ink volume 6

8/3/2019 Ink Volume 6

1/30

ink2@@7-zCICI8 valarne 6


2/30

inlta journal of literary and visual arts

2007-2008Rose-Hulman I nstitute of Technology

Co-EditorsProf. Antonia Bowden

Dr. MakiHirotaniDr. Mark MinsterDr. Corey TaylorEditorialstaffRobert AdamsDanny Beyrer

Jessica LipscombHannah Smith

Cover Photo by Erin Hudson

t,'


3/30

1ti

This year's issue of /nk is dedicated to the memory of Nicholas Lee andBrandon Couch; to the fighting spirits of Drew Christy, Adam Effinger,and JeffTrune; and to the victims ofthe recent shooting tragedy atNorthern lllinois University.

Editors'NoteThe editors wish to thank everyone who contributed to lnk, and tocongratulate the artists whose work appears on the following pages.We would like to acknowledge three especially outstanding works byErin Hudson, Allison Faber, and lan Ross.Thanks to our student staff-Jessica Lipscomb, Hannah Smith, DannyBeyrer, and Rob Adams-for taking time out of their busy schedules toaid in the production of the magazine. We are especially grateful forJessica Lipscomb's hard work and diligence; without her, lnk would notexist. We would also like to thank Jeff Schoonover, the Elsie B. PawleyFund, and our colleagues in the Department of Humanities and SocialSciences for their support. tWe are grateful to serve as the interim advisors for lnk while RebeccaDyer takes a Fulbright sabbatical. lt has been rewarding to work withmaterial that shows another side of our students' and colleagues'abilities.

-Antonia Bowden, Maki Hirotani, Mark Minster, and CoreyTaylor


4/30

ContentsAllison Faberlan Ross

Mark MinsterSudershan TirumalaSudershan TirumalaPreston PameijerPhillip RodenbeckCory StansburyJason GibbsMatthew FoutsBruce K. VaughenWilliam TerrillRob AdamsJim SedoffMaria FoutsAdam HesterRebecca DeVasherJulia WilliamsMariah Walton

The Rhinoceros and Dali

lndiana H.R. Bill 1300Hope in a SonnetDelicate BeautyCurse of the Hand14

MustangA Night in KauaiCarolina Beach, NC

Last StopRoseSonnet 13

After WordsBlue Skies

1

2

3557891077L213

1416L718t92022

ContentsCory StansburyJim SedoffJessica LipscombJessica LipscombErin HudsonAndy EvansDanny BeyrerErin HudsonJason GibbsAaron MillerRebecca DeVasherSusan ReynoldsMatthew FoutsMark MinsterJim SedoffBruce K. VaughenDavid KorffMariah WaltonJim Sedoff

Emma's Apartment

A Man in Brussels on a Bright Sunny Day

NetThe Tired Body's Sharp Mind

Virtue, the Last Watchword

Snow CaveEmbraceSeriouslyClear DestinationMarshfield, MAThe CathedralView from Franklin MountainRicha

2324

2526282930323334353637384041424748


5/30

ink ink

The Rhinoceros and DaliAllison Faber

A lone sail on the horizon;A small white chip on the cerulean canvas.Waves listlessly lick the shore.Wetting stones rounded and smooth with the passage of ages.A boy in red shortsWhite blonde hair flitting in the windKneels overAnd pokes at a beached fish.He picks up a handful of stones,Feeling their cool smoothness,Chooses the flattest one,Rears back,Throws.The stone skipsFour timesBefore sinking down into the dark depths.

lan Ross

WINNER, BEST VISUAL ART WINNER, BEST LITERARY WORK


6/30

ink ink

lndiana H.R. Bill 1300Mark Minster

Monsantowalks into saten'soffice, which is madeofmarble, ,Thanks to us," the voice from Viagen says, suffusingthe room.ice, and steel. "you serue uswell," Monsento ecknowledges to the cornersofSatan rises. He iswearinga Bluetooth and an even smile- the room. The air clouds up as Satan exhates. One ring ofcigarsmoke

"Viagen has me on hold"-and motionsforhimto sit. waversaround Monsanto,s head and disappears. ".,.Having ensured that"l'llstand," Monsanto says. Hefolds his arms llke a Seneraland all meats and milks and their mandated additives and extractives arewalks around the room, tasting with hisfingersthe dust on saten's di- protected byallcourts oflaw having required proprietary labels on soitplomasend originalThomas Kincades, admiringwith unblinking eyethe and stone of every shape and size, we are ready.,,panoramicview. "Bated breath," satan says.

