AGE David Lee 19 x 25 inches acrylic on paper 14

FICTION BY MCGREGOR JOYNER

Y

es, yes, yes! It was…strange."

Hair untidy, body shaking as though broken from the soul outward, the most puzzled look on his face, he sat staring at a Styrofoam cup on a plastic table in the center of a room, alone.

"I mean…the instruments…the strange, other– worldly sounds we heard in the spaceship, and— and the heat. The intense heat! But you see, the truth of the matter is that things—things happen up there, out there."

The cup still retained a small film of coffee at the bottom—Commander Sigonella said he needed it to help him think.

"The, the th'top minds at mission control told us at the debriefing that it had been a solar burst, an EMP of sorts. The top minds!" He dug deep into his pocket for his lighter. Placed the cigarette slowly to his lips, fingers quivering. It had been too long since he'd had a smoke.

"But—but they were saying things…" his voice almost a whisper, "the other people, who came from some…top secret branch of the government in their black suits, carrying those briefcases. Men in black, I guess they were. Ha! They even said that the noises might have been…Oh, God! But never mind that!"

Hand slapping the desk, he stood abruptly; the chair screeched with the echo of his voice and fell against the concrete floor. "None of it was true.

Not one word those wackos said was true. Nerdy, stuck-up, overly imaginative scum. Ha!"

S

igonella was now pacing around the corners of his living room. He came to his window and peered out onto the rolling sand dunes of the

Keys and the ocean in the distance. It was…calm.

Nothing moved. Sigonella lifted the chair with ease, sat, and sighed, looking up at the fan on his oak wood roof.

"How beautiful it is up there. The heavens open to you, the Earth—all you know and have ever known—behind you." The fan stopped with a terrible screech. His head whipped around the room to the window. The seas were tossing, and an immense storm cloud blackened the horizon.

The house began to shake, and he fell to the floor, shutting his eyes and clutching his head.

hhh, what the hell is happening!" He lifted his head. Compartments were breaking open, things were beginning to fly, and oxygen was spewing with the most terrible hiss from broken pipes, swinging about the cabin.

"Walker, shut down all operations, find me the manual for in-flight duct repairs, and turn down the heat!" A bar struck him from behind, and he gasped, waking back to the ten–by–ten cell with the rubber table, the plastic chair which he had knocked over himself in his fitful terror, and the small window showing the blank cinderblock wall across from his cell.

"What th'Hell?! Oh, my God." The commander pushed himself back to the wall and sank against it, gasping and wiping the sweat from his brow. He dug deep into his pocket for his lighter. It wasn't there.

"Oh, right. They don't allow those in insane asylums." His breathing slowed and he became calm. Then the lights of his cell began to flicker, and he began to hear the sounds. Again.

A

< OUTLINE Chris Milton film photograph 17

MEET VIRGINIA Anna Grey Hogan digital photograph

HOMEMADE William Figg digital photograph

POETRY BY KIEFER MCDOWELL

The whites of his eyes hidden in shadows beneath the bill of his cap, he watches and waits like a cat to catch what comes his way.

Crack!

He pounces on the ball, his hands flying above the grass, flinging his prey across the diamond into a double-play.

> ON THE LINE Chris Milton film photograph 20

NONFICTION BY BRETT BERGER

S

ophomore year, I decide to go to the fall mixer. I’ve trained myself to scrutinize and overanalyze everything, so naturally things that require no thought, no order (such as dancing) are impossible and fruitless tasks for me.

Yet nonetheless, I’m drawn by the allure of seeing, and by some miracle actually perhaps touching, a female body. So like any good bachelor, I make myself as attractive as possible: long shower, shave, best shirt, the works.

I begin my walk across the chilly lawn and structure the night in my mind: find a girl, dance a while, maybe make out then get her number and leave. With high hopes putting a slight bounce in my step, I take the long path down to the Barbee.

The beat of the bass grows louder as I get closer. My palms get sweaty, yet I boldly push open the doors.

Strobes flash above a thrusting mass reeking of way too many designer colognes, turning reality into a fragmented chaos of stenches. “Sandstorm” hammers all around me. Logic screams for me to get as far away as possible from this hellish mob, yet the allure of a girl steers me straight in.

I fail to avoid the thrashing of those possessed by the din. I attempt to mimic the chaotic flailing of arms and pulsing of hips, yet unlike those around me, I look more like a rabid monkey. I vaguely

notice the alarm in the back of my head going off, but I push it away, determined to acquire my prize.

My shirt now sticks to my chest and sweat drips down my back. I start to lose control. My head spins, eyes straining to find an exit. I’m trapped.

Thick-fingered hands squeeze the sides of my brain, and a scream builds in my throat. I have to get out. The alarm blares, yet the music thumps unimpeded. I lunge, push, grab and fight my way to that beautiful red EXIT. I burst through the doors and sprint for my life.

