The Chronicle | Spring 2020

The Chronicle Spring 2020

CHRONICLE STAFF SENIOR STAFF Madison Wakefield - Editor-in-Chief Xavier Charlot - Managing Editor Colby Cofield - Promotions & Social Media Manager Nick Bauer - Promotions & Social Media Manager Hannah Rivers - Art Editor Mary Thomas McCutchen - Literary Editor Joseph Whipple - Layout Editor Abigail Johnson - Copy Editor Allison Killinger - Webmaster

GENERAL STAFF Nicole Ammerall Erik Antonio Kelly Evans Sam Garland Dria Heath Katherine Kaczmarski Elizabeth Marvin

Caroline Morales Alana Revels Hannah Skinner August Spencer Davis White Victoria Xu

FROM THE EDITOR “Do I dare disturb the universe?”

-T. S. Eliot

For many years, my mind has always wandered back to this hesitant line from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”. The idea of disturbing the universe was dropped before me so daunting, considering the laughable verses prior detailing whether Mr. Prufock would simply ask a woman a question. Though it seemed too grand for me to comprehend, this question was always present when I made decisions in my life; in those moments I thought to myself: Could it be I’m disturbing the universe right now?

In September 2017, I became a part of The Chronicle with little knowledge of how greatly it would impact me. Looking back at it now, I was on the edge of a precipice, unaware how that decision would escalate into an unexpected course where I’ve had the opportunity to collaborate with visionary minds, review stimulating art, and have the honor of being your editor for the past two terms. On this journey with The Chronicle, the malleable environment of our community has shaped this magazine, and with each edition published, we have responded with unwavering and defiant expression.

I’ve always tried to find the real meaning behind Eliot’s quote; discovering different perspectives that offered transient messages that never satisfied. The most resonating answer explains our actions are often perceived to be greater than they are, leading to us fearing any sense of risk taking in life. While there is truth there, maybe I don’t want to accept it.

Rather, I see Eliot’s question as a challenge. Magazine after magazine, a group of twenty or so college students and a hundred others conspire with this driving passion, eager to present this publication to the universe. We are dealing with something much bigger than ourselves and we are thriving. With each edition, we are disturbing the universe, the cosmos are quaking. What a refreshingly beautiful revelation. I am eternally grateful to have shared this experience with you.

For one last time, thank you for fostering this lovely disturbance to the universe, Madison Wakefield

Madison Wakefield Editor-in-Chief

About The Chronicle Established in 1897, the Chronicle is Clemson University’s first student art and literary magazine. Twice a year, our staff promotes, produces, and distributes a new issue representing the best artistic and literary work that Clemson students have to offer. We have many committees that work together to create the magazine including creative direction, layout, promotions/events, copy-editing, art submissions, literary submissions, merchandise, web, and business. From art and photography, to poems, short stories, essays, audio and visual submissions, we accept a wide variety of submissions every semester, many of which are selected to appear in the magazine.

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Disclaimer: The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in this issue of The Chronicle belong solely to the individual artists and writers. It is noted, these ideas are not affiliated with The Chronicle nor Clemson University.

TABLE OF CONTENTS Fear and Lothing........................................................................................................................................8 May Artifacts (Prescribed Fire)..................................................................................................................9 Matryoshka............................................................................................................................................... 10 Spring....................................................................................................................................................... 12 Berry Feast / When I Met You................................................................................................................. 13 Trampoline............................................................................................................................................... 14 Oxygen Swimmers................................................................................................................................... 17 Serenity..................................................................................................................................................... 18 Euphoric................................................................................................................................................... 19 Boat at Sea........................................................................................................................ ....................... 20 Harbor.......................................................................................................................................................21 You’re almost as lovely as Isreal................................................................................................................. 22 Jewish Bones............................................................................................................................................. 23 Anonymous.............................................................................................................................................. 24 Blossom.................................................................................................................................................... 25 Dot In City Sky/ How to Love a Wire Walker........................................................................................ 26 Sugar Rush............................................................................................................................................... 27 Self Portrit as Venus.................................................................................................................................. 29 I’m Looking Through You........................................................................................................................ 30 beautiful boy.............................................................................................................................................. 31 Boy Scout Bill........................................................................................................................................... 32 He became a sinkhole............................................................................................................................... 33 Inscription for a Coffee Lover’s Headstone.............................................................................................. 34 donut do it................................................................................................................................................ 37 Kinda Like Meditation............................................................................................................................. 38 city of lilies................................................................................................................................................ 39 The Death of Antinous............................................................................................................................. 40

Fear and Loathing Nicole Stoudemire

May Artifacts (Prescribed Fire) Keith Phelps Fire wove its way Down our line Completing (killing) itself Under the direction Of we, the tamers and tenders It threw being with the winds Angst (creation) Erupting over last year’s growth, The Indian Grass brushes burrowed From last year’s sun, And exhausting to a paper each Scupted bones of the prairieThe vestiges of othe life named Deer, Memory of scapula and femur, In beds of ash Every lafe yearns to be stone Perhaps it is liquid Under the force of youth But it always returns (gives) hard substance Dead bones bronze Before pasque flowers wake New cold life in warm ash Alive (commitment) in old calcium and dried sepals Memory that now builds its home On my bookshelf

