The Talon Fall 2010

THE TALON | FALL 2010 Woodberry Forest School W o o d b e r r y F o r e s t , Va 2 2 9 8 9

THE

T A L ON

THE TALON

FALL 2010 | WOODBERRY FOREST SCHOOL | VOLUME 62. NO. 1

editors & S TAFF editor-in-chief senior editor junior editor editorial assistants

ava lonergan bryce peppers jason hill ian mcdowell allen jones

prose review board

starling gamble, charlie mcgee, john moylan, cary jones, eli exum, kyle kenney, thomas doughty, nick workman, gibson montgomery, george sutherland, trice moore, peter shelton

poetry review board

lat peak, stuart huston, tripp grant, charlie moore, nelson williams, james crabb, parker nance

art review board

david lee, jay mitchener, jeff smith, alex blackwelder, charley hilliard, willy sherrerd-smith, christian dolan

photography review board

frederic lamontagne, sam mebane, rags coxe, brennan cumalander, brian pecheles, nick gambal, mark petrone, addison winston

faculty advisor technical advisor

karen broaddus richard broaddus

(front cover design) ava lonergan & jason hill (back cover) world destruction | charley hilliard | 18 x 24 inches | acrylic on paper (title page) creature | ian mcdowell | 18 x 24 inches | pencil on paper > bah bah green | spencer brewer | digital photograph

6

poetry CON TEN T S 20 23 26 29 39 42 44 45 47 51 53 54 57 62 66 69 70

before the rescue PIERRE COURPRON 3:30 am OSLER WOLTZ thinking about my loving father TERRENCE ARCHER the last cubicle SAM MEBANE response to chris marlowe WILSON KUHNEL senses of death JAMES MOYLER approach with caution BRYCE PEPPERS keyboard LAT PEAK infinity AVA LONERGAN respect BRANDON HEATH change their minds STEPHEN KOWALKOWSKI dear diary STUART HUSTON frozen summer CONOR FLYNN definition of love JAMES CRABB go on, tell the man JEFF SMITH too young for the big boys' court ALLEN JONES high school illusions CHAN UN

> sunday | brian pecheles | digital photograph

prose CON TENTS 8 11 12 18 19 24 30 40 46 48 55 61 65

the lab report fiction DIXON CASHWELL disconnection nonfiction JACK PIDGEON the oak tree fiction CARY JONES love bites microfiction BRYCE PEPPERS cleanup time microfiction JACK PIDGEON sounds and a dreamer nonfiction SAM MEBANE portrait in the dark fiction AVA LONERGAN love on a four-wheeler nonfiction WILL BORDEN old faith microfiction PIERRE COURPRON chirp nonfiction BRETT BERGER my cup overflows nonfiction PETER SHELTON sometimes i still feel the bruise fiction DIXON CASHWELL ajax nonfiction KYLE KENNEY

art CON TENTS 9 awful RAGS COXE 19 hush JUN CHO 21 the green genie JAY MITCHENER 23 lone wolf WILLY SHERRERD-SMITH 28 Xplosion DAVID LEE 31 braving bee stings AVA LONERGAN 35 très à la mode AVA LONERGAN 45 word design RAGS COXE 47 abstraction of a girl WILLY SHERRERD-SMITH 48 stick figure WILLY SHERRERD-SMITH 52 seasoned JAY MITCHENER 54 word design CHARLEY HILLIARD 60 gentleman WILLY SHERRERD-SMITH 63 woman from outer space DAVID LEE 67 crush AVA LONERGAN 68 boys WILL LANKENAU, JACK BURKE, WILLIAM KNIBBS 71 abby WILLY SHERRERD-SMITH 72 jim morrison JAY MITCHENER

photography CONTENTS 10 13 16 17 18 25 27 36 37 38 41 43 44 51 56 58 59 64

evening dream CHARLES SETZER living sunset silhouette JASON HILL big bend IAN MCDOWELL andersonville IAN MCDOWELL maktub FREDERIC LAMONTAGNE reflecting on summers past BRYCE PEPPERS emotionless JASON HILL icy steel JACK PIDGEON esperando WILL BORDEN a new day MARK PETRONE old wheat BRENNAN CUMALANDER composition no. 1 ADDISON WINSTON el morro IAN MCDOWELL chapel sunset GIBSON MONTGOMERY the island next door PIERRE COURPRON gavilane FREDERIC LAMONTAGNE dizzy alien invasion CHRISTIAN DOLAN dawg BRENNAN CUMALANDER

< hot air | jason hill | digital photography

the lab report f i ct i on by DIXON CA SHWE LL

I

n this lab, my partner and I were provided the appropriate supplies and instructed to make rock candy. We commenced the lab by pouring three cups of sugar and one cup of water into a pan. It should be noted that my partner accidentally added another cup of sugar, so we had to compensate by adding another two cups of water. I think we did our math right on that one.

My partner then placed the pan over a Bunsen burner in order to boil it while I stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon. I stirred until the sugar was fully dissolved in the water. We waited for approximately half an hour for the water to boil. The instructor then approached us, and suggested it might expedite things if we “turn the burner on.” He then referred to us as “little goddamn idiots.”

We were allowed to flavor our concoctions at this point. The flavors provided by the instructor included mint, lemon, and cinnamon. However, it was noted by both me and my partner that cinnamon “was for pussies.” We proceeded to break into the instructor’s chemical cabinet and

> awful | rags coxe | 18 x 24 inches | acrylic on paper 8

procured what looked like sodium, which we thought would make a much more manly piece of rock candy. We dropped it into the sugar– water mixture.

The next twenty minutes were spent putting out the fire.

After the proper authorities arrived and dealt with the situation, we returned to our lab station.

My partner then dared me to eat what remained of our mixture. Not being a little bitch, I accepted the challenge, broke off a chunk of the blackened, stratified substance which remained crustified to the bottom of the pan, and ate it.

Upon waking up in the emergency room, I was informed by my doctor that I was touch and go for a little while there, but I pulled through. I was then visited by my instructor, who had been fired after the day’s mayhem. He entered with a tense gait, specks of foam dotting the corners of his mouth.

It should be noted that it took three police officers to tear him off of my neck.

disconnection n o n fi c t i o n b y JA C K PI D GE O N

I

walk the beach until the amber house lights no longer drain into the sky, until the Outer Banks really become the outer banks, and until the horizon behind me hugs the stars. Nylon straps tug at my fingers as my beach chair swings with each step, reminding me every second that I am alive.

As cool sand washes the heat of the day from my feet, the empty air carries the stars and the oceanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rhythm. The waves crash violently, but the wind pushes the sand softly, taking bits of my consciousness with it.

On my right, the water presses crumbs of shells up the beach, and on my left, the grass dances to its own tune. The chair slips out of my hand. I stop, take a seat, and look up to nothing but a cold sky splashed with stars.

< evening dream | charles setzer | digital photograph 11

the oak tree f i ct i on by CA RY JONES

C

rack-Crack. Cough. The shooting stars streak faintly.

A

n upper branch tumbled to the ground in slow motion and vibrated backwards. Silence ensued.