I run as far and as fast as I can until my legs give out, and I collapse onto soft, warm fairway. With each gulp of night the thick fingers lift away, and the alarm pulses less. Breathing returns to normal.

I can think. I uncurl from the fetal ball and flop onto my back, slowly opening my eyes. Arranged before me is that calm, unyielding canopy. A sliver of moon lies nestled in the crook of an oak. A thousand flecks of light match my gaze. Their cold calculating lack of sympathy helps me restructure my mind. Bit by bit, the puzzle of my nuked sanity pieces itself back together. When chaos seems to take over, and everything seems change, I lie out and remember that gravity will always keep me from falling into the sky, and soundless night is always willing to embrace me in its dark cloak.

< SHADOWS Willy Sherrerd-Smith film photograph 23

POETRY BY AVA LONERGAN

Your letter never came today; I only hold on for tomorrow.

Without your words I float away.

I fried an egg and burnt the toast, awaiting the mailman’s shuffle.

Your letter never came today.

When clouds moved in, I turned to gray and spun that record you gave me.

Without your words I float away.

I washed the dishes, paid my bills, and ironed that red dress that you love.

Your letter never came today.

Outside I pretended to play croquet; I’m sure my mind has escaped me; without your words I float away.

Dawn is rising, and I’m starting over.

Today is tomorrow; my mailbox is empty.

Your letter never came that day; without your words I float away.

> EMPTY CHAIR Jay Mitchener 16 x 24 inches mixed media on paper 24

POETRY BY WILSON KUHNEL

Did Joseph’s Dreams come grace your night Then in your soul these fires ignite?

And did the princely rays bestow Consent of which the saints don’t know?

And is your heart, your soul, your mind, By cosmic Providence aligned?

Dear friend, what beastly acts are these Which threaten my kin’s purities?

With mere suspicion do I claim, But with all surety must I blame.

Be all unearthed and light cast on What your disloyalty does spawn, A marriage wrought with sin and vice Against which I advised you thrice; That you my sister shan’t procure, That you shall cease your courting her, That you shall flee at my behest, Then not return ‘til I’m at rest.

Once were we chaps of high’st degree, That sailed o’er India’s glitt’ring sea, Then sought you rest at my address, And your offense for me to bless.

Such blessings shall ne’er come from me, For now you dead I’d rather see!

So sheathe your sword, you sickening swine To waste away your life malign.

< RUSSIAN WEDDING Addison Winston digital photograph 27

NONFICTION BY GEORGE SUTHERLAND

NONFICTION BY ANNA GREY HOGAN

1

2, 3, A, 3, 2, D, 1…” I chanted in my head. When learning the actual names of the notes became impossible, my ever-sobrilliant violin teacher came up with this alternative. Together we created our own language, and it meant so much more than the notes on the page. But my melody failed to be more than the notes on the page. My eight year-old mind couldn’t understand why our language wasn’t enough to master the violin. My teacher stopped and looked up at me for a moment, and I knew it was time to communicate. Not with our voices, but with our violins. Low notes for the frustrations and sadness, high ones for the pride and happiness. The strings of our instruments tied us together. Yet, even with all these special devices, my fingers refused to dance the way hers did: gracefully flitting over the long neck of the violin. Mine seemed closer to strangling it. “1, A, 3, E, 2…” But the language was ours, and out of everyone in the world, it belonged to only the two of us.

I

wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be happy or sad. I mean, it was a funeral, but it was more like a celebration than anything else. Bursts of laughter came in between wet sobs as I remembered how wild of a man he was and how much I loved him. Damn, I missed him, but I couldn’t help smiling through my tears as we celebrated his life.

The amount of sayings he had was astronomical, but you knew they were his when you heard them. My favorite out of all of them had to be “I brought her, I got her drunk, and now I’m taking her home.” All said with love of course. He was such a funny man, and I knew how lucky I was to have had him in my life. Even if you hadn’t known him, seeing how full the church was would lead you to believe that he was a pretty special guy. We all missed him.

The last line of the last verse was my cue. I was already nervous, and my stomach felt like moths were flying around in it instead of butterflies. Walking up to the pulpit, I took out the Bible verse I had to say. On the outside, I was calm and ready, a brave little boy, but on the inside, I was nervous and trembling. It was a little like being really high up and telling yourself not to look down, except it was the opposite. Don’t look up. But I couldn’t help it. People surrounded me from every angle, and I was scared. There had to be at least a thousand people here.

I spoke slowly and softly, but with confidence. I did it for him, not for me. Hopefully it was enough to make him proud. That was my biggest goal in life, to make him proud. A sigh of relief came after my final words. “He has made all things beautiful in its time.” And although we all wished it wasn’t, it was his time.

