BACK OF FRONT COVER
Senior STAFF Editor-in-Chief Managing Editor Literary Ediotr Art Editor Layout Editor Promotions Director Copy Editor Webmaster
Madison Wakefield Xavier Charlot Lauren Kohnle Hannah Rivers Sydney Lykins Nicholas Seiter Isaiah del Campbell DeOnna Clarke
General STAFF Akim Koutsioukis Mary Thomas McCutchen Allison Killinger M.J. Fleck Caitlyn Van de Meulebroecke Margo Marie Mcmanus Colby Cofield Rebecca Kerr Devohn Goodwin Samantha Connell Eric T Neumann Elizabeth Marvin Win Marks Erik Antonio Hannah Rohaley Joe Whipple Joseph Green Lauren Soash Lori Able 6
EDITOR’S NOTE Dear Reader, Before I came into this position, I joked about the possibility of becoming a successful editor since I already had the stress levels of one. This idea became a reality and a few months later, we have welcomed our 121st year with the Fall 2018 issue of the Chronicle. This semester has taken a strain on our organization; however, this milestone was a hard earned and welcomed victory. The troubles we have faced are not going away, but the way this staff has adapted and flourished past this strife gives me faith that we will grow beyond where we have been planted. I do not know where we will be in the future; however there is beauty in the unknown. To this, I say we must march on with fervor in our eyes and fire in our hearts. I am incredibly honored to introduce you to the theme of this edition. The phoenix symbolizes renewal, overcoming darkness and rising to the challenge to succeed. Chosen well before all of our conflictions unraveled, this theme coincidentally and impeccably describes the attitude of the Chronicle. The writers and artists you are about to meet in the pages ahead have all experienced their fair share of adversity, but each and every one of them have found the strength to overcome. We all have a phoenix hidden within us. A force whose true fury is revealed only when we rise from a place of defeat to fight for what we believe in. I want to leave you with one final thought: no one can tell you who you are. As for us, we are the Chronicle. We will not diminish. We will continue to grow stronger, and our colors will reign. Thank you for your support which fuels our growth. Madison Wakefield Editor-in-Chief
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TABLE OF CONTENTS 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37
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Washed Lucidity To My Father Delicate Understanding Late Night Thoughts Fleeting Presence pt. 1 Fleeting Presence pt. 2 Between Floors Nine and Ten Untitled Leaf and Petal War Paint I Belong To The Stage Spring Break Self Portrait Fight Club Stressing the Good Breathing Little Things The Day Your Hand Was a Tennis Racket Somewhere in the Crowd I Was Expecting Eggs Crack Tossed Broken Down Weekend Fruit Bowl
Waiting For The Ambulance The End of A Triumph Submarining You Don’t Own Me What Would You Do With a Time Machine Submit Wildflowers in My Veins Seeing Forever on the Edge of a Black Hole Fruits Helena Banks Submit When I die, I will be reborn Talkin Bout Words Escape Out of Hand Right of Egress Walked like Love Expression of Hair pt.1 Expression of Hair pt.2 Into the Distance Bored in Love Wake Up Scrabble Linage
38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65
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Washed 10
Andrea Garland, Charcoal on Embossed Paper
Lucidity Margo Marie McManus The cat outside my window has eyes like liquor; I lift up the screen and inquire if his claws are retractable. “Only when I go flying,” he says, “But the lightning makes my fur tuft cloudy grey and the guttural gloaming strikes me into Sullen streaks. “ Of course, how foolish a question! Claws are a necessity when no one understands the gravity of the situation. A pomegranate shrivels in my hand and the curtains cocoon around his haunches, Static crackling through the air. I ask if he’d ever eat one. He tosses his head like a horse and huffs “Do I look like Persephone to you?” The thing is, he kind of does, But I say I’d have no way of knowing.
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To My Father Taylor Summey Growing up, People always told me that I looked like you And at the time I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see the way you built up a church For me to fill in the stained glass, couldn’t see The way that all these things taken for granted come from you. Looking back on that summer, It makes everything feel so pointless. There I was, running around with my friends, Angry with you for every little thing. It was that time that everyone goes through where Any demand made of you feels like A stitch in the side, A papercut on every finger, The most irritating itch you could ever conceive of. I wish I had cared more, Talked with you at 2 AM when we were both Awake For entirely different reasons. I love you so much, even now. I just didn’t say it enough When I had the chance. But maybe it’s not the words that matter, but the actions In between. The way I ran to you when things Were broken because I needed someone to glue The fissures back together. Because I needed someone To keep me going, to put gas in the tank until things Were no longer off-kilter.
