The Silhouette - Spring 2008

8/14/2019 The Silhouette - Spring 2008

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T a b

l e o

f C o n

t e n t s

T a b l e o

f C o n t e n t

s It May Have Been August Caitlin Crowley-FeldheimVernazza Re ected Kristy Benoit

Construction Site; an Approach to erapy Taylor Loy Laughing Out Loud Alyssa Haak Love Jessica SchaferIn Loving Memory Benjamin Casey McGrath

e Bull Fight Evan Alexander ChappleRipe Ben KajaMuseum of Hostages at Katzenstein Castle Taylor Loy Walking with My Unborn Son Tom DunnBeauty Under Foot Jessica SchaferGraveyard Across the Road from Our Small Pond Katherine Brumbaugh

Ponders Jennifer Pavlak Laurel Katherine BrumbaughGratia Plena Joshua D. CrabillSinking in Shallow Water Orlando Dos ReisD.C. Religion Katherine SwettLes Oiseaux de Paris Joshua D. CrabillHand Joseph DunfordBodies Jessica Schafer A Casualty of War Tom DunnPollux Interrupted Joshua D. Crabill

e Grieving under Chad Patrick Bailey Diving Amanda LoschLuce della Chiesa Nicole FieldBreathe Caitlin Crowley-FeldheimDeportation Train (Lithuania) Johanna FieldIn the Spring After Our Separation Joshua D. CrabillFading Color Suzanne Day Tangerine Scream Alexandra FordNight Vision Riya Sarker

ree Trees Jessica Schafer

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ilhouette Volume 30, Issue 2, was produced by the Silhouette sta and printed by Franklin Graphics, located in Nashville, TN. e paper is 80 lb. Porcelain w100 lb. Porcelain cover. e fonts used throughout the magazine are Adobe Garamond Pro and Handwriting-Dakota. Silhouette Literary and Art Magazine division of Educational Media Company at Virginia Tech, Inc. (EMCVT), a nonpro t organization that fosters student media at Virginia Tech. Please sendorrespondence to 344 Squirers Student Center, Blacksburg VA, 24061. All Virginia Tech students who are not part of the sta are invited to submit to the m

All rights revert to the artist upon publication. To become a subscriber to Silhouette, send a check for $10 for each year subscription (two magazines) to the a

bove, c/o Business Manager or visit EMCVTs e-commerce website at www.collegemedia.com/shop. For more information visit our website atwww.silhouette.collegemedia.com or call our o ce at 540-231-4124.

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W e l c o m e

Wel co me

Welcome to the thirtieth anniversary of Silhouette.

rough a few persistent English students and a dedicated English faculty member Silhouette rstpublished in the spring of 1978. Silhouette continued as part of the English Department until1983, when it then joined the Student Media Board. In 1997 the Student Media Board becameindependent from the university to form the Educational Media Company at Virginia Tech,Inc. (EMCVT). Ten years later Silhouette is still a part of EMCVT, a non-pro t, student-runorganization.

Silhouette was originally published once a year in the spring until the 1988-1989 school year, when the university changed to the semester system. From then on the magazine was publishedonce a semester, twice a year.

Silhouette is dedicated to promoting the arts in and around the Virginia Tech community. erst duty of the magazine is to showcase undergraduate and graduate work of prose, poetry,

ne art, and photography. e magazine also supports the artistic culture through readings andbene ts.

is spring, Silhouette is excited to continue the thirty-year tradition of showcasing student work. With the help of the faculty member who assisted students in publishing the rst issue of Silhouette, Dr. Claude Clayton Smith, we have been able to make this spring issue a little special.

anks to Dr. Smith and the English Department of Ohio Northern University, includingstudents of Sigma Tau Delta, the sta of Shakespeare and the Classroom, and English majors who attended a bene t reading, we were able to o er a monetary prize for two pieces of creative writing.

e prize was not given to celebrate Silhouettes thirtieth birthday. Dr. Smith, an author of ction, non ction, poetry and plays who recently retired as Professor of English from Ohio

Northern University, gives the reason best in his own words: on May 25th, in a letter addressedto the chair of the English Department, Carolyn Rude, Dr. Smith wrote, Last weekend, whileattending my sons masters ceremony at the University of Wisconsin in Madison, I was movedby a large white board with a Virginia Tech logo in the center of campus, inscribed by thousandsof students. In remembrance of our fellow students, Dr. Smith has personally chosen thelucky prizewinners. e winners are the poem Construction site, an approach to therapy by Taylor Loy and the prose piece Im Sorry I Laughed at Your Funeral by Alyssa Haak. When heannounced the winners, Dr. Smith wrote, Each piece controls its language within the demandsof its genre to create some startling e ects. And each piece can be read, of course, as an obliqueresponse to the tragedy of last spring, while gaining power in re ecting ANY loss, large or small.

We now ask that you enjoy each and every piece presented in this issue. And for a little bit of funcheck out some covers from the past thirty years on the next page.

Sincerely,

Hali Plourde-Rogers and Jenna Wolfe


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3 0 Y e a r s o

f S i l h o u e t t e

3 0 Y e a r

s o f S i l h o u e t

t e


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Caitlin Crowley-Feldheim

My world was a black and white movie with grey oak trees smudged into the skylineand memories of a certain shore where we would breathe our secrets into the sea.

ese streets smelled like hot wet sin after a summer storm.

It may have been August.

As wed lay on the wooden oor, half awake but somewhat sleeping, we left the curtainsdown to keep the cold and creeping shadows away. And we always willed the sun to stay buried beneath the horizon,so we could remain in the quiet imaginary bliss of black and white.

Vernazza Re ected,Kristy Benoit, Photography

It May

Have Been August


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Im sorry I laughed at your funeral. Its just that, to behonest with you, I had to laugh. Its not like I threw a t of giggles and clicked my heels in a jig; you know its not that.Im actually pretty positive you would have laughed too,babe. I mean, it was so hot and stu y in there. So awkward.So uncomfortable. e pews were over owing with peopleyou probably wouldnt have even known; brief faces fromthe past or maybe just onlookers, I mean, people are alwaysdrawn to the deaths of the young. ey were all lookingaround, trying to get a better view of you in that ridiculoussuit that you hated wearing. And then theyd wisely proclaimto the person next to them how awful it all was and what a

shame; these two phrases were as personal as anyone wouldget. ey sat next to each other, ghting not to bump thighsor physically touch, not to even look in each others eyes. Allthey concluded was what a shame.

Most of the people carried on conversations with theirfriends, like it was nothing. Nothing at all. Like they werehappy to be at some social event and reminisce about theiryouth, a high school reunion of sorts, ghting smiles which,as most feel, would have been entirely inappropriate. eirfaces were all the same: tightly contorted, self-conscious, andpinched. Every single one of them looked constipated, likethey were trying to hold in a noxious belch. You, especially, would have found that hilarious. And they all whispered.I couldnt hear what they were saying. e mock silencesounded like wasps, busying themselves with avoidance, andignoring the tragedy right in front of them.

I stood up front with your family as people began to lein, and I mean le. Like some elementary eld trip; grownmen and women with their kids alike stood in single led

lines to pass you and shake our hands. Most people didntlook your way. Some of the smallest kids stared at you,horri ed, and pointed at your posed-in-prayer hands. ey tugged at the skirts of their moms who promptly scoopedthem up and scolded them, apologizing for their behavior. As if it wasnt what they themselves wanted to do. We had togreet them and comfort them and thank them for coming. Ihad to stand there and agree with your creepy Uncle Clyveand his wife Clingy Sue. Assured them that, yes, you werea great man and, yes, we were lucky to have had you for the

twenty-one years that we did. Good ol Clyve struggled tosee through my turtleneck the whole time and I cant believeyou left me with Clingy Sue. You promised me last Easteryoud never leave me alone with her, in awkward conversatioagain.