> SUNDAY AFTERNOON Peter Shelton digital photograph 28

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TANGELO ICE Tripp Grant digital photograph ELEVATORS FALL Tripp Grant digital photograph

POETRY BY STEPHEN KOWALKOWSKI

His hand has graced my soul with soothing pricks.

My mountain top eroded down to hills.

My darkest chasm filled with holy sand.

His love like sweet desensitizing pills.

My numbness speaks to wonders of His work.

A wretch like me could soothe myself with thoughts of truth like, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Everything will be alright.â&#x20AC;?

My peace derived like simple, numbing shots.

My opiate, my faith, my hope, my peace.

Now all emotion lost yet pain all gone, I take my medicine before I go to bed, so that I wake up painless in the dawn.

> REACHING TO HEAVEN Ian McDowell digital photograph 32

FICTION BY DIXON CASHWELL

I

wake up and everything is wrong and nothing is right.

I roll over to my left, my right arm extended.

I fall through where you should be and land face down in your pillow, my right arm akimbo, dangling over the edge of the tiny bed.

I remember you saying that the bed being small just meant we’d have to snuggle up closer at night.

And I’m lying here, some sort of deformed and lonesome Kama Sutra pose, and I think about all the movies where people are suffocated by pillows. I ask out loud, “I wonder if I’ll die if I lie here like this long enough.”

My face in your down pillow, it comes out “Ahfwundah fwifahl fwie…”

And I laugh about it.

And then I cry.

And now the pillow’s wet.

I roll over, sit up and drop feet first onto the hardwood floor and Christ it’s cold. I remember that it’s always your job to set the thermostat. I cry a little more, standing perfectly upright. The image is not unlike that of a toy soldier, one whose perpendicularity and rigidity evokes a deep and personal lonesomeness No. That’s not right. That sounds desperate. I’m not desperate.

Longing. That’s a better word. That’s it. Longing.

I’m not gonna make it, am I? I open a drawer from my dresser. Change

underwear. I open a drawer. Change pants. I open a drawer. Change shirt. Repetition. Monotony, that’s how I’ll do it. That’s how I can make it.

And I realize that I need to shower and have wasted valuable minutes by putting on my clothes beforehand and no no no that’s not how it goes, that’s not how I should have done it, Christ I’m so stupid dammit dammit dammit.

And I stop myself from crying again. Because I will not cry because I am better than that and because if I cry then you have won, and you will be laughing at me in the arms of your Calvin Klein model as I stand here sobbing and I will not because I am better than that and I am better than you.

Okay. Okay. Breathe in. Out. In. Out. Repeat.

Monotony. Monotony. Monotony.

I get in the shower, and I start singing. Because I have always sung in the shower, since before you and before I can really remember. And I don’t really think about what I’m singing. I’ve always just sung the first song that comes to mind and the first song that comes to mind is Can’t Help Falling In Love.

And I sing it. And I cry. I’m singing it while I’m crying; it’s coming out a visceral, harsh vibrato that’s had bits of it viciously chiseled out by retches and sobs and I hate you I hate you I hate you come back.

I towel off. I put on the clothes I had picked out

> DARKENED LIFE Jason Hill digital photograph 34

earlier.

I’ve made it through the first half hour.

I walk from the bedroom to the kitchen, my feet numbing with each step. I stand in the center of the tiled kitchen and think about what I’m supposed to do next.

Breakfast.

Toast.

Bacon.

Jam. Marmalade. English muffins. Cereal.

Something, just something, I mean Christ, what am I– Stop.

There are eggs in the fridge. I will cook them. I will eat them. I am fine. I will be fine.

I heat up a burner on the stove. I put a pan on the hot burner. I grease the pan and crack two eggs on the side of a bowl, dumping the contents of the shells in the center of the hot, slick pan.

And I’m proud of myself for doing so well.

And then I realize I have no idea where the spatula is.

I pull open every drawer and cabinet in the kitchen, gently at first, then violently. The contents of whatever I’m pulling open start to spill all over the floor and all over my feet which start bleeding.

The spatula’s gone.

And I start to think that you…you hid it. You knew I would make eggs the day after. You knew it. You hid the spatula just to spite me, didn’t you?

Fuck you. I will find the goddamn spatula.

And I tear through the apartment, overturning furniture and ripping cabinet doors off their hinges, knocking over shelves and emptying laundry baskets because I want to know where you hid the spatula and why do you hate me

36

enough to do this.

And someone starts shrieking from the kitchen.

And I run, hoping to find you standing there, screaming at the mess I made. I briefly entertain the notion of tackling you and somehow killing you.

Maybe I’ll smash your head against something, you’ll damn well regret hiding the spatula when you’re choking in a pool of your own blood.

I think that something in me knows how pathetic this is.

