Letter from the Editor-in-Chief Staff Names

Before you begin reading this issue of Silhouette, I just wanted to say a Katie Mitchell Joselyn Takacs
few words. As I said in the last issue, this has been one of the hardest tasks that I Editor-in-Chief Special Events Coordinator
have ever taken on. It has taken extreme dedication, hard work, and determination
to even begin thinking of putting out this magazine. I have had an awesome staff Molly Bernhart Jessy Hylton
this year, the biggest Silhouette has seen in years. To be backed by such incredible Business Manager Public Relations
people, including our faculty advisor and our professional staff, has been the only
way that Silhouette can turn out the way it does. And when it comes down to it in
Jennifer Tomko Sola Ayeni-Biu
Photography Editor Communications Director
the end you realize who has been in it for the long haul, and who really cares about
the magazine as much as you do. I want to say thank you to those people now.
Hali Plourde-Rogers Grant Gardner
Without you the road would have been much bumpier. Fiction Editor Advertising Manager
As I walked out of the Silhouette office for the last time before I left Vir-
ginia Tech, a feeling of sadness overcame me. I have dedicated the last four years of Lindsay Key Jenna Saxton
my school career to designing and publishing this magazine. At first, honestly, four Poetry Editor Promotions Coordinator
years ago, I didn’t see the big picture. I didn’t understand what Silhouette was really
about. But as I walked out of the office for the last time, I really understood what Laura V. Cook Kamau Rucker
an awesome organization Silhouette is, and hopefully continues to be. To be com- Fine Arts Editor Radio Show Co-Host
pletely run, edited, and designed by students is incredible and I feel honored that I
have been able to be apart of it for so long. Corinne Jeltes Joselyn Takacs
Taking on the position of Editor-in-Chief has been amazing, a real experi-
Production / Distribution Editor Radio Show Co-Host
ence. Not the easiest thing I have done, like I said, but then again you don’t learn
Kamau Rucker Frank Mariano
anything if it is easy. Being a now college graduate, I encourage everyone to try
Graphic Designer Webmaster
something new, even if it seems hard. Looking back on my years at Tech, I am ex-
tremely happy that I did not quit Silhouette within the first few weeks I had joined, Misono Yokoyama Katie Fallon
like I was going to. Instead I chose to live by something my grandfather had always Assistant Graphic Designer Faculty Advisor
told me, and I have taken it through life with me: “Nothing beats a try but a fail-
ure.” So if you don’t try something, you will never know if you were ever capable of Laura Murphy Lana Tang
doing it or enjoying it. Special Events Coordinator General Staff
Lastly, I want to thank the readers and submitters. Without you, we hon-
estly would not have a magazine. Please keep reading and submitting to Silhouette, Katherine Brumbaugh
help us to be even better than we are now. Also, again thank you to everyone for all General Staff
the help I have recieved. Without all of you, no matter how small your task was, the
Meghan Mogensen
magazine would not have been completed. I wish everyone the best, and thanks for
General Staff
letting me be your leader through all of this insanely fun chaos. I hope you had fun
as well.

Peace,
Katie Mitchell
Silhouette Editor-in Chief
2005-2006
Table of Contents 6 Empty Pool / Jenny Marceron

7 I Slept With an Orange Today / Amanda Losch

8 white paper napkins i wish i had thrown away / Pooja Khanna

9 Untitled / Ted Martello

10 Father Figure(s) / Danny Fasold

15 Eyes / Kira Zmuda

16 Nice Day / Annabelle Ombac

17 The Cornfield / Jonathan Pillow

18 Rings / Annabelle Ombac

19 The River Slides by... / Asha Pack

20 Do All Birds Cuss? / Dillon Greenhawk

Silhouette, Volume 29, Issue 1, was produced
by the Silhouette staff and printed by Interstate 22 The Christmas Party / Jennifer Henszey
Graphics, located in Johnson City, TN. The font
24 Birds / Annabelle Ombac
used throughout the magazine is A Frutiger (ro-
man, bold, and italic). Silhouette Literary and Art 25 Disaster / Maura Sinnenberg
Magazine is a division of EMCVT, Inc., a non-profit
organization that fosters student media at Vir- 26 Part of the Play / Laura Brockman
ginia Tech. Please send all correspondence to 344
29 Austin, Aurora / Bryon Sabol
Squires Student Center, Blacksburg, VA 24061. All
Virginia Tech students not part of the Silhouette 30 Cambridge Street / Terrance Wedin
staff are invited to submit to the magazine. All
Rights revert to the artists upon publication. Visit 31 Follow Me / Annabelle Ombac
us on the web at silhouette.collegemedia.com. To
32 I Knew I Loved You / Kyra Rosow
become a subscriber of Silhouette, send a check
for $10 for each year subscription (two magazines) 33 Pine Freeze / Elizabeth Pacentrilli
to Silhouette’s address listed above, c/o Business
Manager. The cost covers the price of shipping. 34 Sweat / Michelle Billman
For more information about subscriptions, submit-
37 Bodies / Kira Zmuda
ting, or being part of our awesome staff, call our
office at 540.231.4124. Enjoy!
 I Slept With an Orange Today
Amanda Losch

I slept with an orange today,

Made eyes at a peach and teased a grapefruit.
I would have liked to bite into a plump mango –
to have pushed at its juices with my tongue.
And, the rapture of sucking its flavor off my palm;
Oh, I am to make love to a mango – still
I went home with an orange, leaving the
grapes moaning in their worthlessness.
Empty Pool
Jenny Marceron

6 7
 white paper napkins I wish I hadn’t thrown away Untitled
Pooja Khanna Ted Martello
I miss your red shirt.
the one that you left rumpled and crumpled
cold and alone in an untouched corner of your room
neglected hangers swayed in the closet.

the sheets that stayed unmade and wrinkled

near the place we’d roll another joint
where laughter slammed against shut doors
fell back into the sheets and wrinkled them some more.

photographs are scattered in unhappy drawers

among the matchbooks we collected from our trips
drive bys along the winding endless coastal roads
hummed me a song while you contemplated another

traces of unfinished letters lay on bare wood

white paper napkins stained with coffee cups
doodling of my blue pen artwork adorn the edge
I wish I hadn’t thrown them away.

loneliness tingles my bare spine and makes me loose face

faced with questions riddled with words too big to write
and my mind wanders back without looking back.
I miss your red shirt.