Searing through the clouds over the Adirondacks, the sunset screamed for me to pay attention. I perched, my hair spiked up with sweat, in the crook of an oak-tree. I whittled at a nearby branch with my knife, eyes closed, feeling out the nicks of the wood. Trying to squint at my work, I was blinded by the light. Goddamn sun.

I closed my eyes and wriggled a few fractions as if those small movements would get the sun out of my eyes. My wriggling proved fruitless.

“It has to move before I do,” I thought.

Crack. Like the branch had before me, I too fell to the ground. My tumbling was not leisurely.

The ground did not comically bounce me like it had the branches. Once I fell, I stayed fallen, strung out on the ground like an over-stretched slinky. No way I was getting up. The ground was comfortable enough though; the grass was midlength and soft. The nostalgically sweet smell of the dirt by the pond rocked my mind back and forth like a lullaby.

I tried to stand up. There was a slap of suction as I pulled the side of my face out of the mud.

> living sunset silhouette | jason hill | digital photograph 12

My joints whined like trees in the wind. My lungs were heavy in my chest: damp and bloated. The darkness had swept over the hill, and the skies had been torn open. Finally reaching my feet, I sank a few inches into the ground. Ripping my feet from the earth, I stumbled and slid into the creek.

Crack.

My mouth killed. My tongue slipped over my teeth, but stopped half-way through. I reached up with my fingers and felt for my left canine.

All that came away was blood. Looming above me, my tree’s frame was silhouetted. Head down and eyes closed, I chuckled to myself as I plodded through the mud back to my house. “It’s gonna be a bitch to get these stains out.”

The profile of my house flashed in and out of sight. The third floor stared at me. My mom was sitting out on the porch as I came up the hill.

As soon as I saw her, I went down on all fours.

I flattened myself to the ground to wait for the next flash of lightning. I didn’t want to be caught exposed; she had wicked good eyes and the last thing I wanted was to be chased down in the middle of a storm by an old woman. I knew I couldn’t get away. Mother wouldn’t be avoided.

Army crawling through my lawn to the stonewall outlining the end of the field, I risked standing up for a moment. This proved fatal. I felt his shoulder in my diaphragm before I saw him. My brother had stalked me through the night. His

teeth sparked in the momentary light.

“Gotcha,” Gareth said.

“Where were you?” My shoulders fidgeted under his hands, and I tried to force him off. He loved this.

“I got caught up in something.” He stuck a finger in my mouth and poked forcefully at my tooth hole. “What happened to your tooth?”

“Rocks are slippery.” I averted my eyes.

He rolled off my chest and gave me a handup. Smirking, he said, “No worries. I was just on my way down when I saw you creeping. Trying to avoid Mom, huh?”

“Looks like you’re trying to avoid her, too.” I felt his weight shift. “I don’t see any smoke coming out of the chimney. It is your night to get the wood.”

“You help me out on this one.” It wasn’t a question.

“Not my problem.” Ha! “Bullshit.” He grinned and flicked his head towards the tree line.

The blood blazed around the outside of my teeth.

The thatch roof over the porch absorbed the rhythm of the rain. The tin above it pounded to compensate for the thatch’s lack of interest.

Our movements were muted by the shrieks of the storm. The blackened latch to the basement slid seamlessly open, revealing the pitch foundation of our home. Gareth dropped his wood with a clatter. My arms followed form and the wood haphazardly splintered on the cement.

Gareth led us, like always, through the dark. He was good like this. Good for this. The light at the

14

end of the stairwell blinded us. Mother would not be avoided.

“Colin.” Radiating, she descended.

“Shi—” My shoulders slumped.

“What’s that blood doing on your shirt?”

“Colin and me, we were just playing around and stuff.” Gareth’s eyes were digging holes through the ground.

“Don’t give me that. I knew you were back in the house. But Colin? Look at him.”

“Good looking guy.” I couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“Gareth! He’s covered in blood and mud and he’s missing a tooth.”

“I was down by the pond—” She never let me finish when she was mad.

“In the mud?” Her forehead creased menacingly.

“I was sleeping in the tree, but I fell, you see?”

Heat flew up into my cheeks.

“And decided to just lie there in the mud.” The tension started to trickle from her face.

“It wasn’t mud when the branch broke. It was grass and dirt. Soft grass and dirt.”

“You didn’t wake up when it started raining.”

“Mom. I didn’t come home late,” my voice cracked, “to just piss you off or anything. I fell asleep. It’s not the worst thing that could happen.”

She smiled. “Fine. But what happened to your tooth?”

“The rocks near the bridge were soaked.” My mother turned on the stairs to let us pass. Silence ensued.

Followed by the thumping of steaming water.

And the warmth of a bed.

C

rack.

A pungent flash. And heat.

Gareth wasn’t in his bed. Holes bored through the ceiling like hands ripping open reality. My reality, ripped. My body plummeted from the bed like a mouse down a hole and thudded to the floor, tangled in my sheets. My teeth desperately gnawed at my blankets, soaked scarlet with spit and blood. The door flew backwards.

It ricocheted off my bed. The third floor was up in flames. And there stood my brother, one with the chaos, magnified in the doorway. Medium height, thin, bookish, and disheveled. Like usual, his face was creaseless and worriless. He slowly, meticulously, switched out my knife and sliced through the sheets.

“Clumsy fuck.”

I bolted for the door. My eyes darted back for just a moment and saw his face, distorted and blurred. The floor beneath him gave way.

I screamed and dove for his hand. Stupid. I fell through the floor: my body convulsed. Crack.

Silence ensued.

My eyes failed to recognize what they saw. I choked for air. Gareth was spread-eagled on the floor. My knife sticking through his hand. Into the floor. He looked over at me and grinned.

Blood glazing his teeth, he winked and flopped his other hand over to the knife. He attempted to pull the thing from his hand. Over and over.

Me: a goddamn, faux paraplegic spectator. Crack.

I pounced on my brother, tearing the knife from his hand. The ground soaked in red, he stumbled to his feet and strode to the window.

He stuck his hand right into that goddamn fire.

He shrieked like nothing I have ever heard. The five seconds he had his hand in the hot tar of the burnt thatch sounded for several eternities. He cradled his mutilated hand to his chest and we slid through the inferno. I ushered him downstairs and out the door. I had to find Mom. The stairs aided my flight up. Like my brother had for me, I busted down my mother’s door.

There she lay, trapped like a rat under a rafter.

Blackened and flaming, the rafter was murdering my mother. It would not budge. I don’t know what guttural sound I made, but I swear it must have shook the foundations. I got next to her and began to stomp the floor around her. The eternities continued to pass. My lungs, black and dry. Crack. The floorboards broke. The rafter resting against my mother’s chest scraped against the two walls it invaded. Mother’s face was pale.

Her breathing, shallow. With her draped over my shoulders, I struggled for the door with the smoke still burning inside of me. My mind tripped. We tumbled. The stairs weren’t so forgiving. Crack.

Silence ensued.

G

areth lays fidgeting, face up, looking at the night. My hands, medium-rare versions of themselves, clench and unclench sporadically.