I run into the kitchen, and the shrieking is the smoke alarm. The eggs are lumpy black tumors in the center of the pan that are belching a thick quilt of smoke towards the ceiling. And I look around, and everything’s on the floor. Silverware, furniture, everything. And there are little swatches of blood where my bleeding feet slapped against the glacial hardwood. And the smoke alarm is shrieking, the is piercing and scratching and ripping and noise tearing.

I pick something up, I think it’s a barbecue fork.

The cacophony is making my thoughts melt and I can’t think and I do the only thing that comes to mind to stop this, to stop everything.

I jump up and stab the smoke alarm with the fork. I grab the handle of the pan and throw it and the stratified bulbous mess cooked into it at the wall. I yank the dial that controls the burner heat out of its socket.

And I stand there.

And I scream.

And I charge out of the kitchen and out the front door into the street. Barefoot.

It’s February.

And I sit on the bus stop across from the house and I’m weeping and I’m shrieking and the people

are staring at the loud man with bleeding feet and the trees are bending and panting and everything is wrong and nothing is right and I yell again and the yell was supposed to be your name but it’s incomprehensible among the phlegm and the bile and the rage that’s poisoned my voice and more people are staring now and I think about getting through this because I can I can I can I can.

Breathe. In. Out. I look up. People are staring at me.

I open my mouth. I can’t speak. So I swallow. It makes a noise. A hollow, broken, clucking retch.

I walk back towards the door.

I enter my house, and close the door behind me.

And I think about what to do next.

Coffee.

I wade through the sea of bloody clothes and books and silverware to the kitchen. The coffee maker is miraculously untouched and functioning.

And I put the filter in. I put the grounds in. I put the water in.

I can do this. I can make it.

And I’m so happy. The happiest I’ve been since You. And it’s only after the machine has finished pissing out its strained brown waste that I remember.

I’ve made eight cups.

You drink four, and I drink four.

So I drink it all.

Because you hate it when I let things go to waste.

And after I’ve finished, I stand in the middle of the kitchen. A businessman waiting for a train.

37

POETRY BY WALKER WIESE

Red and white mix like valentine roses.

A chocolate-covered delight.

Bitter-sweet.

The first bite juicy, a delicious mix.

We were in a balance.

Then came the second taste, a smaller one.

Eating around the stem, we search for those final pleasures, but our delight is gone.

Now I search for a place to throw away the stem.

< CHASING TRUTH Willy Sherrerd-Smith 18 x 24 inches mixed media on paper 39

DESERTED Ian Mcdowell 16 x 18 inches mixed media on cardboard

SAVANNAH SUNSET Matt Laws 16 x 18 inches mixed media on cardboard

WAR IN D'NEALIAN NONFICTION BY CHARLES PERKINS

M

y mother gave me a fountain pen the day I flew home. Because I had just woken up, and because I was greedy, I grabbed the whole gift without thinking.

The whole gift was a box with two of them in it.

One was red, and the other one was green. When I grabbed the box I didn’t consider that, for one thing, the pens belonged to my mother’s dead father, or, that aside from maybe a few books, I hadn’t seen anything else of his in our house.

The box in which she handed them to me said, “Made in Shanghai, with narrow, iridium-tipped nib.”

Before I finished reading it I had cringed. She was about to cry. Because I was going? Because she hadn’t meant to give me the pens?

I couldn’t give them back now. I looked into the box: red, green, and ten empty places.

I took out the red pen, then with both of my hands placed the box, with the last of twelve, in front of my mother.

C

alligraphy has always been a favorite hobby of mine. It is almost as escapist as reading a detective story, and does not require any talent but instead endurance, determination and, above all, an eye for detail. Anyone can be good at it. I started before I could read, scratching out Palmer’s o exercise. The pen my mother gave me writes a lot like today’s fine-tipped gel pen. It is made from an

42

Asian form of Bakelite, with a transparent middle section that allows the writer to see how much ink remains.

T

he first day I showed up at their house, my father explained to me that I was part of a home with “things from many places.” I wondered at first if I was part of my family’s collection of Russian cups, French physics textbooks, and Cyrillic novels. It wouldn’t have bothered me much. I liked the clutter, messy, like my house in Asheville. They loved to tell me about the things they had. Surprisingly, I was entertained.

“These cups, we bought them in Russia. Twentyfive years ago, when we were at school in the Soviet Union. Your mother was in Krasnodar, while I studied nearby.”

So I found out about how both of my parents, because they were some of Vietnam’s best students, went to school in the Soviet Union. They stayed there for about eight years. Visits home were minimal, if any. Had Vietnam allowed it, my mother would have stayed to earn a law degree, but it wasn’t her choice. She hadn’t even chosen to study law; Vietnam had made that decision for her.

V

ietnamese describe calligraphy as written flowers. I frequently told my family how strange I thought it was that everyone in Vietnam had the same handwriting, and also said I wanted

to learn it, so I could add it to my collection.