"l've been on hold forhours." satan offers Monsanto a ci8ar. "Whatcan we do?" asks the voice from Viagen,"Technically," Monsanto says, still looking out the windows at .Twothings." Monsanto stands and welks behind satan,s desk.

acres of na rrow, metered parking, "you're required by law to display ou r "First, from both of you. you should know that we intend to patent par-logowith tobacco produds," turition, pregnancy, and conception.And wewould likeyou to persuade"lt's he.e some\ /here." satan lifuthe cigar box, pats hisvest, the legislators and regu latory agencies."flips through piles offolders. "tthink we both saw that coming." satan says, exhaling.

"You knowwhy l'm here. No surprises there," agreesviagen."Animal, vgetable, or mineral?" Satan winks. He touches his "With the entkegene poolpatented, this is admittedly onlythe

earpiece, says, "Hello?" last in ourlong line ofdominoes.""Animal, this time, Put iton speaker" "Does anyone playdominoes anymore?" Satan wonders aloud.Monsanto sinks into a sofl tanned armchak on which have "Or does one of you have that patented, too?' And, when no taughs,beenembroideredthewolds"GenuineGenocide'"senator Fenson is having his doubts," a voice says from speak- "Xeys," Monsanto sayt levelpalm in satan'sface.ers hidden in the cornices.*That'swhyl'm here," says Monsanto. "onceth No Beauty

Left BehindAct is signed into law he'llhave no choice butours.""'No choice butourt'" sayssatan, "l'llhave to rememberthat.""l asked you both here," Monsanto continues, "to inform you

of our final intentions." He opens an envelopefrom his poaket. "Havingrendered it illegalto eat orharvest or plantor even touch a seed with-out proper payment, having assured thegenetic identitv of allcattle..."


7/30

ink

Hope in a SonnetAfter a dark night, the rising sunGame's come back, much needed home runThrough the threatening clouds, the azure skyA California Condor chick's first attempt to flyln the daily mad rush, a moment of clarityDuring a tense conversation, the spark of hilarityOn a parched dry day, sight of a water fountainls Africa fairly flat? See the snow-capped mountainln an everyone-for-oneself world, a helping handStorm? lgnore. The rainbow shows up a colorful bandDistinctive sound of the lvory-billed WoodpeckerTake a wrong turn in a cave, and you see a flickerAt the end of an exhausting trek, the last mileTiring day was it? Come home to see your baby smile.

Sudershan Tirumala

ink

Delicate BeautySudershan Tirumala


8/30

ink

Curse ofthe HandPreston Pameijer

ink

t4Hostile robes of chasm-black enshroud a daunting beast.I have no doubt it is my heart upon it means to feast.Charcoal skin, a withered hand ventures from its cave.Fingers tighten, solemn grasp upon a writhing stave.Night is still, it has no eyes, at vacant black I stare.Moonbeam dance on glinting scythe now silencing my prayer.Wind picks up in winter wisps that stir a darkened veil.Brooding black, the fate to come, the blade to chest impale.Hands that raise at measured pace the edge of sharpened steel.Shadow forged in blackest hate and cursed by darkest seal.The blade peaks, I halt my breath, the phantom holds his poise.Beneath the wind, a chilling voice, a raspy haunting noise."We die for love" the specter spoke foretold obituary.Swathed in black the saint did take my life in February.

Philip Rodenbeck


9/30

ink ink

MustangThe wind upon your facescomes without a trace.Dream of the wilderness,life with endless bliss.Come walk with me, child,in this peaceful wild.Walk with the unspokenuntil the world is broken.Embrace the beautyof something plain to see.Cross this wide, open land so peacefulwith the forgotten people.Here on the slope of the mountain,stay with the last of your kin.The wolf howls,and the mustang bows.

Jason Gibbs

10

Cory Stansbury


10/30

t7,L ink

A Night in KauaiMatthew Fouts

ink

Carolina Beach, NCBruce K. Vaughen

-,8 k a,.