Matryoshka Naomi LaRoche

i stand in My Place, always looking out, past the dark buildings past the velvet blue sky, and gaze at the men who walk the streets below me gazing at their cruel-beautiful-horrible faces i worship them, you see, i am jealous of their effortless beauty, beauty that comes like a summer breeze to them, while i must paint my beauty on every day, arduous and terrible and heavy, this woodenbeauty is the men look up, occasionally, tempted, and the men that look at me want to take me apart. but they discover that the intricate swirls and design, are only that intricate because i made them so. they discover i’m a fraud, when they scratch their nails into my cracks, and i bleed only dry air.

the emptiness is shocking to them, i think. they leave me in pieces, a corpse long taken by rigor mortis, by the river styx that runs through me i bare my fangs, sneering at their cherubic faces i ask the men, do they not like what they see? am i not exactly what they wanted? a hollow, beautiful mother for their children, a perfect obedient idolator? but the children i bear don’t ever come to life not fully at least i paint them eyes of jade, i give them poppy-red lips but still they sit, silent witnesses to my primordial sin perfect jurors in the courtroom i was born to be put on trial in so the men leave, and don’t take my children with them i sometimes hear them weeping late at night, deep inside me calling out to me, they say Mother, why have you damned us i say it was what i was born to do

Spring Matthew Hegler

Berry Feast / When I Met You Carson Colenbaugh Look at you there!

All covered in dark purple juice and sometimes you scream when you see a little bee but they like these fruits as much as you do, honey they just don’t have jars to pop them in when they fall off the bramble to balance on your head All tucked in sour meadows, surrounded by cherry and fig trees ain’t we trapped on the mount of muscadine in that raw orchard air What berry feast have you brought at my feet?

Baskets of promises, smiles of devotion woven tightly in cedar strips and buckeye beads I see your legs are finally warm here in the land of paradise where I gaze on your smile and the curls of your hair Jump in the water, bask in the air!

Fear not what gravel paths I tread on the road leads back to you always --When I met you, I prayed for berries in spring and this bounty came late - in fall, in the heat but still, they are sweet as I ever have dreamed You are lost in the meadow somewhere crossing that stream

Trampoline Davis White I stumbled across the best way of life as a boy On a trampoline, Unknowingly of course.

I jumped and jumped, using every bounce to climb higher And meet clouds I really believed I could pull down If I tried.

Nevertheless, I learned That sometimes the nicest things to see Are just impossibly high And no matter how you bend your knees Or stretch your hands You can never quite catch them.

But, there was more.

Not long after that, I learned to flip.

It seemed that no one could stop me Or my rotations That I knew with every ounce of certainty Would land me back on my feet.

Eventually, I mastered the backflip, The somersault, And, finally, the gainer; Soaring to the “oohs” and “aahs” of my parents and friends Like a planet on its axis.

I was thrilled, Feeding on the appreciation Of my audacity.

But after a while, I stuck to the ground rather than closing my eyes and wheeling backward or forward.

I stopped flying, The way responsible adults must do; Turning in my childhood-card at the ripe old age of twenty-two, And my lust for life in the rainy years that followed.

Now and again, when the chance reveals itself And I take the children to visit their grandparents, I climb back onto it’s old, responsive surface; It’s squeaking springs and rusted frame Mindful of its age and politely reminding me of my own.

But, despite the protests of aching knees and back, I give it a bounce or two Moving, yet docile And unable to flip the way I had.

I tense, which leads to a lock up, which leads to the flatline of my occelations.

I watch as what’s left of my boyhood dies To vivid flashes of medical bills, Or casts, Or braces, Ultimately, bowing to pain.

I realize my best quality has forsaken me; The focus, The childlike tunnel vision.

The ability to abandon all caution, Throwing it to the wind For a moment of thrill, Or the drop of a jaw, Or the feeling of myself spinning In the physical, calculated darkness, And trusting myself behind closed eyes.

I think now, late in the game, of the idle years standing that I could’ve spent voliant; Hard conversations I should’ve initiated, “I love you’s” that clung to my lips, Adventures daring to be had, Traditions begging to be broken, And days spent so boldly, they’d later be called youthful, and spry, Though I’m well beyond those now.

So, in old, regretful reflection, I learned that the best way to live is to never get comfortable on the ground.

But is it ever really too late To forget about the pain?

To abandon caution, The looming fear of failure, The endless drag of life, The towering lack of favor, The inhuman weight of reason?

To close your eyes, And just jump?

Oxygen Swimmers Reece Etiemble

Serenity Destiny Boone

Euphoric Melina Wallace

She would do it again…

Shaking with jitters and palms sweaty.

Wiped quickly against polyester denim.

A smile that made her cheeks look plastic.

A car door opening. A car door closing.

She’s smiling. Then he’s smiling. Then she’s laughing.

Then he is laughing. And she is happy because she’s made him laugh.

Like really laugh. A laughter that roars like a waterfall as tears swell up in his eyes And without over thinking, she began to run, to do what she came to do, Leaping

blurting out

I love you!