The reason for Vietnam’s unanimity, and subsequent lack of graphology, is that in Vietnamese school handwriting is taught with graph paper. Not our accepting, everybody-isspecial bullshit wide rules with a dotted line through the center, so our children can, “pick up the basic shapes.”

Vietnam expects unanimity to be beautiful. The graph paper gives a framework that allows children to write a very nuanced script. To understand this technique better, consider the differences in difficulty between copying an image with a grid drawn on it, versus a series of lines that divide it into thirds.

A

fter awhile, my family bought me a penmanship book, the kind that elementary schoolers use.

I had bought a set of fountain pens the first week I was there, also for kids. I was practicing in the kitchen, using a yellow fountain pen bedecked in sparkly sunflowers, Hello Kitty-esque, and too small for me to hold.

My mother laughed at me, “Use these.”

I watched her climb on a footstool and start rifling around our liquor cabinet. She took, from the top shelf, a bottle of Johnny Walker, then another bottle, Vodka Hanoi, and finally a replica of a drum used in the pagan rituals to summon rain, before Buddhism and the Chinese.

Made in Shanghai, with narrow, iridium-tipped nib.

She then explained her father to me, a prerequisite for using the pens. He had divorced

her mother when she was young. Our family is edgy—for Vietnam. After the divorce, he went to school in Russia to learn French so he could teach math in Algeria, where he bought the pens. I don’t think my mother saw much of her parents. Not to be outdone, her mother had learned Russian in Chinese, at Beijing University.

B

uy what you can from outside is a mentality that my family still has: the clutter in our house and my grandmother’s return from a trip to Germany. She brought a suitcase filled almost entirely with tiny containers of chocolate pudding and instant noodles.

I

learned a lot of Vietnamese penmanship, but can’t write it quickly. I still mostly use D’Nealian, what I was trained to write in elementary school.

A

fter breakfast, we put the pens in my suitcase and drove to the airport. My mother said, “I love you” at the security checkpoint. This was unusual. In fact, it was the first time she had said so, other than through things like our long dialogues about soup, the way she told me to lock up my room before I left the house (because the maid was coming), or the time I tried to go to bed without doing my homework. Then she had said, “No, do it,” made tea, and stayed up with me until one in the morning.

A WRESTLER AND HIS COACH POETRY BY CARY JONES

Right now I am only scrap, ready to be molded and shaped as he pleases.

Battered and bruised and left to cool, I wait for him to rekindle the forge.

For the best weapons are turned over and over to destroy the impurities created in creation.

I collapse onto the ground.

Blood pulses like a hammer to the anvil.

I stagger to my feet.

For a moment my courage fails, and I fall to the mat.

The blood rushes.

His lips curl.

I

thought of all these things when she said goodbye, and stood at the security checkpoint crying, going home. Going home?

> MASTER Rags Coxe digital photograph 44

45

FICTION BY PETER SHELTON

M

y shortcoming doesn’t bother me too much. In fact it sets me apart. But what sets me apart triggers a reaction from people. That bothers me.

Every once in awhile, that rat–ti–tap–tap will make its rare appearance in your normal life. Your eyes, along with everyone else’s, instinctively zeroin on the assumed source. Affirmative.

Poor guy…must be such a difficult life. But look at what a wonderful four-legged companion he has.

Most of the time, I walk in silence when I’m out. A radius of ten feet hushes everything in its field. I know they’re there, and I know what they’re thinking. I could be in a crowd, and I bet I would hear only coughs or sneezes.

Sometimes, though, I’ll walk past kids playing soccer in the park. You know how it goes. The goalie eventually gets the ball, decides to really show off what a hammer of a leg he has, and punts

it. I’ve hit the jackpot by this point. The ball arcs, the heads turn, and then the “Hey, heads up—” Most of the time the ball misses.

But the force field of silence that traps me is not impenetrable. All it takes is a childlike innocence.

I’ll cross paths with a youngster and her mom, trotting along through the park. The daughter spots the dog, and of course she pleads to pet him.

“Mommy, please can I pet the dog?”

“Just one sec, honey. We have to ask the gentleman first. Excuse me, sir? Good afternoon,” she says with a smile. “Could we pet your dog, please?”

I don’t need eyes to feel the sympathetic gaze.

I let them pet the dog, exhibiting what I think to be a smile.

Her mother and I make small talk—the weather, the economy, upcoming primary elections. Her daughter sits there, stroking Bud’s thick golden coat. Minutes float by. Bud sighs heavily.

> PUPPY EYES Frederic Lamontagne digital photograph 46

ENDLESS STARE Stevie Keller digital photograph

SIGHTS Jason HIll digital photograph

POETRY BY JAMES CRABB

Perhaps one more, I like the thrill.

The bottle slams down hard again.

No more, no more, I’ve had my fill.

Too many times the pain is shrill.

But all my woes go down the drain.