8 9
 Father Figure(s)
Danny Fasold
As a kid, I always envisioned my father as the
typical “Real American Dad”. I saw him as a sort of
Indiana Jones-style hero. I’d sometimes ask my mom
what he was like, but I don’t remember any particular
description that she gave that really sticks out. I
suppose that’s because she was always very hesitant
to talk about him. She’d only even mention him if I
was bold enough to ask.
So it was up to me to create my own
description, and all I had to base that off of was
a single photograph of him that my mom kept in
her wallet and would occasionally show me to feed
my curiosity. It was a photo of my father standing
outside, before the autumn-painted spectrum of
trees. He was grinning a slightly slanted grin as his
old west-style mustache followed. Dressed in denim
and leaning on his cane, he seemed to embody a
pulsating aura of mystery and mystique.
Every time I looked at that picture I’d stare at
it as if I was trying to solve some kind of puzzle. I’d
try to bring everything in the photo together into a
clear cut answer, the way one might visually converge
the innumerable pixels of color in a Magic Eye canvas
to see the bigger picture. That’s all I ever wanted
back then out of that photograph: the bigger
picture. I just wanted to know who my dad was.
***
“real-American Dad”
father figures
10
I am looking down at my 17-year-old hands,
playing over and over again in my head the possible
scenarios that might take place in only a matter of
minutes. My mom and I are stopped in the dark, rain-
slathered parking lot of the hotel for a brief moment
of quietude.
“I know you’re probably really nervous right
now,” my mom says. “If it’s any consolation, so am I.”
It’s not much consolation. I’m secretly wishing
I was not even in this position right now. It’s not like it
was my decision to meet him here. Hell, it wasn’t my
decision to meet him at all; that was entirely my mom’s
idea. She can be so damn intrusive sometimes.
We finally get out of the car and walk silently
and expectantly towards the hotel entrance. As we
pass through the revolving glass doors, I’m trying to
summon in my mind an image of my father. It had
been a long, long time since I had seen the photo.
Brown hair…mustache…denim…it’s all so blurry now.
I suppose I’d just look for the first person that looks
like an arthritic, altered version of myself…with a
mustache.
I’m scanning the faces of total strangers
rapidly as we step into the lobby before I’m
interrupted by the old, bearded man on the couch
who gets up and walks over to us. He approaches
us in a diplomatic fashion as if my mom and I are
businessmen from Japan and he’s here to greet us.
“So this is my father,” I say to myself.
I shake hands with this man before he says,
rather brightly:
“So, do you guys like Mexican food?”
father
father
Indiana Jones-style hero
***
As my knowledge of the world developed, so
did my knowledge of my father and the background
behind his noticeable absence.
I learned that he had been in a terrible plane
crash before I was born, barely surviving a collision
with the glacierous ice of the Potomac River in the
heyday of winter.
I learned that soon after the crash he met
my mom. They worked for the same networking
company that would eventually become Sprint. My
mom brought him company and comfort while his
shattered legs pieced themselves back together, and
out of this company and comfort came what would
become me.
Soon after my conception, my father (whose
legs were near fully recuperated at this point) went
on a business trip to Japan. He came back weeks later
with his old college girlfriend and presented her to my
mom.
“We’re getting married.”
“We’re moving to California.”
“Good luck in the future.”
Or something along those lines is what he
told my mom.
“What about our son?” my mom asked him.
“I’ll send him postcards.”
I never did receive any of those postcards.
I never received any Happy Birthdays or Merry
Christmases or friendly hellos. All I had of him was
that photograph of him and his sly grin and denim
figures
figures
father figures
threads.
Still, ever day of my childhood was another
day that I might possibly hear from my father;
another day when he might show up at the doorstep
with a suitcase in each hand and announce his return
and how he’s back to stay and be my dad.
So I waited and waited.
***
It’s my mom and my father and me, and
we’re all sitting at the booth of a Mexican restaurant
somewhere in the outskirts of DC.
“So Danny, what kinds of things do you
like?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Hard to say I guess.”
I look across at his eyes meeting mine, and
he has on the friendliest, most curious look I’ve ever
seen stare at me. I wonder what it must be like for
him to meet the son he’s abandoned for 17 years. I
also wonder if he wonders what it’s like to meet an
estranged father after 17 years of exile.
“You know, you speak very well,” he says. “I
was half expecting you to have a southern accent, you
being raised in Virginia and all.”
“Yeah?”
I don’t know how to answer his questions, so
I supply him with vague, bullshit answers and let my
mom supply most of my information. I don’t mind
letting her take over my end of the conversation. It
gives me the distraction-free opportunity to size this
back to stay and be my dad
father figures
father figures
man up; to understand who he is before I let him
know who I am.
Suddenly, he takes out an envelope bursting
with pictures from his bag.
“Here are some photos I thought you might
like. This is me as a kid with my brothers Dennis and
Pat and my sister Shannon. Shannon, that’s her right
there, she died when I was in college.”
I glance at the image of my aunt I’ll never
have an opportunity to meet, then at my father,
looking young and energetic. He looks almost like
Beaver Cleaver; uncaring and full of life in this frozen
black and white world before me.
He shows me more old photos. Some are of
his father, my grandfather, recounting his old military
days.
“Your grandfather there died only a couple
months ago. Too bad you didn’t get to meet him. He
was a good man.”
I nod thoughtfully at the shot of my dead
grandfather preparing to parachute out of a plane and
into the bullet-blazing wasteland of World War II.
He slides another photograph over to my side
of the table. This one’s different than the others. It’s
newer and bursting of color.
“And there’s my 92’ Viper. Let me tell you,
that thing’s a real rocket on wheels. Do you like cars,
Danny?”
“They’re pretty cool, I guess.”
Really, I’ve little opinion when it comes to
cars, even Dodge Vipers. They’re just tools to me;
another way for people to get around. But I try to
feign interest nevertheless.
father figures
I feign interest all night until it evaporates
and I’m finally in my room alone, thinking myself into
sleep.
***
My elementary school would sometimes hold
these fundraising events. The school would set up all
these little booths in the cafeteria. The booths were
set up like the ones you might see in the mall, selling
useless trinkets such as the 30-cent hairbrushes, 3-foot-
long plastic forks that are labeled as back scratchers,
tiny pre-BeanieBaby stuffed animals, and the like. All
of it was useless junk, really, but kids would still flock
to these events like they were some kind of crazy
carnival. I was one of these kids.
The idea was that you weren’t supposed to
buy any items for yourself. They were all gifts for
other people, mainly family members. So I spent a
few bucks on my mom, grandma, aunt and uncle,
and even on my babysitter. But what to get my dad?
Having never met him, I had no idea what he liked.
But he seemed to be the really easygoing type in my
mind; someone who appreciated all the things I liked.
When my eyes caught a glimpse of the tiny, hand held
pin ball machine, I knew I had found something that
he could enjoy. The goal was to get all the tiny pin
balls into their holes; it was a tedious but ultimately
fulfilling task. I bought it for a couple dollars, ecstatic
over the thought of getting such a cool gift for my
dad. I just knew he’d love it.
11
 I took it home and showed it to my mom so
she could gift wrap it and send it out to wherever
it was my dad had landed himself. When I showed
it, my mom gave me this static look, like I had just
presented her with a transparent ball of nothing. No,
no, she explained, we couldn’t send this to my dad,
you see. Well why not? We just can’t, cannot, we can’t
send it to him, that’s something we can’t do. Yeah,
but why not?
It took me a long time to understand why
not.
My mom always told me he lived
“somewhere in California”, but in actuality she had
no idea where he lived. He had disappeared from
our world and our lives, and hid in the dark where we
couldn’t see.
***
“You see that plane there?” my father asks.
“I flew that for the Air Force during the war.”
“Oh yeah?’ I say, looking up at the giant
prototype.
“Yup. And you see that one there? I got to
fly a later version of that one.”
It’s the day after our first meeting, and I’m
taking time off from school to ingest my first ever
samples of father-son time. We’re at the Air and
Space museum in DC., taking a gander at all these
planes that my father knows everything about. It
seems like for every plane photograph we look at,
every model, every original, he can supply me with
this informative back-story history lesson. He tells me
River, realizing with striking clarity
father figures
that he was no Indiana Jones
12
this because it’s just all so very interesting, at least
that’s what I must think in his mind. Really, I’m just
bored out of my skull, hungry, wondering when we’ll
leave this place and go get some food.
“Hey, an Imax,” he says. “Let’s see the film on
space exploration. It starts in 20 minutes. Don’t worry,
it’s on me.”
My stomach growls as he pays for our tickets.