Your mom misses you, by the way. And with the bestintentions she introduced me to all the friends and family I never met. is went on all morning and she rubbed my back as it did, wanting to feel like a mom to someone. It

was sweet of her, but I needed to get away from all that. I was so frustrated with it. It felt like the way our wedding wasupposed to, you know? She should have introduced me to

people as her new daughter-in-law while you were o withyour friends somewhere, sneaking another beer from the barand chasing down those cocktail hot dogs you love.

Instead, Im introduced as your girlfriend, with no hopeof being anything more. Were those the last times I will evehear that? is is Michaels girlfriend. I couldnt and stillcant imagine another occasion where this would come up.I hated it; its the only time since it happened that I almostcried. I wanted to be anywhere but right there, thinkingabout the wedding I had been dreaming of for the past eightyears wed been together. I scanned the room and tried to gemy contacts to stop burning holes through my pupils.

ats when I saw your entourage. Best friends sinceelementary school, they all looked so young and scared. Allin desperate need of a hug, which I would have freely giventhem, if this wasnt such a forced and rigid situation. Justlike school again; we all had assigned seats, separated. Ryanthe rst one who met my eyes, elbowed John who sat straighupright so fast youd think he was caught sleeping in class

again. John did his signature fake cough, you know theone, and Sam and Kyle fell into line, both smoothing theirhair and xing their ties. ey all looked worried. Like any moment I might collapse and implode into a galaxy of pieceor maybe snatch up a ruler and scold them for not payingattention. I saw them as grown men; I knew them as youngboys. ey squeamishly looked at me and dgeted like guiltchildren. It made me bite back a smile. Its just freakinuproarious. I mean, look at the mess you left us all in!

I looked a lot like them, too. We all became skinnier

LaughingOutLoud Alyssa Haak [ ]

Literary Prize WINNER


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than usual and pale, though my appearance a little bit cleaner,I hope. I worked extra hard to make sure my hair was perfectand my makeup was pretty and the way you liked it. As if you would pop up and say, wow babe, I forgot how gorgeousyou are, lets go snuggle. Haha, see? Ive lost my mind; its just so damn funny.

I mean, just last week you were here and everything was

going as planned and everyone was happy. A god-damn week ago today, football was on and I was making your favorite dipfor you and your friends. You were all so big and tough then;

ghting each other over whose fantasy team was going to win and tossing the football at the back of each others heads.Laughing like idiots at the thud it made and the victimsfollowing reaction. You came in to try the dip to see if it was poisoned. You are, or were, so corny. Remember? Nextyou put your arms around my waist and whispered in my ear from behind that I was perfect and if I ever change youreoutskies. What kind of word is outskies, you dork?

You are a dork,though you tried sohard to be smooth. epictures in the slideshow proved it in front of the entirecrowd. You would have been so embarrassed by the old onesof you: studying, which you never did, and reading, whichyou never did. Wearing clothes you never willingly wore ina way you never willingly wore them. You tried your hardest

your whole life to overcome that exact image. And there waseven one of you paying attention in class? I mean, what? Isntthat how we met? I was the one who paid attention duringclass and I was the one who studied and took notes while you were the one who charmed me o my feet and into helpingyou out. Its funny how people choose to remember others.

If the guys and I picked the pictures instead of yourfamily and old teachers, you would have been portrayed asyou were, not as the model boy. ere would have beenpictures of you caught sleeping in class, or rolling your baby blues behind Sister Catherines back since she was the teacher who always got you in trouble. Oh, I forgot to tell you, SisterCatherine read your eulogy. See? Its all a real knee-slapper. Almost all pictures would have been of you genuinely smilingor making ridiculous faces for a laugh. And none would haveyour uniform worn the way it was supposed to be. Instead,youd look slightly but purposefully disheveled. I would havepicked the pictures of you that showed the always presentmischief in your eyes as you decided upon your next prank

or joke. See babe, it was all so fake and unreal, so forcedand unbelievably inaccurate and awkward. How could I notlaugh?!

I lost it when the priest introduced our nextperformance, in honor and memory of Michael James.Haha! See, it was a performance. You were the main actor ithe role they wanted you to play. It wasnt a remembrance

of who you were. A teenage girl in a full-on leotard camemarching down the aisle in ballet slippers, carrying a ribbon

wand in one hand and a candle in the other. She twirledand danced with the ribbon and candle, doing all kinds of

weird bends and poses, holding each one out as if expectingapplause. For the nale, she dramatically snu ed out thecandle with the ribbon; Get it? e ame was symbolic of your life!

is was too ridiculous, babe. So Im sorry. I had to getup from my front pew and calmly walk to the back of thechurch and try not to interrupt the show. My wool skirt

was itchy and my heels were blistering my feet.I didnt think I could

hold it in any longer so when I saw the door, I broke into arun. I busted through. e cold air was the only thing thatfelt real as I let out one long and broken laugh. I laughed sohard, love, so hard that I actually started crying. I was nallcrying cause I was laughing. See, I couldnt help it! I foug

it as long as I could; I promise. I didnt cry at all, since ithappened, til I started laughing. And it was just so funny, thfact that you left me to do this alone. With no one to guideme or tell me Id be ok. You left me in an out t I would onlybe caught dead in, to fend from the eyes and awkwardness oClyve and Sue, to comfort others and watch stupid picturesof you that werent actually you. By myself, I sat. Andlistened to the teachers you hated, and who hated you back,speak that you were the ideal student and perfect angel. I sathere, alone, and tried to hold it back when the acrobatic-pyrotechnic-ribbon-dancer beautifully ended your life foreveryone to applaud. I was there, by myself, all alone, emptand left to stare at you lying there. All by myself. And babeyou looked just awful and Im sorry I laughed, love, but donyou see? Its all so fucking hilarious.

What kind of word is outskies, you dork?


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ve, Jessica Schafer, Medium

Theres even a chancethat we locked

eyes


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Not yesterday,not ever,

I never got the chance to tell you I love you.But, today I will.

Ive seen your faces and Ive walkedby your sides.

eres even a chance that we locked eyes.

Now youre gone anda university cries.

I wish I had the chanceto say goodbye.

ough we survived,the strong were the ones that died.

So we keep you in our hearts and minds.Beautiful and perfect,

you will be the strengththat helps so many

to live out the rest of their lives.

We are the face of change,the light inside that burns bright,

an everlasting ame.But without you here

to grace us with your eager smilesthis place will never be the same.

If I had the voice,Id sing you something

soft and sweet,much like a lullaby.

If I had the voice,Id tell you all the things

that Ive been thinking

about regret and time. And if I had the voice,Id scream at the top of my lungs

with arms raised to the sky to tell you Im left speechless.

So, sleep well lovely children.Rest easy in your better place.

I hope you know how much I love you,and that a better life awaits.

LovingMemory

In Benjamin Casey McGrath


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With sweat and winewe watch the matadorweep the bull left and right.Ol we scream

but I dont know why.e grace is concrete;

one cannot doubt this man owns his body,bending like a tree in the wind,passing the bull like the wind.

is is natures art;he is the sun on your back,your last full breath.

e arm is raised;the sword is the man,

not a tool he holdsor a weapon he wields.

And this man, who is Man,who is the end we all must live,

steps and then:the touch.

e girl to my left says:I have never seen anything die.

But if you havent seen death, you havent seen life.

The

Bull F ightEvan Alexander Chapple


13/44Taylor Loy

On the thirteenth day withoutsun, I wore 3-D glasses with the shades drawn tightI needed

change. I cooked pumpkin soupon the stove, the steam thick with cloves and cardamom.

Outside, all the apples were fallingfrom the tree one by onesome falland rot, others are eaten by birds

and squirrels. e aroma is like sexsweetbread, cinnamon,and sweat, but it is still un-mistakenly

crushed apples. e soupbubbled and splattered like lavafrom below, burning

my arm and hand. I walked outsideto pick an apple o the treeand decided to eat one that had fallen

insteadit was delicious. Soft andripe with a bite already takenbefore I found it.

