The Chronicle | Spring 2019

Staff Editor-in-Cheif | Madison Wakefield Managing Editor | Xavier Charlot Layout Editor | Sydney Lykins Art Editor | Hannah Rivers Literary Editor | Mary Thomas McCutchen Copy Editor | Nicholas Seiter Social Media Manager | Becca Kerr Web Master | DeOnna Clarke

Sydney Outen, Colby Cofield, Margo Marie McManus, Caitlyn Van de Meulebroecke, Austin Terault, Lauren Soash, Allison Killinger, Lauren Kohnle, Sarah Roberts, Nick Bauer, Erik Antonio, Samantha Connell, Lindsay Ackerman If you would like to join us, please stop by the Tiger Media Suite on the third floor of Hendrix or drop us a line on social media!

Instagram: @cuchronicle www.ClemsonChronicle.com

hi there

An editor’s note is a page where an editor, like myself, can recognize others. These pages ahead are yours. You can read, rip, frame, tear, ignore, write on, or admire all the work to follow.

This magazine belongs to you--except for this page.

This page is for the creators. In light of our theme, it is for the hive of twenty-one busy staff members that collaborated on every inch of this magazine. This page is for the artists who engraved their work with their souls. Inside, you will experience the lives of others, feel compassion and sorrow, confusion and euphoria.

Our minds are open to you.

So, welcome to our magazine, make yourself at home. Take a moment, feel the texture of this paper on your fingertips. Smell that familiar smell of fresh print. Marvel at the artwork and literature inside. It’s an odd thing that so many minds can hum in harmony to produce something so real.

Thank you for being our foundation that allows us to continue creating.

Madison Wakefield Editor-in-Chief

Madison Wakefield

table of contents literary 09 10 12 15 18 21 22 23 24 28 35 36 38 42 44 46 47 50 54 58

The Only Love Poem that Matters We Must Imagine Sisyphus Happy Epiphany Mexico Eyelashes A dreamer’s dream, it never dies A New Prometheus Captured Angel Dear Rose Bush The Dance Belgrade Icarus The Blushing Door A Girl and A Boy The Floodgates Fail Bottle It Up Indefinite The Back Pew Tripped Once Favorite Word

art 08 11 13 14 16 17 20 25 26 27 30 31 34 32 37 40 45 48 51 52 56 57 60 61

St.Valentine is Lactose Intolerant Just a Wee Bit Different Wolf The Butterflies Never Land on Me Overwhelmed low on self- esteem, so you run on gasoline Who Am I 5:53pm Bathing in My Sins Purity Love is a Losing Game Last to Know Leaving Home Busy Lotus Salt and Pepper Shaker Set Who Are You Mandala The Smell of Napalm in the Morning Fall for Greenville Degraded Bowls Yesterday Hidden Worlds Sunny Side Up Audio

St.Valentine is lactose intolerant Sam Taylor

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the only love poem that matters Addy Dame

you are the rays of sunshine through the blinds, the warm spray of water from the sea, you are the gentle breeze in the dusk, and you put the slight shake in my knees. you are the deep breath during a picnic, the fresh fruit from the trees, you are the wool socks in December, and sweeter than honey from the bees. i found you by accident when i was in the cold and it only took one kiss from you to know that i was home.

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We Must Imagine Sisyphus Happy William Best

Hangover induced headaches lead To the siren song of Tylenol, And hits of stolen Adderall.

Walk a tightrope? I’ll do the deed.

In the end I know I’ll fall, As I’m merely human after all.

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Just a Wee Bit Different Jiawei Deng

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Epiphany Hanna Bruno Friday afternoon she had an epiphany.

She realized that she really loves the way she looks.

She loves her calf muscles and the way they fill out her jeans.

She loves her strong thighs. The stretch marks on them remind her of Jupiter’s surface.

She really appreciates her birthing hips; They’re going to come in handy someday.

Her curves make her feel feminine, and her back makes her feel sexy.

Her arms may be lanky, but they’re useful for reaching things on the top shelf.

The different colors in her eyes make her think of the cosmos that she would have learned about had she taken the next level of astronomy.

Her facial features are proportionate and complement each other.

Not gonna lie, she thinks her nose is pretty darn cute.

And honestly one of the many things she love most are her lips, especially how her lower lip is fuller than the upper.

She absolutely adores all seven of her piercings.

Having a hoop in her cartilage makes her feel kind of punk, even though she’s not.

She still doesn’t understand what you mean when you refer to her profIle as a metaphor, but the more she looks at it the more she agrees with you; it is pretty nice.