As we’re leaving the museum, we take one
final stop at the gift shop. I glance at all the model
planes, air and space DVDs, and t-shirts that I’m not
interested in until my father comes up to me, holding
two glossy books with planes on their covers.
“A lot of these planes I got to fly back in my
Air Force days,” he says.
He opens a book up and starts pointing at
some of his accomplishments.
“I think you might be interested in these. I’ll
go ahead and buy them for you, how about that?”
“Sure,” I say.
I get home later and open up the books,
staring blankly at photographs of massive, ascendable
chunks of steel. I’d have rather gone to one of the art
museums.
***
“What was my dad’s plane crash like?” I asked
my mom one day.
“Well I can’t really tell you,” she said. “But
they made a made-for-TV-movie about it a while ago
father figures
and I recorded it.”
I remember how my eyes widened at the
prospect of seeing my dad as a main character in an
action movie. they widened even more at the prospect
of seeing what my was really like; in the movies that
is.
I had two versions of the accident; The made-
for-TV-movie and the actual live footage shot from a
pectator standing over the wreckage. In the TV movie,
my dad had lines and spoke. He was a respectable
businessman, treading the cold, numbing waters,
struggling to survive; struggling to help his secretary
that also barely survived; struggling to be heroic.
The actual footage was not quite as
theatrical, and my dad had no lines at all. It was just
a shot of a tail end of a plane sticking out of the ice
with people floating around it. I remember my mom
pointing out which one my dad was. He was closest to
the plane, just floating and looking blurry. He didn’t
seem to be struggling at all. He just seemed to be
annoyed at the situation he was literally stuck in, and
a lot less heroic.
I’m not entirely sure when exactly my attitude
towards my father started to change. It was certainly
a gradual thing. It was something that just slowly
grew and grew over the course of years until it finally
hit full bloom, yet it’s impossibly hard to measure the
growth.
It’s hard to say, but perhaps the roots began
to grow there in front of the television as I watched
my father freeze in the Potomac River, realizing with
striking clarity that he was no Indiana Jones. No, he
was just an ordinary man.
I call him Joe now. We’ve made it to a first
name basis. This time he’s in town to watch me
graduate high school. He keeps calling me on my cell
phone to try and get directions to my pre-grad party,
even after I’ve given him directions several times
before. He finally gets there an hour late.
Later we go out to eat in what’s more or less
a sequel to our first dinner at the Mexican restaurant,
only this time it’s Chinese. Again, it’s uncomfortable.
Watching him and my mom exchange small talk, I can
only speculate as to how they really feel about each
other. I can imagine my dad seeing my mom as this
sweet lady he knew from his rehabilitation days who
he’s now in debt to, and he’s trying to pay that debt
by being polite. I can imagine my mom seeing him as
a ghost; an old flame that’s now barely flickering as
she contemplates putting it out for good.
“Have you ever thought about joining
ROTC?” Joe asks me.
“No,” I reply.
“You should really think about it. I joined
when I was your age and I think it really provided me
with a lot of opportunities. You can study almost any
field you like and they offer some nice scholarships.”
“I don’t think I’m interested,” I again reply.
He stays on the subject of ROTC for what
feels like an eternity, just ranting and raving away
at how great it is. It’s such a great opportunity for
me, yes, I heard you the first time, I wish I could stop
listening but you just keep talking.
I start fidgeting. He keeps talking. Can’t he
tell I’m not the least bit interested? If he really knew
me, he’d know ROTC is the last thing I’d want from
my father and i
father figures
college. My mom, sensing my discomfort, reaches
behind my back and starts running her hand around
my back in that gentle, maternal way. I quickly shake
her off. I don’t want anyone to touch me right now, or
even look at me. I just want Joe to shut the fuck up.
Finally he stops and stares at me for a few
moments.
“Why don’t you go outside for a walk,
Danny,” he says. “Your mother and I need to talk.”
I gratefully step outside and wander around
the dark, daydreaming about being hundreds of miles
away.
***
Then there was the full blossomed image of
resentment I had of him as an adolescent, during those
bitter, “smells like teen spirit” years that Cobain had
wailed about. When the world suddenly turns sour,
and you’re milk, and you and the world just don’t mix.
A friend of mine asked me during this time
period what I would do if I ever met my dad.
“I’d punch him square in the face,” I
responded. And I meant it. At least, I thought I meant
it at the time.
Those were the days when you feel somehow
put aside by everyone else, and you’re looking for
someone to cast all blame on.
“I’d punch him right in his goddamn face and
tell him that he’s the bastard, not me.”
He wasn’t Indiana Jones to me then.
i remember very clearly
***
My father and I are cruising along the
mountainsides of America’s edge in his ‘92 Viper with
the top down, feeling the wind rub fleetingly against
our faces; feeling America race by in the cold, spring
air. We’re bolting around the cars on the road so fast,
you’d think they weren’t moving at all. We’re ripping
along the interstate and carving our path through the
state of Washington and into Idaho. Soon we’ll be in
Canada.
For once, my father isn’t saying anything,
and as usual, neither am I. Why ruin the flow of
the moment with awkward chit-chat? We both
understand this.
I ask him at some point if I can drive the Viper
and he says no. He says he’s afraid I’ll ride the clutch.
It’s no matter, really. It’s peaceful on the passenger’s
side. It gives me time to capture the images of snow-
peaked mountain tops crashing into the sky and the
like.
After a while, we make it back to my dad’s
lake house in Spokane and resume our attempts at
friendly conversation. The rest of my trip stumbles
along as the stress of being my father’s son pushes
down on me. There still aren’t any firm connections.
There still isn’t any common ground that we’ve both
hit on. I can tell though; I can see that he’s looking for
it.
***
father
father figures
figures
father figures
13
 I remember very clearly the day my mom informed
me that I was to meet my father. It was morning and
I was lying on the couch watching television and my
mom walked in and clicked the off button on the
remote.
“We need to talk,” she said, and I couldn’t
help but think that I’d pissed her off somehow. I
quickly learned though that that was not the case.
She spelled out to me, very meticulously, how she’d
contacted my uncle Pat (my father’s brother) through
his law firm, and through him, had arranged for me
to meet with my father.
The meeting was to take place in a matter of
weeks in DC.
Right after that she explained to me that I
have three half-sisters and two-half brothers from my
father’s previous marriage.
And right after that my eyes watered in a
soupy mixture of fear and joy with grains anger on
confusion, stirred into something indistinct that has
no name. I realized then that this was the beginning
of a new part of my life.
Why my mom decided that then would be
a good time for me to meet my father I don’t know,
and why my father took my mom up on her offer and
finally entered my life I don’t know either. There are
many things I don’t know, that I may never know,
that I can only speculate on.
So much of life is mere speculation, really.
***
father figures
father figures
father figures
14
It’s the last, fleeting days of summer, and I’m mark, but all those images ever were was speculation.
spending them in Cape Cod to get to know my dad’s All I truly know is what I’ve experienced first-hand,
side of the family. There’s Teri, Mallory, and Bridget, and what I’m experiencing right now is simply a
my half-sisters, George, my brother-in-law (which man trying desperately to make a connection. I see
sounds really strange), my three nieces (which sounds a battered man who’s chronically distant, much like
even stranger), Jodi, my step-mother, and finally myself, who’s at this very moment attempting to close
there’s Joe. I’m still learning to call him ‘Dad’. that distance, even if only for the briefest of moments.
We spend the day outside at Teri’s, who lives And, really, for these brief moments, there doesn’t
just off the beach. The weather is calm, sterile, and seem to be much of a distance at all.
completely harmless. I sit on the porch watching
family members play croquet, throw Frisbee, and grill ***
burgers. I observe the awkwardness between Bridget
and her teenage daughters. They’re going through
that phase, you see.
As I sit I strum guitar and try to summon
songs that Teri and George might know. I get nods of
approval for “Wish You Were Here.”
“Have you been practicing?” my dad asks me.
“Yeah, a bit.”
“Well, it shows.”
I smile and play another song.
“Mind if I play one?” he asks.
I hand the guitar to him and watch him play
an old blues song that I’ve never heard before. He
sings along with his eyes closed as he does his own
summoning. He sings in a raspy, country-western style,
but not in the stereotypical redneck fashion.
Still sitting there on the porch, observing all
this, I think back to all the images I’ve had of my father
in the past: Indiana Jones, the cool, easygoing figure,
the disaster victim with luck on his side, the bastard
with a fist-shaped bullseye on his face. I wonder if
any of these images were ever anywhere near the
fatherfather
figures
figures
trying desperately to make a connection
Eyes
Kira Zmuda
15
 Nice Day
Annabelle Ombac