Ripe

Museum of Hostages at KatzensteinCastle

We follow the paths of madmen who walk in straight lines, who keep the groundsclean, who do not go beyond this boundary of trees. ey call this exercise -to clear their heads of demons.

ere are enough, already, in the bulletsimplanted in this reclining hill, And these, we hope, will never grow.

e trees mended each springover scars and knotsto help children climb. We notice young men still scramblingup the hillsideto breach the weariness of the forestssprawl, to nd that distended border and resting where they cannot heartheir mothers shouts:Come back home.


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My ve year old son slips his tiny hand from my grip.His run is like the trot of a colt, heavy hoofed and headlong.He chases ducks coming up from the riverbank.

ey utter their wings with irritation,delighting him in their escape back to the water.

Daddy, I love ducks.

He locks his hand back with mine, scraping his feet in the dirt path.e leaves of the trees chime their delicate song, catching his attention.

We step o the path to sit under a giant Oak, oating like an emerald cloud.e sun weaves through branches and leaves,

my son stares up from the trunk with wonder.

Daddy, I love trees.

Our feet dot the dusty path like footprints on the moon.My son grabs a stick from the ground, poking at the earth as it passes.Sweeping wind picks up the grainy dirt, swirling it into the sky.

e heavy air pushes against our chests,my son spreads his arms and pretends to y.

Daddy, I love wind.

He stops in front of me, smiling with his mothers lips.How did we create something so beautiful?

Walking WithMy Unborn

SonT.M. Dunn


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Daddy,I loveducks.

Beauty Under Foot, Jessica Schafer, Soft Pencil on watercolor paper


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In the winter you can see them from our drive,the gray stones and spilled green baskets of faded plastic owers.I wont walk there alone,though when I walk with my parentsI will linger there far longer than they,and abruptly nd myself in solitude

among the dead and the birch trees.

ere is no order,not like the chalky regimental monuments up home, at Arlington.

ere is no museum or hall of portraitshonoring those who have fallen.

ere is no grass, whose maintenance disallows upright monuments,like where Grammie and Grampa are.

I remember when we rst found the place,back before wed built our cabin on the adjoining ridgeand were still camping out with antsand ridiculous ocks of wild turkeys.I crouched over every bronze plate,peered at every lichen-covered stone,

nding the dates and the reasons.Here and there among the leavesrested moldy wreaths and bouquets:I imagined the deer had moved them only far enoughto discover that theyd been fooled by imitations.

Now the graves creep with the ground-cedar over a small knoll;some hide among the treesand some lean wearily into the earth.

When I visit, if I visit,I no longer acquaint myself with every story

but rather nd fresh mounds,red patches among old greens and browns,and think with each new arrival that when I must,

Id like to join them there.

Katherine Brumbaugh

Graveyard across the Gravel RoaSmall Pond

from our


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L a u r el

K a t h e r i n e B r u

m b a u g h

Shed come home that day di erent, somehow.Something in her aspect and the way she avoided his eyesas she tapped around the kitchen, pulling out knives andchicken and bell peppers spoke of it. Patrick observed herexcessive attention to the children, Mark and Tom, and feltthe silence she directed toward him as acutely as if she wereplucking out his chest hairs one by one.

ered been signs over the past few months; signs heshouldve recognized for what they were rather than dismissedas fantasies induced by his characteristic paranoia. Hersudden desire to learn Spanish was peculiar, and her refusalto practice any of what she learned with him or the children was markedly opposite of how he predicted she would behave when learning a new language. Still, he found her shynessendearing, and bought her English-Spanish dictionaries,translated books, and even proposed that they plan a vacationto a Spanish-speaking country so that she might use whatshed learned. ey hadnt had a real vacation together inyears, anyway. She accepted his gifts with doleful grace,her deep gray eyes cast down or searching wherever they happened to be for some means of changing the subject, of moving on from the awkwardness of the moment.

atrick never claimed that he understood his wife. Fromthe moment he rst noticed hermanaging the front desk ata testing center local to their university, brightly explainingdirections to a test-taker over the phone, russet haircontinually slipping from behind her ear to hang in front of her ocean-gray eyesshe mysti ed him. It was part of whatdrew him to her, the way she somehow existed in loveliness while doing the most common things. Later on in theirrelationship, he fell into her quiet humor while her desire toovercome her propensity to speak only of herself, of her ownfeelings, struck him as sweet and wonderfully feminine.

He adored her. Every day he tried to do something tocoax that laugh, like the tumbling of a spring, from her lips.

When he did do wrong, he read her letters (shecommunicated best through writing) with

confusion, shamed that he could havefailed, afraid that she might see himdi erently for his mistake. When she

said shed marry him, his world became immaculate and a feshades brighter. When their rst child, Tom, was born withhis chestnut eyes and her slightly curved nose, he felt thatgreater perfection could not be achieved.

Lately, however, he felt a threat lurking in his pleasantlife, hidden somewhere behind the co ee-maker or ittingfrom blade of grass to blade of grass in the front yard,

watching him as he came to and from work, played catch with his sons, and sat on the front stoop at night with her, hisLaurel, watching the lightning bugs drift by. It started withthe ringing of the phone. Hed been molding ground beef into patties for burgers when it rang, and had to hurriedly

wipe grease from his hands before picking up. But there wanobody there. Silence, and a click. e incident would havemeant nothing had it occurred only that one time, but dozensof times after that the same thing happened, while each day Laurel looked at him less and less, and turned away from himafter they icked o the light.

He told himself that the phone calls were from friendsof Mark and Toms, playing games. He reassured himself that Laurels reticence was due to the stress shed been facingat work, where her superiors were considering her for apromotion. Despite this, his world felt separate from hers,and he felt powerless to stop the riptide that carried herfurther and further away from him. Patrick missed seeing heface last before he fell asleep, missed their conspiring glancethat said everything they couldnt say in front of the childrenand watched as his gifts piled up and gathered dust.

at day, her attitude was worse than before. No longerdid she seem distant; she didnt seem there at all. At least nofor him. Hed chosen that day, too, as the day hed confronther. His desire to return to their lost state of bliss outweighehis fear that what hed long suspected to be true could actualbe true. As hed planned his speech on the drive home from

work that day, he reasoned with himself that no matter what,he could love her. No matter what, he could share the house

with her, raise their boys, if only she would look at him. Juslook at him. e boys noticed their fathers silence whenhe came to pick them up from after school care, and saidnothing, fearing the cloud covering his disposition could


19/44

prompt him to lash out.He studied her closely as they ate dinner, tracing the

lines of the face hed known intimately for so long. ere was the scar she got when she tried to surf on her radio yeras a girl; there, just above the right cheekbone. ere wereher eyebrows, which she kept plucked in a careful arch, andthe minute dent in the line of her upper lip, which he stilldaydreamed about kissing when he became bored at work.She kept her eyes away from him, focusing them insteadon the vegetables Mark didnt eat and the mysterious bruiseabove Toms right eye. When theyd nished eating, she waved the boys o to the den, and tapped around the kitchenonce again, clearing dishes and wiping down the table.Patrick remained sitting, following her path over the linoleum with his look, waiting for her to sit back down with him.Finally, realizing she had no intention of even acknowledginghis presence, he spoke.

Laurel. She clanked dishes into the dishwasher andshut the door with a thud.

Laurel. She ipped the lever and turned the knob tostart the droning hum of the washer.

Laurel, he said, urgently.What, Pat.Sit with me. She looked at him, suspicion painting her

visage, a frown tugging at that dent in her upper lip.Come on. Please? Just sit, he intoned.Slowly she walked over, and sat down on the corner of

the chair across from his. ey stared at one another for amoment, each searching for a way to determine what theother was about to say.

I need to ask you something, Patrick said as he leanedforward, his forearms pressed into woven plaid placemat, andI want you to be absolutely frank with me.