She understands that she’s not perfect, and that’s what the epiphany was

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Wolf Katie Francis

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the butterflies never land on me Sam Taylor

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Mexico A.R Baxter She stared into chocolate.

Twin seas of smoked cocoa, hazel swirls in the amber sun.

The eyes of a warm twilight and how-dee-doos.

Resting The eyes danced around her and into the sky.

They were the sky. Wink and blink and twinkle.

The moon was a smile.

Bold and white. Teasing bright.

Hello, Cheshire Cat. Where have you disappeared to now?

Restless Cologne the Snake coiled around her ankle.

Slithered under her skin and swam through her veins.

Infestation of blood and body.

Venom pins sank into a lonesome, slow-beating cushion.

A somber, longing march in the blue dark.

Uneasy fidgets She thought of Mexico.

Planet chicas, tequila and margaritas.

Of him, waterside under brilliant bronze.

Of him, wandering smoke in a party of shadows.

Of him, easy onlooker in a karaoke bar.

She heard the drunken Spanglish.

Up and hot.

Pillow snuggle.

Boiled tears and Mona Lisa face.

Be back soon...

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Overwhelmed Savannah Lyons Wood

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low on selfesteem, so you run on gasoline Sabrina Smith

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Eyelashes after Sabrina Benaim Niara Hargrave If eyelashes were fairy wings I’d float above the ground every time I bat my eyes.

I’d coat them with liquid magic That would color my face a shade of mystery no one could resist.

And if I could go anywhere in the blink of an eye Or click of a heel They’d be more like Dorothy’s shoes.

Sparking ruby heels, Too small for these feet, That’d transport me where ever When there’s no place like home.

And if the road of yellow bricks takes me to the allpowerful wizard Then cotton ball clouds painted in the sky can carry kingdoms.

And if people can live above the ground, That makes weddings funeral parties.

And if weddings and funerals have the same ingredients That means stars are peep holes into heaven.

And if you can see glimpses of god’s light on the darkest night Then books are recorded events from other dimensions.

Which means authors pose the gift to see beyond the world they exist in So, I guess age is just a number 18

And if the date of your birth is just a minor detail

Then alphabet soup tells the future A fortune spelled out in canned noodles floating in between carrots and peas Campbell’s secret ingredient.

And if processed food can be psychic Then why can’t plastic that covers mama’s furniture preserve the memories of those who sit on it.

2 am gossip and grandparents’ lessons Never forgotten.

And if couch protectors do more than shield leather from spills and rips Then we’re all up to no good.

Our minds fill with day dreams of ditching the predictable and considerate We wish to roam midnight cul de sacs Ducking behind street lamps Knocking over mail boxes Dazed and confused We’d lose control Cross limits And suspend boundaries for a night.

And if there is in fact no sleep till Brooklyn Then the hair atop my head is a crown of dark curls I carry with every step I take.

The twists and coils Gifted from my mother, Blessed by carols daughters, frame my face Announcing to the world that I am royalty Who hence forth shall not be bothered by opinions of the common people.

So since I was born a princess with a built in crown That makes eye lashes fairy wings to help me float above the ground.

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Who am i Sydney Lykins

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A dreamer’s dream, it never dies Matthew Fleck

A dreamer’s dream, it never dies Come find me at the next thing, At the new place With the new people.

Come find me when the rain’s just stopped, And the sun breaks through, And the puddles glimmer.

Come find me when she says yes, And we go exploring Through the forests and the fields.

Come find me at the darkest hours of night When the moon hangs low, And the stars are sovereign over the Earth.

Come find me every day in the same spot With the same notebook And a new dream.

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A New Prometheus Madison Wakefield I thought I was the new and improved Prometheus Who played with the flames that taunted others. With a glimmer in my eyes that screamed, I will save you before I save myself.

Even as I bind myself to the highest peak, Waiting for a bird.

These chains that limit me Will fortify your freedom.

Because I choose to see beauty in your life.

I choose to watch you grow beyond.

Trust that I will save you.

The sky from this view is limpid, truthful.

I watch a feather fall from my bosom, Resurrected, as wings broaden from my spine.

But I taste wax in my mouth.

My reality began to drip from the scorching blaze, And the safety of my chains do not defend as I plunge to my demise.

I thought I was the new and improved Prometheus, But this skeleton is shaped like Icarus.

Don’t expect yourself a god, For when I create beauty, destruction will lend a root.

Please save me.