The Cornfield
Jonathan Pillow

His voice was that of a tank crossing a distant cornfield.

Low and steady, almost mechanical, but you knew there was a human driving.
He said, “You know you don’t have to go to college.”

His eyes, flickering wheat brown, tell of experience and knowledge.

The wood planks on his porch scream under the weight of his rocking chair,
and I nod.

“There’s plenty of honest ways for a man to live.

You don’t have to ride the back of some diploma.”
I imagine riding it as a paper airplane, soaring through life.

But each image comes and goes a little too fast, I blink and three years have passed.
It seems like the momentum of the plane can only be slowed for a glimpse
before it is gone again, and all through this I’m getting tired.

City blocks and power lunches carousel around me until they lose focus
but even as my imagination nosedives through 8 dollar daiquiris and one night stands
I am sitting on the porch with him.

Together we look out into fields of hay

and breath deeply the first crisp moments of a summer evening.

16 17
 we are tanned with peeling shoulders
our wet hair lies close on our heads, like caps
our cheeks hurt from giggles and sunburn
five grown girls, lying on a rock
smothering our bathing suits with mud
and guessing at the ratio of actual soil to cow dung
laughing at how gross that is
we assist each other in covering every inch
of our bodies with brown. the only parts of
any of us that still show are bright pink lips
and glaringly white eyes with speckled irises in shades
of blue and green.
we sun ourselves
changing slowly from deep brown gleaming wet
to matte khaki.
when we smell dad starting the fire
we move, cracking our hardened shells.
we dive into the river.
we take handfuls of mud and fling them into each other’s hair.
we spit out grit and fishy water.
The river slides by... dad calls across the river,
Ashley Pack “last--call--for--supper”
a holdover from his days camping in Montana
we rinse as we swim to the other side
and grab onto branches to pull ourselves up and out.
we wrap ‘river towels’ around our five bodies;
old bath towels with fraying edges, holes, and stains in
colors - olive green and grayish white.
we sit around the fire to dry.
later we smell like mud and riverwater and woodsmoke.
one shower will not get rid of it
and we will be happy to have the smell walking
around with us for days. it will remind us
of jokes about smoke following beauty-
of biscuits twisted round a stick, caterpillars, cooked
over the fire and stuffed with strawberry jelly and butter-
of sleeping on the ground and waking in the middle
of the night to watch the moon turn to water,
to silver. of reluctant morning swims - waking early
to bathe in the river, when the well got too low and
started spitting out brown water -

of skinny dipping in the middle of the day

and ducking under to hide from canoers.
the smell will remind us of summers
before we were split between colleges and jobs
we will carry with this smell thoughts of sisters
Rings who still hold hands and can speak
Annabelle Ombac secrets with one look.

