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Staff SENIOR STAFF Editor-in-Chief Managing Editor Literary Editor Art Editor Copy Editor Layout Editor & Webmaster Social/Promotional Director

Caroline Morales Kelly Evans Hannah Skinner Nicole Ammerall Abigail Johnson Heather Motro Maille Gray

GENERAL STAFF Erik Antonio Logan Baker Julia Bonetto Griffin Cobb Ethan Coffey Sophia LiVigni Elizabeth Marvin Danett Vargas

Covers by Nicole Ammerall and Griffin Cobb

From the editor It has been especially sweet to be part of The Chronicle this semester- the first time in two years that we have had a full semester of in-person meetings, that we have held events, and spent time together face-to-face on a weekly basis. This magazine is the home of an extraordinary staff that I am privileged to lead and learn from, especially as we all navigate the new worldscape of pandemic-normal. I can’t explain how much joy it has brought me to celebrate the good chaos of this magazine, and the excitement of being with each other again, taking part in one of Clemson’s oldest celebrations of student work. Our theme this semester is urban fantasy- two distinct ideas melded together into something entirely new and unexpected, something that inverts and challenges our perceptions of the world and what “normal” really looks like. At the risk of sounding repetitious or trite, this type of uncertainty seems to define what college looks like in a world that feels more tense and fraught with every refresh of my Twitter feed. This magazine is a place where we not only acknowledge that, but we turn it into art. I am especially proud of this semester’s magazine because of how beautifully it handles these tensions. Our art encompasses the rage and beauty and sadness of our adolescence and young adulthood, and our poetry and prose welcomes the ugly, the messy, and the raw honesty of our hearts. To the staff- thank you for showing up, for proving that art and people who are passionate about it really did survive the pandemic, and for taking your place in the tradition of the bold and fearless that The Chronicle represents. To this semester’s contributors- thank you for your honesty, your vulnerability, and your bravery in sharing your truth with us. Our school and our world are better places for it. Caroline Morales

Table of Contents From Nothing to Nothing (ex nihilo in nihilum) . . . . . . 1 Wouldn't It be Nice? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 April . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 A weird room . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Breach Inlet, 36 Degrees . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Onto . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Mycelia I & II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 At Odds . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Spring Healing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 New Soul . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Pumpkin Spice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Rejoice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 roam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Eastern Point Lighthouse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Hope . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Wo-man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Slay the Patriarchy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 A Casual Acquaintance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Texas Sun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Toast . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Thursday Refresh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 A Sestina for Practice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Growing Pains . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Vulnerability . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Sonnet of Human Experience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 Mimic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Walls and What is Lost . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Overgrown Shed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Sunrise Over the Hills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Memorial . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

Table of Contents Red Herring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Habitual . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Dovetails . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Yolk on Pan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Lovers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Butterfly Kisses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 You Are. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Come As You Are . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Daisy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Daisy Chains . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Don't Talk to Cops!. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Feed the Poor, Compost the Rich . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 bedroom window, inherited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Artificial Modalities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 The Mask . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Colored Eyes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 The World Inside Our Mind . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Cairn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Grimes' Realiti . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Reminiscence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 The Blessing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Words of Sand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Hidden Pain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Tiger Lily . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Peonies and Gardenias: An Impressionistic View . . . . . 58 What Happens to Memories? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Last Game of Chess . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 Amber . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 Poetry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 Is It Closure? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64

From Nothing To Nothing (ex nihilo in nihilum) HUAN LAPLANTE

Wouldn't It be Nice? ELIZABETH MARVIN

“Wouldn’t it be nice to be immortal.” They say, as their eyes glance at the setting sun, wrinkled hands grasping the arms of the chair, holding hands. “Wouldn’t it be fun to live forever?” They say, lying next to each other on the grass hoping for night to never come and this day to never end. “Wouldn’t it be great if we didn’t have to worry about sickness or injury?” They ask the audience who cheer at the words, at the thought. “What if we could just stay here forever.” They say holding their baby in their arms, unconcerned about the future, only the now. “I want to be mortal.” Says they who won’t die, who won’t get sick, who give themselves to others who cannot give back. They who saw the world change and can’t go back. Those who watch the world turn and have since before anyone can remember. They can’t escape. Even forgotten, they can’t leave, can’t move on. Mortals die, yes, but they also live knowing those around them and being known in return with ease.

April

REBECCA WHALEY I lost her slowly, piece by piece. I am still losing her slowly. Before anyone else noticed, she was almost gone. I see tiny glimpses of her every so often. A smile, a question, a hug when I am home from my second home. I am so used to only seeing glimpses of her now. I cherish those glimpses because of how badly I miss the full picture.