Mother rasps out a slow breath. The oak tree’s trunk cracks and is suspended for a moment in the moonlight, then crashes to the ground.

Crack-Crack.

Cough. The shooting stars streak faintly. •

15

big bend | ian mcdowell | digital photograph

andersonville | ian mcdowell | digital photograph

love bites mi crof iction by BRYCE PE PPE RS

W

e went to the park today, and for a couple hours of sunshine, I was happy.

Just her and me, like the good old days. We ran down hills, slept on blankets. Oh, it was marvelous.

She said I was the best.

I believed it, too, until that guy showed up.

Right before my eyes, they kissed! Then the man (he was bold, I’ll give him that) smiled and tried to greet me.

In a fit of rage, I bit his outstretched hand with all my might. For three seconds his eyes bled pain and fear. But then the love of my life slapped me.

“Bad dog.”

maktub | frederic lamontagne | digital photograph 18

cleanup time mi c r o fi c t i o n b y JA C K PI D GE O N

A

slight jolt. A sharp twist. A sudden scratch. And I was in. Light sliced into my eyes as I cautiously stepped into the room. Corpses. Two rigid bodies sat folded in their chairs, and another stared passively from the floor. A trail of crumbs led to a stiff man, presumably the butler, Ken. The dark hall pressed itself upon me as I inched toward the stairs. Daylight pierced through heavy curtains on the second floor. Just one door remained closed. A slight jolt. A sharp twist. A sudden scratch. And I was in. Faint light from the hallway illuminated glassy eyes. The gaze fixed upon mine. Scarlet streams ran down its face. A teddy bear lay next to the figure accompanied by an overturned tea set.

Trying to stay calm, I made my way to the bathroom. Dank air pressed into me as I opened the door. I felt clothes on the floor. I flipped the switch. “Molly” had been written on the mirror in red. The markings on the wall were the same color but seemed more sporadic. I raised my hands to my face.

Oh, the joys of raising a two year old.

hush | jun cho | 18 x 24 inches | acrylic on paper 19

before the rescue p oet r y by PIERRE COU RPRO N Black waters engulf her blonde hair.

Sails unfurl.

Her hair waves in the darkness as whispering winds pick strands up and draw them taut.

The waters grow, the winds howl, and the hull creaks and moans.

Sea water drenches her soft face, her slender body.

The bow bucks and the hull screeches.

Her feet slip like the air through her fingers, yet no alarm sounds.

Arms flail wide as water bends her body beneath the surface.

Her hair, a beacon in the darkness, would vanish behind the waves if they were watching.

She gasps for air, but the cold water commands her voice.

Lights become specks in the night; sails melt into the darkness.

Left in the wake.

> the green genie | jay mitchener | 18 x 24 inches | acrylic on paper 20

3:30 am p o e t r y b y O SLE R WO LT Z The world sleeps as the night, strange and foreign, carries on undisturbed.

Nobody watches as the wind attempts to gain attention.

Silent. Serene.

Nature is a mysterious creature, stirring constantly under a black sheet as dreams are dreamt, active as ever.

< lone wolf | willy sherrerd-smith | 48 x 60 inches | acrylic on paper 23

sounds and a dreamer nonf i ction by SA M M EBA N E

S

ophomore year, winter break. The freedom is bittersweet: I don’t have the burden of schoolwork, but the snow has severed our electricity and trapped me inside. Wandering around my house, I pass the piano that’s been in our living room for years, accumulating dust.

How many times have I passed this and never noticed it? I sit down, peering up and down its smile of black and white keys.

Everything in the room melts away, and the piano and I are transported to an empty stage, surrounded by the millions of fans that I’ve envisioned so many times while listening to my iPod. They are chanting my name, screaming it. I slam my hands on the keys to start the concert but do not get the response I was expecting. Indecipherable notes belch out of the piano, and the crowd vanishes. Maybe I should learn how to play.

Grabbing my computer, I find a make-shift teacher in piano tutorial videos. “Clocks” by Coldplay is the first song I look up. My teacher flies through the song with ease. Intimidated, I break the video down into parts, attempting to mimic his playing. The song slowly becomes recognizable in my own playing, fueling me to keep trying.

After I learn one song, I have to learn another.

Hours pass, and I am a master of “Clocks,”

“Trouble,” and “The Scientist.” My satisfaction from playing a song is unprecedented. It never fades, jiving inside of me as my body dances in sequence with the pounding rhythm.

S

louched in my desk chair, I rub my eyes, which have to be bleeding by now. My hand lazily moves the computer’s mouse around the screen displaying what seems like my fiftieth college application. They all ask the same damn questions. Feeling a vibration on my desk, I look over at my phone that screams, “Mom calling!”

Inhaling, I answer in the cheeriest tone that I can.

Five minutes later, I blurt out a “goodbye” in the most aggravated tone that I can.

“What’d your mom say?” my roommate asks.

“Same stuff as usual. ‘You’ve got to get your apps done; you’ve got to pull your grades up; don’t slack off because it’s senior year!’ I can’t take it anymore.”

T

he piano practice room in the art building is one of the simplest rooms I have ever seen.

It is small and windowless, with a piano and one lamp. Until I am ready to play, my world is quiet.

Once I press the keys, it glows. Any stress I had going into the room flows out of my fingers and gets lost in the melody. •

> reflecting on summers past | bryce peppers | digital photograph 24

thinking about my loving father p oet r y by TERRENCE ARC H E R “I’m doing this because I love you,” my father said as he towered above.

The bottle, tipped and tattered, dripped its contents onto the kitchen floor.

I was too scared to try and rest my legs, so I kept my body stiff, eyes bolted shut.

“I didn’t have a father.

You’re lucky to have me.”

Cold sweat slid down my cheeks.

My father stared at me with a hint of a smile.

> emotionless | jason hill | digital photograph 26

“We need to go out sometime.

There’s so much I want to do with my son.”

My father sits half-naked on a straining bed; bloodshot eyes slowly swivel across the floor.

I just look down on him as I stand in his doorway.

“I’ve been with you my whole life, so why haven’t we had any fun?”

He looks up at me, thinking it is my fault.

The bottle fuels his hypocrisy.

His self-righteousness could make the room implode, but that would be the easy way out for me.

the last cubicle p o e t r y b y SA M ME BA N E The time has come for my crank to slow down and gears to tighten.

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m stuck here in purgatoryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s purgatory, Paradise Retirement.

The room is small but filled with my sea of memories and regrets.

I never stop swimming.

The water burns coldly.

I never thought Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d go out sitting in an armchair.

I always thought it would be some fighter jet, or a fire-fighting accident that ended me and dispersed my glory.

Where is my glory?

Will the janitor remember it and tell his children who tell their friends who will tell their children?

My eyes jolt at the opening door as a child runs and jumps into my arms.

Glory no longer matters.