18 19
 Do All Birds Cuss?
Dillon Greenhawk
I’m hunting geese. The birds look like drawings, V’s and M’s out of pencil. The sunrise looks like watercolor.
Sitting inside a giant plywood box that is disguised to look like nothing, I shiver and pick up an empty shotgun cartridge from the dirt floor of the bird
blind. It smells like a cap gun. I think about pretending to be a cowboy or a cop or whatever I was when I played with cap guns. I drop the shell and there is a
small dirty clink. I keep remembering the cap gun smell.
Some birds come in close. They looked like birds instead of V’s and M’s. They sound like untuned saxophones. I could have shot them, but I didn’t.
A common misconception is that headshots produce instantaneous death. Instantaneous death is rare, especially with birds. You shoot them in the head,
and they spasm around flapping their wings, uncoordinated and stupid. They flop around, not for too long, maybe a minute or so. Then they die. I bet it feels
really long to them, or maybe they don’t even think about it. I don’t know if you can think with shotgun pellets in your brain. Sometimes, a goose is too wounded
to get away, but not quite dead, so you have to grab its head, and twist its neck till it snaps by swinging its body in a circle. That’s the only way I’ve really seen
them die comfortably.
Some more geese fly over, I could kill infinity. I think of cap guns.
If you’re a purist like I’ve always been, a revolver style cap gun can only shoot 6 times before reloading. To reload you have to fidget with the cylinder
magazine so it looks like you’ve reloaded. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Reload. Pop. Pop.
Pop. “I got you,” said my brother a long time ago.
Then I flopped around on the ground and it looked so real, blood could have come out in a red licourice string from my jugular veins. That must have
been after I watched something die. Both my brother and I giggled, and even now I smile about how ironic that whole thing was.
The shotgun shell is at my boots. It’s cold and I’m thinking about home. Home smells like kerosene heat. When I walk in, the smell and heat are heavy. I
think about how I will wipe my feet, take off my boots, and set them on the newspaper next to the door. I think about how dad is still sick. I know he will look at
me from the recliner and ask how many Geese I killed. “Ninety,” I’ll say, and we’ll giggle uncomfortably.
I drop the empty shotgun shell; there is a pathetic thud against dirt. I don’t know why I picked it up again. More geese are flying around me. The sky is
speckled black with them. They are brave and stupid.
Sometimes after you’ve shot some geese out of a flock, geese from the same flock will come back, most of the time this happens when you’re out in the
field picking up decoys and leaving. “Fuck you,” the geese say with honks. They are brave and stupid. I never shoot those geese that fly back.
“It really tears him up,” says mom about dad. She always puts it like that. Dad is always torn up. Torn to shreds. Mom is torn up too. Torn to shreds. But
unlike mom, dad never says anything.
I look across the brown field and through brown trees and I see water. That’s when I remember when the corn was high and green, and the trees were
20
loud with locusts. It wasn’t cold, but it was warm. Then that one tree catches my eye. It always does. It’s that tree to the right, the second tree right next
to the water. It’s always black and still. Instead of being surrounded by grass, it is surrounded by rocks and sand. It never sounds like locusts. That tree
always looks like winter. In the summer the trees blow around and birds fly in between them, but that tree never does. Not to me. It just stays still like a
corpse in the winter. I always make plans to cut down that tree, but I never do. I’m scared of it.
My dad’s axe is fine wood and its blade is sharper than anything around. “You can’t find a better axe,” dad said when buying it. “You can cut down
anything with it.”
Dad let me carry the axe. I had it cocked up like Paul Bunyan would have it. I even wore red-flannel like a lumberjack and both dad and I set out to
cut down the tree. But we got to the tree, and dad asked for the axe, and he took three good swings. He swung two hard, solid hits, and then he started
to cry. He threw the axe into a spray of sand and we both cried and walked back. “Leave it.” Dad said, and so we left the axe in the sand, and the tree
with two deep cuts in its bark and muscle. And that tinged rope dangling over the water.
I can’t see it from here, but I think the tree is scabbed brown now. I can see the rope; it’s a tangled knot hanging off.
I unload my shotgun. It’s too cold today to hunt. I pick up the decoys and a few geese fly over and away, their wings stretched like middle fingers.
Those ones are just stupid. I didn’t shoot anything to begin with. “Yeah, fuck you too.” I said to the M’s in the distance.
Dad doesn’t ask me if I got any birds like I thought he would. He’s in the recliner though. Just staring off, pretending to watch TV, but he’s really
just staring at the walls. I walk past him and up to my room, commenting that it’s cold outside. He grunts.
My room is cold too the heat might hit you when you walk in the front door, but the upstairs of the house is non-Kerosene heat accessible. My
brother used to complain about that. He used to shiver and say how much he loved the summertime. I miss him more than I miss killing geese.
At the funeral, he looked tiny in his casket. He always looked so big to me until then, all small in his box. There was a hole dug six feet deep and
the casket was lowered in. It was covered with dirt and grass and if it wasn’t in a cemetery, it wouldn’t look like anything. I remember watching some
blackbirds fly over. The geese had all gone to Florida on their migratory vacation. I wondered then if the blackbirds were saying the same thing that the
geese say when they fly over. Were they brave and stupid too?
I watched my brother’s casket get covered with wet earth. I thought about whether or not he died fast and painless like we all hope to die
someday, or if he died fast and painless in the realistic way I’d seen so many Geese do. I imagined him in his bathing suit, twitching around on the tangled
rope suspended by his neck above the water, stupid and uncoordinated. But here’s the worst part: I imagined him being so hopeless, that I hoped then that
his neck snapped, instead of dying slow like those birds do sometimes. I didn’t even wish that I could have been there to stop him from swimming, from
swinging.
21
 The Christmas Party Wolves will eat It is not the man on the moon.
Jennifer Henszey their Own. It is not the man in the moon.
It is the man without the moon.
Two figures silhouetted in a
I’m tapping my wine glass galaxy of rainbow
with a fine fork. and pine, He hides
our audience waits: in shadow.
The cold hardness of this I look him in the eye The man in the deep
little pitch fork as I have caught him looking at dark basement.
feels viced to my hand me all night; His Cave
as my knuckles turn He can see it. His Wolf lair
white.
I open my mouth He preys
I’m tapping and shut his last bit and I pray
at first, just to hear it ring. of security
and then again as I gather attention. down.
I tap He lights a virginal wick
harder and faster. Somewhere in the rainbow and with a fiery sin
My chardonnay somersaults in my glass. pine galaxy, and burns out
CLANG CLANG CLANG the truth floats the innocent light.
my wine glass is screaming. and the audience But now,
But now, it’s My turn: telescopes in. this man burns
They watch in awe like unwelcome asteroids
A rainbow giraffe perhaps in horror. in a shell-shocked
“Please take the children into the kitchen”
to those poor, innnocent minds. galaxy, for the audience
Their innocent ears don’t deserve to hear this
Poisonous Snake on Earth below.
“Cut the carols, if you will”
to Me.
The room is silent now
And for him: It is not a silent night
Under the tree, center stage but now there is
big bright lights and audience: peace.
“Come closer, beneath the tree.”
the family. The It is not a Holy night
He steps forward,
“family” but now it is
dark skin, dark murky mane, dark horse-hair
mustache. whole.
The “pack”
A man in his late 40’s
like wolves, Our pack is strong
still wondering what in the hell
never turning on their own. and the corrupt
he is doing
at this Christmas party. cannot survive.
He appears tense;
a trapped wild cat searching Wolves will
Colored lights exotically gleam
nervously for escape eat their Own.
on his olive
in a dirty cardboard box.
skin
as he glows Merry Christmas,
What is he feeling? Uncle.
like a dangerous, foreign
What does he fear?
animal.
Does he suspect suspicion?
Does he think they know

22 23
 Disaster
Maura Sinnenberg

The pastel green paint chipping under

My fingers felt so alive in January.

I curled my hands around the edges

Of the building that smelled like Cajun and
Expensive wine. I tasted the duck and champagne
On my lips and around my teeth. It felt so real then.

Voodoo swam in the streets on blind women

Reading tarot cards
And muffulettas seeped out of disgusting dirty delicious
Markets.

It smelled like flowers in winter.

It smelled like sin in the streets.
It smelled like Blue Dog and heaven.

Now it doesn’t. Now it’s just a molded blank plaster wall and
A few tastes from a restaurant and soggy bread
And impotent chants and ruined canvas that fell to a rain
And a nation too busy.

Now it’s water and mildew.

Now it’s carrion.