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That last week, when things were nearing the end And everything felt like it was on fire, I sat on a back porch In the middle of the city and watched the fireworks in the sky over the neighborhood. The fourth of July; a time for celebration, But we were getting ready To plan a funeral. With tears in my eyes, I looked up at the light, Smelled the sulphur in the air. They say that hell smells like sulphur. I believe them. Because that night as ashes fell into my eyes, I could think of no greater torment than knowing There was nothing I could do To stop the inevitable. To stop the future, Foretold not by tarot cards or psychics or a magic eight ball, But by a prognosis murmured in a long, gray hallway That reeked of disinfectant and age. I think I’m too like you for my own good. The half of me that came from you was Built from concrete mixed in back yards, Engines flayed open in garages, Hammers and nails and duct tape. That part of me comes from Racetracks and diesel fuel and the smell Of the lake in the summer when the water’s up And there are nightcrawlers Ready to be used for some purpose Bigger than themselves. I am made up Of all these mundane, rough things And you are the one that made me.
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Delicate Understanding 14
Ronald Weber, Colored Pencil
Late Night Thoughts Wyatt Streett My thoughts trouble me so. They keep me awake at night. I’m just waiting for tomorrow. The mind wanders… To where? I don’t know… Every night feels like a fight. My thoughts trouble me so. Dragging myself down so low, so low… Scared of my thoughts (mistakes galore), I cannot help but leave on the light. I’m just waiting for tomorrow. Why, oh why? The memories fester and grow; I cannot escape as they thrash and bite. My thoughts trouble me so. Hiding under the covers I’ve nowhere to go. I just lay awake, trapped: a prisoner to my mind – unable to take flight. I’m just waiting for tomorrow. Outside in the sky, the moon is aglow. I hope the future is looking just as bright. My thoughts trouble me, so I’m just waiting for tomorrow.
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Fleeting Presence pt. 1 16
Angel R. Estrella, Stoneware
Fleeting Presence pt. 2
Angel R. Estrella, Stoneware
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Between Floors Nine and Ten Hannah Pearson The shining panels of the elevator reflect every angle of Emily all at once. I look to the ceiling for the pale part in her dark hair, look right to take in her smart profile with that small nose and mauve glasses. I glance behind and see the backs of her heels rubbed red by a poor choice of footwear. Each panel frames me as well, fuller than Emily and with a less convincing attempt at snappy casual. We’re the new girls in the office. If her first quarter has been as draining as mine, she’s hidden it well. Maybe behind those glasses. We stop ascending, and the elevator holds its breath. It doesn’t exhale. “I guess we better call,” Emily says. She points to the fading red button inches in front of me. I ring it and tell the voice that we’re trapped, and it tells us the fire department is on its way. We’ll be here a while. Emily is as nice as her purple cardigan makes her appear. Before long we’re on the floor. Her nude heels sit empty by her tote bag and chocolate crumbs litter my lap. I never leave the house without a snack. Emily finishes her half of the cookie. “Eye spy?” she offers. We laugh, knowing the only color in this box of grey is us. “Never Have I Ever,” I say. Emily shakes her head as she sips from her coffee cup. “You’d win,” she says. “I get less action than Lonesome George.” She explains George as the last known Pinta Island tortoise in the Galapagos who died when Emily was a freshman. She got drunk and bawled a single-woman rendition of “Islands in the Stream” at a sorority mixer. It was an all-girls school, where every club doubled as a sorority, and every sorority doubled as a gay-straight alliance. “Truth or dare,” I say, still imagining Emily’s drunken solo, wishing I had been there. It’s decided, and I offer to go first. Truth. “What’s the meanest thing you’ve ever done?” Emily asks. That’s a good one. I’m half wondering what question I’ll ask Emily— 18
maybe something more about those college days—half searching my mental history for a moment when I was mean enough to be interesting but not so mean as to drive her away. “I spat in my cousin Arthur’s hot chocolate once,” I say. “It was Christmas, and he stole my lipstick and put it on the guinea pig, so I retaliated.” “And he drank it?” Emily asks. I nod. “My god,” Emily says. “You were kids?” “Middle school, I think.” “Good times.” “Your turn.” “Okay,” Emily thinks a moment. “Truth.” I have my question ready. “What do you think of Robert’s shorts?” Emily laughs into her coffee, just like I wanted. She says she admires our boss for his eco-friendly decision of biking to work, but those spandex he arrives in make him look like a teenager trying out for the volleyball team. God. She’s amazing. It’s my turn. I go for truth again. “What’s something about you nobody in the office knows?” I know what I want to say. I’ve said it before, and my heart and my hands and my blood felt just like this. My chin quakes and Emily’s expression goes serious. “I’m in the closet,” I say. Emily keeps eye contact and doesn’t react. Slowly, she starts to smile. “Actually,” she says, “you’re in an elevator.”