A weird room NORAH STRICKLAND

Breach Inlet, 36 Degrees CAROLINE MORALES

Walking this beach is my reclamation Reclaiming my soul, my mind, my beach Returning to the water where my soul is revived Once and for all putting you out of my mind The sand seeps like memories into my shoes A constant friction- like the shadow of you But that’s part of the journey, those little reminders That will travel with me, 300 miles home. This sunrise, this light- this is my victory And you, like the darkness, must find somewhere else to go

Onto

CAROLINE HARRISON

Mycelia I & I SAMANTHA SHAMARD

At odds

HUAN LAPLANTE

Spring Healing SIERRA WILSON

You brought me spring, dancing on gentle winds, It blew away the winter, so constant, Saw me grey and broken; with haste, it mends, Replacing empty with love I thought spent. Birds sing to me your ballad most sincere, Whilst I dance in flower fields you made bloom, The approach of winter I never fear, For your undying love, it shall consume. I say, “Bring forth the drowning snow and frost,” The dark weather for which I won’t complain, For in the storm our shouts of love aren’t lost, And still, those flowers you made bloom remain; So to you, my sun and stars, I shall pray, That one day, I too, can be your spring day.

New Soul KELLY EVANS

Rejoice

ANONYMOUS On the old road, U-Haul truck tows the kind of trailer used far hauling stacked-up smashed-up junk cars. Empty, except One orange Port-a-Potty in the center. The whole trailer, just for them! They hold their head up proud as the U-Haul jangles over a speed bump. Duchess in a chaise, Raja on an elephant, Jackie Kennedy in an open-top 1961 Lincoln Continental Convertible, Orange Port-a-Potty on a U-Haul trailer. “All is well,” they assure the throngs of loyal subjects waiting at the crosswalk For the light to change.

Pumpkin Spice SYDNEY LYKINS

Roam

HUAN LAPLANTE there’s a certain point at which we all start to dissolve, like sugar or cornstarch. 100 degrees Celsius, 212 degrees Fahrenheit, the moisture inside the skin will start to burn and cook itself. too long a look in the mirror, and the eyes and lips will do somewhat of the same. brief enough a glimpse in glass and if one thinks too hard about it, perhaps the reflection wasn’t all that familiar?

what is your boiling point? mine, contrary to physical law, varies not just on atmosphere, but on the time of day, season of the year, whom I have or haven’t spoken to. sometimes I feel my blood simmer for weeks on end, as it creates a thick paste too chewy to swallow but never cooked, raw. the eyes can only focus on one subject at a time, therefore when I look myself in the eyes who’s to say the other doesn’t drift to the top of my spine or the pit of my neck whilst I digest the one. you think me crazy, I suspect. who am I to know the answer? I’m sure it changes all the time.

Eastern Point Lighthouse CHLOE JOHNSON

Hope

CHELSEA ROBBINS

Wo-man

HANNAH BURNS How arbitrary To call me Me, independent being Taking up space Space not meant for me To call me a wo-man Would be to say I’m of-man But I have no Y chromosome But I don’t look like my father And ain’t I a wo-man? To say I’m a wo-man Would be to say I’m of his rib Of his side, his little sidekick A companion, a helper, cherish my man The Eve to his Adam The answer to his prayer To be his lover, then his mother The reason I’m here A vessel for his empire Our child, his colony His precious little investment I, the caretaker, he, the guardian My warden, my father before him Hand to hand by the altar Where I am sacrificed Where I am wo-man My virginity a commodity My womb an offering Bought and sold I’m not my own I cannot own me For I am but property Of man

Slay the Patriarchy HANNAH ARBOGAST

A Casual Acquaintance CAROLINE MORALES

The lizard isn’t worried about Vitamin D As he basks in the sun on a cracked sidewalk The only thing he worries about is me A shadow intruding On his morning walk Or a morning sit If we’re being honest Because for a moment Neither of us move He’s a lizard statue Carved out of concrete Blending into the cracked brown path I think, if he’d waited We could have been friends Just sitting in silence Under the sun But in just a moment The moment ends He runs under a car And I keep walking on

texas sun

ADDIE TANZMAN

Toast

NICOLE WELDY

Thursday Refresh LAUREN NEISSER

Fench shadows paint the brick with lines As the sunlight soaks my back. Dusty red brick patters with footprints, And a scone crumbles in my mouth As apple cider washes it down. The brick glows more each minute as the sun approaches sunset And his eyes fill more with warmth than ever. Red flowers grow fiery And the autumn leaves brush along the oak patio. He remains unburdened by age; Playful and light, Providing me with refresh from a long thursday.