My gears begin to loosen. < Xplosion | david lee | 18 x 16 inches | acrylic on paper 29

portrait in the dark f i ct i on by AVA LONERG A N

W

e’re here. The plane lifted for an instant and dropped back down, running smoothly into the port. Rosalyn’s dark eyelashes fluttered as she lifted her head up and looked at Henry, then out the window. She hadn’t been able to sleep most of the ride, but half an hour before the plane landed she was a vision to behold: head knocked back, lolling, mouth gaping, muttering incomprehensible thoughts or swallowing repeatedly. Henry watched her, amazed by her elegance even in a state of airplane sleep.

She smiled at him and ran her fingers through her short black hair to smooth the sleep-tousled strands. Gathering up their various bags and carryon luggage (she couldn’t understand how Henry had managed to fit three months of clothing into a carry-on duffel), they stood, muscles creaking and joints cracking, to join the exit throng.

H

is job at the small bookstore on the corner didn’t put a lot of money in his pocket. He paid the cheap rent and lived on rice and beans, stuffing the rest of his meager paycheck into a sock he kept in his top drawer. He hadn’t found a good reason to spend it until Rosalyn, until she stumbled into the bookstore, rain drops gathering on her eyelashes and plastering her dress to her curves. She dripped for a moment before fingercombing her hair and looking up. A glittering orb

splashed onto her lips.

“So this is where you hide on a rainy day?” As if Henry were a friend she runs into occasionally.

“Well no, I mean, I work—well I would hide here, but I work here so I don’t consider it hiding.”

“Have you ever gotten lost?”

“Lost? Well I got lost trying to find this party the other night, but I don’t usually—” “Of course everyone’s been lost before. I mean, have you ever been lost here, in this bookstore?”

The corners of her lips turned up slightly. The contours of her bra were visible through the soaked cotton dress.

“I pretty much know my way around the place. Well, I work here so I hope I know my way around. Have you ever been lost in here?” He was racking his brain, trying to remember if he’d ever seen her in the store before.

“How could I not? How could you not? Just the other day I was wandering up and down the streets of Poetry. Very pretty… beautiful, in fact. I enjoy it far more than History. Anyway, I was lost in Poetry for oh… it must have been two hours.

Are you positive you work here? I’ve never seen you before.”

“I’m sure I work here. Otherwise, I have no idea where my paycheck is coming from. How often do you, umm… get lost in here?” He watched her slide a book off a shelf and split it open, toying with her earring as she scanned words.

> braving bee stings | ava lonergan | 45 x 55 inches | ink, charcoal, chalk pastel on paper 30

“What’s that? I don’t know; I come in here whenever I need to.” Her voice sounded like smoke on a summer night. “You should ask me on a date.”

“I-I’d love to. Yeah, sure! Sure. That’d be great.

Well, if you’re being serious, that’d be great. I mean, do you really want to, or are you just bullshitting me?”

She put the book back and turned. Weak sunlight was filtering through the clouds, outlining her body in the window.

T

he heat hit them when they made the transition from plane to terminal extension.

Their jeans and t-shirts no longer seemed appropriate; sweat began dribbling down their skin instantly. Her bangs were stuck to her forehead in greasy strands and the pits of his shirt had flourishing dark spots. Hoisting his duffel onto his shoulder, he followed her to luggage claim. He had tried to convince her that it would be much easier in the long run to pack everything in a carry-on, but she insisted that she couldn’t possibly fit three months’ of clothing into such a tiny bag. We’re going to Europe, Henry! The fashion mecca of the universe!

I don’t want to show up looking like some trashy American in my high-waisted denim shorts and Disney World t-shirt! If all else fails, I need to at least have plenty of style. He conceded, and told her if she lost all of her “stylish clothes” in transition from Dulles to Barcelona, it wasn’t his fault. Her suitcase fought through the rubber door flaps and traveled along calmly on the conveyor belt, dragged onto the floor by Rosalyn’s swift hands.

32

S

he insisted they go to dinner that night.

Tonight? Don’t you want to go out Friday or Saturday? No, tonight. So he locked the door of the bookstore and walked home to shower the musty book smell out of his skin, melting his nerves under the hot spray. He dressed in a clean shirt and combed his hair before he left to pick her up.

She didn’t answer the door after the first knock.

Nor after the second. He was a fool, he was ridiculous, why did he believe in some random woman he didn’t even know? He stared at the windows, wondering which was hers. One was open, the pale, sheer curtain undulating slightly with the night breeze. A raspy voice was singing out the window, riding on the strumming of a guitar and wail of a harmonica.

Nobody feels any pain Tonight as I stand inside the rain Ev’rybody knows That Baby’s got new clothes But lately I see her ribbons and her bows Have fallen from her curls.

He jiggled his leg. He looked at his watch. He ran a hand through his hair. He looked at the door.

He cracked his knuckles. He crossed his arms. He looked at the window; dark now, curtain quiet.

The door opened with a clank and she was there and looked so alive, fresh, like she had when she stumbled into the bookstore that morning. Her flowered silk dress gleamed in the moonlight and her earrings tinkled when she walked.

“Hi,” she smiled, red lips blooming, and led the way to his car.

The taxi swerved maniacally, rumbling over narrow cobblestone streets and whizzing through city avenues. Rosalyn and Henry swayed back and forth like branches in a storm, listening to the luggage in the trunk slam from one side to the next. The driver kept his eyes straight ahead, never flinching, the incomprehensible chatter of the radio drowning out the lovers in the back seat.

Any reserves Henry had about spending all of his savings on this trip with Rosalyn or the length of the trip—three months—flitted away with every passing building or person on the street. How could he have doubted it? It was hard to decide what to pay attention to: Rosalyn’s upturned face with emerald eyes and parted lips, or the life outside the taxi windows. They jerked to a stop and Henry didn’t even notice, not until Rosalyn laughed and nudged him in the ribs, Come on, get out! This is it, the hotel! He didn’t understand why she kept calling it a hotel when it was a hostel, the only way he could afford the three month long trip. He slipped out a few precious Euros and passed them into the driver’s hand with a stuttered Gracías, buenos días, and stepped out of the car. The hostel loomed above them, neon sign flickering and paint peeling on the red door.

“Well. Here we are! Home for the next few months.” She continued staring up at the building.

He moved to help the driver with the luggage, and his body felt tingly, like sand was running through his veins. He dragged her suitcases next to her, reading her silence.

“Ros, I’m sure the interior will be much nicer than the exterior. Don’t judge it yet, not until we’ve at least gone in and seen the set up.” Finally, she looked at him, and a slight smile played at her lips.

“I’m not judging it! What makes you think that? I hadn’t even said anything. I’m just too excited to talk, that’s all.” She rolled onto her tippy toes and pecked him on the cheek before gathering her bags and rolling them inside. He followed, duffel slung over his shoulder.

T

hey did end up going out that Friday night.

Saturday night, too. It became a weekly occurrence; planning and checking schedules was not even necessary. She was pursuing her Master’s degree in art history, and sometimes they went out with her friends from school on the weekends. He was one of the few friends in his group that didn’t head off to graduate school, but a couple had stuck around and Rosalyn took to them immediately, constantly asking after them and wanting to have a beer with them on Friday nights.