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Captured Angel Miranda Rawson A rusted chain Sunk deep Into the granite cliff Overlooking the sea Holds her from the astral planes Tethered by a bleeding ankle She writhes against the rock Her blonde hair And delicate features too beautiful For this ferocious helplessness Her blood weeps into the thrashing waters As she fights for freedom She lost the breath For screaming Long ago, So her cries are carried along The wings of her brothers Her feathered pinions beat desperately Scraping against stoneShe thrusts against the shackle Her fingers reaching at a distant sky But the rock is patient And does not understand her glory He stays rooted Laughing at her defiance

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Dear Rose bush Melina Wallace Dear Rose Bush, He told me, today, that I was infected by the thorn latched into me, that the removal would be painful but heal within weeks.

When I could move my feet again, he said, I should walk away.

But I knew that you had already pierced past the dermis and, removal would leave a scar I couldn’t look past without seeing a Rose.

(It’s a sin to kill a Rose.)

So, I took my diagnosis and left.

You had warned me that he was the disease that should be charged with theft.

Yours, The Sun Dear Rose Bush, I never needed you to be perfect, in fact, I fell in love with the pink that stood out against the wilted.

And you returned the favor, knowing that even the Sun craves shade, craves cloudy days, craves rain accompanied by wails.

No one could be happy forever, that was understood.

That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, when you gave up my light for companionship with the night.

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Once yours, The Sun

Dear Moon, Please tell the Rose Bush, Although I’m not where you know me to be, or how you expect me to shine.

I’m here.

The biggest mistake was not being wilted.

It was thinking you were the only one wilting.

Just like a rose, I grew too.

I’ve never been brighter and neither have you.

Love always, The Stars

5:53pm Allison Killinger

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Bathing in My Sins Sabrina Smith

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purity Sabrina Smith

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the dance Cassidy Smith tread lightly, step softly every footfall strategic and measured spin me in circles the familiar path of evasion and riddles the habitual orbit drifting away but always floating back but never too close, never close enough then fingertips against my hip taking me aback a misstep, surely time had dictated every movement choreography born from comfort but

this was new a warmth radiating from the unexpected touch our steps took us closer to the edge

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glimpsing over the unknown stretching dark ominous and unending

rising quickly, chasing the warmth, was the fear a current of it in my veins guiding me back falling into routine again adverting my gaze to keep from drowning in yours moving closer as we spun each other back and forth from the edge suddenly i felt you pull away and my gravity shifted our orbit disrupted a new fear a sudden realization a plague of thoughts taking the same steps for so long the monotony wearing thin rebellion, a seed in my heart, that grew until i stopped, rattled by the unfamiliar still and with a deep breath outstretched my hand and with it, an invitation to fall

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Love is a Losing Game Helena Walters

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Last To Know Ashlyn Bishop

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b u s y Joshua Trill

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Leaving Home Caitlyn Van de Meulebroecke

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Belgrade Mary Lyons

Soaked stones from a melting storm Or a summer rain, reflecting the lights Of a city that pulls you in, envelops you in smoke, Reminds you of summer, while you slip in snow.

It teaches you patiences, and loneliness, And friendship, and stubbornness, And how to brush the ashes from a cigarette.

A setting for tears while curled on the floor, or breathlessly laughing while crossing the street, Confused about where you are but sure you Need a snack. Grimy walls around you Artfully plead the cow’s case But bare the marks of violence and war, Reminding you of a past you can’t understand.

It’s a city of contradictions, of too strong coffee, Too strong brandy, and too few buses.

You simultaneously want everything to change, but The street looks so beautiful covered in snow, And normal life, a few flights away, is a topic That can wait for another day.

You wanted this feeling of the foreign unknown, But the most unfamiliar melts into spring And eventually even resembles a home.

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Icarus William Best

“What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has, if only for a moment, tasted the infinity of delight?”

-Charles Baudelaire And Daedalus told his son: “In your complacency do not fly too low, Lest Poseidon pulls you into the depths.

Nor in your hubris fly too high, For envious Apollo will not share the skies.”

As we know, Icarus did not heed his father.

And I wonder that, as Icarus fell, Were his eyes cast in terror Down towards the fast-approaching sea, Or did he gaze in astonishment at the heavens Knowing he had seen the world.

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Lotus Salt and Pepper Shaker Set Katie Francis

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The blushing DOor Melina Wallace

In the room to the left on the top of the stairwell, (You will hear a creak coming from the fourth to last step, it will be low and the wood embarrassed, but you should smile, only ever looking straight ahead.

Don’t look at the railing anxiously picking at her finger nails.

Don’t look at the clock who doesn’t tick, like blue bird in midflight.

Don’t look at the melting wax of the candle that doesn’t produce enough light.