Patrick stood out on the back deck, staring into theblues and grays of his predawn yard. He hadnt slept after hisconversation with Laurel, this matutinal stroll being merely a continuation of a journey hed begun the night before. A damp, chill wind blew the smell of rotting leaves in his face,and caused a clammy nger of air to work its way into the

collar of his sweatshirt. His life had never seemed so false, bafter a night of walking and moaning and running at outonly to stop and suddenly sit on the neighborhood pavementhis mind was nally calm. Nothing else could be thoughtabout; hed worked over every detail in his mind. Masticateevery memory.

He turned back to the house where his wife had gone tosleep, nally, and where his boys dreamed paci cally underSpongeBob comforters, hands softly curling and uncurling atheir dreams swayed between the beati c and the horrifying.

Walking through the kitchen, he stopped brie y to removea key from the hook by the refrigerator, then continueddown the hallway to the room he shared with Laurel. Gentlypushing open the door, he crossed the threshold. She lay onher side, facing away from him toward the window, softly hushing as the line of her silhouette rose and fell. His nallyblank mind wriggled a moment with renewed thought, thenreturned to its peaceful state as Patrick pulled his gaze away from his wifes sleeping form and instead onto his bedsidetable. He opened its drawer, rummaged softly for a momentthen pulled out a locked box. Turning the key hed retrievedfrom the kitchen in its lock, he lifted the lid. Tendrils of fearful anticipation felt their way into his ribcage; he slid his

ngers gently over the short length of his fathers old pistol,stood up quickly, and left the room.

Two hours later, a neighbor girl would hear a screamand look up, brie y, from her cereal. Shed think nothingof it until she saw the ambulances and heard the whispers atschool, yeah, his wife found him, out on their deck


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Gratia Plena, Joshua D. Crabill, Photography


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Orlando Dos Reis

S in k

i n g in S h a l l ow W a ter

We spend so much timetrapped in this continuous

loop we call our livesthat we completely forgettime travels in a constant,straight line. We pay moreattention to the watchon our wrists and our feeton the ground that night and day become black and white,our lives the dull gray connecting. We becomeso numb in this perpetual

purgatory that we pray for death just so wecan be reassured thatat one point, we were alive.

And then we stop. Wetake one good look atthe lifeless face staringback at us in the mirror and

we wish for a way to go back. We wish for a way to change;to make things better.

And then we realizetime travels in a constant,straight line.


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H a n

d J o s e p

h D u n

f o r d

The wrist isawkward;knobby bone junction andtangled veins, joining and dividing into bluestreams,bright and obviousyet strangely beautiful, winding between abruptridgesof taut tendonand shifting bone, until theblunt overlarge knucklescoated in creased, lined,elephantineskin.

Curling further around theknuckle, acrosspale scar, theonly memory of some

long forgotten accident, thenalong thin nger,ow broken once by

swollen join,deep linescreased with motion,then the slightbump of second knuckle, and

nally down toblunt ngertip andsmooth clear

plane with jagged tip,torn with the nervousmotion of onenail against theother.


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Bodies, Jessica Scha er, Medium


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R e l i g i o n On these early August Sundays we resurrect ourselvesfrom the white starched sheets and make breakfast our communion,

Christs body manifests in wa es and sweet jams. We dont think of September, waiting for us like cool creamas we sit in the square swearing at the heat over our paper-cup co ees,sweat making gra ti of our bodies and watering dry bones.Instead, we listen as scorched wheels squeal high like cornets,

jazzing the feet on the streets in a hymn, rat-tat shoesencoring the world away from death, bringing us to our feet.

With blisters on our toes we bake like bread and waftpast the t-shirts, the pins, the one-way signs, content with the citys gospel,knowing that it does not expect to be understood.Union is our cathedral, our deliverance from a 20-stop separation,but come Monday, the station shade will fall like dirt on our bodies.Chins in hands, well sit on the stale benches,trains blowing hot air into our mouths as we realize again,as if for the rst time, that the giving hand equally takes away.

D.C.Katherine Swett


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Les Oixeaux de Paris, Joshua D. Crabill, Photography


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e mop of an old limping custodiansoaks up a fresh puddle of cranberry juice.

With each gentle glide across the cafeteria oor,the white dreadlocks of the mop become heavy with fruit blood.

Dropping his head, he wipes the sweat from his leathery face,resting the mop against his shoulder like an urban farmer.

Before he can look up, a young man no older than 25surprises him from behind, and embraces him like a boy who missed his father.

e young man is a Marine,his left arm hangs in a sling.

Oh, I missed you so much. the old man says,shaking his head and hiding his tears.

One of those bastards shot me, Dad. A Purple Heart displayed in his sons right hand,

the old man runs his ngers over the cold face of George Washington.

Reaching into his breast pocket,the old mans son pulls out a small stack of pictures.

Dont worry, I killed 16 of those animals.He hands the old man 16 pictures,

ghosts of men, women, and children.

e old man continues touching the Purple Heart,realizing it is the only one his son has left.

He rubs the heart in his hands harder and harder,praying for a beat, his eyes xed on his son,

a casualty of war.

e old mans son grabs his father for another hug.Ill see you at home. whispers the young man,

leaving his father standing with his mop,frozen.

Slowly walking to his yellow bucket,the old man raises his mop dried with cranberry blood.

He whispers to himself,My little boy,

and washes his mop clean.

of WarA Casualty

T.M. Dunn


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Pollux Interrupted, Joshua D. Crabill, Photography

ghosts of men,women,and children.old man 16pictures,He hands the


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eGrievingunderEarlier that morning they had been playing in the yard.

Justin, a slender boy of eight years, had started it by peltingRoger with a handful of mud. Roger, slightly taller at elevenyears, had responded by wrestling Justin to the ground,making a muddy mess of them both. Sweet little Susie, withher blonde pig-tails and sun ower yellow dress, was wisebeyond her six years and unwilling to dirty her dress in any fashion whatsoever, so she hooted and hollered and cheered

for Justin from the porch. Even the oldest had momentarily abandoned his work to join inseventeen year-old Richard, with a wicked grin spreading across his face, had quickly runto his wrestling brothers and turned up the pail of water he was carrying, making them and the ground they struggled

over even more of a muddy mess.Paul had taken a short break from

his own work while he wiped the sweatfrom his face and watched for a short while,

amused. But being the father and head of thefarm meant making sure the work for the

day was done by sunset, so he had toldthem that was enough after a few

minutes, and sent them back totheir chores. ey had complied, as

always, and Richard retrieved more water for the animals while mud-

soaked Justin and Roger beganto disperse the feed. ey

were good boys.Now they were dead.

eir corpses lay side-by-side, in a neat row, face up,

staring at the clear blue sky and nothing at all. Richard was

bloody all over, despite the singlebullet hole over his heart. He had either

shot one of his murderers at close range with

his shotgun, or his brothers blood had soaked him while heheld them. Justin and Roger were mostly covered in driedmud from that mornings wrestling, but a small stream of redtrickled from the holes in their chests, and a dark red poolhad formed beneath them. Paul stood over their corpses for long time, trans xed by their lifeless stares. e empty, silenyard that he now stood in was a stark contrast from the livelyscene he had witnessed that morning.

He had known something was wrong immediately uponhis return from town. Chip, the one dog they owned, hadnot run out to greet him as he always did. His horse, Chestehad seemed reluctant to walk all the way up the trail to thefarmhouse. Paul had worked with animals all his life, and attimes it seemed to him that they had some sort of sense fortrouble that men did not.

is was one of those times. e eerie silence of the farmdidnt ease his worries, either.

Upon seeing the bodies of his sons, Paul had dismountedso hastily he had nearly fallen from the saddle, not eventhinking at rst that the killers may still be watching, waitingOnce he realized they were dead, which took a few terrible,long seconds, he remembered himself, and in one swiftmotion crouched and drew his revolver. His beady eyesscanned all around him as he ran half-crouched for the housescreaming for his wife and daughter.