11/30

ink

The sickly-sweet smell of death wafted up from the fieldspainted crimson, remnants of friends and enemies. ln the stagnanthours after the massacre, the difference mattered little. Time itselfstood still in the sheer audacity of Man's annihilation of himself. Therewere few survivors that day, and the term didn't extend past their physi-cal being. Death would have left them in much the same state as theywere following the separation of souls from bodies. Those who surviveddid so only in a hollow existence, surely their souls were just as vacantas those who had perished. Fire consumed what little was left, but whatit stole was superficial to the theft that they had just experienced. Thefirst night no effort was made for comfort nor anything. The few survi-vors simply slept scattered among the dead, motivation completely ab-sent. The next day went about much as the first, the fires joined thedead's souls, leaving nothing but their physical mark in a place bereft ofmeaning. Few movements graced the bodies of the living, just barelydistinguishing them from the dead. With night, however, nature pre-sumed it had waited long enough and the rains fell hard, the cloudscompeting with the bodies to leave its mark on the earth. This smallchange elicited an equally small change in those who still walked as theyfound a common shelter, a building only half burnt that staved off theworst of the cloud's excrement. Eyes remained downcast, only the mostbasic elements of human existence were at play here.

Morning brought the sun. With it came more subtle signs ofnature's work. The crimson still covered the earth, yet signs of brownearth and cleansing shown as well. One more element of human exis-tence made its mark, the survivors put forth a comparatively heroic ef-fort to the previous days in the searching for edibles. The result waslackluster yet proficient enough to stave off the worst of the hunger, butpromised soon things would be different should the survivors wish toremain so.

Amongst the ragged group was a child; she couldn't have seenmore than twelve comings of the cold of winter. Death had left her face

T413 ink

William Terrill Rob Adams


12/30

16nk15 ink

Amongst the ragged group was a child, she couldn't have seenmore than twelve comings of the cold of winter. Death had left her faceas disparate as the others, a blush of ash complemented the emptiness.Her face was darkened by the burnt refuse; it coated her entire face,less a small trail blazed by a single tear. On the third day afterthe rainsshe rose from a nest of rubble-looked about slowly. Her eyes took inthe world without interest, yet their movement was graced with a cer-tain precision. Several minutes of surveying yielded the most evidentsign of life since the day crimson was spilt upon the earth. The girlwalked down what had been the center of town. Delicate were hersteps through the rubble: no noise was made, even the air seemed tohold its breath, listening for the sound that did not come. The survivorseyes traced her movement. Their dull eyes locked on to her motion. ltwas not of interest, but rather some unseen force seemed keep theireyes fixed on the girl as she moved away. Finally after a momentstretched long yet ever so short her figure disappeared. The mysticallock was shattered and eyes retreated their view to the earth.

Taking the lone initiative of the youngest survivor as a sign,time restored itself. Hours flowed into the rubble and the earth. Theysilently performed their requisite duty and morphed decaying matterfurther along its path. The survivors became the constants of the sceneas ruined buildings collapsed against the mighty foe of wind. Bodies de-cayed in the rain and sun. The day stretched to an eternity, the sunmoving slow though giving no evidence to the fact. Clouds hid its faceand cast the scene in a shadow representative of its existence. As thesun left the heavens in defeat, a last defiant ray pierced the clouds andshone on the stained earth, glaring intensely at the town. As it dimmedand disappeared, it shone lastly upon the path that had taken the girlout of town; the path that would never again see use.

Last StopJim Sedoff


13/30

ink

RoseMaria Fouts

ink

Sonnet 13What words are spoken on a rainy dayThat can heal the soft mourning of my heart?Each second becomes a lengthy delay,Marking the agony while we're apart.On the table, I have looking at meA beautiful girl in a picture frame.Her countenance shines with loving glee,Yet my soul aches at the sound of her name.ln her smiling face, I see perfection.To an angel, I think I could compare.But what demon, with evil connection,Her away from the love I have does tear?From whatever cause, my soul is on fire.ls it pure love or devilish desire?

Adam Hester

18L7


14/30

209 ink ink

After WordsJulia Williams

Following the Asian tsunami in December 2004, friends and familysearching for the missing posted messoges to an online bulletin boardprovided by the BBCI am looking for information. We are looking for news. We are desper-ate for news. I am awaiting news of my daughter. We are trying to findinformation. I am urgently seeking any information of my cousins.I am looking for my sister. I am looking for my brother. I am looking formy dad. I am looking for my parents. I am looking for my friend Ali.My friends were holidaying with their son. My parents were on vaca-tion.Piers Simon is missing. He was washed away whilst saving his brother'sgirlfriend. Piers was last seen wearing blue board shorts and a red t-shirt. lf anyone has seen him, please contact me.We are still searching for Rubina Wong. She was swept away by thewaves. She is Chinese, 25 years old, 5 feet, L00 pounds, tattoo on lowerback and one on shoulder.Missing Charlotte Jones, referred to as Charlie by her friends, age24,born on 5th February 1981. She is 5 feet 4 inches with distinctive blondedreadlocks and has a tattoo ofthe "all seeing eye" of Egypt on her lowerback.