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Untitled 20
Sabrina Smith, Photography
Leaf and Petal
Raphael Miller-Figueroa, Photography
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War Paint 22
Sydney Lykins, Photography
I Belong To The Stage Elizabeth Marvin I belong to the stage I belong to the bright lights and the microphones that no matter where you are they never sound quite right. I belong to the late nights when all you want is something to eat, but your snack stash ran out two scenes ago. I belong to the loud music and that song you have rehearsed five times already. I belong to the songs that play in your head six weeks after the show ended. I belong to the screw-ups and the slips and the trips and the ‘I don’t know my line, but it went something like this.’ I belong to the theatre nerds and geeks and freaks. I belong to this world that I have claimed as my own. I belong to a character, a false front that I wear so well. I belong to the opening nights and the closing nights and all the nights in between. I belong to the stage And I will never let it go.
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Spring Break Margo Marie McManus
Don’t talk to me. I am too uncomfortable. When you walk inside the door, pass over me like a ghost on the way to the bed. The air around me is delicate, and I am pulling in on myself like a blooming flower in reverse. Disturb this invisible silent bubble and I’ll throw the water out too, expel my discomfort from the china whites of my eyes. Earlier the noise and the tiny space was too much, my voice too soft, musical vibrations sending unease through my roots. And even though I shouldn’t be, I am strangely disappointed in you for making a choice you are free to choose, and unintentionally shrinking me down as your wasted face wonders why you never did this
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before.
Self Portrait
Anna Sullivan, Oil on Canvas
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Fight Club Maggie Herring The ones who hated, even themselves, gathered for a meeting tonight. In between bites of pink pastries, they took turns naming those who wronged them, but their memories lapsed; Hate cannot afford to take long breathes under the water of forgiveness. So they stuttered until malicious words met the room, telling plans of revenge, should they ever be brave enough to hate more than just themselves. Their words began to slip freely from their mouths like smoke. It first greeted the ones who hated, even themselves, but then it vanished; Hate is indistinct from air, for the world warmly welcomes that which keeps it alive.
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Alive with venom and spite, they settled into their seats at peace for there were others who hated, even themselves. But as the ash settled, the ones who hated, even themselves, began to notice the fire was no longer burning, and everything around them was gray except for the icing lining the edges of their slighted lips.
Stressing the Good
Hannah Cupp, Ceramic
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Breathing 28
Linda Fang, Ink
Little Things Sophie Steele
It’s always about the little things. The little tasks that stack against you, That slip through your fingers but still lurk In the shadows of your mind. The little things You wish you could forget- but can’t. It’s always about the little things. The malicious words said to your face. Or not. The angry frown that stays with you all day. Laughter behind your back- the little thing that Represent happiness, but not now. It’s always about the little things. The little smile that has the power for change. The warming sunshine carried to you on a light, Free breeze. A hug or word that humbly says ‘Hello, I care about you.’ A simple prayer in your favor. It’s always about the little things. Life is about the little things- Made by the Little Things. If a small and little Thing has Power to change and create worlds… How small and little can a Little Thing be?
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The Day Your Hand Was a Tennis Racket Margo Marie McManus We spent months waiting for the trees to earn back their leaves, But when they did all you felt was loss. The pollen blew yellow in the wind, Bulged clouds on the horizon, Covered the light peeking over hills. The smell of dogwood turned the air into jellied sugar. “Fucking bees” got puffed from your mouth, Billowed into moths that choked up the wind for miles, Their wings lazily burning away to drop falling stars on our chests so the breeze stopped moving, Stagnated until everyone stepped over that moment like a smelly mud puddle. Branches bumbled through the sky, Trailed fingers through the sunbeams wavering above your head and Steaming the skin on my neck. It seemed like a good idea. It always seems like a good idea at the time. I blinked, My eyelashes sending shuttered shockwaves that brushed against pursed lips. Your frown never stirred. When you opened your eyes, the bees got smoked out – Dipped drunkenly across the bodies we splayed on the ground, Smoothed landing zones in the grass just to lie there and melt into landmines. You flicked your hand like a fly swatter. One bee spent long minutes buzzing in my ear.