Boat at Sea Olaf Tollefsen

Harbor Lauren Neisser A sheen of rain hazes down amidst a brimming midnight, with bark filtering the gale and calming its gust.

Centered is she who wishes to tether to root, and mold to the receding reverie that steams from the soil.

Drawn to the mist, she awaits quiet, for true solace is still, creaking in the silence for those who can distill her.

She seeks a harbor unburdened by voice and footprint; a balm for exposed mind, forged in stupor and concealed by normalities.

Here she may bask in a chronic calm, elegant and unhinged.

You’re almost as lovely as Isreal Madison Wakefield

I’m starting to confuse The sky and the shore.

Because your words are like nectar, They transform walls into rose beds.

And I feel myself slipping When you talk to your kitchen windows, Echoes of hymns are trickling down the faucet.

This feels near to Shabbat Drinking coffee under the Israeli trees Those same sweet hymns being our honey at sundown.

Jewish Bones Madison Wakefield

On my birthday, a classmate wore skull and bones And painted walls with swastikas, insulting the bones Of my ancestors and their families, souls stolen and souls survived Who lived through Auschwitz. Witnesses: their skin and bones.

Grandpa took the boat to Ellis Island as a boy And the flames of cigarettes will soon swallow his bones.

Remember his wife, her songbird singing voice, as we light the yahrzeit candle Echoes of Shema Yisrael flow through our bones.

In my childhood, I remember slick wooden floors on Pesach Racing cousins to the charoset- never caring for the shank bone.

Driving to Nana’s in Winter blessing the menorah then a battle Of the traditional Christmas KFC to get the final thigh bone.

I’m grateful for my blood, for in it runs multitudes of histories.

To Margaret, Milton, Morris, my name, Madison, carries your bones.

Anonymous Caroline Morales (Fall) I wish I could leave my headphones in all day. All class anyways.

Everything hurts and aches. I want to drag my feet on the way to class, Extend my slow wake up into a slow trip across campus, I don’t have time for that.

I’m stuffing myself together into the fast walking college student.

I cross the street and head towards Daniel I disappear into part of the crowd, I am invisible behind headphones and an orange shirt.

It’ll be a miracle if I make it through my classes, but nobody will care in the slightest.

As I walk across library bridge, I wonder what would happen if I jumped off.

Would that make me feel alive?

(Spring) I can hear birds on sunny days, and they remind me that summer is coming.

Life keeps getting harder, but I’m getting stronger too.

I have bad days, and sometimes I’m alone, but I don’t waste time worrying.

I don’t have time for that.

I’m putting myself back together: I am rediscovering myself.

I find new ways to walk to class, I break up the monotony of long days.

I see a coworker who waves and calls my name.

I pass Kori on my way back home and she says “hey beautiful,” and I smile.

As I walk across library bridge, I am still smiling.

I am happy to be alive.

Blossom Jiawei Deng

Dot in City Sky/How to Love a Wire Walker Isaac Washington I. “Life should be lived on the edge. You have to exercise rebellion: to refuse to tape yourself to rules, to refuse your own success, to refuse to repeat yourself, to see every day, every year, every idea as a true challenge and then you are going to live your life on a tightrope.”

- Philippe Petit a man suspended, dot in city sky the people watching, breath all bated don’t ask how, don’t ask why something stunning to the eye a spectacle of death evaded a man suspended, dot in city sky whoever said that men can’t fly must have been too bitter, jaded don’t ask how, don’t ask why he goes to kneel, and then to lie looks below, is not dissuaded a man suspended, dot in city sky can he hear from way up high? our small faces must seem faded don’t ask how, don’t ask why

a girl nearby, she starts to cry wonders what it means he made it a man suspended, dot in city sky don’t ask how, don’t ask why II. I wonder if he knows that my heart is up there with him. I wonder if he cares. He looks so stunning from far away. I’m just a face in the crowd, which is fine when he’s up there. The trouble comes when he’s on the ground, with my head nestled against the crook of his neck, and he still feels thousands of feet away. Whats the best part of being up there? I ask. There is so much open space, he replies. I wrap my arms around him and swallow my next question. It burns all the way down. What’s the best part of being down here?

A wire walker is not afraid to fall. That’s how I know I’m not a wire walker. Our second date, when we missed the movie so we just went from theatre to theatre, getting glimpses. That’s when I fell in love with you. He just smiles, kisses my cheek. A wire walker is not afraid to fall, because a wire walker knows he won’t.

Sugar Rush Kelly Evans I’m 18.

Shivering in the greenish glow of the supermarket dairy aisle, Staring blankly at the saturated fat content in a 0g sugar yogurt cup Because I wanted ice cream.

And suddenly I’m 7 again.