Rebecca DeVasher


15/30

22t ink

Looking for Connor Keightley, 31 years old, lrish, 5 feet (ish), shaveddark hair, new tattoo, very jolly, friendly man. Please advise if you haveseen or heard of his whereabouts.Rue Halder, I hope you made it through safely. Todd Ferguson, whereare you? Ciaran Coyle, could you please let us know that you are allright?Please help if you can. Family and friends are frantic with worry. lf any-one has any news, please let me or anyone know. So many people arehoping for the best.

ink

Blue SkiesMariah Walton


16/30

243 ink ink

Emma's ApartmentJim Sedoffory Stansbury


17/30

25 ink

Jessica Lipscomb

ink

RevelationsJessica Lipscomb

The sun shining, gleaming, bouncing off your vibrant shawl, thepeople bustling, hurrying, trying to get somewhere, yet you stand thereuntouched, unharmed, by the hustle and bustle of the city, the chaos ofthe frantic tourists, your clients. Nothing moves you for this is just an-other day in your life, and we are just another group of people fromwhom you can make money off of. But maybe you are not the reasonwe give you our money. Maybe it is your friend, the one who is perchedon your shoulder. Maybe he is the reason we give you money. We havenever seen anything like it before. An ordinary black crow gliding, thengracefully landing on a man's shoulder. To you it is commonplace. But tous it is exotic, unusual, enchanting. We wonder why a man would allowa crow to land on his shoulder, and not even mind; not even seem tonotice. But you notice.

He chose you, just as you chose us. He saw you were in need,saw you were different, saw you needed a friend. Sure this was manyyears ago, but he's stayed by your side, continued to befriend you. Youalways stood out. That's why he chose you. You were alone amongst asea of people, just as you are now. But you didn't know how to handleyourself back then. You didn't have control of the situation. You didn'tknow how to handle people, and they certainly didn't know how to han-dle you. But your friend did, the little black feathered one who casuallyrests on your shoulder while you converse with the driver. Yes we willbe going for a ride through the streets of Brussels, your one time home,and now your shelter. You know them well, as well as the back of yourhand. But it is your friend who knows them better, because he's seenthe city from above. He has an advantage over all of us. But that doesn'tbother you. You understand that you are here because of him. You un-derstand that you are the man you are because of him. You know thepower he has over people, a power that exudes unto you.

To tourists you become more than an artist roaming the

26


18/30

27 ink

streets; you become an enchanted mystic creature, who is more thanhuman; someone we want to know better, someone whose life story wewant to know. But some of us are too afraid to ask. And it is those of uswho are left wondering who is that strange man and why does he have abird on his shoulder. And you might answer us if we would only ask. Butwe don't. We sit here and stare, answering our own questions with ourimaginations. Some of us capture you permanently for our scrapbooksand our memory. For you are clad in black with the sun illuminating yourfiery shawl of reds, oranges, and yellows. We capture your wispy, curly,grey hair that's transformed to silver as the sun gleams on it. And thenthere is your friend, perched atop your shoulder waiting, drawing us in,creating more questions, notjust about you, but also about us.

You and your friend make us question ourselves and the mean-ing of life, questions that neither you, nor we can answer. Questionsthat were buried deep within ourselves. Questions that you bring to thesurface because you are no longer afraid to be different. Like the sunilluminates you, sets you apart from the crowd, you illuminate our dif-ferences and try to force us to accept them. To accept the things wehave tried to keep buried. And you understand because there was atime you tried to keep them buried too, but then along came your friendwho showed you the light, a light you are trying to get us to see.