Birds
Annabelle Ombac

24 25
 Part of the Play It was spring break, and it would later be said that it was “convenient” that
Laura Brockman the events transpired while I was home. I still can’t help but wonder if there is a
convenient time for someone to die? Did my grandpa choose that particular week to
let go because his whole family was around? I had never really dealt with death, and
by age 19 the big losses of my life consisted entirely of pets. But during this spring
break, a time synonymous with bikinis and drunken parties, I had my first meeting
with death. I knew that my grandpa was sick; he had cancer—though I didn’t know
what kind—and had had a heart operation before I knew what that meant. Details
were not my specialty when it came to my grandpa’s illnesses; perhaps I chose not to
know so that I didn’t have to deal with reality
I loved sleepovers, but only when they were at my other grandma’s house.
But staying with the Brockman’s was, well, less than thrilling. I was young and there
wasn’t a whole lot at their house to amuse me so I turned to imagination. We always
played in the basement, which was a nod to sixties décor with its orange carpet and
cast aside furniture. I had just finished reading a book in school called The Paper
Crane; it was about a Japanese girl who had leukemia. I was proud that I knew
leukemia meant blood cancer, but what that entailed I didn’t really know. I decided
that my younger sister and I would put on a play for my grandparents based on this
book. Being the one with seniority, I decided that I would play the main role and my
sister, not being as good an actress, would play the girl who died from leukemia.
I got a call from my mother early one morning of my spring break:
“Grandpa is in the hospital.” My mom, as usual, had a calm clear voice.
“Okay.” I knew she was telling me this because something bad had happened.
“His leukemia looks bad; they’ve asked the family to visit,” she said.
“Okay.” I said dully. I was in shock.
“I’m coming home from work and I’m picking your sister up from school on the way.
Be ready to leave when I get there,” she said. Her voice still had its usual strong
tone.
“Okay,” I mumbled. She’s getting Lindsy out of school, I thought, this must be
serious.
I wandered aimlessly around the kitchen and ended up perched on the edge of the
kitchen chair, playing with the salt and pepper shakers. Grandpa had always been
sick, I knew that, but he was also always around and seemingly happy. Even though
he had been getting progressively sick over the years, I always remember him as a
man with a constant smile. He would always make corny jokes and laugh heartily
at them; I never saw him in a bad mood or in bad shape. I found myself wondering
what my sister would think when she got the emergency note that pulled her out of
class. I wished that I was there to comfort her when she got the news.
After hours of practicing, we were ready to perform the play. My
grandparents dutifully watched our amateur performance with an appropriate
amount of admiration. All I remember about the play is the end. My sister played
the girl with leukemia who dies in the hospital at the end of the novel. My sister lay
on the itchy olive green wool sofa in the basement with a slight smile besides her
“illness” as I presented her with a small crane statue. Her death was so clean, quick,
and unrealistic.
26
26
I wasn’t prepared when we got to the hospital. The strong alcohol smell
swept over me and I felt faint. I was still expecting the olive couch sickness of my
youth. When we got to my grandpa’s room I kept thinking “who is this man?” His
skin is what I remember most. I had never seen a person turn such a color; there
wasn’t the slightest hint of flesh tone or rosiness in him. He was no longer the
laughing man I remembered. It looked like he was wearing grey body paint, and like
this was really a costume party. The doctors say that all the blood transfusions put
too much iron into his system and that’s why he was so grey. I saw the whole ordeal
as a play, with roles that we each had to fill. I saw myself as the caring older sister. It
was my role to watch over Lindsy, but, oddly, not to think of my grandpa. I couldn’t
accept that my grandpa was really dying. The room was filled with the sound of
labored breathing. My grandpa had a mask over his face to help him breathe. The
mask covered most of his face, his eyes peeped out over the top. His eyes were
smiling, despite the situation, and occasionally he’d try to laugh—but the sound
was stifled and sad. His breathing was so loud it was like another voice in the room
constantly reminding me that he was dying.
We stayed with my grandpa the entire day. We were in the room and he was
in the room, but not much interaction went on between us and him. I stayed with
my sister; each of us trying to distract the other with homework and observations.
Midway into the day they moved my grandpa into a larger private room. The nurses
knew what was coming. The family jovially commented on the room’s size and
poked around in the closets in an attempt to distract from the real issue at hand.
Around 8:00, we decided to head down to the cafeteria for dinner. A nurse had just
entered the room to give my grandpa medicine that would make him sleep. We
figured this would be a good time to grab a bite to eat.
My family and I announced our departure and walked single-file out the tiny
walkway between his bed and the wall. And this is what I remember, and regret,
the most. As I left the room, I glanced towards the man in the bed. He looked at me
with such pleading watery eyes and reached a bruised, grey hand out in my direction.
I waved. I didn’t go to him. I didn’t say anything. I only waved; like a casual so
long to a friend. My family is not very openly affectionate with one another, and
even in a situation like this it felt odd for me to go to him. To go to him would be
considered stepping out of my role. I was here to watch over Lindsy, or so I thought.
When we returned from dinner, he was asleep and we drove home. The next day he
died.
“Crush this bread up into small pieces.” My grandma pulled the yellow
package out of the fridge and handed it to me. I was grinning from ear to ear,
my sister and I fought over who got to break up the most bread for the ducks at
the duck pond. Despite the mess of duck poop we had to wade through to get
to the pond, my sister and I loved feeding the ducks. Whenever we stayed at my
grandparent’s house they took us there. My grandpa liked to bring his camera along
and stand across the road taking pictures of us. One of these pictures I remember
vividly. I’m hanging off the rail encircling the pond; my side ponytail swaying in the
wind. With one arm waving at the camera and the other around my sister, who was
standing quietly next to me in a pink puffy coat with baggies over her feet to protect
her shoes from duck waste, my grandpa snapped the picture.
In my naïveté I had no idea that this pond was situated in the center of a
cemetery and that my grandpa’s gravesite lay just across the road.
27
27
 I wasn’t there when he passed. The next day, each of us went separate ways;
my mom back to the hospital, my sister back to school, and me back home. That
night, I got a call from my mom. She told me that my grandpa was dead. I didn’t say
much; I just glanced over at my sister, who was in the family room watching South
Park on TV, said “okay,” and hung up the phone. I knew it was up to me, as the
older sister and receiver of bad news, to pass the news on to Lindsy. I felt unprepared
for such responsibility; I didn’t have any life experiences to help me figure out what
to say or how to say it. I waited about ten minutes to collect myself and then headed
into the family room to let my sister know what had happened.

I had lied. I told Lindsy that there were little people who lived in teacups.
And she believed me, silly girl. She was only five, and I was eight and totally in
control of this kindergartener that worshiped her big sister and believed everything
she said. So I told her that people lived in teacups; and while putting a pink plastic
cup on the seat of my mom’s exercise bike I told her “now, if you close your eyes, the
teacup lady will come out.” And boy did she close her eyes tight. I threw on some
dress-up clothes and ran up the stairs. I immediately came back down and spoke to
her in a soft voice “Lindsy, I am the teacup lady.” And she believed me, up until a
few years ago when I broke it to her that there aren’t any teacup ladies in the world.

I walked slowly into the family room and sat down on a chair.
“Umm, Lindsy, that was mom on the phone,” I was looking at the floor and shuffling
my feet.
She muted the TV. She knew what was coming.
“Grandpa passed away this afternoon around four, mom’s on her way home now,” I
said quietly.
She came over, sat at my feet and put her head in my lap. I stroked her hair and
suddenly felt older than I was and that she was younger than she was. I awkwardly
told her that grandpa had lived a long, happy life and that everything would be
okay. I felt closer to my sister than I had since I went away to college. I was ready to
deal with the situation now. I cried with my sister. We stayed up together that night;
drinking tea and talking. The funeral was a day away and I didn’t know what to
expect.
At the funeral, ducks squawked over the priest’s voice and I thought of our visits to
the duck pond and smiled. I wished for the bread bags to put over my feet – still Austin, Aurora
the same old duck mess around here. I glanced across the street; my grandpa would Bryon Sabol
be looking over that pond for the rest of his days, also remembering that chilly day
at the pond. I sat next to my sister at the funeral and I remembered that meek girl
in the picture. I put my arm around her, feeling that she still needed protection and
comfort that I still could offer.

28
28 29
29
 Cambridge Street
Terrance Wedin

The snow is falling

From street lamps,
And I’m standing
In the
middle
of the road.

It’s the end of

February
And it’s so quiet out,
It feels like I’m the

Only person breathing tonight.

Follow Me
Annabelle Ombac

30 31
 I Knew I Loved You
Kyra Rosow

As I sat in your kitchen and

the winter sun bounced off the snow outside.
Light streamed through the windows,
I sat across the wooden table from you
Letting the sun fall on me
warming my skin.
Your gaze left me unaware of your mother’s presence
who was standing at the counter wrapping gifts.
She filled bags with cookies
and fresh apples she bought.
Her cheeks pinked with frustration, and
Without a word being spoken
you rose up and helped
her with the ribbon.
I watched you
with your hand placed on her back Pine Freeze
helping her guide the ribbon into bows. Elizabeth Pacentrilli
You left me sitting with my
eyes transfixed on tenderness.