Playing with dolls who have glittery dresses and toothpick legs They’re doctors with bikinis in lieu of lab coats I’m in the 90th weight percentile, and somehow I know this fact

And then I’m 11 And I’m the first in the class to develop breasts And I’m awkwardly crossing my arms in front and slumping my shoulders But boys are still looking at me funny and every shirt I own is called inappropriate Then I’m 15 And my world is falling apart over and over every day And everything is slipping beyond my control Because I’m a child trying to be an adult I’m still 15 But now I’m skinny Now I decide what my body is I’m hooked I’m high I’m happy I promise I’m so fucking happy Until I’m not Until I’m a puddle on the floor anytime there’s butter on my toast And crunching numbers at mealtime while my knuckles go white And praying to the scale And then I’m 18 again I’m 18, and I’m fighting for every laugh, every smile, every God Damn Moment I’m watching colors rush past me and sobbing because they’re no longer grayscale I’m tasting love and fear and victory and failure And food I’m 18, and I put the yogurt back Because someday I’ll be 34 And I will have bought the ice cream 10 minutes ago

Self Portrait as Venus Kat Eaves

I’m Looking Through You Alana Revels

beautiful boy Isaac Washington last i saw him, really saw him, i was going out to get the mail and caught him peering from his bedroom window. bright-eyed, fresh-faced boy, fixated on the november sunset. day becomes night boy becomes man just because it’s natural doesn’t mean i don’t miss him, don’t wish he were here, sitting on a porch swing, with a warm smile, asking when the leaves would change colors again. i hope soon.

Boy Scout Bill William A. Basco

He became a sinkhole Paige Kimble September 7, 2019 He became a sinkhole gaping, noticeable It was probably building up

the whole time Something slowly eroded away until there was nothing supporting

the hope I put on him He caved rather suddenly

and it

was rather

disorienting and dusty and dark and my eyes might have

teared up

just a little But who could blame me I missed the solid ground

I used to stand on.

Inscription for a Coffee Lover’s Headstone Rebecca Glenn rest in eternal tranquility the woman for whom coffee mugs seemed to hold the greatest amount of treasure which seemed to grow and gleam just a little bit brighter with each additional mug purchased; those mugs

that (if the cluttered, college-apartment cupboard that already heald one too many plastic plates scrounged from the dollar store had anything to say on the matter) never seemed to discriminate when it comes

to size, shape, pattern, or even color, which -according to the deceased-was half the fun and completely

part of the charm as she desperately hated the idea of clinical uniformity some people found so modern and oh so lovely in kitchens because, according to the deceased (who, in fact had deep southern, family

legacy coursing through her veins of various shades of Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, and beyond),

the kitchen was the heart of a family home and because it worked constantly to stimulate a sense of warm, homey, hospitality by pumping out warm biscuits or cold tea, no southern woman worth her salt would

allow such a cold and mechanical feel to turn her kitchen’s veins to ice: that simply would not do and so the deceased enjoyed making her kitchen feel a bit personalized, a bit homey, a bit lived in through her

various mugs, from various different parts of the world; after all, it wasn’t like the deceased had too much of

a choice in the types of mugs added to the collection as friends and family often supplied more mugs than her limited apartment space knew what to do with whether it was the galaxy themed mug the deceased’s

best friend gave her on her birthday, the blue and white mug plastered with characters from the deceased’s favorite movie that her mother purchased on a vacation meant as a high

school graduation present, or even the bold and brightly colored mug that proudly proclaimed LAS

VEGAS on its side given to the deceased by her partner; though the deceased never really chose these mugs, she still found a type of joy in quietly cradling one filled with coffee in her hands as night slowly

turned into morning, only moving to bring the steaming mug to her mouth while she watched the weak

rays of sunlight scatter and break across the windshields of cars just outside the apartment doors and for a few minutes, the deceased felt like she still had escaped the hustle and bustle of the day normally captured

by sleep; in this dreamscape, in the silence of her cluttered kitchen with its various mugs, the deceased could forget about her projects, assignments, or essays as she felt untouched by the stresses and realities

surrounding them, and for just a few moments settled into her darkened apartment, she could imagine

the walls around her stood in the heart of a major city with oceans or waves of people lapping incessantly

against the streets below; it was this traffic that the deceased could picture from her newly transformed apartment and it was this traffic she would watch in the early hours of the morning from her position

curled up in her balcony reading nook that she had wanted ever since she was a little girl who often lost herself in magical words created from lines upon lines of prose, but it was less about the reading nook and

more about the feelings that it would conjure up instead because - just for a moment in the dim light of

the apartment- the deceased liked to imagine just how it would feel to sit perched in a reading nook, high above the stress of the streets, of the hustle and bustle of the day to day, and

the deceased could imagine just how lovely it would be to curl under a soft blanket, a cup of coffee in her mug equally as warm, and she could just picture being able to look around that apartment; that

apartment which she could fill with as much homey clutter that felt as lived in as her southern kitchen;

that apartment, while not ridiculously big, that could have enough space for her coffee mugs, her books, her reading nook, and every last shred of imaginative daydreaming that came with them; that apartment, however, faded as the sun rose in the morning, breaking the deceased’s imaginations, and slowly turned

imaginative wishings back into reality which would cause the deceased to rise, enter into her kitchen that was absolutely saturated with the smell of dollar store coffee, wash her coffee mug while trying to find

a place in the overflowing and chipped kitchen cupboards, and trek into her bedroom where her college