Unfortunately some of us refuse to see the light. Some of uschoose to ignore you, try to make you, and especially your friend, disap-pear. But for the rest of us, you refuse to go away. You refuse to be ig-nored. You mesmerize us, and for that we give you money. Not becauseyou are an artist who paints us a picture, but because you force us topermanently remember through the pictures we have taken, the mentalimages we have captured. You force us to recognize the differences. Soyes the sun is gleaming down, and it is a gorgeous day, but it is also somuch more because we have seen you. And because we have seen you,the bright sunny day has transformed into a haunted one, because youhave dug up things we didn't want dug up. And now that they are seeing

ink

the light of day for the first time in a long time, we are even more afraid.Most don't want others to see what you have found. But what scares usmore is that you found them without even trying. Without talking to usyou have extracted things no one before has extracted. And because ofthat, because ofyou and your friend we have the chance to becomebetter people, but only if we don't burry ourselves back in the ground,only if we face the truth in the dark, once the sun has gone down.

28

Erin Hudson


19/30

29 ink

NetAndy Evans

ink

The Tired Body's Sharp MindDanny Beyrer

Very alert, I begin to notice everything.Stepping from a steamy shower,

Fan not on, mirror showsNo hint of condensation.

How did my towel fall from the toilet?It seems just a bit too quiet to me.

I swear l've seen thisSequence in a horror movie.

All around me sleep,Yet my mind stays always acute.

I turn, I tear, I type,I nibble, I scribble, I eat

But I never sleep.My mind wanders, soars.l'm absolutely worthless.

l'm ever so blessed.Oh Lord forgive me!

My heart, take the rest![O how my mind!

Now even my thoughts rhyme!l

30


20/30

31 ink

Walking and thumbing,O my brothers,

"...and all that David Copperfieldkind of crap."

Manicured nails filed deadon a chalkboard.Sunrise already?

Acoustic guitar playedBackwards extremely fast.

Take me out coach.No camera can remove

This redeye.I swear l'm not crazy.

What darkens darkness?Lights blink, eyes don't.There's no end to this tape,

I can go all night."Morning, eh?"

Tired eyes,But not mine.

They have no idea whatHell I go through each night.

ink 32

Erin Hudson


21/30

33 ink

Virtue, the Last WatchwordJason Gibbs

When the sun shined bright in the bay,I asked "How are you this fine day?"You didn't think anything of it,Just kept walkin' like you saw fit.And everyday the sun shined,Everything was just fine.No care in your heart,But soon you'd be torn apart.One dark night,When God sleeps and you fright.From the same bay,Will a tempest come, dark as the Devil might say.The weak will be thrown,Those with no thought to be shown.Only the stout will remain,The world theirs to gain.That dark night,Collapsed to a day ever so bright.And much to my delight,I found you fallen in a horrid fright.I looked deep into your desperate eyes,But for another reason besides.I asked, "How are you this fine day?"And I left, with nothin' more to say.

ink 34

Aaron Miller


22/30

35 ink

Rebecca DeVasher

ink

Snow CaveSusan Reynolds

35


23/30

37 ink

EmbraceMatthew Fouts

ink

SeriouslyMark MinsterThese days when friends and family ask how I am, l've stopped

saying "Busy." lt's like answering "Fine, and you?" lt doesn't say any-thing new. Everyone's busy, we're always busy. Deadlines come fastand heedless of our mood. Some days, weeks, and even years are re-morseless as the Furies. Projects don't ask how we're feeling, the inboxdoesn't stop filling when we're low or blue or angry as hell that someman we love though we barely knew him is out there, clutching to life ina hospital, battling infections or struggling to open his eyes, or out thereeven further, dead before his time. Busyness propels us, and that is itsmerit, and that is its curse.

Over Spring Break, like most of us, I tasted something I hadn'tin a while, and it was comforting and sweet. Time. Just a moment oftime, time to do nothing. Time to dangle some thoughts over the dock,to breathe in to a count of 8 and out to a count of 16. I double-dug araised-bed garden, worked the compost, planted sweet peas and leafygreens, things that can survive any frost April might still have left.

There wasn't a lot of it, this time of which I speak. But there itwas, briefly, enough to take a taste.

There's a poem I love by Emerson called "Days." ln it, Days arepersonified as "daughters of Time," "marching single in an endless file."Each Day has the power to grant wishes to every person, and thosewishes are there simply for the asking: "Bread, kingdom, stars, and skythat holds them all." You can take all you want. The speaker of Emer-son's poem, however, gets stuck staring at the endless procession ofDays and in his haste and bafflement takes only "a few herbs and ap-ples." The poem ends with his catching a glimpse of the Day's face,which is full of scorn. The Day scorns him, the poem is clear, for nottaking all it had to offer.