She bartended three nights a week at a restaurant down the street from the bookstore, and on those nights Henry would lock up the store and have a drink at the bar, watching her move in a leopard print suit or silk dress, hair gleaming under the red and blue lights. Some Saturday nights she would DJ, playing everything from Bob Dylan to the Talking Heads, singing to herself as she poured drinks. It was 3:00 AM the night she wiped the bar with a rag and re-aligned the bottles on the shelves, telling Henry about her zany Greek art professor and the time her cat Frisco dragged a toilet paper roll through her apartment. Half an hour later they were in her bed for the first time, silent and blind in the dark. They could only explore with their hands, the sensation of touch the medium for describing an image previously only imagined under clothing.

33

O

h my God. She let her arms fall slack against her sides, straps sliding off and bags thudding on the brown carpet. He darted to the single slit of a window and ripped open the curtain, hoping that natural light would enhance the room somehow. The cloudy sky could only muster a few weak rays of light that fell into the room like streams of urine. The single twin bed was made up with threadbare white sheets, and the stained wallpaper was a tribute to a mud slide in some third world country. The water from the sink was audible dripping from the closet bathroom.

“Henry – we cannot stay here. You’d be crazy to disagree.” He was crazy, then, but decided it would be in his best interest – their best interest – if he agreed with her.

“God, no, I completely agree, this is a disaster.

We’ve got to find somewhere else.”

“Why don’t we just leave our things here while we go find a new place? It would be torture to try to trek all this stuff with us through Barcelona, especially in this heat.”

“I don’t know, Ros, I bet we could find a place nearby, and then we wouldn’t have to worry about coming back here to get anything. What if it was stolen? What would you do if all of your precious clothes were snatched? Foreign countries are notorious for shit like that.”

“Henry, do you not see how much I brought?

I’ve got two suitcases! What, do you think I’m just going to drag them through the streets for hours?

It’s just so much simpler to leave it all here.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Listen, I’ve been to Europe before; there are hostels on every block.

You can manage to carry your shit a block, can’t you?”

“Dammit, Henry, I’m not interested in ‘carrying my shit’ for more than five feet! I just want to get to a nice room with a nice bed and lie down. Stay here on guard, if you’re so afraid of it being stolen.”

“At least if it’s all stolen we won’t have to worry about whether to leave it or carry it. I’m going on a walk.” He slammed the door behind him, leaving her with the luggage. Three months. The heat hit his nerves as he reached the street. His jeans felt greasy against his skin and the five o’clock shadow on his face was itchy. Why is luggage even an issue?

He knew from personal experience that when it comes to packing, less is more, even for three months, but he never could have predicted this.

He found an empty chair and table outside a café and ordered a beer, watching a woman smoke a cigarette at the table next to his. The beer arrived and he hesitated before drinking, noticing for the first time the spires of the Sagrada Familia visible between the rectangular skyscrapers. It was number one on Rosalyn’s list of must-sees, along with the Picasso Museum and Gaudi’s Batlló House. He could feel the cold beer run through his body, cooling his skin and mind. Three months.

He could only be crazy to imagine this was a good idea, she was the one, all of that sock-money, all I have.

He wished he hadn’t left his duffel bag in that room with her; who knows where it would end up. The sun fell behind the skyline and more people appeared on the street. Women clacked by

> très à la mode | ava lonergan | 2 x 6 inches | mixed media on paper 34

in tottering heels: smoking cigarettes, laughing, flipping hair. He supposed it was ridiculous for him to expect her to bring everything with her in search of a new place. Still, why did she have to bring so much? He’d tried to explain to her… so stubborn. Two men swagged by in leather jackets, and a twinge of concern shocked his spine. He tossed a two Euro coin on the table and stood up, trying to remember where the hostel was. He started to run, pushing people out of the way, the beer sitting in his gut like a rock. The red door was visible from a block away, and he sprinted, as if it were the last forty meters in a championship track race.

“Rosalyn!” he yelled, busting into the room, door slamming the wall and creaking on its hinges. He tripped on a suitcase in the middle of the floor and was fumbling around for the light switch when he saw her in the bed, illuminated by the hall light. He did not move. Stared. Her hair was splayed on the pillow and her lips were moving in sleep. One delicate arm was dangling off the bed, pale feet sticking out under the sheets.

He padded to her and kneeled, feeling her clouds of breath on his face.

“Henry? I found a new place,” she muttered groggily.

“How far away is it?”

“Just down the block. We can go tomorrow, I’m not moving right now.”

He brushed strands of hair from her face, greasy from traveling, and crawled in beside her, bed straining and creaking from the weight. •

35

icy steel | jack pidgeon | digital photograph

esperando | will borden | digital photograph

response to chris marlowe p o e t r y b y WI LSO N K UH N E L Come live with thee? And be thy love?1 As if the jolly gods above throw petals gladly on the spread that beckons me into thy bed?

If wine had always honey’s sweet, I would my maker early meet.

If Fickle weren’t Love's middle name, how pleased I’d be to play thy game.

If life by metronome were run, I’d halt the tick, my age undone.

For lack of years we’d force the time to reap all ben’fit of our prime.

Yet tempus fugit,2 shepherd dear.

To heaven’s fate we must adhere, for some ideas are ne’er seen through, and that was all I was to you.

1 Christopher Marlowe, The Passionate Shepherd to His Love 2 Latin: time flees

< a new day | mark petrone | digital photograph 39

love on a four wheeler nonf i ction by W ILL BOR D E N

M

organ Smith and I ride in the back seat of my mom’s car on the way to Camp Bryan. We have been boyfriend and girlfriend for six months now, and my mom agreed two days ago that a day trip to Camp Bryan would be appropriate to celebrate our twelfth birthdays, which are only a week apart.

My mind is spinning. Before today, I have never had a girl down to my hunting camp. Will she think it’s too boyish? Dang, she looks good! I am unable to stop these thoughts and questions from coming up. My mom peels off of the highway onto Main Road, the two-mile, dusty driveway into Camp Bryan.

Morgan agrees to go on a four-wheeler tour of the camp. We climb aboard and head off into the woods, her arms around my waist. This is more than any previous physical contact between us and it feels right. I offer her a turn at driving, mainly so I can see what it’s like to press up on her. Her thumb soon gets tired from pressing the throttle, so we swap positions, her arms snaking around my waist again. I decide it’s time to make my move.

> old wheat | brennan cumalander | digital photograph 40

I speed up to thirty-five miles per hour, knowing that twenty-five is supposed to be my absolute limit. Morgan squeezes tighter around my waist.

I love it. I decide to take her to a romantic spot: the dike that separates the Warren Perry and the Goose Impoundments. About halfway down the dike, the engine slows and sputters to a pupupupu puh puhhh halt. I glance down at the gas gauge: empty.

Morgan notices it too and doesn’t seem very impressed, considering that we are four miles from my cabin. I spin around and face Morgan, staring at her chocolate eyes, tangled hair, and automatic, loving smile that she can’t hold back despite the circumstances. Now or never, Wilbo. I draw her head closer to mine with my right hand and plant a dry, anti-climatic peck on the center of her lips.