Susie! Heather! he yelled what seemed like a half hundred times as he ran through the two-story farmhouse,

throwing doors open, pointing his six-shooter around every corner. But there was no one to be found. e murderers

were gone, and Susie and Heather with them. He had aglimmer of hope that they had somehow made it to thehideaway behind and beneath the house, but they werentthere either. His rst thoughts of what could have happenedran to Indians, but the plains Indians had not been seen inthese parts in quite some time. And it was not like them touse guns, though it happened sometimes, as they acquired

Chad Patrick Bailey


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them through trades with white men. A single note pinned to the door dispelled that theory

entirely. Paul had not even seen it during his initial rushinto the house, but noticed it rather easily now. A single,simple message was inscribed, which appeared to have been written by a child, if the large, asymmetrical lettering was any indication. It read: CONSIDER YOUR DEBT PAID IN

FULL.Paul knew at onceWessick.Paul had served as a part-time deputy with the local town

ever since his boys were old enough to mind most of the farmchores themselves. e extra income was a big help, and the job was fairly low risk, as the town of Westville was a simple,peaceful community in the middle of the plains. And theaging Sheri Winston welcomed the help, being too old to domuch of what was required of him these days. It didnt hurtthat Paul was experienced with the use of rearms, either.

Like all men with a badge, Paul did occasionally have todeal with trouble, though. On one of these occasions, Paulhad crossed paths with James Wessick in one of Westvilles fewsaloons, e Watering Hole. Paul remembered him and theencounter quite vividly.

On this night Paul had wandered into the saloon, wherehe spent most of his patrols, since it was most likely whereany trouble would occur. His eyes had been drawn to Wessick by the loud jests and curses that the man frequently

let loose; he was easily the loudest man there. His mood, and whether he uttered a curse or jest, seemed to depend entirely on whether or not he thought he was holding a winningpoker hand at the moment. He was a man of medium buildbuilt entirely from ugly. A long, scraggly beard with strandsof gray among brown adorned his lthy, weathered face, andhis large bug eyes sat under even larger, pu y brows thatnearly joined as one. Atop his head sat a crumpled cowboy hat that looked as if it had been used as a pillow on many more occasions than one. A large gut, which Paul guessed tohave been formed just as much from whiskey as from food,rounded out the ugly picture.

Paul had sat on one of the bar stools for a while, chatting with the bartender and some of the more friendly locals, watching Wessick out the corner of his eye all the while. A man that had drunk that much was likely to do one of threethings: start a brawl, shoot someone, or pass out. Either way, Paul expected he would be escorting (more likely dragging) Wessick to a cozy jail cell before the night was over.

Hopefully it would just be for public intoxication, and notghting or murder.

It wasnt long before Paul found out which one. Closeto midnight, Wessick had abruptly stood, and drew hisrevolver in a swaggering motion that left no doubt as to hisdrunkenness. Cheat, he stammered several times beforethe word was clearly audible over his whiskey drenched

tongue. No man accuses Wessick . . . I mean me, myself .. . I think . . . of being a cheat! He reeled, dangerously andunintentionally swinging the revolver in a wide arc aroundthe saloon. His eyes glistened with the intensity of anger analcohol.

e man Wessick was confronting, whom Paul laterfound out was an old rival of Wessicks, was at a loss. Hiseyes were the size of saucers as he raised his hands to protesinsisting that it was a harmless comment, that he had only said someone might think a man had to cheat to have theluck Wessick was having. e man never even tried to pullhis own gun.

When confronted with such a situation, Paul usually let it play out. Rarely did a man have the courage to killover a game or insult. A scu e might ensue, but usually no permanent harm was done save for a few broken chairs.

Afterwards, Paul would lock the men up and let them bleedout their scrapes and their foolish pride for a while, chargethem a ne for any damage done, and that was the end of

it. He had a feeling tonight would be one of those rare onesthough, if Wessicks eyes were any indication.

He had sprung from the barstool and smacked Wessick over the head with the butt of his revolver. e man wasso drunk he never even realized Paul was there, and it wasover in a ash as Wessick crumpled to the oor, droppingthe weapon. Paul had managed to di use the situation inseconds, and everyone in the saloon was grateful, most of althe man at gunpoint. At the time, Paul had felt relieved tohave settled the issue with such ease. He should have knowbetter. Trouble stuck to men such as James Wessick likemaggots on a cow pie.

Another deputy on duty, Frank Richardson, had assistedPaul in dragging Wessick to the town jail, a small, one-story building with two cells just large enoughfor the bunks they held and room tostand. Paul had informed Frank of what happened while they dragged Wessick along by the


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arms, his feet dragging the whole way. Good thing youacted so quick, we might be havin a murder trial on themorrow if ya hadnt, Frank commented. Frank was notfond of trouble, and Paul had little doubt that they wouldbe having a murder trial tomorrow if Frank had been in thesaloon instead of himself. Frank was not a man of action somuch as he was of talk and politics, and he likely would have

watched Wessick shoot the man before doing anything aboutit. Paul wasnt sure as to how Frank ever received a badge.He supposed people in a town like Westville developed a falsesense of security about themselves, and so gured having acrew of capable lawmen wasnt a high priority. at was theonly explanation for the tolerance of the incompetent Deputy Frank and the aging Sheri Winston that Paul could think of.

e lawmen of Westville were not altogether helpless, though.Paul counted the well experienced Deputy William Barberas capable as any man, as well as himself. ey had bothseen their fair share of con ict and strife during the War, and wished to see no violence pervade their peaceful hometown.

ey took their jobs seriously, even if it was rarely requiredthat they do so.

After throwing him down on his bunk and locking himup, Paul and Frank haddiscussed what they shouldcharge Wessick with. Ispose public intoxication

was his only real crime,Frank said. If tother man hadnt insulted him, I dont sposenothin wouldve ever come of it.

Paul glared at Frank, angry but not as surprised as he would have been in the past before he had come to knowFrank. He was about to shoot a man in cold blood. Yes, he was intoxicated, but that dont make his bullets any less lethal.He should be charged with assault, at least. Im not givin hisgun back.

Hell jes get another, Paul.True enough, but not in this town. Not in my town.It wasnt long before they heard footsteps on the walkway

outside the door. Paul heard a rm knocking at the door,to which he responded by cracking the door to inquire asto whom was there and what they wanted. We would like

to discuss an urgent matter with you, sir,a polite voice had said. Paul let the twomen into the room; they seemed decentenough. ey were cleanly dressed and

wore no rearms out in the open.State your business, Paul had said.We heard there was some trouble at the saloon with my

brother James, and I see it must be true, with him passed outin your jail cell there. Weve come to get him.

at wont be happening tonight, Frank had said beforePaul could. Now Frank did surprise Paul. He was drunk

to the point of stupidity, and drew his weapon in a publicbuilding with many innocent folk about. Hell be sleepin ito here.

Surely we can arrange something, the man had said,implying bail or a bribe, however you wanted to look at it.

Not tonight, Frank had said, come back in the morninand well discuss it then. Your brother will likely be standintrial for attempted murder.

ats a shame. I know my brother would never do sucha thing in his right mind. I doubt hed do it drunk, either.

He would have, Paul said and stood from the seatbehind the sheri s desk, where he had observed the two me

while they spoke with Frank. I was there, and I can always judge a mans intent by his eyes. ey never lie, sir. Paul mthe mans eyes with his own. I didnt like what I saw in you

brothers, and Im not likin whatI see in yours. Leave, now. AndPaul had rested his hand upon thegun at his hip.

Ben, are the horses saddledup and ready to move on? the man asked his partner, whohad been silent thus far.

As the two men met each others gaze and Ben answered ey are, Paul knew their intent before they ever reachedinto their coats to pull their guns. Paul drew his own andshot the closest rst, Wessicks brother, before he could pullthe hammer and re. A split second later, Paul unloadeda round into the other man, Ben, but it was a split secondtoo late. Ben had already drawn his weapon and shot Frank in the shoulder. Paul was the only man left standing inthe room. Pauls ears rang; from the adrenaline or the loudgunshots in the small room, he could not say.