Maybe what that poem means is that it's good to be busy, be-cause busyness takes everything the Day has in its pockets and purse,

38


24/30

ink9

and shakes down the Day to get every last cent. lnstead, though, I thinkthe poem means that it's better to throw your legs, your thoughts, andeven your projects over the side of the dock once in a while, becausemaybe busyness is what hurried Emerson's speaker to settle for herbsand apples, when instead he might have had everythingthis side of themoon. Busyness, after all, is what makes you see only the procession ofdays, instead of seeing each individual day for what it has to give.

The last time I dangled my legs in the water, literally, was lastsummer in Scotland, on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. That day, myfriends and I drove up into the Arrochar Range towards lnverary andstopped above the most beautiful valley I have ever seen, a place called"Rest and Be Thankful." We rested. We were thankful. I cupped myhands and drank straight from the mountain spring, counting in-breathsto 8 and out-breaths to 16. There was no busyness. I remember think-ing, and maybe I said it aloud: "this is where we go when we die." Thereis only one day there, wherever it is we imagine the dead to go, beyondthis hum of busyness, beyond this procession of days, where the deadtake every last gift the Day has to offer. There they rest, and we rest,and are thankful.

ink 40

Clear DestinationJim Sedoff


25/30

4I ink

Marshfield, MABruce K. Vaughen

ink

The CathedralDavid Korff

"You play beautifully."Startled, the young novice turned on the piano bench. "Bitte?" she

said when she had recovered."You play beautifully." She looked confused. He tried again, this

time in broken German.She smiled and dropped her eyes. A strand of golden hair fell from

under her wimple. "Danke," she said.They were alone in the old cathedral. The old stone walls did little

to keep out the cold, but at least they weren't out in the driving windand the blinding snow. The young American had sat listening to her playfor some time. The delicate music reminded him of warm firesides andthe comfort of home... of Kerri. A knot of pain formed in his chest, andhis hand wenttothe letterthat he had received that day. He didn'tread it; he didn't need to, not anymore.

After he had received the letter he had begged his CO for leave towalk around town. Nobody would be moving in this storm anyway.Sometime later, and well after dark, he had found himself standing onthe front steps of the old cathedral. Carefully he had stepped inside,and there she had been, her eyes closed as she listened to the music shewas playing, her face glowing with a peace he had not seen since com-ing to Europe.

He sat down and lost himself in the music, watching as the lightfrom a hundred candles flickered across her face. He marveled that thegirl could play in this cold.

After their initial exchange they sat silent for a long while. Finallyshe ventured upon her limited English. "What are you doing here?"

He thought about the question. What was he doing here? He was-n't the kind to just walk into churches at night. Had he been runningfrom something? No, if he had been running he would have stolen apint from the Lieutenant's stash and gotten drunk. He had wanted to

42


26/30

43 ink

think. Not wanting to give a long explanation that she wouldn't under-stand, he fell back on the obvious. "lch bin Soldat."

She looked at his uniform and nodded. "Natilrlich, aber ich habegemeint..." she stopped, confused. She could not figure out how to sayit in English. He nodded in understanding. Walking over toward thepiano bench he pulled the letter from his shirt pocket. Handing it to her,he said, "Meine Frau,.." but he didn't know how to explain the rest.

She took the letter and looked at it, as if trying to read what it said.When she looked back at him she saw that he was trying not to let hispain show. She did not know what had happened. She did not knowwhat he had seen and suffered or what terrible news this letter held forhim, but she pitied him. She forgot for a moment her own miseries, andthe pain that had led her to where she was now. She turned and set theletter on the piano. Then she began to play the song that her motherhad taught her years ago. She knew it had no meaning for him, but shehoped that somehow he would know what it meant to her, and under-stand.

As he stood listening to her play, a ghost flitted through his mind.He knew that song..,his grandmother had sung it to him when he was achild, and he remembered hearing his mother humming it the night thathis little sister lay dying. He didn't remember any of the words, but itwas a peaceful melody. She began to sing in German, and the languagethat had always sounded so harsh to him before did not sound so now.He fell back into a nearby pew and listened. The long months spentfighting their way across France had taken their toll. He was tired,weary of war, and now he was broken and homeless in a way that thewar could never have made him. He leaned forward and rested his headon the bench in front of him, losing himself in memories.