A Sestina for Practice ALANA REVELS

It’s been a few years, But I tried to play the piano again the other day. I didn’t expect to be perfect, But my hands were so shaky as they sank onto the keys. Maybe I was a bit nervous. Just a little... Out of practice. I never did like to practice Over the dozen years— Not even a little. Aunt Hazel always used to say “Just 15 minutes a day,” “Always be sure to know your keys,” And, “Remember that practice makes perfect.” Maybe that was the problem. I wanted to be perfect— Right from the start. To hell with practice. Why did I need to play the same keys Over and over, for what felt like years? And do it again every day? It didn’t make sense when I was that little. Even though my fingers were so little, My Nana always said they were perfect. She said, “You’ll get this piano of mine someday,” So I began to practice At seven years, My hands stretching to reach all the keys. But now dust lies on those keys And it coats my fingers a little. It’s been years, And sometimes I think I’m even further from perfect. Now I’ve made it a practice To just look at the piano every day.

Maybe someday, I’ll reacquaint myself with those keys. I’ll find another song to practice. I’ll push myself just a little To stop trying to be so perfect, Like I did for all those years. The key I’ve learned over the years, Is that maybe it’s ok for practice to be imperfect. I think today I’ll try to play a little

Growing Pains

CAROLINE HARRISON

Sonnet of Human Experience REBECCA WHALEY

At first, I’m drifting smoothly, graciously. My ocean, a lazy river. I can breathe. My sun, a smile. Strong with happiness. But then I feel the pull of what’s beneath. It’s dark and cold but proverbial. I know what comes next. I brace myself, eyes closed. I’m pulled by stormy waves. I sink, alone. The heaviness fills my lungs. I’m unopposed. This familiar feeling never seems to leave. Its grip may loosen, never letting go. I must push through, hold on. Soon I’ll be relieved. This is life, this is my imbalance, oh– Hello, small streams of light, of life, of love. Again, I sit, drifting. I breathe, I feel loved.

Vulnerability

KATELYNNE COLLINS

mimic

HUAN LAPLANTE

walls and what is lost DANETT VARGAS

Overgrown Shed MEGAN NASH

Sunrise Over the Hills SIERRA WILSON

Diane stood on a gravel driveway outside an old, crumbling one level farmhouse, soaking in the faded white paint and sagging wraparound porch. The once well maintained flowerbed was overgrown with weeds and housed more than a couple snakes who found comfort in the dark, dense setting. The roof was missing patches of shingles, worn away from the violent, unforgiving wrath of Mother Nature. A gentle breeze tickled her arms and long blades of grass in desperate need of being mowed danced to the right of her. Behind the house on top of a low hill sat an old barn. Once a bright, fire engine red but now merely a shadow of its old self. Once upon a time, it had housed two work horses, a couple pigs, and a cow named Betsy. The field a few yards from the barn no longer existed, invaded by weeds and grass until it was swallowed whole. The house was once loved by a large family, the ghosts of memories still slipping in and out of the broken glass of the bay window. It had been nearly six decades since the house had last been inhabited, left behind after the single mom of six living inside had been unable to pay her bills and was given an eviction notice as a parting gift. Diane sucked in a deep breath and hobbled up the gravel driveway, her decrepit body arguing with her. She grabbed on to the railing of the porch with old, wrinkled hands, steadying herself as she slowly walked up the three porch steps. Though aware of the dangers of entering the house on the verge of collapsing, she had lost the ability to care when she became old enough for senior day at Publix. With a gentle push, the scratched front door creaked open with a loud squeal. Diane closed her eyes. She was a little girl running down the hallway in her worn overalls after her older brother. She was no more than six years old, a mere runt compared to him. “Harry, wait up!” she called, her bare feet smacking against the hardwood floor.