Wessicks two companions lay dead; Pauls shots hadfound their mark as they usually did. Frank lay on the oor,twisting and clutching at his shoulder, cursing in pain. Hehad never even drawn his weapon. Hes not meant for this,Paul had thought as he hurriedly ran out into the street andhollered for the rst friendly face he saw to fetch the doctor.

He fell to his knees, and cried fora short while. Then he kissed each son on his forehead...


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Paul had feared that their might be consequences forthat night. Frank had survived, and turned in his badge,admitting he was not cut out for this particular line of work.

at much turned out decent, at least. But James Wessick was not dead, and his brother and Ben (whom Paul laterfound out was a beloved cousin of the Wessick brothers) were. Wessick had been tried and found guilty of reckless

endangerment, something that earned him an extended jailsentence. But Paul knew it was not enough. If the mansbrother and cousin were killers, he knew this Wessick was,too. e man should have been hanged, but you cant hanga man for what his companions do, so Wessick had beenreleased after serving his time. On the morning of his release,Paul had never forgotten the look in Wessicks eyes as the manlooked at him and said, It seems I owe you a great debt, sir.It will one day be paid in full. It was a clever veil of a threat,one that couldnt be openly taken as such. Paul grew angry as he imagined a fool of a man like Frank saying, He merely meant that you had helped cow his wicked ways.

Paul stared at his sons faces, thinking about that night. Ishould have never let my guard down, Paul thought, and hisanger ared, then it was overcome with grief and guilt. Hefell to his knees, and cried for a short while. en he kissedeach son on his forehead, in the order they had come intothis world, covered their bodies with an old blanket from thehouse, and said a short prayer. He asked God why his family

had to pay for his own actions. When he got no response, he was consumed in anger once again, and was not certain if he was angry with himself or Wessick or God. He had enoughto go around.

ere was still hope for his wife and daughter, though.He had not found their bodies anywhere near or in thefarmhouse, and he doubted that Wessick and whomever hadassisted him would bother dragging them anywhere dead. He would have left them out in the open for Paul to see, as withhis sons. So Paul saddled up on old Chester, with revolversand ri e in tow, and rode for town hard as his aging steedcould manage.

Paul couldnt help but think of his time in the War ashe rode. He always thought of it, after seeing a man die, forthat was where Paul had rst become acquainted with deathand killing. e War Between the States was, until now,the most terrible experience of Pauls life. He had lived inand fought for the South, not necessarily because he agreed with everything his confederate brothers said, but because it

was his home. He had killed men invading his homeland.He had seen his brothers die. Paul survived physically, butthere were times that he wondered if his mind, his soul, hadsurvived. Perhaps the only reason he had carried on at allafterwards was the beautiful young woman he had met andtaken for a wife shortly after returning home. Heather wasa great comfort for him for a while; in her arms he found

peace again. But even she hadnt been enough. His home was tainted with the blood of his brothers and strangers, andit would never be the same again. So, shortly after Richard

was born, they headed west, and settled a few miles outside Westville, where they built their farmhouse, and he rebuilt hilife.

Paul had been happy ever since then, mostly able toforget the events of the war during his young adulthood.Heather had bore him two more sons after Richard, and hisbeautiful daughter, Susie. He lived for them. And now they

were gone. But he had a chance to get Heather and Susieback. e thought of what Wessick and his men might do

with them alive was not something he wanted to think aboutHe hoped that they merely intended to ransom them.

When Paul at last arrived in town, Chester was soaked insweat, and not likely to make it much farther at that pace. H

would need a new horse when he set out again. Paul quicklyapproached the jailhouse, and related what had happened toSheri Winston and Deputy William Barber, whose help he

was counting on most of all. After the initial shock woreo their faces (for this type of thing was almost unheardof in Westville), William began collecting his guns, andinquired if Paul had any notion as to where they mighthave gone. Paul showed him the note, and Williamunderstood at once. Wessick, he said, in a toneof utter disgust.

Paul nodded, and then said, Bartley. William again took his meaning at once.

ink hell talk?Well make him. After the

incident in the jailhouse with Wessicks brother and cousinmany months ago, Paul hadinvestigated all about town,

guring out who was kinor friend to the Wessick brothers. He needed toknow who was likely to assist


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Wessick in carrying out his threat in any form or fashion, sothat he could be ready. Small good that had done him so far,but at least it gave him a place to start now. e only manthat resided in town whom Paul could nd had a link to the Wessicks was Jonathan Bartley, a middle-aged man that ran asmall bar at the end of town. He was a distant cousin to the Wessicks. He wasnt a killer, as Paul had heard the Wessicks

were from numerous sources, but he wasnt a saint either.e man was a thief, known to steal from his patrons as they

became too drunk to know the di erence.Paul looked to Sheri Winston. Im not gonna promise

Ill handle this in an entirely legal fashion. If you have to takemy badge, lock me in a cell, or, God forbid, hang me for whatI do to Wessick, then so be it. So long as I get my wife andgirl back home safe.

e Sheri stood, on wobbly old knees, and looked Paulin the eyes. ere was a hint of a great man still in thoseold gray eyes, Paul noticed not for the rst time. In hisyouth Sheri Winston had been known for his iron will andenforcement of the law, which is perhaps another reason heretained his position well beyond his ability to perform it.Do what you gotta do, but know that Im gonna do what I

have to do when you return.Paul nodded, expecting to hear something of

that nature.Of course, the old man continued, if Wessick

is simply never heard from again, then I dont supposethere could be a murder trial, now could there? And

through his snow-white beard he smiled a crookedgrin that miraculously still had some teeth to

it.Paul nodded once again, and would have

smiled if he could have. Ill need your help,too, Sheri .

e old mans eyes grew wide. Imafraid Id only slow you down, son. Back

in the day Id be the rst to grab my gun for ya, but those days are longgone.

Not with those, Paul said,nodding his head towards the guns on

the wall. With shovels. I didnt havetime to bury my boys, for fear of Wessick

getting too far with my girls. Id be much obligedif you gathered Frank and the Reverend and gave

them a proper burial. eres a large oak tree about thirty yards from the house. Me and Heather wish to be laid to restthere, and I think it will be more than suitable for the boys.

Consider it done, the Sheri replied, and he was o after Frank and the Reverend faster than Paul had seen himmove in years.

As they strode down the street towards Bartleys, William

spoke up. Do you think an old man and a man with acrippled shoulder were the best choice for grave digging?

No, but theyre the only ones Id trust with such a task.Paul entered Bartleys with the silent determination of a

wolf stalking his prey. When Bartley spotted them, with therevolvers around their waists and shotguns resting on theirshoulders, he looked more scared than surprised, throwingup his hands and exclaiming, I dont want no trouble here! dont give a damn what my fool cousin gone n done, I had npart.

Paul didnt hesitate; he shoved his double-barrel shotgununder the mans chin, and pressed him to the wall. Whereis he? William stood point, watching the few men playingcards in a corner. Bartley didnt respond. He only stareddown at the gun best he could, looking terri ed.

I swear, I dont know, he said.You do. Tell me or Ill open you up.I know you, Paul. You wouldnt murder a man in cold

blood. Youve killed, maybe, but only when you had to, the

man stammered, his voice high strung. He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself more so than Paul.

If you know whats happened, then you know I mighthave to now if I want to see my wife and daughter again.Talk.

Oh, dammit, I dont know! the man screamed,hysterical, near to tears, and Paul noticed a growing wet spotat his crotch. He wouldnt be able to make himself hurt thisman. Paul suspected he was telling the truth.

You know some of his hideaways, do you not?Ive heard him speak of them, yes . . .Well?

And so they knew where to goan abandoned outpostthat the army had used years before while pushing away theNatives and settling the plains. According to Bartley, who

was no worse o save for smelling of piss, the outpost wasabout ten miles from town, to the southeast.

Ill need a new horse. Lets head for the stables, Paulsaid, and they headed back down the street. ey were


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stopped by Frank just a short ways down the street. Paulspoke before he could; I aint got time to listen to any protest, Frank. If ya aint gonna help the Sheri and theReverend, so be it, but Im going to do this. My way.