When she stopped playing he looked up to see her watching him.He suddenly realized that she was very young, maybe sixteen or seven-teen. lt had only been a few years since he himself was that old, butthose few years seemed like ages now. He wondered why she was here,

ink

wearing the habit of a novice and playing the piano at night in a frozenold cathedral. She should be at home, by a warm fireside, telling hermother about the cute new boy at school or sleeping peacefully anddreaming of whatever girls dream of. This war had turned both theirlives upside down. Her parents were probably dead, he decided, andthe poor girl had nowhere to go so she had run to the church that shehad known from earliest childhood.

He thought about Kerri again and his throat tightened. Life was notfair. He had gone off to fight, to give his life if necessary. He did notwant to die; he wanted to live and return to her arms, but he knew alsothat soldiers die. Yes, soldiers die...but here he was - cold and tired, butalive. There was an irony in it, but it was a tearful, sickening irony thathe could not smile at.

He looked back up at her, and in the dim light of the candles shecould see the tears glistening in his eyes. She saw his face tighten as hetried to hold them back, and then she knew what had happened to hiswife. She knew without being told that the pain in his face and eyes wasthe pain she had felt when her parents died. The soldier was alone now.He had nothing to return to when the war was over. For him, she knew,the end of the war meant a return to a cold, empty house, and to agrave somewhere in a lonely cemetery. He wept then, silently.

Quietly she arose and placed a hand on his shoulder. "l comeback," she whispered. She left him there and went to the small apart-ment at the back of the cathedral where her uncle slept. She touchedhis shoulder gently and he awakened. She did not have to say anything;she had called him often in the months since coming to the cathedraland he knew what she wanted. Without a word he dressed and pre-pared the monstrance.

When he walked out into the sanctuary they were there before thealtar- his niece and a young American soldier. He started when he sawthe soldier, but he said nothing. lf she trusted the American, that wasall he needed. Reverently he set the monstrance on the altar and took

44


27/30

45 ink

up the incense. When he was finished he returned to his room. Shewould keep watch until he awoke in the morning; she always did.

When she had first taken his hand to lead him closer to the altar,the American did not know what to do, but he followed her slowly.They stood there until the priest came out with the monstrance. Thenshe knelt, and he knelt beside her, ignoring the hard stone floor. He wasnot sure what was happening, but he felt at peace. The smell of theincense, though not unpleasant, was strange to him. When the old manhad left he heard her begin praying. A glow seemed to come from thecross on the altar - a peaceful warmth that almost made him forget hisgrief. He began to prayfor her. He had not prayed in a longtime, andthe thing was strange at first. He did not care. He prayed for her. Heknew nothing about her, except that she had been kind to him, and thatshe seemed so alone. He could not imagine the fears and horrors thathad chased her through the last few years. For a moment he forgothimself, and wished only that she had not suffered as she must have.The words came easily now, and he began to pray for Kerri, and for hislittle sister, and then again for her...

After a while he drifted off to sleep, facedown on the cold stonefloor, and he was not cold. She stayed beside him all night, praying forhim, for her parents, and for his wife. She cried softly from time to time- cried for the strange man who lay sleeping on the floor beside her,who would never see his wife again.

When he awoke in the morning the sun was just peeking above thehorizon. The golden cross with the radiant white circle was gone fromthe altar, and she was sitting at the piano again, playing softly so as notto wake him. He lay there, trying to sort out what had happened duringthe night, hoping it had not been a dream. Then he looked over andsaw her at the piano and heard the sweet music, and he knew it wasreal.

Slowly he stood and walked over to her. He smiled when sheturned around. The letter was still there where the music should be,

ink

but somehow it did not hurt anymore to think about what it held. Heknew he was not finished grieving, but he felt a peace about it all thathe could not understand. She took the letter and held it up to him.

"Nein," he said, shaking his head, "You keep it."He stood there for a minute, not knowing what to do. Finally he

only said, "Danke."She smiled, "Gott sei mit dir," she said,He nodded and smiled. "And with you," he said, and then he

turned to go.As he stepped out onto the steps in front ofthe cathedral he could

still hear her playing, and he marveled at what had happened. Then thegreat door banged shut behind him, cutting off the ethereal music.Somewhere in the distance the rattle of gunfire reminded him of whathe was. "Gott mit uns," he thought, and smiled sadly as he starteddown the street toward headquarters, his back to the blood red sunrise.