I begin to back off, but she pulls me back in and our lips meet a second time, this time more open, damp, and passionate. The kiss lasts for thirty seconds before she asks how we are going to get back. I laugh, hop off the four-wheeler, flip the gas switch from “main” to “reserve,” and we head back, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist. •

senses of death p oet r y by J A M ES M OY LE R The SUV hisses around the corner and screeches as it leeches onto the car sputtering ahead.

Witnesses gape, horrified.

Not sure how to inspect the site, they sit petrified.

A vile scent reeks through the air.

The foul odor of death loiters at the scene.

The EMTs hop around the spectacle.

The Jaws of Life slap the sides of the car.

Quickly, they jump from one side to the other.

The victims wince at the aches that will soon be numb.

Dying muscles twitch in shivers while warm blood leaks from tingling bodies.

The setting is now empty, hushed by the departure of the ambulance, silent as a child put to sleep by a lullaby.

> composition no. 1 | addison winston | pinhole photograph 42

approach with caution p oet r y by BRYCE PEPPE RS Two hours of film in a frame.

A poster.

Crinkled, ripped, uneven.

The paper is sharp, covered in tape, blutac, thumbtacks.

It may bite.

All the men’s eyes are wild and afraid.

Except Brad Pitt’s.

Shirtless, a cut on his chest, smoking a cigarette.

Could have fought or fucked.

“How much can you really know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?”

A blowing fan catches his image.

It hits the wall like the crack of a knuckle.

Sweaty, bloody, triumphant odor nearly escapes ink barriers.

el morro | ian mcdowell | digital photograph 44

keyboard p o e t r y b y LAT PE A K

word

desig

n | ra

gs co

xe

Black cubes pierced with white ink, into the depths of the board they sink.

Emitting words on the blank page, you stare; they look right back, like you arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even there.

45

old faith mi crof iction by PIERRE C O URPRO N “Well, life is too long to go through it without believing in something. If you don’t have Old Faith here, it’s going to be a rough landing.”

With that, he jumped.

He plummeted, head first, not like those cowards who go feet first, straight down off the bridge. His arms spread wide like an Olympic diver. He passed the first metal support of the bridge, then the red arches and then finally, from above, he looked like a speck of water, falling towards the river, his feet rapidly melting into the light blue background. A million thoughts went through his head as his fall continued uninterrupted. He twisted around, looked up and waved. Suddenly, his body stopped dead in its tracks as if Old Faith were an angel, holding him back from Death’s claws.

Old Faith, wrapped tightly around his ankle, stretched and pulled him up to safety.

> abstraction of a girl | willy sherrerd-smith | 18 x 24 inches | acrylic on paper 46

infinity p oet r y by AVA LONERG A N To wait is to feel sweat prick your palms, to take a sip of wine and watch a tremor pulse through the liquid.

To wait is to stare at the door until your eyes glaze over, mind running through the scenarios.

Must be held up.

To wait is to reach out across the table and smooth a wrinkle in the tablecloth.

You fold your hand back into your lap, fingering the diamonds strung around your wrist.

To wait is to feel like infinityâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; time becomes physical.

To wait is to love.

chirp n o n fi c t i o n b y BRE T T BE RG E R boy I lie cocooned in bed with only the crickets to bounce ideas off, although tonight they’re silent.

Usually more than willing to toss in a few chirps about my toughest problems, the orchestra of insects has decided not to play.

Tomorrow morning I become a B’nai Mitzvoth. Tomorrow, I become a man. Finally, after all these months of memorizing prayers and chanting Torah with Canter Deb’s voice trilling through my iPod, I'm done with mandatory outings to Sunday School. God, all those wasted mornings learning this stupid language that I’ll only use for this one stupid weekend. Yeah, they said it was my choice, that I could just not do it if I didn’t want to, but then Mom pulled the whole “You’ll be the first person in the whole family to not get Bar Mitzvahed” thing. And Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle Kenny and Aunt Talisa and Bob and Joan will be so disappointed because they were so looking forward to seeing their beautiful boy on the altar, leading everybody. How the hell am I supposed to respond to that? “Oh that’s alright. I’ll just break the ancient family tradition and piss everyone off.” Right, great idea. Either that or commit sacrilege: falsely proclaim faith in the faces of my parents and my grandparents and my classmates, in the face of God. Either way,

48

He’d probably shun me. Those pearly gates would slam in my face and I’d be banished to the sauna.

Well, apparently I’m going to hell, because there’s no turning back now: the feasts have been laid and all the guests are slumbering in Holiday Inn beds. boy-man I sit transfixed in my chair beside the Ark, taking in the strange concoction of people all swirling around below. This is my day. Everyone is here for me. I cannot mess this up. My mom sits in the front row on the verge of tears although I have yet to stammer a syllable or twitch a muscle. My collage of friends smiles from a few rows behind the rest of my family, somehow enjoying this strange experience and playing with their Yarmulkes. Grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles twice removed, and a whole row of people I’ve never seen before but am naturally expected to know smile up at me too, knowing I’ll do so well. I wish I had their faith in me.

On the other side sits a mass of Ashevillians, all swathed in colorful shawls, just here to get their daily fix of religion, brought to them this morning by me. Trying to ignore their stares, I casually gaze up at one of the two massive vertical dough rollers housing between them the veiled Ark, from which my father is about to take THE Torah. Not just any Torah, but a torah passed down along generations, written in the dead of night thousands of years ago on cow hide with a quill and ink made from ground stones, with only the singing of crickets to guide his thoughts.

Innumerable frightened boys have stood before these same strange symbols, about to open their door into manhood.

“And I call Brett Colman Berger to be Bar Mitzvahed in front of the congregation.”

At Rabbi Ratner’s words, I see the floor getting farther away and the pulpit form beneath my fingertips, but I don’t actually realize I’ve stood up until my father places the pair of smaller dough rollers in front of me and I grasp the metal pointer in my left hand. I try to read the letters, but an army of tiny black squiggles is squirming on the papyrus. I turn to the Rabbi, about to tell him I just can’t do it, but he places a warm hand on my shoulder, eyes twinkling, and I turn slowly back, the squiggles molding into the Hebrew I’ve studied and loved so much. Grinning, I recall Deb’s altissimo variation of my portion, take one final look at the anticipating congregation and launch into full Hebrew-mode. With that very first exhalation of chant, the words begin to flow so easily that I don’t even have to look at the text. I steal a glance at my parents and find my mother absolutely bawling and my strong father on the verge of tears. They aren’t the only ones.

The entire audience seems to radiate with every word I speak. So I speak louder. My words grow stronger. Fear turns to elation. After I speak my final Amen, Rabbi Ratner places his palms on my shoulders and blesses me. His eyes glow with the knowledge that I finally understand, and I glow back. We both know the crickets will be waiting for me tonight.

< stick figure | willy sherrerd-smith | 18 x 24 inches | pencil on paper 49

man I awaken Sunday morning to the incredibly juicy aroma of crisping bacon (turkey bacon, of course), and with a full head of bed-hair stumble downstairs, hoping to snag a few pieces before the barrage of guests arrive. Instead I find an army of white chefs in my kitchen setting up bowls of various mushrooms for an omelet bar and an entire platter of lox complementing a pyramid of everything bagels. Before I can question my sanity further, my mother sweeps me up in a perfumed hug and congratulates me yet again.