supplies would rest and supposedly last her (just like that morning cup of coffee held tentatively by those mismatching mugs) for the rest of her day and beyond

donut do it Corbin Goodwin

Kinda Like Meditation Carson Colenbaugh

I stare at half-empty water bottle with half-dry teabag dangling from closed cap and it drips forever but the bottle doesn’t fill This is kinda like meditation Sometimes I drink this cold tea when I don’t have mountain water that filters through moss or sand and it kinda tastes gritty This is second-best My drink and mountain water come from out the cryptic unknown I don’t know where springs shoot from or what Sri Lanka feels like at rush hour, I just know they drip and each one tastes like lemon

city of lilies Emma Shank

The Death of Antinous Kat Eaves

Landscapes of the Ngorongoro Crater, Field of Flowers Diego Ramirez Nigoa

What are my multitudes?

Akim Koutsioukis

I contain multitudes That’s great Walt What the fuck does that mean The multitudes, that is Not your goddamn poetry What are my multitudes trying to tell me Who do I love How do I feel How do I protect the ones I love Why do the multitudes not agree You didn’t answer the question Walt You begged it And now, I’m begging you Pray tell: What the fuck.

But it’s okay, by then we were already sicker than we thought And I started drawing broken hearts on my Sociology notes instead of flowers and swirls I couldn’t stand the swirls because they reminded me of my mind and that wasn’t fair Beer Bongs & Bentleys And that beer bong flamingo That we named Freddy Grew black mold in its throat Much like us But now Freddy lies In the bottom of that swamp behind those apartments we always used to go to To dance And now we lie too In our own rooms alone Listening to the broken washing machine rattle Like a fucking earthquake hit the American South And we still argue about the thermostat and dance at those apartments But we are also growing into more whole beings now And we all might collapse and die one day from black mold poisoning But that’ll be okay because really our souls are already lying – six feet under, scum and decomposing leaves and murky water With a plastic flamingo named Freddy You learn a lot but mostly you learn it’s more simple than that Like as simple as high heels gouging holes in our futon While belting out “Bennie and the Jets” Into our spatula microphones as the boys walked in And Em thought it was “Jennie and the Jets” this whole time and we all laughed

A Reflection on College as I have Known It, With Subtle Tones of Reminiscence Rebecca Boese The sacrament of possibility And the ritual of internal wars And I didn’t say battles I said wars Like a water color painting in the hands of an August thunder storm Lightning dripping from your tongue and soggy colors down your throat And speaking of drains who knew four girls could lose so much hair in one shower And who knew you could find yourself six times in a day and still manage to stay lost Like pouring holy water down a well And who knew peanut butter on banana could be a staple And who knew the blue ridge mountains were actually blue Out on the horizon as we fucked against his fourth story window and the sun was rising And man I swear I saw God’s silhouette in that 4am fog Sundays have been like that for me More hopeless haze than the silence of snow The kind of storms we used to get back home but There’s a different kind of white noise here The smell a lake gets when it is too calm And Christmas lights in April Drinking $4 white wine from the bottle On a rotting wood porch Wicker furniture and bugs Oh my god the bugs I would’ve gotten malaria for you babe Eaten alive for you babe

Untitled Taylor Staaf

Rex Katherine Kaczmarski Neither you nor I will be here forever But the eleventh hour of this day is ours Your tufted ear turns to me As a yawn escapes my mouth Your sleepy sighs as your black-rimmed eyes, heavy, fall closed And when I insist I’m not going to bed And close my eyes to “rest” instead You stretch one paw closer to my face As if to say “I trust you”

If I have the time I fix my lips I run sticks over the cracks and creases To de-crack and de-crease them I fix my hair I cannot leave If I don’t fix the wavy thick blanket The scribbles on my head I burn flat the frizz into stick straight pieces Or strangle them around a curler and let them fall in rings I mold my feet into shoes Pointed Raised Cute Feels like a bear trap Rubs the skin raw Cute I fix myself So others have nothing to fix about me I fix myself To stop myself From being Myself

Fixed?

Lauren Davis I get up early To fix myself First I fix my vision For if I cannot see I cannot fix the rest of me Then I fix my clothes I exchange the oversized tee For a tight top And jeans with holes in the knees Then I fix my skin I scrub it to get rid of the debris Of yesterday I fix my face My face skin is called Juvia’s place velvety matte foundation: Fes Full coverage Good I beat it harder into my pores In places that still look too much like me Then I fix my eyes With unforgiving black I dramatize Each distinct lash Once meant to simply protect my eyes Now made into something Pretty

Anxiety Katherine Kaczmarski Anxiety is not a superpower.

It is not endearing worry It is dead weight I wish I could snip and prune and cut away but the dead branches are all tangled up with the good ones and I don’t know how to cut it out of me.

I envy light men, who see life as their steed he breaks and bends to his will.

Instead I am the brute, I am the beast of toil and wear fear’s brand on my picked-at skin on my spent, worn face in my glinting, savage eyes always glancing over my shoulder and cowering at the crack of the whip.