Perhaps one more, I like the thrill.

This medication makes me ill.

Perhaps you think of me insane.

No more, no more, I’ve had my fill.

Sharp pricks on goose bumps give me chills.

It’s just not right. I should abstain.

Perhaps one more, I like the thrill.

My body rolls: meat on a grill.

Now I just hope it does not rain.

No more, no more, I’ve had my fill.

I’m underneath this great landfill.

The worms eat full and carve my brain.

Perhaps one more, I like the thrill.

No more, no more, I’ve had my fill.

> INDIAN SUNSET Henry Holmes 16 x 18 inches mixed media on cardboard 50

NONFICTION BY ALLEN JONES

P

ark it, sweetie. It’s time for lunch.” My eyes shifted from my newly built Lego creation to my kindergarten teacher pointing at my seat.

She had that textbook kindergarten teacher look that shouted “I teach kids how to color!” even when she was hunting down the next item on her list at the grocery store. She was also big and cushiony. She wasn’t huge but just the right size to give you the perfect hug, the kind that made you forget about your skinned knee.

Finally, I broke away from my car/airplane Lego hybrid and “parked it” at my seat as she ordered.

After sifting through my lunch box and thinking “Thank goodness my mom packed a Fruit Roll Up today,” I noticed five skinny pale fingers snatch some of my pretzels. I moved my eyes up her arm and saw that red–headed Maggie Phillips smiling at me.

“Thanks Allen,” she peeped out. I ignored her gratitude and went back to trying to crunch my zip-loc bag closed so I could keep my PB and J fresh.

“Why can’t they all have that slidy thing on top?”

I thought to myself. When I had almost gotten the bag closed, my concentration was interrupted by those same bony fingers grabbing my pretzels.

“That’s it Maggie, cut it out!” Right after the words came out of my mouth, they shot back at my

pretzels again. I couldn’t stand those long pointy fingers. “Maggie, stop it or else I’m going to dump my chocolate milk on you!”

Whoa. Suddenly the four other pairs of eyes at our table were on me and the mood was tense.

Maggie stopped smiling and slowly started lifting her hand. Everybody at the table watched as her claws meticulously grabbed a single pretzel, put it in her mouth, and then tortuously started chewing. Now everybody was focused back on me.

I couldn't pour chocolate milk on some girl’s head, could I? I’d just pretend like I was going to and accept the sincere apology that she’d be trying to get out as I lifted the chocolate milk carton above her head. My thoughts became actions, and I lifted up the carton, making sure to make every move just as slow as hers. Uh oh, no apology. I’ll just tilt it a little further to amp things up. I focused on her lips, waiting to hear a sincere apology from this pretzel bandit. My eyes shifted back above her head when I noticed my chocolate milk carton wasn’t heavy anymore. Oh God. At first the screams came, then the laughing.

Then my kindergarten teacher wasn’t so cushiony anymore, and I had to “park it” in the principal’s office.

< SUPPRESSED THOUGHTS Chris Milton 10 x 10 inches collage on paper bag 53

POETRY BY BRYCE PEPPERS

Monroe was born a normal childâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; at least he might have been.

His father dropped him on his head.

Critch-un, that crunching din.

Monroe, whose father left for good, feels in his throat a crack.

He throws his toys against the wall.

Critch-un, that crunching smack.

Monroe will never quite mature beyond the pre-school boys.

He loves to chew his crayons up.

Critch-un, that crunching noise.

Monroe decides he wants a dog.

His mom goes to the pound.

A pup just smiles and chews its treat.

Critch-un, that crunching sound.

Monroe, whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s seldom let outside, escapes on days it snows.

Engulfed in coats, he laughs and stomps.

Critch-un, those crunching blows.

Monroe is dancing with his dog and pets it on its back.

He hugs too hard, and it goes limp.

Critch-un, that crunching crack.

Monroe, whose parents fought last night, is smiling: bubble-wrap around his fist brings snorts and shrieks.

Critch-un, that crunching snap.

> SCOUT Sterling Street digital photograph 54

PARROT Willy-Sherrerd Smith 36 x 30 x 3 inches papier-mâché BUST Chris Milton 9.5 x 6 x 9 inches clay

NONFICTION BY JACK PIDGEON

T

he chassis sang with the asphalt as the road sailed under us like a film reel. Old, white brick spied through the trees when we reached Brooke Street, and gravel popped beneath us as we pulled onto the driveway. Welcome to Camp Shriver.

His name was Aaron, and he had fifteen years of experience under his Spiderman belt. My job was to be his counselor, and his job was to live with Down syndrome.

The Backstreet Boys. That’s what they called us. Aaron loved that band, and all the counselors thought I looked like Nick Carter, the lead singer. I didn’t enjoy the name, but he giggled every time someone called for us.