I halfheartedly hug back, still eyeing that pan of greasy bacon. Managing to slip away from the maternal grasp, I surreptitiously slip toward my goal, and then get intercepted by a less-perfumed paternal grasp. With the combined power of mother and father, I’m coaxed to “get cleaned up.” And so with all hopes of bacon destroyed, I drift back upstairs to change for the onslaught of family soon to arrive.

“So, how does it feel now to be a man? Do you feel any different now? ” “Um, I don’t know, Mom. It’s pretty cool I guess.”

“Gosh, I still can’t believe how wonderful you were up there yesterday!”

“No, I wasn’t that good. I forgot some songs and messed up on my Haphtarah portion.”

“Well I didn’t notice a thing! It just sounded so beautiful, especially your father’s speech. He

went on for about half an hour, but that’s the type of stuff you remember forever. Oh, this bacon is absolutely delicious! Have you tried some?”

“Not yet, unfortunately. I was actually hoping—” “Brett! Come here, you! I’ve barely had a chance to talk with you this whole weekend!”

“Hey, Granny! Yeah, lots of things happening this weekend. So how’s your trip going?”

“Couldn’t be better. Haven’t been up here since The Fourth, I think...much too long. We need to get up here more often. The hotel’s been nice, great choice.”

“Yeah, that was Mom's idea.”

“You know, one thing I really miss about being up here in the mountains is the night-time. In the city, you’ve got people yelling on the streets, fire-trucks screaming and whatnot. No-one seems to care what time it is. But you come up here and all you hear is the wind through the trees and all those crickets. Boy, those put me right to sleep.”

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. I couldn’t live somewhere without the chirping of crickets. The noise really just takes my mind off whatever’s bothering me. Except Friday night they weren’t really helping at all...I didn’t sleep much then. Last night they were more than happy to sing for me, though.”

“Ha-ha. Well honey, it seems as if the crickets were proud of you, too!” •

> chapel sunset | gibson montgomery | digital photograph 50

Chit-chat echoes through vaulted ceilings in hushed murmurs and rumors.

The chaplain commands all.

Quiet.

Organ melodies moving.

The choir harmonizes.

Acolytes process to the altar.

Why do they come to the house of God? Is it fear of punishment?

How many know the Lord?

Hymnals.

How many care?

Drowsy, mouths zipped tight.

How many bodies are self-absorbed?

Just a program, the same every week.

Where is the heart?

The sermon is next.

Passion.

The Chaplain has heart.

But how many slouch and sleep?

Why must such a passionate man be ignored?

respect

Chit-chat reverberates during the recessional, the message unheard.

He spoke of respect.

p o et r y b y BRA NDON HEATH 51

change their minds poetr y b y ST E PH E N K O WA LK O WSK I Speak true to the man I am because it couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be me that knows.

Tell me my story; Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve only heard it from my lips, and yours are much softer.

Sparkle my tales with extravagance and wealth, leaving the danger and despair behind.

End my torment and place me with kings instead of this pile of ashes.

< seasoned | jay mitchener | 18 x 24 inches | charcoal on paper 53

dear diary p oet r y by STUA RT HUST O N She poses as the wicked warden as she collects each dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s soul, locking them away with her keyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ink between the lines that are their bars.

Is my name trapped inside her cells?

Steep leather walls taunt me.

Mutiny is so easily instigated as I set her inmates free.

word desig n|c harle y hilli ard

54

my cup overflows n o n fi c t i o n b y PE T E R SH E LT O N

B

oasting my volunteer t-shirt and sharp black volunteer cap, I stroll to the Starbucks tent, pronounced even from 200 meters away. The faces of the early-morning volunteers protrude from the frenzy under the tent, bearing smiles, cherry-red like the juice in front of them.

I’m pulled from my trance as a spectator; I realize the Starbucks volunteer community is racing, just like the Susan G. Komen runners, hurling empty cups under faucets and letting the tea water-fall out. More ice! accompanied by Full container here! are chanted within the tent as the team pulses to serve the racers.

The volunteers process cups of iced passion-fruit tea and coffee. They line up on the tables, waiting for battle.

I sign myself in and address my contact: “Hi, Rachel, where do you need me?” Starbucks can use all the volunteers it can get, given the tent almost represents the finish. As soon as a racer finishes, the first sight is the blazing tent.

I pause momentarily while the organizers integrate the late-shift volunteers, including myself. Late morning, the sun caresses the atmosphere with warm waves, light eloquently streaming through the tent. A pink sea floods the area as more and more participants complete the course and spill towards the Starbucks tent. Waiting there, I feel an enthusiasm to contribute, having participated in a handful of road–races myself.

“Peter, you can work here,” a sing–song voice floats

over from the mass inside the tent. I slide to the passionfruit tea station, completely uncertain of what I’m to do. I learn, though, that I am to grab ice–filled cups and fill them “as fast as you can” with the wine–dark liquid. Not with my bearings yet, I fumble with the spout and my hands manage to produce fruitful spills.

“Here, look here for a moment,” a friendly voice guides my eyes to her hands, working precisely and speedily beside mine. She demonstrates, with commentary, what is expected.

Got it.

I return to filling cups, pushing them along and repeating. I turn around, and each time I am greeted by open hands, begging for the tea from my sticky red fingers. Fill the cups, turn around, fill the cups, turn around. The rhythm sustains me, drawing me into a state of oblivion except for the tent and everything under it.

In all of this I think. I ponder. I consider how much a team is composed of strangers. We work alongside unfamiliar people for the common cause of, in one way or another, supporting breast cancer research. Every one of us becomes united, working toward something bigger than ourselves, weaving some fun in it along the way. Receiving empty cups, filling them, and passing them along. Again and again.

The assembly line continues. Simple: filling cups to quench one’s thirst.

My cup overflows with fruitful spills. •

55

frozen summer p o e t r y b y C O N O R FLY N N Day fades with the tide.

Lights flicker: sparks of lighters on lifeguard stands.

Spinal chill settles along deserted beach.

Waves wash up, a ticking clock. Time slows frozen.

In our circle, song crackles through speakers. Salty breeze slides through sand.

Life continues.

Tide ticks timeless.

< the island next door | pierre courpron | digital photograph 57

gavilane | frederic lamontagne | digital photograph

dizzy alien invasion | christian dolan | digital photograph

In my life I hope I lie and tell everyone you were a good wife.

And I hope you die.

- John Darnielle, â&#x20AC;&#x153;No Childrenâ&#x20AC;?

sometimes i still feel the bruise fi c t i o n b y D I X O N C A SH WE LL

T

he saddest thing about your life right now is probably your life.

Heh. That’s… that’s kinda Zen, isn’t it?

No wait. Scratch that. The saddest thing about your life right now is Wife. It’s not all that Zen anymore, but you’ll be damned if it doesn’t rhyme.

Wait, maybe… no. If you had to pick, the saddest thing would probably be the drinking. Dammit.