46


28/30

47 ink

View from Franklin MountainMariah Walton

ink 48

RichaJim Sedoff


29/30

ink

Notes on Contributors

Rob Adams is a first-year student majoring in computer science.Danny Beyrer is a first-year student majoring in chemical engineering.Rebecca DeVasher is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Chem-istry. She is an amateur photographer whose interest lies mainly in na-ture photography, particularly seasonal variations in landscapes andstills. Rebecca is a strong supporter of environmental causes and hopesthat her photography will inspire others to explore the benefits of agreener existence.Andy Evans is a senior computer engineering major.Allison Faber is a sophomore civil engineer.Maria Fouts is a junior majoring in mechanical engineering.Matthew Fouts learned the enjoyment of taking photographs from hisfather at a young age. "A picture takes a short moment in this life andstretches it on forever." He owes all these moments to his parents andsister and the Big Guy upstairs who made this all possible.Jason Gibbs is a first-year biomedical engineering major.Adam Hester is a junior civil engineer.Erin Hudson is a senior physics major.


30/30

ink

David Korff is graduating in 2008 with a double major in Computer Sci-ence and Mathematics. He is originally from Canton, GA, and has beenwriting short stories and the occasional poem since high school. Despitebeing a Rose student, he enjoys languages, history, and literature, andhopes to have time to continue writing after graduation.Jessica Lipscomb is an electrical engineering major.Aaron Miller is the Cleanroom Facility Manager and lnstrumentationTechnician.Mark Minster is a former preschool teacher and, for a day and a half, atelemarketer for Eastlawn Memory Gardens.Preston Pameijer is a first-year chemical engineering major.Susan Reynolds has worked at Rose-Hulman for 9.5 years in FacilitiesOperations. She has always had an interest in photography and enjoysit as a hobby. Her primary camera for photos is a 35mm Minolta Dynax5 using three different lenses.Philip Rodenbeck is a sophomore mechanical engineer. He was bornand raised in Valparaiso, lN and enjoys playing basketball, wrestling,watching movies, and writing. Like everyone at Rose, the majority of histime is tangled in schoolwork, but he tries and write poetry wheneverfree time and inspiration collide.lan Ross is (or was) a physics / math double major. He graduated inFebruary of 2008 and secured a temporary position in the Nuclear Engi-neering department of Argonne National Laboratory in Darien, lllinois.ln the fall, he will begin his pursuit of a PhD in high energy physics at theUniversity of Wisconsin-Madison.

ink

Jim Sedoff is attcmpting to get his chemical engineering degree, butkccps licl.ting distractcd by traveling around the world and taking pic-Irrcs instcad. Although he's no professional, his ever-increasing pic-Lurcs folder on his computer hopes to say otherwise. As always, enjoywhat you see around you!Cory Stansbury is a junior mechanical engineer. Cory's interest in pho-tography started in middle school and has become more serious sincetlren. He worked for two years under the tutelage of Fran Weimer, an,rward winning portrait photographer. ln addition to experience withWeimer, he worked as an equipment consultant in photography as well,r,; selling retail. Cory's works are currently under review for exhibitionrrr Bar Harbor and Portland, Maine.William Terrill is a biomedical engineering major from Cuyahoga Falls,ohio. He plays soccer and is a member of the Triangle fraternity.Sudershan Tirumala works at Rosc.l'lulnrarr Ventures and dabbles inr reative writing and photograplry in lris sparc time. He loves to spendlime outdoors and can be frequcrrtly spottcd on weekends hiking inlJrown County with his family. Suclursh.rrr, his wile Geeta (both are Rosclirads) and 19-month old son Nirhush livc in lndianapolis.

Bruce K. Vaughen is a Visitinli A',',i',l,url l'rolcssor in Chemical Enginccr-ing. These watercolors exist br.r ,ru,,r' ol w,rturcolor lessons taken withSarah, his daughter, undcr tlrr, worrrlr,r lrrl rlircction of Helen Lord inRichmond, Virginia.Mariah Walton is a senior rlorrlrlr, ln,rl()r nrli irr cht:mistry and chemicalcngineering.

Julia Williams is Professor ol I nlllt',lr,rrrrl I xr,t rrlivc Dirc'ctor of the Officeof lnstitutional Researclr, [)l,rtrt rtt rli,rnr l /\',',r ",',r rrcr r t. Sltc tcaches( ourses in British literatltrr',ttttl llr ltntr,tl r otrtntunrr,tliott.

ink volume 6

Documents