Moss Fractal Katherine Kaczmarski

When you say you want him to die in a fire, you mean to say you want him to be scorned in even the slightest day ruining way.

When you say you never want to speak to him again, it is as if to say, there is nothing to be said at all if it’s not professions of pint up affection.

You are unhappy with the boy in the same way you are disappointed in yourself.

Fallen to that pesky human condition.

One with no known cure that ravishes the brain at any given time with madness and thoughts of something more.

You are unhappy with the boy for being uninterested.

For being like weather towards your opinions.

For not behaving as you see fit.

You wish you didn’t care and one day you won’t.

It can’t rain forever and whether it’s your will or not the sun will come out and the ground will heat up until you can’t walk your dog during the day.

So, you let yourself cry.

Because it wasn’t supposed to rain.

It was supposed to be warmer.

Because it was supposed to be different.

On The Weather Niara Hargrave You are unhappy with the boy in the same way you are displeased with the weather.

You have no control over it.

And yet you will it to want to please you.

Your heart demands warmth and all you are given is icy roads.

You wish you could swallow your feelings the way stormy grayness swallows the sun leaving nothing but hazy white glow.

And puddles.

Puddles of someone else tears perhaps.

You share as much distain for indifference as you do for the cold and rainy.

When you say you hate the boy, you mean to hate the way he invades every vacant thought.

If your brain isn’t busied by the day then he finds his way in while you sleep, camping out in-between the cracks.

He tracks mud and takes off his shoes.

He lays down and tells you things that couldn’t possibly be true.

You hate how you don’t take up nearly as much space in his mind, in the room, in the world.

And my soul aches with Nauseating familiarity Like a red hot fucking sunset on a gorgeous memory A relentless calamity of the human condition Because four minutes and twenty-four seconds can’t possibly be enough time To figure out why we are forever trying to escape The musty orangeness of now Can you understand why I resent you and your eternal spring break?

Happy hour is illegal here The atmosphere is brassy It leaks into my bones and sometimes I am sure it is poison The ache in my soul hangs around for some time after our visits, too Like the ghost of Freedom past But, thank you anyway, You know, For trying.

I think this is a very kind thing.

A Handwritten Note to the Chili Peppers Rebecca Boese Some songs come into your life at a certain time and make a home there Like, “Under The Bridge” It lives in March, 2019 Out on the California coast With the birds of paradise and desert road trips I get to visit sometimes, too Like when it comes on On my way to work And all I can think about is riding a baby blue bike on a sandy sidewalk And how the morning air smelled like God just got out of the shower And I think this is a very kind thing This open invitation This “door’s unlocked just press play and come on in” kind of swagger And sometimes I do And that’s when I remember how the air was pink and echoey Yet perfectly dense all the same, like a supreme confidence, a baptismal haze But as I stand on my host’s white washed terrace The shimmer of the Pacific reflects in my eyes (that too, may stay)

The Invisibles Jiawei Deng

Voyager 1 Alden Parker

i read a description of the earth today, as it was taught. i felt small and insignificant--it was comforting-“a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.” “a pale blue dot.” all religions and entrenched beliefs atop this spot, it mocks me, a flash of light--a white speck accompanying. i read this description of the earth today, the same as it was taught. i tape it to my mirror, to remind me what i am not, with every read the universe screams--an underling “a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.” “a pale blue dot.” i dream about my death most nights, afraid of oblivion and rot, and when i wake, blanketed by darkness--wondering. i read the description of the earth, the same as it was taught. what is lurking, against everything for which we’ve fought, fought for justice, for mercy, for all we feel we’re offering our “mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.” “a pale blue dot.” all religions and entrenched beliefs atop this very spot, i feel small and insignificant--it is comforting. i read a description of the earth today, as it was taught, “a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.” “a pale blue dot.”

A blood moon bathes the sky With a villainous essence, One that reminds me of you.

And there you lie; And then, you lie.

Dreams are a nightmare.

I am the Heartsmith, Repairing you with bits of my heart.

All there is left is This miserable pump Which once rich love drove, Draws now the putrid Hate which I once sealed.

It intoxicates my brain, Weakens my body, Curses my soul.

The light of my Hearth dims.

Alas, rise to the foolish vagabond, The one that knows only sad verses And curses.

One that knows it all Yet fails it all.

All I’m left with is a shattered heart joined by the Sinew red thread of fate, Connected to my epithet.

All these thoughts, Orchestrated by your cacophony, Branch out and Pierce the heavens.

They are remnants of your wake, One which split my being.

Curse you.

You’ve made me bitter, just like The Manchineel.

The Manchineel Nico Ahues Mourning again, Again, it all happens yet again.

The primordial cycle of Pain Sowed into my own fibers, It is the cycle that never ends, The cycle I cannot stop, Or the cycle I won’t stop?

Chaos comes for the foolish.

Achlys, I know it’s you, You’ve lurked since the beginning.

I don’t know why did I become your prey, All I know is that you sent Her to make me agonize.

Hope is for the innocent.

The sun fades and the moon glimmers, Your eyes shine A red crimson; Of Love? Of Hate?

Or is it the foolish blood I gave you, Thinking that it’d save you?