Maybe it’s all three; you can’t focus. Drink.

Maybe the saddest thing is that when you can’t think, you drink, and then you think and you drink and you think about how that rhymes, and you laugh and you sputter and you get angry that you just spat out Drink and then Wife comes in and then you scream at her, and she screams at you, someone hits someone, and whoever cries first is the loser.

Yeah. It’s probably something like that.

It’s not that you loathe Wife or anything; it’s just that you hate her so goddamn much. You can only stand her when you’re drunk, and when you get drunk, you get violent, and then she gets drunk to kind of counteract your violence and then she gets violent and it’s this whole Sisyphean vicious circle thing you guys have got going on that’s normal and uninteresting to you two and horrifying and depressing to everyone who’s not you two.

Your friends. They’re terrified.

There you are. A picture of you and Wife proudly emblazoned over the one in the textbook of the termite with the thing in its stomach that helps it digest cellulite. There you two are. Your mouth is

open, screaming. Hers is clenched shut. A plate is in midair. And you can’t quite tell whom it’s heading towards.

You’re pleased with the mental image of you and Wife in a Bio textbook, and you laugh a little and you drink a lot. You feel the need to cough, and you forget that there’s alcohol in your mouth and you cough and Drink flies everywhere.

Wife is standing in front of you.

It was a direct hit. Her face is sopping wet.

The silence pervading the air is too thick to breathe.

Suddenly, you start laughing. It’s a giggle. It evolves into a chortle. It runs unchecked and becomes a guffaw. Then she’s laughing and you both collapse on the floor in absolute hysterics. You roll around and clutch at each other, howling with laughter. Your shirts are soaked with Drink but it doesn’t matter and you keep laughing. And you know this won’t last, you know that she or you—let’s face it, probably you— will say the wrong thing or laugh the wrong way, and then she’ll scream or you’ll scream and then Mr. Coffee will be unceremoniously hurtling towards one of your heads.

But for now you don’t care. You just revel in this moment, content for the first time in as long as you can remember.

And you try.

You try.

You try so hard to remember what it felt like to love her. •

< gentleman | willy sherred-smith | 18 x 24 inches | charcoal on paper 61

definition of love p oet r y by J A M ES CRABB Zealous and erotic— that’s what love is.

It’s suffering with your friends and laughing at unfunny jokes.

And sometimes, love is hot chicken noodle soup on an icy day in your sick lap.

When your head snores against my chest, I think I’d call that love.

> woman from outer space | david lee | 11 x 15 inches | pencil on paper 62

ajax n o n fi c t i o n b y K Y LE K E N N E Y

T

he last thing I want to do is go outside.

Escaping the hot, sticky summer air, I briskly close the door to my house behind me and wipe a thin veneer of cool sweat off my forehead, relieved that I’m finally home after negotiating rush-hour traffic. As usual, Ajax, our five-year-old Chao pup, is waiting for me, and his purple gums and tongue wiggle in joy and excitement as he pounces up to my waist to greet me. I chuckle and rub his short, black fur, pushing his silky coat back and forth on his back as he pants in pure delight. His wide, brown eyes peer up at me, and a small, pleading whimper tells me we just have to go outside to see the world. My eyes roll in return at the thought of going back out amidst the cars, the stoplights, and the unforgiving heat.

He glances anxiously at the door then back to me, whimpering more pathetically than before as he jumps up and down on his fidgety front paws. That’s when I know I have no choice—we are going outside. I follow Ajax up the stairs to my room as he urges me to hurry. Giving in to his impatience, I quickly slip on some shorts and a tee, and snag my keys which jingle and jostle together on my trip down the stairs. Before I can

even open the door, he’s already pawing at the unlocked knob, jarring it loose and sprinting out to the car.

I pull onto our peaceful neighborhood street, making sure to roll the windows down while playing Dave Matthews Band’s Crash album as Ajax sniffs and searches every seat, button, and floor mat before jutting his curious snout into the thick summer air. My thumb starts to tap in harmony not with my irritation at rushhour traffic or the summer heat but with the strumming guitar, the humming saxophone, and Ajax’s joyful panting. We pull up to the light at Providence Road, and the scene hasn’t changed; cars are bumper-to-bumper, traffic is only inching along, and agitated drivers drum their steering wheels out of discontent.

Ajax, however, continues to smile and gaze dreamily out at the world around him: the rich, verdant trees, the crisp blue sky, the idle paths of honeybees buzzing around in the sticky afternoon. All is right with him, and I smile, finding his untainted pleasure with the outdoors contagious. While it may be rush hour on a cruel, hot workday, to Ajax it’s five o’clock on a lazy afternoon; we have all the time in the world. •

< dawg | brennan cumalander | digital photograph 65

go on, tell the man p oet r y by J EFF SM ITH Always have it served your way as if every slice must be a personal choice.

In reality, it should be your decision.

Pickles?

Go on, tell the man whatever you please; endless combinations found at additional costs of course.

They say they have every type of meat.

Even if it is the combo platter, you still won’t get to decide.

I think they take canned bologna and call it bacon.

Alas, never give up hope; an extra slice of cheese is always possible.

Each bite should be savored.

The bread fresh—perhaps toasted?

The vegan choice is unfamiliar— just saying.

Always ask for free napkins in any situation.

Have another, only if you’re hungry enough though.

What would you like on yours again?

> crush | ava lonergan | 18 x 24 inches | acrylic on paper 66

too young for the big boys' court p o e t r y b y A LLE N JO N E S Our relationship started slow.

With two older basketball maniacs in my family, the sport found me.

I worked my way up, studying my brother’s game, attempting jump shots I soon caught. Ages six then seven, my game left the outdoors.

It took that twelve minute drive, met the glistening floors of the YMCA. 6” plastic hoops taunted me, but I didn’t want to leave that sanctuary.

The bad mouth big boys danced around their court, not playing the game my dad taught me.

Styling, they ran away from the fundamentals of the game.

Glares from their Michael Jordan shoes flashed.

Tight sleeveless shirts suffocated or huge triple X's swallowed them.

Baggy gym shorts tried to catch the ball when it flew through their legs.

In between trash talk and curse words something beautiful was happening.

< boys | (L to R) will lankenau, jack burke, william knibbs | 18 x 24 inches | mixed media on paper 69

high school illusions p oet r y by CHA N UN The nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s colors pop through the canopy of heat.

Her legs spread out across my dashboard; her voice echoes through the car.

Cool air makes its escape through vents; the tinkling sensation vibrates past her face.

Row upon row of houses whizz past; Mayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s darkening evening.

Stoplights flash like a blinding slap, a slow trek through emptiness.

We creep toward the outskirts of town.

Hair strands cover her eyes; she rolls down her window to let the breeze consume her.

Two people longing to find an end.

> abby | willy sherrerd-smith | 7 x 11 inches | pencil on paper 70

colophon

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 Helvetica Neue UltraLight; body text is set in Adobe Garamond Pro. The Talon is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association.

The magazine received a Gold Medal award in 2010.

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

< jim morrison | jay mitchener | 90 x 90 inches | acrylic on paper