Remember straight ahead.) that’s where you’ll find me.

Stop.

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When you’ve reached the door to the left on top of the stairwell.

(This is my favorite door.

This door has made love with the sun.

Raw unashamed passion witnessed by the very blue bird that inspired the clock.

Tale tells that she said nothing, I assume it was only that breathtaking, in my mind, I can see, the way the rays daintily reached in to stroke the door.

It’s ok to call that blushing door coy, 29 years until she let the sun touch.

His touch showed, but everyone already knew.

He would rise to greet her.

She heard him coming. The birds told her.

But she never drew the blinds, and overtime crimson red was embraced to a blushing pink.

Others viewed that rawness as a crime, but I bet it was envy for her spotlight.

He always thought she was in her most flourishing time.)

Once there you may come in, if you still want to?

But only if you love this door as much as I do.

You entered, good.

No, don’t look at me, remember straight ahead.

Only ever straight ahead.

Do you see the piles of knowledge stacked around this amber room?

The smell of man’s conceptions and illustrations resting.

Exhaling and inhaling, slowly, achingly, as the sun barely warms their spins.

Can I come close?

Do you feel my hand giving into your warmth, or is that mine, letting know I’m still close?

I always adored that the sun’s love didn’t need to seen, only felt.

Don’t turn, but can I come closer?

Freckles are said to be kisses from the sun.

You can turn now.

I’ve been kissed a lot, you know.

Slowly. Very slowly.

They say if you look into the sun you’ll go blind, But I’m more afraid of love.

Now open your eyes.

(You have same blush as the door)

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W h o a r e y o u

Sydney Lykins 41

A Girl and A Boy Austin Wilson A girl walks into a room. She’s wearing a cocktail dress. Red. Her mother always told her wear red on a first date.

A boy walks into a room. He’s wearing a button up shirt. Blue. His friend told him the color made his eyes pop.

A girl sits at a table. She tries to play shy while reading her menu because that’s what boys like.

Right?

A boy sits at a table. He reads over the menu as if he doesn’t already know what he wants so that he can avoid eye contact.

A girl orders a drink, but she lets her date order her some wine because that’s what boys like.

Right?

A boy orders a drink, but his date suggests something else.

A girl orders her food. Choosing the salad over the burger because that’s what boys like. Right?

A boy orders his food. Running circles in his mind, debating whether this date was a good idea or not.

A girl starts a conversation. She talks of her future aspirations but doesn’t want to come off as too smart because this what boys like. Right?

A boy starts a conversation. He talks about his day at work and how rough it had been.

A girl laughs. She didn’t find the joke funny but laughing at nasty jokes is what boys like. Right?

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A boy laughs. Not out of hilarity, but out of discomfort. Something isn’t right.

A girl grins. She learns that the initial chemistry is more evident than she predicted.

A boy grins. He excuses himself to the restroom, because his date wouldn’t stop grabbing at his thigh under the table. But he couldn’t say anything, because that’s wrong. Right?

A girl bites into her salad. It’s better than she had expected it to be. Her date even offers half of their burger.

A boy bites on his bottom lip. Trying to silence his tears in a bathroom stall. Suppressing the pain inside him, because boys are aren’t allowed to cry.

Right?

A girl sips her drink, but almost spits it out when her date says the punch line.

A boy sips his drink, but almost spits it out.

Something doesn’t taste right.

A girl decides to leave with her date. They go and get ice cream and talk under the stars.

A boy leaves with his date. They go to the date’s apartment. They don’t talk. That’s normal right?

A girl chooses to kiss her date goodnight. She wants to see them again.

A boy is kissed and touched by his date. He won’t remember this in the morning.

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The floodgates Fail Cassidy Smith

Lately i have been wildly out of touch with certain parts of myself. blood on my hands beginning my breakdown; they shook as i realized some of the blood was mine. with no warning, emotion presented itself in a flood that i could not stop. earthquakes shook my bones and rattled my heart. for so long i stood against these phenomena, immovable. but i have begun to crumble. huge waves slammed until water seeped through the cracks. fully losing control.

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how do i stand against the forces that have grown under their oppression? they’ve become too strong for me. so here i float, lost in an ocean i don’t recognize hoping time will allow me to stand again in the end.