Yes, that’s it.

It is the blood of my love Wasted on a whim.

A whim other than my own That costed my own.

Agape vanishes as Eris wakes.

Reflection on Killing a Fly Madison Wakefield October 31; 8:42 pm

I killed a fly. It was just there

Against the wall and I swatted.

And I’m not sure why,

But I leaned over the kitchen sink

And broke down in tears.

November 1; 11:37 am

I’m feeling like a fool

Who cries over a fly.

I think, perhaps, I felt remorse

For forcing such a small thing to leave

This earth.

The truth is, I’ve been feeling miniscule too.

But I don’t want to Disappear.

November 3; 10:53 am

This morning I walked past the wall

All that remained was a speck of its blood Somewhat smeared and brown.

I don’t think I’m a bad person,

If I hadn’t killed it, something else probably would.

Three blotches with a wet paper towel and the mark ceased to exist.

Damn fly.

Glowing Hand Hannah Rivers

too much Akim Koutsioukis it’s too much a warmth shivers through tense lips sealed minimal physical functionality hot cold too much all at once heart racing tears won’t flow can’t flow refuse eyelids heavy exhausted sleepless scared, angry and sad a cold in the southeastern summer the sound of an angry ocean preparing for a tsunami that never comes, just building andbuildingand its all just too much all at once i cant explain its just too much all at once too much too much too

Stuck In My Head Ashlyn Bishop

Not Everything is as it Seems I Nicole Stoudemire

The day the ground blossomed Kapreece Dorrah Few know what actually happened the day when the earth creaked and moaned, The day it opened up for me as if I had a Skeleton key, The day that the ground blossomed without bliss and Hades arose from the abyss.

Some say it was the perfect seduction, Some say it was a nebulous abduction, But few know the true story, That as he climbed up the steps from oblivion he was caught in my glory, My radiance burned him despite his soul being forged of the hottest fires, The story is not as it was spun by unbelievers and woven by liars.

You see, the truth is when he demanded my hand, I demanded a crown, He said I breathed in sense but I exhaled lunacy, His bronze hands grasped for my shape and my slap left ichor dripping from his mouth, I told him I’ve done worse to fools And that the crown I deserve had better have jewels, Then from the trench of his pocket he pulled out a plutonium ring, I told him there and then I would be his queen but he wouldn’t be my king.

The stories were lost to the myths and song, That couldn’t believe that I, a goddess, That I, a woman, could ever be so strong.

Thought From A Ward HM walls of therapy and color crumpled feelings of a crayon against paper for hours. hours and hours and hours and hours sounds of trays slamming on tables nurses scrambling to fix disagreements white walls no color crumpled, in a corner

Cat People Hannah Rivers

Prodigal Daughter Say that you love me despite the fact that I am unforgiven.

That I am loved, despite the fact that I am I Say that I am Lady Liberty, greener everyday

Naomi LaRoche For Dad

I used to play with your tools, behind the docks.The shrimpers would smile at me with holy teeth, they taught me how to head shrimp, how to make palmetto roses. One day I built a swing out of an old fish trap and some rope behind your shed. I tied it to an aged oak, and the sky seemed so big when I swung. But, the branch broke. I landed on wet grass and metal beams, teeming with leaden life. I didn’t tell anyone about the branch, the scrapes on my knees never fully healed.

You built me a garden out of ancient wooden pallets. I remember we’d find those pallets scattered throughout the marsh, fiddler crabs squelching in and out of the hole-riddled wood.

When they raised their claws, that meant they were praising God Running barefoot With my sisters Brown, brown, brown, white blonde I cut my foot on a broken beer bottle And they carried me home I sat in the bathtub And you washed my feet till the water swirled muddy pink We’d wait for you, at dinner, you know that You’d come home black from head to toe With grease and grime And sit and talk and eat But, the lines around your eyes Never moved when you smiled

Stitched Madison Jenkins

A Study of Life Hannah Rivers

Sweeter Lynn Geyer I smell the Ashes of my Soul as they Burn through The glass Ceiling into The world above.

And when the Dust has Settled, they Will drift Back down to The earth below To be trampled Underfoot of Those that Have forgotten The existence Of such a Ceiling, and Toil their lives To rebuilt that Which has Been so Meticulously Destroyed.

Feelings of Bliss Hannah Skinner I can still taste the familiarity of lilacs in spring mist The scent of rain that lingers on the skin for days Those feelings of rain drops and sweat that lingers for hours A happiness that seemingly lingers forever Now life is littered with crumpled cups and the scent of instant coffee the feeling of freshly printed paper the scent of sadness that lingers the feelings of being older and filled with capitalist desire maybe one day it’ll end

Lullaby Keith Phelps Sometimes I write

My own dreams O’Keefe in their belief

Rich in visions of Mandibles and stones With ground Whose red clay runs As smooth as unbroken water

I soar on cumulus irises Alight on smoke ring perches Until my teeth wash out

Who then form the Ursas on the clay While blue agave explodes

Into a solemn tree

Of canary yellow funeral flowers.