32 33
 Sweat
Michelle Billman
Do you suffer from a condition called Hyperhidrosis? This test may help
you determine if your sweat is more than just an annoyance. Please
remember that only a medical professional can make an accurate diag-
nosis.
Answer the following questions and consider talking to a health care
professional about Hyhperhidrosis during your next visit.
1. Does sweating in public cause you distress?
Church lasts one hour each week and for the past decade I
have spent the entirety of that hour silently apologizing for the salty
juice that continually pulses from my palms, feet, and underarms. Be-
ing religious would be just fine if it weren’t for that one Our Father,
where we friendly Catholics reach unto our neighbors and clasp hands.
The prayer probably lasts about a minute and a half, but that’s if we
don’t sing—which adds to my exasperation like an extra inning for a
dull game.
Just as the mothers in church profusely apologize for the
uncontrollable wails of their babies, I too, say sorry for an offense over
which I have no control. On Sundays, the apologies flow almost as
thick as the sweat that drips from my fingertips onto whatever family
member, friend, or stranger is next to me. When these people awk-
wardly loosen their grips from my hands and then discreetly, or some
times blatantly, rub my filthy moisture from their pristine oases of cool,
my mouth blurts an embarrassed apology before my mind can shut me
up. Why should I be sorry that this person is subjected to my glistening
palms for a minute and a half when major facets of my life are molded
by them every day?
2. Does sweating take up most of your time?
My older sister Nicole always jokes that I should invent “hand
fans” that clip around my wrists and provide constant air circulation to
keep my sweat glands calm. I might make some money from the en-
deavor since some doctors are now estimating that three percent of the
34
U.S. population suffers from a condition called Hyperhidrosis. People
with Hyperhidrosis continue sweating even after their body tempera-
ture is properly maintained as if the “off” switch for their sweat glands
doesn’t work.
There are two forms of this condition. I have Primary Focal
Hyperhidrosis where my sweating occurs in specific areas of the body.
For me, it’s my hands, feet, and underarms. Those with my type may
experience their sweating on the head or face as well. Others suffer
from excessive sweating over large areas of the body. This second type
is known as Secondary Generalized Hyperhydrosis and is caused by pre-
dominant medical conditions such as diabetes, menopause, anxiety and
thyroid disorders, or as a side effect of certain medications.
I cannot recall a day when I didn’t stuff tissues in my shirt or
change my socks at least once in futile attempts to alleviate the wet-
ness. Occasionally, my body will take a break from clammy hands,
drenched feet, and pit stains the size of a small European country. But
even when I am not bathing in sweat, I spend most of my energy deal-
ing with my fear of when and how that salty little liquid will make a
guest appearance in my life. It turns into a cycle where I sweat for no
reason at all. After a while, I know the monsoon is coming so I get ner-
vous for its swift arrival. The rumbling causes the storm—not the other
way around.
3. Have you ever lost friends or a job due to excess sweating?
I once read on a Hyperhidrosis support website, that some
people’s sweat glands are so overactive that they produce four to five
times the amount of perspiration that they should. I imagine that one
day I’ll be able to salt my food by shaking my hands above the plate or
maybe I’ll be able to water plants just by ringing out my fingers. But
will these talents secure me with good friends, a job, a husband, and a
home? If I can’t stop sweating long enough to shake hands with a fu-
ture employer, when will I ever have the money to buy plants that need
watering?
There wasn’t an exact day that my body decided it wanted
to constantly swim in salt water, but it started becoming a problem in
high school. That’s when my wardrobe consisted of mostly plain white
shirts that wouldn’t give away my secret as badly as anything with
color. Some boyfriends didn’t mind that my hands were soggy, in fact
some didn’t even mention it since their hands were nervously sweating
as well. But others wanted to discuss the situation in more depth than
I could muster. Why are your hands so red and dripping like a fau-
cet? Do I make you that nervous babe? Are you worried? I have seen
one reference to Hyperhidrosis in mainstream media. The story was a
sympathetic filler buried deep within a popular fashion magazine. The
woman featured dealt with many of the issues I find myself engrossed
with on a daily basis. She talked about her fear of job interviews, her
church anxiety, and her aversion to sandals. I had a three-year hiatus
where sandals were omitted from my wardrobe simply because the
sweat made them too slippery to walk in. It was difficult to be dainty
and feminine when any dress or skirt I wore was accompanied by
grubby sneakers.
But the sneakers contained the sweat and most of the smell.
My shoes might have a small river flowing inside of them, which is the
case quite frequently, but nobody other than me would ever know.
Sandals can’t hide the fat beads that culminate on my big toes and they
certainly don’t provide good traction. The woman in the article wore
sandals that became as slick as waxed skis. She ended up riding those
skis down a flight of stairs and having a miscarriage. I will never wear
sandals when I’m pregnant, just as I won’t drink or smoke, because I
wouldn’t want to put my baby in any sort of danger.
4. Does extreme sweating effect your work performance or career
choices?
Over the past few years I’ve made a list of occupations that I
would never pursue. For some, I have neither the talent nor the desire,
but for most, I don’t have the dry fingers that allow for optimal perfor-
mance. Being a hand model for a home shopping network is obvi-
ously out. Jamming princess-cut diamond rings onto man-hands that
swell frequently might not encourage bored women to buy, buy, buy!
I worry that on my wedding day the ring won’t fit over my swollen
knuckles and the groom will realize what he is getting into with just
enough time to run away before the shower arrives.
I can handle my inability to delicately model jewelry that
most women don’t need anyway. The second occupation on my “keep
dreaming” list was much harder to let go. The oboe, a double-reed
instrument about the size of a clarinet, was introduced to me in the
sixth grade. My band teacher described it as the most difficult instru-
ment to learn. I was up to that challenge and played the oboe for the
next five years, secretly dreaming that one day I would earn a living
on my god-given talent to lead a symphony through the intensity of
my embouchure alone. My band teacher, along with my private oboe
instructor, helped me believe in my playing saying that I had perfected
the clown-faced, lip-smacking embouchure required of furious oboe
solos. Unfortunately, my fingers couldn’t keep up with my mouth. In
fact, the damn things would slide down the wrong keys in a sea of
frustrated sweat. I eventually decided to put the oboe down and turn
to other activities.
One of the activities I became most interested in was the high
school newspaper. I became a reporter with a passion for justice, edu-
cation, and well, a byline. Seeing your name underneath the headline
of an article is a feeling of accomplishment and pride that cannot be
duplicated by any other endeavor. For three years I interviewed the
students, teachers, and faculty of my school to provide high-quality
content. My favorite story came from an interview with an administra-
tor who had been one of the first black students integrated into T.C.
Williams High School. I can still remember how our initial handshake
was awkward—his creamy, lotioned hand was surely saturated when
my hand slopped through it. But I also remember his story.
His name was Mr. Robinson and he was integrated into a
hostile environment with seven other African-American high school stu-
dents. On his first day, a Caucasian student attacked him with a knife.
During the interview he moved his fingers up his thigh to trace the trail
of blood that stained the white corduroys he wore that first day. He
then went on to explain that during that difficult year, he became the
captain of both the basketball and the baseball team. If this man could
defeat the woes of racism and violence, then I could certainly over-
come a little pubescent glistening. After that interview I realized that
as long as I could get past the first handshake, I could use my mastery
of questioning to divert the other person’s attention from my own
problem.That interview was a small step surrounded by many other
occupations that lay dormant to me. The FBI is one organization that
would actually quantify the amount of sweat my body emits. Any per-
son giving me a lie detector test would assume that my absurd physical
state was due to a massive cover-up operation. And what if I wanted
to be a secretary? Or any sort of handy-person? Would my employer
accept soggy papers and rusted parts as a “job well done”? Since my
interview with Mr. Robinson, the intense temperature of any newsroom
has kept me away. And I can’t stand the way the ink smears onto my
fingers leaving gray marks all over my face by the end of the day.
5. Have you tried many products designed to control sweating?
When my high school years came to a close, I desperately
hoped that my Hyperhidrosis would remain at home with the family
and friends who were willing to see me as someone other than a sour
sweater. A few doctors had promised that the condition would vanish
once puberty said its long-awaited farewell, but at the ripened age of
twenty-one, I can confirm those promises to be quite disappointing. I
read somewhere that the symptoms of Hyperhydrosis might disappear
for months at a time, but the condition always returns.
The first medication my pediatrician prescribed for me was a
liquid slightly thicker than water that I smeared on my hands and feet
each night during ninth grade. I would sleep with plastic bags tied
around my wrists and ankles so that the medicine would work effec-
tively and probably to keep it from bleaching my sheets as well. This
method of treatment did nothing for me besides stealing the small bit
of my self-esteem that hadn’t drowned quite yet. I despised my help-
lessness and utter need for assistance with the bagging and the tying—I
could get three out of the four, but the second hand required an out-
side source. During the months I tried this medicine, late-night itches
35
 Bodies
went unscratched, tormenting me through most of those nights. As for hour, to shock myself so intensely that I would cry and my palms would Kira Zmuda
my days, nothing changed. I was sweating more than ever before. itch and burn for hours afterward. My roommate was understanding
A year later my next doctor, a dermatologist, suggested a though. She smoked too much pot to get a full grasp of what I was do-
medicine similar to the first, however, the prescription didn’t come until ing. I guess that was one case where I didn’t think of drug use as being
I could prove my seriousness in the matter. I figured that a specialist, a bad thing. After my freshman year, I quit the painful treatment and
someone who was taught to understand the intricacies of human flesh, spent my extra forty-nine hours a year with friends outside, no longer
would immediately gasp at my accounts of excessive sweating. Instead would I stay cramped in the dark all day with hands and feet incapaci-
he laughed heartily, asking if I had ever heard of puberty. I probably tated to the point where holding a book or talking on the phone were
sat on my hands, something I do to distance myself from uncomfortable nearly impossible.
situations, before bursting into hot tears that momentarily replaced the
other salt water that usually drew attention to me. If you answered “yes” to one or more of these questions consider con-
After my spectacle, the dermatologist opened a medicinal sulting a physician about Hyperhidrosis.
encyclopedia and pointed to a product called Drysol that I could try.
He instructed me to rub it on my hands, feet, and underarms before
bed, even though it would help my underarms the most. I put a lot of
hope into that miracle bottle. Actual results took place for the first few
weeks of this medication. My normal fist-sized pit stains reduced to
mere nickels and dimes. I could raise my hand for class without debat-
ing whether the question was important enough to endure the stares
from startled classmates. That joyride came to an end however, when
the medicine began leaving itchy and inflamed bumps on my under-
arms. Soon after the irritation began, I had to stop shaving and using
deodorant since both felt like a waterfall of rubbing alcohol gushing
over an open cut. Needless to say, my use of Drysol ended before I
even finished the bottle.
The third, and final doctor I saw for help was a hematolo-
gist who actually knew about Hyperhidrosis. He explained that I was
not the first person to sweat excessively and that in other parts of the
world people were paying tens of thousands of dollars to have surger-
ies to help regulate their overactive sweat glands. After these patients
sacrificed huge chunks of their yearly incomes, many found that the
sweat didn’t disappear as they had hoped. Instead, it slithered through
different internal pipes just to pour from their stomachs and thighs
before squishing out little puddles whenever they sat down.
I would try a different solution. It was Drionic and it con-
sisted of two blue water tubs the size of shoe boxes along with cloth
pads and batteries that came in a box resembling a board game. The
hematologist instructed me to plug in the batteries before placing the
cloth pads on the bottom of each tub to cover the metal plates that
would send electric waves into my fingers and toes. I would then fill
the tubs with tap water, and submerge either my hands or feet. If I
did this for an hour each day, half for the hands and half for the feet,
over the course of a week, I was to enjoy six splendidly dry weeks—or
1,008 hours of professional and social bliss. Then the cycle would begin
again.
My Drionic use lasted about two years, and included a year in
my college dorm where I never had a moment of privacy, let alone an