Mandala Katie Francis

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Bottle it up Hanna Bruno They say it’s not healthy To bottle how we feel But getting rid of these feelings Sounds like a sweet deal I’ll start off with trust Plant him in the backyard And watch him grow up From behind my new guard I would fill a bottle up with loneliness And send him off to sea Just so he’ll understand What exactly he does to me I’ll take all of frustration Blow her into a balloon Let go of that sucker And send her to the moon Envy might be tricky So here’s what I’ll do Tie a pretty bow around him And give him to someone new I’ll take admiration out to dinner And leave halfway through Ignore his messages Just like he likes to do

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When regret rings my bell I won’t answer the door There will be a note out front Saying I ran to the store Without all this nonsense Clouding up my brain I can get on with my life Without any complain

Indefinite Matthew Fleck Faith in what you see, though time to time you can feel The divine when you look at it But cannot see it.

In these spaces God exists: The something there, and you cannot Tell if it is out there or in, Somewhere beyond any bodily map.

Mountain ridges, or fading time Glowing in the distance; A breeze turning the pages of your book Or her hand meeting yours in the grass.

God find me And I can never find you, Or be sure you are there, Apart from that feeling that I am infinite.

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The smell of Napalm in the morning

Kevin Keeney 48

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The back Pew Mary Lyons

The back of the church is stifling In the heat of the Charleston summer And in the knowledge that this is where I must sit.

Distant from the coffin, tucked away from his wife’s view, Holding it together like they held it together Through years of knowing he loved me.

Maybe what I did was wrong; Maybe the Thanksgivings he spent with me Meant robbing her. The knowledge of my family At the expense of hers. He floated between us Charming and aloof, made me feel that I alone Held his heart, despite his life and wife a few miles down the road.

Maybe I deserve sitting here, Tears and sweat as my penance.

But I loved him. Even if I’ve been wrong Every day for twenty years. He was wrong too.

The pastor drones on, painting a version of Bill That can’t include me. It’s an incomplete image, A sterilized version as stainless as the pure, white walls Enclosing me and giving order order to grief. The mess I made doesn’t belong here, our memories together don’t Belong here, the smell of whiskey on his breath Doesn’t belong here, and I certainly don’t.

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But when you’ve loved a man for twenty years, You sit and listen to the pastor, you let the sweat Of the summer heat roll down your back, and you Offer your condolences to his wife, saying that working With Bill all those years ago in the union Was such a wonderful experience.

And she says, It’s so kind of you to have stopped by.

And that’s it.

Fall for Greenville Jiawei Deng

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Degraded Bowls Savannah Lyons Wood 52

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tripped Cassidy Smith unexpected but never surprising my foot catches and they come out from under me tripped, my breath catches, i try to escape again but how do you run from an extension of yourself? hitting the ground never gets easier though the burn of the pavement has become familiar on my palms it gets harder to get up to push myself off the ground i feel it looming over me but it’s so easy to just lay here battered and bruised too many wounds self-inflicted my own thoughts chaining me down what right do i have to drown? let the ground swallow me whole the world carries on through blurry pieces of submerged vision wanting nothing more than to collapse into myself but i have to keep running

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aware of the being crouched over me i struggle against the urge to look, eyes squeezed shut, but how can you run from an extension of yourself? the familiar cold touch, a finger under my chin slightly lifts my face upwards the cold permeates my body like a virus chilling my blood freezing my heart hardened i gasp at the shock of cold, eyes flickering open to see the world fall away and i get ready to run again but how can you outrun yourself?

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Yesterday Helena Walters

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Hidden Worlds Erik Antonio

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Once Favorite Word Ashlyn Bishop

Growing up, no was my favorite word to say.

I would say it with all the might I could muster and spit it out as flames.

But when he asked me, taking the cigarette out of his mouth, silently pushing the smoke out into the summer air, gazing at me like a wolf gazing at prey in a thick fog— when he asked me, Wanna go some place secret?

I couldn’t find the strength to say, No. So, when he stomped the cigarette on the ground, and I felt the dirt tremble beneath my feet, he took my hand and led me away.

Take a sip, he said, pulling out a bottle from his jacket pocket, though it was too warm for a winter coat, a winter coat hiding so many secrets and cruel intentions, but, I accepted silently, without saying that once favorite word.

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And when he pushed me to the ground in a space not so secret at all, in a space filled with hot lights and paved stone, filled with trees leaning over me in agony, trying to hide what would happen from those bright, bright lights and any searching eyes, I couldn’t say the word I wanted to most.

And when he ripped my clothes off, when he tore my insides apart and put my stomach in my throat, and my brain at my toes, I was left choking on the word.

Still, I couldn’t say it, my once favorite word, and I let my tears be my voice instead.

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Sunny Side Up Helena Waters

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Sounds of the hive

Brandon Sewell Clarke Bolt

Scan the QR code with your phone to listen to the selected audio!

Gabrien Gillespie

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

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