He hated the heat. Dehydration often hurled him into temper tantrums, and those usually ended with his teeth in my arm. Eight sweaty hands pinned him down to stop the thrashing, and just as quickly as it went in, the water bubbled out of his lips and sizzled on the pavement. He hated the taste.

Soccer was his favorite sport. The ball rolled over crunchy grass before it nipped his feet. He dodged left. Then right. I tripped. He scored. Soggy feet rustled past followed by a cackle of joy.

The phone’s plastic skin chilled my ear as the dial tone hummed.

“Alright, I’ll let him know.” I knew he’d be upset. I didn’t go to the last day of camp. Why did I do it? The heat. The frustration. I was tired. Too much time with Aaron I guess, but that doesn’t change how I let him down.

> WOMAN WITH RED BACKGROUND Chris Milton 18 x 24 inches mixed media on paper 58

POETRY BY ERIC WAYS

Light creeps out of the dark night, and the day commences for the woman.

On the other side of town, the man sleeps many streets away.

The man starts the day, opening his eyes in the morning to white, lush blankets that cover him gently on his bed.

He doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t worry.

Why? His shoes contain the dollar.

His shoes, Italian, imported from a factory in Sicily, walk the length of a garden pool every morning as he sips coffee out of a mug.

Sleek and shiny ones give off a newly polished glare.

His job?

Proprietor of many homes and apartments on Her side of town.

The woman wakes, a crown of stress snug on her head. Her shoes are worn from walking the town. Jobless. Who will hire her?

Flattened with a pressure that grinds the soles.

What will she do?

Her shoes walk into the lobby of the building, gasping for air.

A 50 cent pair from the Goodwill.

His shoes snug, comfortable, ready for work.

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s crowded with people: A man with an Afro, red suit, a woman with huge platform shoes.

Two distinct pairs trail across the lobby.

To the same level, in the same elevator, for the same reason.

Her shoes trying to sleep one last night.

His shoes deciding her fate.

< NIGHTLIFE Sam Mebane digital photograph 61

BLAZED Charley Hilliard 18 x 24 inches acrylic on paper

OBLIVION'S GRASP Charley Hilliard 12 x 16 inches marker on paper

MICROFICTION BY PIERRE COURPRON

MICROFICTION BY WALKER WIESE

A

T

he glasses tumbled over the edge of the table fol lowed by both of them, the floor rushing up to meet them. The on ce perfect house was now turned upside down, the veils ripped do wn , the walls caving in, the truth busting ou t. His eyes showed his dis be lief at coming home to this, but perha ps it was just the knife sti cking out of his chest.

“He’s not even good-look ing…”

WHAT'S UP? Willy Sherrerd-Smith camera obscura 64

ndrew had invited me to a nice dinner, one with candles and tablecloths and one where I would not even pretend to reach for the check. He ordered an eightounce filet, and if he were paying any attention, he would have known that I ordered the same thing. It might have sparked a conversation had Andrew not been buried in his Blackberry with that cheeky grin on his face like he had just snuck into an R-rated movie. My engagement ring came out resting on a bed of whipped cream with the dessert.

The wedding is next month.

OUT OF REACH Willy Sherrerd-Smith 12 x 16 inches acrylic on canvasboard 65

THE TROUBLE WITH MADAME NHU1 POETRY BY CHARLES PERKINS

His Aston is a relic now— its rusted paint’s still blue.

It’s clean and safe in Chùa Thiên Mụ, but it’s not waxed or new.

A small request to fly a flag.

A lowing, murmered prayer.

The monk was calm, a lotus pose.

They smelled his burning hair.

The rust is its one giveaway, the proof that it won’t run.

It’s sat for years, at least a few, in Huế’s exhausting sun.

His blistered flesh, his body-smoke— he thought they’d get his point.

I like to think that Sài Gòn hoped the world would pass a joint:

I touched it, so I know it’s real, his death in sixty-three: he dropped a match upon canned oil to wrest the Buddhists free.

A thing to smoke and throw away, a tinted, dreamy pause.

A question and a problem solved without answers like, "Because…”

The First Lady of South Việt Nam, nicknamed Queen Bee. She dedicated South Việt Nam to the Virgin Mary, and pursued Buddhist-related policies which were regarded not only as biased, but frequently as attempts at religious extermination.

She is famous for saying, “I would clap my hands at another monk barbecue show,” in response to news that Thích Quảng Đức, an important Buddhist monk, had publicly burned himself in protest to the restrictions she had placed on Buddhist practice. The car he was driving on the day of his self-immolation is on public display at Chuà Thiên Mụ, a temple.

1

> FINDING MY WAY David Lee 19 x 25 inches acrylic on paper 66

SURFACE TENSION NONFICTION BY BRYCE PEPPERS

J

ust teenagers. That was all they were, and he was beginning to realize it. The science museum, cold and factual, seemed to agree.