36 37
 SUBMIT
PROSE POETRY FINE ART PHOTOGRAPHY

Now Accepting
Submissions for the
Spring 2007 Issue
344 Squires Student Center
silhouette.collegemedia.com
231-4124
 Katie Mitchell Molly Bernhart
“Be Yourself. No one can tell you that you are doing it wrong.” “Ultimately my hope is to amaze myself.”
-Anonymous - Jerry Uelsmann

Lana Tang Jennifer Tomko

“The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what we share with someone “And I’m not gonna take it back
else when we’re uncool.” And I’m not gonna say I don’t mean that
-Lester Bangs, Almost Famous You’re the target that I’m aiming at
And I’m nothing on my own
Misono Yokoyama Got to get that message home”
“An artist is a dreamer consenting to dream of the actual world.” -Coldplay
- George Santayana
Kamau Rucker
Grant Gardner “There is not one big cosmic meaning for all, there is only the meaning we
“How happy is the blameless Vestal’s lot! The world forgetting, by the world each give to our life, an individual meaning, an individual plot, like an
forgot, Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray’r accepted, and individual novel, a book for each person.”
each wish resign’d.” -Anais Nin
-Alexander Pope
Meghan Mogensen
Laura Cook “Dont’s be too timid and squeamish about your actions.
“I don’t believe in villains or heroes...only right or wrong ways that All life is an experiment. The more experiments you
Kira Zmuda individuals have taken, not by choice but by necessity or by certain make the better.”
“Always remember you are unique. Just like everybody else.” still-uncomprehended influences in themselves, their circumstances and their -Ralph Waldo Emerson
-Unknown antecedents. This is so simple I’m ashamed to say it, but I’m sure it’s true.”
-Tennessee Williams Linsday Key
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
Laura Brockman With your one wild and precious life?
“Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know -Sola Ayeni-Biu
If you build it...nerds will come. - Mary Oliver
that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.”
-G. K. Chesterton -Benchwarmers

Corinne Jeltes
Michelle Billman
“When I haven’t any blue I use red.”
“It’s like when you are excited about a girl and you see a couple holding hands,
-Pablo Picasso
and you feel so happy for them. And other times you see the same couple
and they make you so mad. And all you want is to always feel happy for them
because you know that if you do, then it means you’re happy, too.” Katherine F. Brumbaugh
--The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky “You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.”
-William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
Jonathan Pillow
“The first step -- especially for young people with energy and drive and
talent, but not money -- the first step to controlling your world is to
control your culture. To model and demonstrate the kind of world you
demand to live in. To write the books. Make the music. Shoot the films. Paint the
art.”
-- Chuck Palahniuk

Jennifer Henszey
“If men swear that they want to harm you when you are asleep, you can go to
sleep. If women say so, stay awake.”

40 41