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Somewhere in the Crowd
Raphael Miller-Figueroa, Photography
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i was expecting eggs 32
Sydney Lykins, Photography
Crack Ioakim Koutsioukis The flames alight upon my body Engulfing me They don’t burn me They purify They remove all the imperfections That I internalize every day The ashes Of imperfection seep Into my skin And stay in my core Hardening under pressure And the burning heat of tears These ashes don’t form diamonds They just excrete more glistening tears The tears don’t always come out right Sometimes, there is no reason for My tears to escape From me
They won’t let me feel
When I want my tears to flow To wash away my sadness They refuse
I just curl up And add to the pressure building in my chest Until someday I Crack
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Tossed 34
Anna Sullivan, Oil on Canvas
Broken Down Maggie Herring I didn’t have to come, but my lips said okay twitching into a smile I’m a passenger of a suicidal friend going 85 in an old Sedan. I adjust my jeans to the cotton upholstery fashioned for the likes of Craiglist couch buyers. Everything, even your car, smells like your bedroom. Your hula dancer dances to the new song you can’t get out of your head. My shoes press harder into the dash, as the shadows of the trees begin to flash across our faces until you’ve pressed the gas so hard we develop into darkness. You roll down the windows to drown out my pleas convincing you the earth is round, the earth is round, but hatred lives in one dimension stretching into your heart breaking apart your hands and the wheel. 35
Weekend Margo Marie McManus It’s hard to get up when Entombed in blankets; warm and cozy, I’ve slept until 4 p.m. again. A brooding, pecking hen, My cat demands to know (so nosy!) Why it’s hard to get up when Her bowl in the kitchen Stays hopelessly empty, the painted posies Wilting. I’ve slept until 4 p.m. again. The TV drones. On CNN, The newsmen are nothing but dull and prosy. It’s hard to get up when I’ve nowhere to be ‘till ten. Until then, I think it’s okay to stay unkempt and blowzy. Who cares if I’ve slept ‘till 4 p.m. again? Dozy, I’ve moseyed my way to a lazy heaven Of pillowed clouds. Enveloped, ensnared, I’m all warm and rosy. It’s hard to get up when, In cloudy pillows, I’ve slept until 4 p.m. again.
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Fruit Bowl
Taylor DeYoung, Wheel Thrown Hand Carved Stoneware
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waiting for the ambulance Isaac Washington “I’m not scared of dying, man. Seriously, everyone dies. I’m scared I never really lived, you know? Like I had one chance at it and I fuckin’ wasted it,” says my very best friend in the whole goddamn world, all the while choking on his own blood as we wait for the ambulance. “You’re not dying, you dramatic fuck. Stop saying that.” I say as I brush the hair out of his eyes with my shaking fingers. His forehead is cold and drenched in sweat. “Fuck you,” he says, “I’m dying, I say what I want.” He laughs. I don’t. It’s silent for a moment. “Would you say something?” he asks. “Like what?” “Like anything,” he says. “I would love to talk about anything that isn’t the gaping hole in my gut.” So I tell him about last summer in Italy, even though he’s heard it a million times. I tell him about lying in a hammock in Tuscany and sunbathing on the cliffs of Riomaggiore. “The ice cream guy,” he wheezes. I hate to be interrupted, but I let it slide on account of his condition. “Of course, the ice cream guy,” I say, “so the tour guide takes us to this ice cream parlor, and there’s a guy in there having a real heated argument with one of the employees. My Italian’s iffy, but I can tell they’re both livid. So one of-” 38
“Was it beautiful there?” he interrupts again. “What, in the ice cream parlor?” I ask. “In Italy.” he says. “I don’t know,” I reply. “What do you mean you don’t kn-” “I mean decide for yourself,” I say, interrupting him this time, “I mean once you’re better, you get down there yourself, and you can decide whether or not it’s beautiful.”
It’s silent for a moment. I continue my story.
“So these guys are going at it, and it’s getting pretty heated, so another employee comes out to see what all the fuss is about. Again, my Italian’s iffy, but from what I could tell, the employee had said something dirty to the guy’s wife, who at this point was sitting at a table sobbing. I mean seriously bawling. I don’t know what he said but-”
“What was the plane like?” he asked.