It was a late afternoon in December, and for some stupid reason they stood gaping in the psychology exhibit.

They were holding hands. They had always held hands, but now he could feel the delicate whiteness on her skin. A work of wonder, her hand. The way it seemed to ebb onto her wrist like a pale stream. It was something he had seen many times before, but had never noticed until now. If only they could hold hands forever. He squeezed. She pulled her hand away and buried it into her pocket.

He should have expected that.

She turned and stared blankly at a collection of Rorschach inkblots. Just black shapes, like interlocking fingers. Images symmetrical to each other, yet equally meaningless. She sat down. The chill of this room drained her energy. She wanted to sit here forever.

A video played in a loop. A man woke up and pulled himself out of bed. “You’re walking on a cliff,” a narrator said. “Steep and rocky. It’s dangerous.”

The man stared at a mirror. Then he curled into a ball and rocked back and forth. “You’re afraid. You’re free. You’re enlightened. You’re shaking. But those are just words.”

Just words. That was an interesting philosophy.

He had read a book about that once. A character

believed that “love” was just a word that certain people used to describe something they had never had. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Lots of things were just words. Words for things they could never experience. Relationship, for example.

Breaking up.

Can you destroy something that doesn’t exist?

In the video, the man placed his hands over his eyes. “You can’t see. But it doesn’t matter, because you were blind in the first place.” The rocking motion sped up.

I

n the Barcelona sun he put his hand on her face.

Toying with her. She snapped at it, growling like a puppy. Still he kept it planted. He liked to disrupt conversation like this. When words couldn’t keep him entertained, he would always resort to grabbing her face. She snatched his hand and put it around her waist so she could feel his warmth. It was only a sixday trip, but it’s all he remembered from that summer.

Just the sunshine and his hand on her face. Then an airplane and a return to Skype calls.

H

e sat down next to her. It wasn’t worth risking the arm around her shoulder. She was deliberately looking away. Pretending to pay attention to the psychology exhibit.

“How many days have we got?”

He looked at the date on his watch, and then

grabbed her hand. “Four.”

Four days until Virgin Atlantic Flight 028 would take off and carry him back to where he belonged. Four days until they would never see each other again. Four days until her hand would become a word.

She turned to him. “So what now?”

They sat. The video repeated itself.

S

itting in a bathroom at 3AM, his body ruptured with tears.

Two pale streams ran their hot course down his face. It was October, and from the phone came her whispered voice: “I’ve made a huge mistake.” It was like a hand inside his body suddenly grabbed his spine. Who knew words could be that powerful? He listened to the entire story. With each word she spoke, the hand tightened its grip. He knew the guy, had liked him quite a bit before this night. A face he could recognize in his dark imaginings. He curled up and rocked back and forth on the unfeeling tiles.

A month later, he told her something he wished he could take back. He wanted her to know what it felt like to be choked by invisible hands. He wanted her to know the power of words. At the end of it all, he felt surprisingly empty.

S

he squeezed his hand. No more words.

She stood up, and he followed. She smiled. At least she was trying. The museum had plenty to offer—enough to distract them for a while. That was all they needed right now: distractions. He wished he could say he was sorry for every mistake either of them had made. But now was not the time. Now was the time to pretend that there had been no mistakes. Now was the time to pretend that it wasn’t over.

They both knew it was there. Whatever it was, whatever either of them wanted to call it. That book was right: you didn’t need to give it a title. It was layered in their understanding silence. It was in the sweat between their palms. Neither of them wanted to say its name, so neither of them did. For now, the science museum was the only thing worth their attention.

> BANKSEY TRIBUTE Chris Milton 18 x 20 inches acrylic on canvas 68

69

TO WOODBERRY—MY HOME

POETRY BY MCGREGOR JOYNER

‘Twas just the other day I said, “Soon I am going home.”

The words had sunk as fast as lead, and shone as clear as chrome.

The place where I was born and bred, like Venus from the foam, so quickly from my heart I’d shed.

Gone, I, the world to roam?

But “nay,” I say, my heart is led to Woodberry my home.

> MIRROR, MIRROR, ON THE WALL... Willy Sherrerd-Smith camera obscura 70 70

The Talon, first published in 1949, is the biannual literary arts publication of Woodberry Forest School. The editors encourage submissions from any member of the Woodberry community. These works were selected through a process of blind review by student review boards.

All opinions expressed herein are the property of the authors and artists and do not represent the views of Woodberry Forest School.

This magazine was created on an Intel-based iMac using Adobe CS5. Titles and art credits are set in Century Gothic; body text is set in Myriad Pro. The Talon is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association. The magazine received a Silver Crown Award in 2011.

For further information: The Talon 898 Woodberry Forest Rd. Woodberry Forest, VA 22989 karen_broaddus@woodberry.org

< SITTING BULL Charley Hilliard 48 x 48 inches acrylic on paper