Sunrise over the Hills (Continued) SIERRA WILSON

“Come on, Diane, you’re gonna miss it!” His voice came from the kitchen at the other end of the house, followed by the slap of a screen door against the wooden door frame. Moving as fast as her stubby legs could carry her, Diane followed her brother through the kitchen door and to the barn. Moving carefully up the steps to the hayloft, she plopped down next to her brother and rested her arms on the frame of the large open window. Harold, who was eleven years her elder, smiled warmly down at her. “Ain’t she a beauty?” he asked, pointing east toward the sunrise peaking over the rolling hills. Diane frowned. “But what’s so special about it? It’s just a sunrise.” He shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, little cottontail. One day the sun ain’t gonna rise for ya, so shouldn’t this one be special too?” “Yeah, but-” “Every sunrise brings a new day, a chance to better yourself and the world around you. She’s an opportunity and each opportunity missed is a day wasted. Don’t waste your days, Diane.” Diane smiled and opened her eyes again, greeted by the old dusty house. The sun had set on Harry ten years ago and though old age had taken away most of her memory, Diane had never forgotten that one spring morning. Sighing, she turned on her heels and made her way back down the porch steps, stopping to face the sunrise on her left. “Ain’t she a beauty?”

Memorial

CHELSEA ROBBINS

320

Red herring

NORAH STRICKLAND

Habitual

HUAN LAPLANTE

Dovetails ANONYMOUS

Apple cider And wooden paneling dipped in sunlight Settle at the pinnacle of sweet childhood. Dovetails mesh each corner of my home And as shadows approach, Honey fills their imperfect gaps As a surly, dark rum dismantles the handcrafted furnishings. Dense coals rest in the fireplace, Cherry red until the moment the sun falls below the horizon. At dusk, the hot rocks raise a thick smoke Into the bitter, unforgiving winter outside. I am the coffee machine That will run again come morning As I always have, Rumbling the kitchen with a steady song, Brewing a strong, familiar roast To fill each empty cup And bring warmth to the frigid morning, Resetting the day And smoothing the wrinkles of the nights past.

Yolk on Pan NICOLE WELDY

Lovers

NORAH STRICKLAND

Butterfly Kisses CAROLINE MORALES

If the scar of you appeared on my skin It would be my fading, butterfly burn Just inside my left wrist, a relic from a job long gone The jagged edges are Batman, or a cat Or a worn-out butterfly, who fell to its death It doesn’t hurt- hasn’t for months And that’s how it was- sharp pain. Once. Now you are fading, like a butterfly’s kiss One moment of painful erasure of what we were I don’t hold it against you Butterflies don’t stay You watch them leave And hope to see them again some day

You Are.

SOPHIA LIVIGNI In the trillions of ways the universe could have thrown you into existence, it chose this one. This place, these people, the particles of the light beam you’re reading this with all perfectly placed for you to have each singular and individual moment you’ve ever experienced. And you feel pointless? Everything that had to go correctly for you to exist in this second, down to a molecular level first breath, every car ride, each season gone by and you ended up here And you feel lost? Each brick placed that you step on, ores mined to gather the materials shaped around you, the giant trees you pass, the tiny windows with people, each blade of grass, buzzing bee, humming engine, flickering light, cascading waterfall, stitch of cloth simply exist because they are supposed to, so aren’t you?

Come As You Are CHLOE JOHNSON

Daisy

ADDIE TANZMAN

Daisy Chains

HANNAH SKINNER

Daisies pressed inside an old notebook Perfume spilt across the spine Drawings of waffle cones and snap peas Memories encased inside a closed chapter I hold these memories daily as a reminder The reminder of pain Though it was not all pain I’m known for tunnel vision And you dug this tunnel yourself Through years of work Now all I see, is you.

Don’t Talk to CopS! HANNAH ARBOGAST

Feed the Poor, Compost the Rich HANNAH ARBOGAST

bedroom window, inherited TATE GEE

i’ve got a print of nighthawks above the window, as a gift. there’s a picture of panic! at the disco’s death of a bachelor album, and a dead leaf my brother tacked to the wall back when this room used to be his. i’ve got letters that used to be his next to letters that are now mine. i have a prayer taped to the wall, as a gift that i am still working on receiving. look. maybe i’m tired of praying for things and not getting them. maybe my window doesn’t open all the way, maybe the screen has a hole and maybe these are the things god won’t fix. maybe these are the spaces i reach through to have something that is mine only because i want it to be. my brother tapes maps to the ceiling and says what i do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter.