“Jesus Christ, do you wanna hear this story or not?” I ask. “The plane was fine. I got crackers and a glass of water. The flight attendant was smokin’ hot. Now can I finish my fucking story?” “I always wondered,” he began, gasping for breath every other word, “what it’d be like to fly.” It’s silent for a moment. I look at him. He’s drenched in sweat, blood and piss. Mostly, though, it’s the look in his eyes. I can tell he’s trying to get to Italy. “It’s incredible, man,” I say softly, “comin’ through the clouds, it feels like a dream. And before that, watching the world disappear underneath you, it’s an amazing feeling. “And Italy was just as surreal. I’ll tell you, being constantly surrounded by people who don’t even speak your language, it was just as terrifying as being in
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huge metal tube thousands of feet in the air. It was just as beautiful, too. The buildings were so pretty, just walking down the street you’d see…”
He interrupts me again, not with his words, but with an eerie stillness.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing his shoulder, “are you listening to me?”
It’s silent for a moment. And another.
I hope that he made it to Italy.
I hope he thinks it’s beautiful there.
The End of A Triumph 40
Kat Eaves, Film Photography
Submarining
Carolyn Rolf, Paint
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You Don’t Own Me 42
Sydney Lykins, Photography
What Would You Do With a Time Machine Isaac Washington
the way your head rested on my shoulders made me feel like a jigsaw puzzle. your smile had my heart rearrange itself in my chest. everything was in it’s place. i only went to sleep because i thought you’d be there in the morning. i would’ve stayed up all night to watch the love light die from your hazel eyes, to know which numbers were on your wristwatch when you decided i wasn’t good enough. now my shoulders are awkward, misshapen. everything is out of place. i couldn’t sleep if i wanted to. your face is engraved in the back of my eyelids. the thought of you burns like acid.
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Submit 44
Walter Patrick, Photography
Wildflowers in My Veins Madison Wakefield When I die Find me in the wildflower fields Scattered along the highways Find me in the yellows, the blues I will be there When I die Find me in the candle burning Within the silent room in the crisp Fall Find me in the walls That seem to crack like a heartbeat I will be there When I die Find me in first breath of Winter The goosebumps on your arms Find me in the layer of fresh snow Feel my embrace as each snowflake melts on your skin I will be there When I die Find me after the storm In the warm humidity Find me in the smell of rain I will be there Find me at sunset When the angels come down for a dance Their paintings stretched across the evening sky Find me at the end of the day Before the sun allows the moon to play As the angels wave goodbye I will be there.
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Seeing Forever on the Edge of a Black Hole Isaac Washington
He sits precariously on the black hole’s edge, and with a flick of his wrist sends a string of fishing line into the abyss. He knows he won’t catch anything. Even if he does, he won’t be able to reel it in. He just wants to watch. The black hole’s density warps time and space, reality itself. Everything stands still for the man on it’s edge, and he watches the universe end. Worlds collapse, stars explode, the most spectacular light show. The man fishes for nothing. Meanwhile, he thinks to himself how strange it is that there was ever anything at all. It seems very messy to him, and nothing is biting, and the blank spaces between those celestial fireworks are getting wider. So the man takes one long last look at the beautiful disaster he’d called home before diving headfirst into oblivion.
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Fruits
Andrea Garland, Charcoal on Embossed Paper
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Helena Banks Mary Thomas McCutchen
“When he walked into the room there was no question, We were a fault, and it was waiting to rupture. He told me he would wait for me, I experienced his sorrow in magnitudes, I felt the aftershocks flow through my soul, But I don’t think I really cared I was like a swimming pool without water Empty. But in the rubble I felt like going back, Laying around, talking, listening, just being, Still, even I knew, it would never be the same I ached to be alone, to be me
Standing bleakly in the epicenter.
He still leaves me notes, I find them on the door of my shitty apartment I know they are from him, a seismograph of my being. He walks me to class, and it’s like I know what he is thinking – but do I really anymore? When he gives me a ride home I feel his stare but I guess these events don’t matter anymore.
‘I don’t love you, like I loved you, yesterday’
I listened to that song on an endless loop for weeks after I told him Looking for some sort of sign to say what I had done was right, The words spoke to me in the way that I could never speak to him With emotion and conviction
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…they held a power over me that he never did.”