In that moment I forget my feathers And walk crying prayer

I find those that were buried in life are buried still But the desert will paint itself in poppies Every once in a while maybe sometime soon.

I wake from soft fear

To feel breath a body breathes beside me and in me

And feel lost in this other search I have found

I listen as she blinks and stirs in her sleep As my eyes tire a second time.

freefall Madison Wakefield Amber eyes with flecks of gray, and heart beats like a sugar rush. After all, I think your love came to me in May. We dance around the kitchen, amateur cabaret.

This gleam in your sight shines like disco ball: Amber eyes with flecks of gray.

Those efforts, I’ve noticed, do not decay.

See, my body is bound, I’m in a thrall.

I think you stole my love in May. Presence so soft, a bookstore cafe, a voice that glides like whiskey. Alcohol amber eyes with flecks of gray.

I thank God for your smile wrinkles, I pray to never stop hearing your low-country drawl.

I think your love came to me in May. I don’t care who’s to saywhen I’m with you it’s freefall.

Amber eyes with flecks of gray.

Your love came to me in May.

In Flux (Green) Kat Eaves

Napoleon and Remy Carrie H Bull

Whenever Andy Gasparini Lean into me until I become the dam that holds back your tears, until I become Atlas and you’re the sky, blazing burnt orange before midnight extinguishes you.

Press into me like a summer heat that comes from all sides until we’re one body, one flesh and the pressure molds us into something stronger, more beautiful.

I’ll be your anchor, shield, wings.

Whatever you need me to be.

Whenever.

Holy Grounded Naomi LaRoche Huge oaken doors, three, palmetto, pouring sap, Pomegranate tree outside, the starburst flowers like fire, Wrought iron gates open for the day, dark blades erected to the sky Lamps aglow, bathing the street with warmth, with light Tea roses crawl up the gate, pale pale pink, Terrible maws gaping at the tourists Ambling by, climbing towards a hidden sun The baby grand piano, ivory, metal, rippled wood I recognize the song, moonlight in minor key, A secular choice for a service, unearthly, graceful The columns outside, rigid as soldiers, white as sin Domed ceiling fanning overhead, false heaven False, a false divinity, a false intimacy.

I am unforgiven I am unforgiven Fragmented God pours in through the windows, but rain beats on the steeped black roof Abalone shell walls rise out of the dark earth, like standards Standing on those marble steps, the gilded organ Bought by blood-money, white pews, honed To amber, honey, the stained glass a Venetian mask, With veins of gold gold golden ichor, dissolved, shivered, Broken.

Built in 1820, this chapel is the oldest Baptist Church in Charleston.

Now, Baptists don’t drink anything but blood, believe me They drank me dry, then refilled me just to drink again They told me hell was made just for me, people like me They spit on me with the same mouths they used to take communion The same mouths they used to preach goodwill towards men The thing about a vampire is that it is always beautiful, at first But paint and beauty can only do so much to hide a cold, rotten corpse

Apricity Tara Richbourg She whispers breath of primaveral life a love song to December, “Your chill had no place in the core of the girl whose blood is starlight.

“I thought you were everything, but how could that be when your touch never knew of the worlds within me?

“So I leave you my youth— the corpse you forged of it— and the sad midnight murmurs I no longer can hear.

“And the rest I will carry toward midsummer moons— to the endless belonging that beckons there.”

Hollow words spoken linger between a heart and its winter in a cadence that swells as she moves toward herself.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Apricity......................................................................................................................................................... 4 Holy Grounded............................................................................................................................................ 5 Whenever..................................................................................................................................................... 6 Napoleon and Remy..................................................................................................................................... 7 In Flux (Green)............................................................................................................................................ 8 Freefall.......................................................................................................................................................... 9 Lullaby......................................................................................................................................................... 10 Feelings of Bliss........................................................................................................................................... 11 Sweeter........................................................................................................................................................ 12 A Study of Life............................................................................................................................................ 13 Stitched....................................................................................................................................................... 14 Prodigal Daughter....................................................................................................................................... 15 Cat People................................................................................................................................................... 16 Thought From a Ward................................................................................................................................. 17 The Day the Ground Blossomed................................................................................................................. 18 Not Everything is as it Seems I................................................................................................................... 19 Stuck in My Head....................................................................................................................................... 20 too much..................................................................................................................................................... 21 Glowing Hand............................................................................................................................................ 22 Reflection on Killing a Fly........................................................................................................................... 23 The Manchineel........................................................................................................................................... 24 Voyager 1..................................................................................................................................................... 26 The Invisibles............................................................................................................................................... 27 A Handwritten Note to the Chili Peppers.................................................................................................. 28 On The Weather.......................................................................................................................................... 30 Moss Fractal................................................................................................................................................ 32 Anxiety.........................................................................................................................................................33 Fixed?.......................................................................................................................................................... 34 Rex...............................................................................................................................................................36 Untitled....................................................................................................................................................... 37 A Reflection on College as I have Known It, With Subtle Tones of Reminiscence.....................................38 What Are My Multitudes?.......................................................................................................................... 40 Landscapes of the Ngorongoro Crater, Field of Flowers............................................................................. 41