I meant no protest, Paul. I want to come along. eSheri can handle the gravediggin, Im helpin you.

Paul stopped in mid-stride. Frank, I mean no o ense,

but . . .Frank cut him o . I wont be much use in a gun ght

up close, thats true, but Im a decent shot with a ri e. Illcover yall from a distance.

Come on then. ey resumed their brisk pace in thedirection of the stables, now with Frank. I dont know howmany there will be, exactly, it may be that were ridin to ourdeaths. I gure there hadto be at least three or four.

ey would have neededthat many to haul o Heather and Susie.

What do youpropose we do when we get there? Frank asked, lookingnervous.

Well scout the place, ride around in a wide arc, try tosee how many. Itll be dark when we get there, so we maybecan sneak in unnoticed if we dismount a ways out.

Well need to nd a good spot to position Frank with

the ri e, too, William pointed out.Yes. Most de nitely. When they reached the stables,

Paul hurriedly saddled up the nest looking horse they hadand turned over his payment to the stable hand. William andFrank saddled up their own horses and they were o .

e sun was just setting when the outpost came into view. Paul studied it for a moment, straining his eyes in thetwilight, before they retreated a few yards and stopped undera tree just out of view of the outpost.

How do you want to handle this? William asked,loading up his ri e.

From here there looks to be two small buildings, facingthe same direction, and thats it. ey have to be in thosebuildings. If we see a light come on when it gets dark, Ill say thats a good sign theyre there. Frank, youll get into positionabout seventy- ve yards or so from the buildings, facing thefront. Me and Will are gonna go round back, see if there areany windows we can shoot through. Once were in position,if any man comes out those front doors, letem have it, Frank.

Your re will draw them out, or turn their attention to thefront at least, while we takeem from the rear. If any womenhappen to come out the front rst, hold your re.

Wessick is likely to hold your lady at gunpoint once herealizes hes under re, William said.

ats why we need to do this quick, catch them o guard, end it before they can even think. And just so were o

the same page here, were killing them to the man unless thethrow down their weapons. ese are outlaws, thieves andmurderers, and they wont hesitate to kill us or the womenif they think they can save themselves. We cannot take thatrisk.

Agreed, William said instantly.Frank looked down for a moment, in silent

contemplation, before herealized that Paul and William

were looking at him. Agreedhe said at last.

Are you sure youre inthis, Frank? Paul urged. Yo

sure as hell better be, he said, not kindly. A momentshesitation can cost us our lives and even worse, Heathers anSusies. If you aint got the gall to pull that trigger, then you

just sit right here under this tree.I do. Im ready. I remember the sort were dealin with

I remember every mornin when I pull on my shirt and feel

the pain that webs through my shoulder. I have no kindnessin my heart for these men, or mercy.

Good. Paul was satis ed with his response. Frank tended to be too relaxed, and Paul needed him to be a littleangry, a little mean, for what was about to happen. Heneeded the man to be capable.

Dark came soon enough, a giant shadow slowly creepingand settling over the grassy plain. And sure enough, lanternlight shown through the small windows of the buildings.

Time to go, Will said, and they tied the horses to thelower branches of the tree they rested under.

Alright, listen up, Paul said, looking Frank in the eyes. You set up about seventy- ve yards out, in a spot in betweenthe two buildings so you have a good view of both doors.

at might be a bit closer than youre comfortable with, butthey wont be able to see you in the dark anyhow. eyll havto come to you, and they likely wont be braveenough to do that.

I got it. Im ready.

If you aint got the gall to pull thattrigger, then you just sit right hereunder this tree.


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Will added, Dont shoot into the buildings. e women will be inside, and we might be too if we can nd a windowlarge enough to climb in. Just worry about any that comeoutside.

Once youre in position, Paul instructed, make certainto give us plenty of time to get around back. Well have tocircle round wide to avoid being seen.

A short while later, Paul found himself edging around theoutpost, keeping a careful distance and crouch-walking. Herounded the corner of the building and pressed his back toit. He glanced to his right, behind the second building, tolook for Will, but he wasnt there yet. Some light streamedout from a small window. Sliding further down the wall, Paulrealized it was not a window but a gun port. Small chance of climbing through that, he thought.

He needed to get some idea of how many they were upagainst, though, so he edged closer. Once he was almostdirectly beneath it, he reached up to remove his hat, andrealized for the rst time that he wasnt wearing it. He musthave set it down at some point during the chaotic events of the day. He slowly, ever so slowly, stood to the point thathe could peek in. He was a bit surprised that he had notheard any voices until he saw why. In one corner, huddledclose together, sat his wife and daughter, still wearing thesame dresses they had that morning. ey were lthy, andtheir hands and feet were bound with rope. Neither of them

was gagged. Small wonder, Paul thought. Not even loud-mouthed, little Susie would be heard by anyone out here.Paul gured they would have gagged her just so they wouldnthave to listen to her.

In the opposite corner sat a lone guard, who looked boredto tears. Wessick must have felt quite safe here to place only one guard. e man had guns of course, but Paul didntintend to give him a chance to use them. Paul ducked back down and looked over to the second building, which Willnow crouched behind in the darkness. Paul could barely make him out from the small stream of light coming fromthe buildings port. Paulheld up his pointer ngerfor Will to see, indicatingthe one guard inside, andthen jerked his thumbtowards the wall to signal that Heather and Susie were inside. Will nodded, and held up an open hand, then made a st with his thumb up to indicate at least ve inside his building.

at was more than Paul had hoped to see, but it made nodi erence in what they had to do.

Paul heard the door of the building Will crouched behindswing open, and then the footsteps of a man crossing theearth between the two. His gut tightened, and his heart

uttered, much like it used to before a battle during the War.But he knew before long that his adrenaline and instincts

would take over, and that would all go away, replaced by thethunder of guns and the hammering of mens cold hearts.

is is it, he thought.But as the man crossed the open space, no shot rang out

to throw him down. Instead, the man crossed the distance ascasually and unaware as his boys must have been just beforethey were killed, and entered the building Paul crouchedbehind. Dammit, Frank, what are you doing out there?

Aight, he heard the man say through the gun port, myturn to watch.

Past your turn, I say.Well, I could go back . . .You wont be doin that. Sit your skinny ass down. Im

goin to get me some whiskey.Wessick drank it all.All of it?To the last drop. at drunken bastard. I paid for my share of that.Well . . .

To hell with what Wessick says, then. If I cant havesomethin t drink Im gonna have a woman. Soon as I getsome somethin t eat Im comin back. Me and the misses agonna get acquainted.

Paul heard Heathers voice now. I wouldnt recommendtrying that, she said, and Paul could tell she was trying tosound brave, but her voice was strained.

You just sit there, pretty, and Ill be back real soon. Watch the little one, Greg. She bites, and Paul heard the manshu e out the door towards the second building.

Not for the rst time that day, Paul found himself overwhelmed with angerandthen, for some illogical reasonon his feet, rounding thecorner of the building. Hedrew his twin revolvers and

strode straight for the man. Out of the corner of his eye hesaw Will rushing to the corner of the other building, silently pleading for Paul to get down, to get back. But nothing

Not for the rst time that day, Paul found himself overwhelmed with anger.


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was stopping him now. When he was about ve feet away he pulled the hammers back and pointed both barrels at theman, who heard the hammers cock and wheeled to face him.Paul lifted the revolvers to the mans face, one at each eye, sohe was staring down the gun barrels, and the man realizedhe was defeated, throwing his hands up rather than trying todraw his own weapon. My sons, Paul said. My daughter,

my wife! and he pulled both triggers at once. undersounded, and the force took the man down hard and fast, as if he had been struck in the face with a wooden beam.