Submit
Walter Patrick, Mixed Media
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when I die, I will be reborn as a star and you will see me in the night sky Nicole Embree, Digital Animation
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Talkin Bout Mary Thomas McCutchen
The glitter from your eyes falls upon my cheek I let its reflectivity encompass me as I lay in its debris. Waiting for the ball to drop An ache so promising it hurts to let it go. A change like the leaves that cover my car. White chipped paint through purple streaks A mirror of my filthy old converse Hitting the floor across every music venue in the city “They’re gonna think you’re my girl” Hopeless souls, star-crossed, ill-fated at best.
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words Madison Bauer Can you blame me for sinking Into the depths of my own consciousness? And yet I bite the lip Of these words— Oh, maybe I shall write, with this little breath And maybe you’ll see the ink drops And the errors And the smudges. Maybe you’ll even fall in love with them. But if you don’t, The truth is that I love them myself. Is that not what you hate to hear? That your love, though sweet, Is like cotton candy That melts as you hold it under your tongue. They said that men want women Lovely and fragile, Like glass, transparent And breakable— Pity. I am steel, Made from the mills of flames and passion And just as that iron pen, My words too will remain heavy on your chest; So ask me now, reader, Whether or not I know what I can do with them.
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Escape
Jacob Lehmann, Acrylic on Canvas
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Out of Hand 54
Andrea Garland, Charcoal on Paper
right of egress
Andrea Garland, Charcoal on Paper
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Walked Like Love Lori Able Love— an illusive illusion imitated within shadows and refracted lights. And at times in my life I believed I held the world within a relaxed palm— vulnerable, but confident. When everything had just begun. He walked like love and he talked like love but he looked like shame and he kissed like lust. My palm tightened, but mistakes are to be learned and the past is to be silenced but never omitted. Until the next held me like love and he taught me like love, but he breathed like convenience and he wept like resentment. And my fingers dug until blood bloomed, and my actions 56
were not of love but a cry for help answered by the lips of yet another— who received my love and who sang like love but he served like an egocentric and listened like loneliness, holding my crippled fingers until they burned— only to be caught in the outstretched arms of a man who held my gaze with a promise and a swagger that incoherently staggered like love. And maybe if I believed in his essence hard enough, smiled like love— but he spoke with manipulation imposing humiliation deserving the greatest ovation for how well he could lie and thieve. And now love has no shape or depths within my mind and my fingers no longer open— and my fist— my fist is all I have left.
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a8
Expression of Hair pt.1 58
Ashan Prigdon, Ceramics
a10
Expression of Hair pt.2
Ashan Prigdon, Ceramics
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Into the distance Jiawei Deng Photography
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Bored in Love Madison Bauer
I am bored with love, the word And the way it sounds coming off my tongue, Like flimsy paper notices Piled up on someone’s desk, In or out, back and forth I’ll stamp my signature for you. I wait for a different word to come up, bobbling on the surface— But these heavier things are not quite buoyant, And sometimes I whisper your name With nothing waiting in between my lips Besides those sunken feelings, so joyous I wish you could dive down with me. And yet I love to say it Because without it what else would I utter Besides hellos that only beg for no goodbyes, Still now I’m left to wonder What else can come out of such lips— With duct tape over my mouth I shall write.
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wake up
Nicole Embree, Pen on Paper
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Scrabble Maggie Herring
I’d often picture our August nights when the sun escaped far too quickly, so candles would begin to wallow against her delicate frame. Her hands, like clay ripples molded by age, slowly moved tiny pieces from the wood grain between us. “Quiz-zi-cal” she’d declare. I would’ve grown used to her whit, sharpened by broad vocabulary yet softened by the upward curve of her plum lipstick. As she’d put the pieces away, for a moment, I’d be comforted by the familiar dance in the petite flame. So thin - I could grasp it and within it, she’d flutter. Alive, like the lightning bugs we’d catch on the porch.
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I’d only want to hold her long enough to remember the way she felt and sounded and flickered against my hand in hopes, she’d leave a mark on my skin, even if it hurt, so one day I could recall August nights like this. “It’s time for bed,” she’d whisper, shooing away the candle. I’d be upset as she led me up the stairs because at least with the lightning bugs, I’d be able to say goodbye and watch as they drifted into the wood burrowing their light into darkness.
Lineage
Andrea Garland, Charcoal and Pastel on Embossed Paper
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Cover art by Colby Cofield and Jarod Yeager Table of Contents art by Allison Killinger Disclaimer: The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in this issue of The Chronicle belong solely to the individual artists and writers. It should be noted, these ideas are not affiliated with The Chronicle nor Clemson Univeristy.