Artificial Modalities SAMANTHA SHAMARD

The Mask MEGAN NASH

Colored Eyes ERIK ANTONIO

A friend once told me she liked certain types of guys, The kind of guys with colored eyes, Brown is also a color, I tried to claim, To which she said, “That’s not the same.” I dated a girl who set me straight, that blue eyes are a recessive trait, “If we have kids, you can kiss these blues goodbye.” Whether this is true, I can no longer verify,

The World Inside Our Mind GRIFFIN COBB

Gazing into the sky we see Nothing but dots, yet we believe them To be gods and fantasies, Mighty creatures or seraphim The human mind likes to design Worlds between worlds shifting the universe Into something even larger yet fit it Into tombs of text or verse Phenomenon explained through sacrifice and pain Of beings tall and broad, lovely and fair Except for the personified grief Given traits of flame and snakes for hair Incomprehensible pinnacles of luck Thought as artworks of gods Struck down by their flaws revealing Human creation dictating all laws A universe so vast seen from a mind even vaster Able to create gods and goddesses, a student and master, science and math, Legends and lore, empires and facts, Laws for sound, talks of the town And even our worth We are all created equal under God’s will Yet we willed god to be created til We became bored of the notion of just one tale So we spread our fiction to enjoy and regale The world inside our minds is one bigger than our universe Incomprehensible to its creators yet explained through this verse Magic and myth weave together in our neurons so freely That they form worlds of their own, mirroring ours completely

Who’s to say we are not the product of some lucrative conscious Ambitious enough to believe we’re better than their conquest In their own reality. And who’s to say that cycle can’t repeat, Our gods having gods, their lives requiring that they dream Then we share god’s conundrum of dissatisfaction Escapism from the world imagined for us Only to create beings who feel that same exact lust For something even better than the paradise we thought we gave them Down this rabbit hole we should reach the perfect place Free from want based on the logic we created Yet with our all-powerful imagination Satisfaction is something we can’t create Desire for more, want for wonder Attachment to things we’ll never discover It may never quench our marvelous thirst But it will drive us forward, in this land we share with others Because we are all our own god The world inside our mind is still not our own So we take those blissfully naive thoughts And use them to shape the world where we’ve grown Yes, seraphim and creatures of the night Fall to pieces under critical sight But the lives they live in our mind Drive us to continue to fight The world inside our minds is wonderful But the world outside our heads is colorful

Cairn

NICOLE HUNNEWELL

Grimes' Realiti CHLOE JOHNSON

Reminiscence

CHELSEA ROBBINS

The Blessing

CAROLINE MORALES I wish you well Truly I hope you’re healthy Hope you never lose your sharp, brilliant mind So that you never forget what you did to me So that every time you pass my apartment You remember in vivid detail every moment Remember how we danced at midnight Remember the night I started to trust you Remember our dates at the witching hour For if I am to be haunted by the memory of you It is only fair that I haunt you too

Words of Sand HANNAH SKINNER

The soft touch of words Often met With an abrasive juxtaposition Then, Are they really soft? Or is it like sand Coarse, harsh, but silky when laid out Like your silhouette words Put into a well tied sentence

Hidden Pain

KATELYNNE COLLINS

Tiger lily

NORAH STRICKLAND

Peonies and Gardenias: An Impressionistic View MELINA WALLACE

(Drawing the cotton curtains apart the sun began to say Hello— She found herself sitting on the floral rug: drawing out peonies with her fingers. She began unpacking each box. Rediscovering acts of her life: Ex-friends, Ex-daydreams, and Ex-versions of herself began filling the room.) Act I: The Bookshelf Persuasion, How to be a Parisian: Wherever you are Love, Style, and Bad Habits, Jane Eyre, A few bad poems squeezed between classics, Pygmalion, a vintage edition Of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

Peonies and Gardenias: An Impressionistic View (continued) MELINA WALLACE

Act II: The Desk Birthday cards with forget-me-nots, Others with dogs, Letters with no signatures, Letters with ruined ink, Letters that have been folded so many times They might rip. Act III: The Walls Gold antique frames, Some deliberately empty, A couple of Marshalls bought Renoirs and Monets, A couple paintings done by friends, Dense watercolors and acrylics One oil, A couple florally embroidered hoops: Daisies and Gardenias. (She is tracing one of the gold frames with her index finger and looking up. Watching as a smile paints itself onto her lips thinking of, “another oil painting?” Drawing the cotton curtains together as the sun began to say Goodbye— She found herself grabbing her paints: drawing the doors to the office.)

What Happens to Memories? DANETT VARGAS

Last Game of Chess

CAROLINE HARRISON

Amber

ERIK ANTONIO There’s something beautiful about having something written down, Or recorded, It’s a moment in time that is suspended, But more than that, it’s a snapshot of a different time, And of us, when we were different people, The person who wrote that no longer exists, And neither does the person who read it the first time, And so, let those memories stay where they are, Forever trapped in that moment, like a mosquito caught in a bit of amber, Frozen in time,

Poetry

HANNAH BURNS Oh, to find beauty in the mundane then shove meaning down its throat

Is It Closure? 63

CAROLINE HARRISON

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