Paul wheeled to face the second building, having already pulled the hammers back again. Both doors ew open, andPaul was caught in between. He was dead, he knew it, buthe was taking some with him. Paul raised his revolvers andopened re on the doorway of the building to his right, thebuilding Will had stood behind, where the most men were. A loud boom sounded behind him, and out the corner of hiseye he saw the lone guard from the left building fall, and hethought, Frank!, somewhere in the back of his mind. Paulaimed and pulled until his guns clicked empty. ree men lay motionless at the foot of the right buildings door. But Willsaid at least ve, he thought, and crouched and reloaded his weapon. By then Will was around the corner, with both of his guns drawn. e whole thing had transpired in seconds.

ere should be at least one more in there, Will said.Wessick. I dont see his bloated carcass among those

lying at the door. He should be the easiest one. And sure enough he was. Just as Paul had heard the man

say, Wessick had drunk all the whiskey, and was passed out ona small bunk inside the building.

ink we got a rope thatll hold him up? Will said.Paul stood over Wessick, looking down at the lth of a

man that had taken his sons. He cocked the hammers onhis revolvers, and stood there in silence for a long moment.Back in town, we do. Bind his hands and gag him; I dont want to hear him utter a word once he wakes up. If hedrowns in his own up-chuck, so be it, its no better thanhe deserves. Ill get the girls, Paul said, and he eased thehammers forward and turned to leave the room.

On the ride back home, Paul was lectured by Frank for

not sticking to the plan. I nearly fainted when I saw youstep out in the open. at was foolish, Paul thought heheard him say at least half a dozen times before they reached

Westville, but he was too busy with his own thoughts, astrange mix of relief and grief. Heather didnt say a word;she just rode the whole way in silence, with her arms tightaround his waist. She shared the grief and pain he felt. Paul

wondered if they could recover from this. en he saw littleSusie, looking down at her lthy sun ower dress in disgust,and smiled for the rst time since that morning. eyd bealright. ey hadnt lost everything.


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God and I made a pact walking down my gravel drivewaI told him the snails lodged in the rocks didnt crunch the same anymor

I said, is it your will for my friends to die alone, scarbarricaded behind their open nger

He cant answer me he speaks no English, only some Nature

wind, trees, fawns, birds all that you need more than braille to fe

I couldnt nd any answers in the swaying branchesI grabbed an axe and hacked them to kindling

hacked them past recognition and asked them to sing for mas I threw them whimpering in the re. ey never sing, though

gone as quickly as I create them, consumed, dissolvilosing each other as solids and crying for each other as gas

Face over the wateI see nothing of comprehension in the re ection

I plunge my head in, hoping I might delve past surface into darknes where the sh churn the truth and the plankton blanket it with their numbers.

God took the form of a trout and swam my eyes down where my ngers cant reach, where human heads (unable to expand),

implode with the sheer reality of it, with a simple thud lost to the molecules, hand-holders, another layer of guardians.

When I called it too muddy to seGod made himself an eagle, holding me in his talon

ying me above cracked roofs and rusted truck

up and up and higher until he released his griletting me fall in horror until he softened piles of sand, an when I asked why he dropped me, silence heaved its inaudible si

brushing my hair, implying something of the great faof choice, of rebirth out of brokennes

At nightthe crickets o er up their condolences in imperfect sonatBugs, stealing and bottling up the lightning for themselv

ash their accomplishments at a pair of window eytaking care to only share their twinkling with the sta

and the straining street lamps never sel sh, always sto

I asked the moth borrowing the light from the mooif he might convince God to paint my heart with some of the sam

but he ew away, using his wings to mutter thhe could not lobby for nor stay with me he does not ignore m

having mosquitoes relay the message through the screthrough my blood

Nothing easier than self-decenothing harder than personal faith

And, much later, I knew angry, lost, I jumped to tell the lizaron the rod-ironed gates around the pool what it is to drink of the other sid

Divin Amanda Losch


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Luce della Chiesa, Nichole Field, Photography


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Her winter was not white, it was colored pink and greyLand and love once beautiful, now barrenas she fell further away from faith.

Hearts and branches buckled under February ice.

Inhale. Her skin smelled of snow.Exhale. Her soul stuck to the windshield.

e cold air and truth felt sharp inside her lungsand across her face.

( ere would be nothing warm about tonight.)

BreatheCaitlin Crowley-FeldheimDeportation Train (Lithuania) , Johanna Field, Photograp


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You left my heart as a snowman leavesfair weather diminishing your stature.

You slipped away into the soilyour meager form becoming less appealing,less imposing, more manageable.

e winds kisses stole you away along with desire. Empty, peaceful breezesthat left you wanting, left me wanting,No more

but I admitI still slip on the soft ground.

We become sickly pale, beginning with the eshy pads of our aging ngertips asdisease works its way to the heart,and we rest.

We sail o shore to become more intimate,legs tangled as we relaxunder the salt-saturated sky astired waves settle in comfort underneath.

e burning wick melts the surrounding wax and all that is substantial dissolvesinto hot liquid, and we drink ourselves into believing that all is merely at rest.

Fading ColorSuzanne Day

In thespring of separation our Joshua D. Crabill


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e night was scintillating drunk as any Friday, we walked like scarecrows under the prickling gazeof the purple, bruised November sky,stu ed with straw, but blithe with spirit.Stars appeared in chaotic disarray of dwindling dreams in intoxication eyes. We walked; hugging tree-trunks, loving the humility of the grass; kissing the crisp air.

You aimed at the stars.en at the giant trunk of the Oak

hitting the trunk with a stone.Who moved that tree? you cried,missing the mark, by a yard or so. We patronized your failure with jocund cheers. What is nobility but a murmur in the soul? We climbed up the Oak, clutching its branches wildly, like a otsam in the wreckage.

e tree bore us silently like a womb.Huddled together on that branch; swinging our legs in air we gazed at the condescending constellations,taking lessons in astronomy and planetary movements.You can never get lost if you know the stars, you had said back then.Our thoughts di used into air like concentric smoke rings,on how a bubble could make a di erence in the universe?Or the truth and the nature of love.Such incongruity; such disparity. We do not remember dates, hours and months,

but we still remember the bonds of friendship, faithtrials of life. Ignominy in obscurity.

en you called for a closer shot.Standing up on the branch for a stellar performance.

e bough snapped under the strain. We came crashing down on the ground, unceremoniously,screaming, laughing, panting like sullen toddlers,as the mother Oak banished us out of her belly.Even the Orion smiling at us, as we crawled to our feet.

Today the oaks scream tangerin just loud enough to make the clouds blaze wild

one last de ant burst of lifeas if to say theyre brighter tha

the rainbow Christmas bulbthat wrap their lovers arms on Winter nights

TangerineScream Alexandra Ford

N ight V isionRiya Sarker


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Hali Plourde-RogersEditor in Chief

Melissa BriceProduction Manager

Matt Brubaker

Graphic Designer

Kimberly Nguyen Assistant Graphic Designer

Michelle Rivera Poetry Editor

Kalyn SaylorPhotography Editor

Tirna Singh Web master

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r e e T r e e s , J e s s i c a S c h a f e r , P l a s t e r , p a s t e l s a n d c l a y

S t a

S t a f f

Jenna WolfeBusiness Manager

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Katie Ann LeonbergerDistribution Manager

Elizabeth McClendonCommunication Director

Jessie Raudales-PerdomoPromotions Manager

Megan UlanEmcee

Tazeen DhananiGeneral Sta

Vanessa RamosGeneral Sta


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SUBMITPROSE POETRY FINE ART PHOTOGRAPHY

Now Accepting Submissions for the

Fall 2008 Issue

344 Squires Student Centersilhouette.collegemedia.comsilhouette@collegemedia.com540-231-4124


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THANK YOUSilhouette would like to thaMish Mish and The Chocolate

For donating gift certi cates asprizes for the Fall 2007 Greeks vsGeeks Battle of the Bands. The

rst place winner received a $25 gift certi cate to Mish Mish, andthe runner up received a $10 gift certi cate to The Chocolate SpikeSilhouette greatly appreciates thesupport from both Mish Mish andThe Chocolate Spike!


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The Silhouette - Spring 2008