Chronicle: Winter 2013 by The Chronicle Literary Magazine

Chronicle M A G A Z I N E

Winter 2013

Cover design by Travis Wood

Winter 2013

Chronicle M A G A Z I N E

Editor-in-Chief Parker Essick

Managing Editor Jillian Danson

Submissions Editor Joshua Kulseth

Layout Editor Alice Wannamaker

Business Manager William Chelton

Promotions Director Emily Mattison Art Director Lauren Hester

Staff Writers Nicholas Frederick, Eduardo HernĂĄndez-Cruz, Aileen Marrero, Reâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ven Smalls, Emerson Smith

CONTENTS Winter 2013

Fiction Juliet Lamb THANKSGIVING..............15

Joe Hendricks REAL HOTEL FOOD..............46

Emily Mattison MX-5..............51

Alex Barry KANGAROOS..............56

Features Nicholas Frederick BE THE VOTER..............25

Eduardo Hernรกndez-Cruz THE STATE OF LIBERAL ARTS AT CLEMSON..............38

Jillian Danson THE DECLINE OF READING, OR THE OBSTINACY OF LIT MAGS..............48

Poetry Lily Bowen LANTERNS..................8

Jenna Richard REASONS WHY YOU SHOULDN’T MEDITATE..................9 AN INVITATION THAT I ADVISE YOU TO DECLINE..................37 OUR BINDING WINDOW..................44

Joshua Kulseth MELANCHOLICS..................10 VILLANELLE FOR KIKI..................31 TO AN ANONYMOUS LADY..................43

Stephen Fessler CLOUDS AT SUNSET..................12 DAWN..................24

Ethan Moore PISGAH..................13 FUTURE ETHAN..................28 ODE TO BRYAN BERG..................36

Aileen Marrero MY DAUGHTER CLOUD..................20 MY LADY..................53

Dorsey Craft THE WAY YOU LOOKED..................43

Re’ven Smalls THE INTROVERT..................54

Art Alyssa Glazener PATHWAY..............11

Sarah Butler PROLIFERATION..............14 LEVEL 99..............30

Emerson Smith HEARTBREAK..............19

Alice Wannamaker ATTACHED TO THE SEA..............22

Rebecca Beaird CONSTRUCTED SPACE..............32 PINECONES..............52

Darby Ward CREATION..............39

Adrienne Lichliter UNTITLED (WAIT UP!)..............45 FUNGUS CLOUDS..............60

Savannah Mozingo LOOKIN’ AT YOU LOOKIN’ AT ME..............47

Emily Korth REVEAL..............55

Editor’s Note “All the past we leave behind;/We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world,/Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march,/Pioneers! O pioneers!” WW Reader: It would be wrong of me to not introduce you to the Clemson student body’s new literary magazine. This is the Chronicle. This is a new start, and it is a fresh start for the written and visual arts on our campus. It is a chronicle of works from Clemson students of all years and all majors. It is a collection compiled and selected by my staff meant to offer you the best that this university has to offer. It is a compact between this staff and you, the reader. I want to be frank with you, and I want to be honest and good. I want to show you everything great about this magazine, and I want you to ask if there’s anything wrong. Every issue of this chronicle, from here on out, is yours. It’s yours to write for, write in, work on, rip up, toss away, draw in, tape to your wall; it’s yours to cherish or to ignore. But, most importantly, it’s yours. We are debouching upon a newer, mightier world. Together, we are emerging upon a new dawn in the chapter of this magazine and this university. Together, we are the new pioneers. Thank you for your time, and, please, enjoy.

LANTERNS Lily Bowen A slight breeze bends paper lanterns And we are swaying On a swanky rooftop bar In downtown Saigon. “This is where the officers stayed,” My father whispers as Waiters bring us drinks. “No place for us soldiers.” Reaching for my mother’s hand He guides her to the dance floor, I take photos and imagine My fatherTwenty-one again, Shy and unfaded, His Irish skin tanned From long days in the jungle, My mother, brother, and I IntangibleThe lanterns sway again, An earthquake in Laos.

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REASONS WHY YOU SHOULDN’T MEDITATE Jenna Richard Some of my hobbies include: pretending to speak in tongues, and collecting worms when it rains. When my sister is home, we enjoy midnight j-drives around my neighborhood. We talk about our lives. Sometimes I like to imagine how peculiar it is that the only thing separating us from sleeping strangers are walls and insulation. I think too much. I’ve been told I should quiet my mind, “Try meditation.” But my walls are not up. I have no need for separation. I will sleep next to your car as smoke pours from the passenger-side window, as you talk about life with your sister. And I know you can see me. You looked my way and turned your eyes because you were scared. And I don’t blame you.

MELANCHOLICS Joshua Kulseth The leaves in green are sick with too much spring. And the tall trees along the length of field, Heavy laden, arch in aggressive winds. Fall always colors in-between the lines: The mountains become her coloring book. But pines, when asked, refuse to play along. The Maples mirror the box of crayons: The pack of 96, not 24; Atomic Tangerines and Rusty Reds. Like a fist that punches you in the gut, October leaves you winded and aching. You only ever see her walk away. In fields of garnered grain, the lanes are cleared. Sheaves of wheat lay still, atop the other. Flies buzz around a pile of day-old dung. The hay is bundled, stacked, and neatly piled: Cows throw a careless glance around the field, And swat the flies that crawl around their ass. A dead thing, barely recognizableâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Lives beneath the shadow of vulturesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; wings; Decay has picked it with patient fingers.

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Pathway

Alyssa Glazener

CLOUDS AT SUNSET Stephen Fessler Clouds craft a portal beckoning night, Coercing sun that shouts back light, As brazen swords of metal bright, That clash with peal of noble fight. Thick, mallowed gardens hanging high, Beneath their gold-stained canopy. And soft-tilled earth upon they lay, Cold drizzling roots to soak late day.

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PISGAH Ethan Moore We wanted this trip to be about fun and rest, ironic since we’d be hiking for most of it— up mountains much more profound than any of us. Even with two friends I’d consider my best, the night in question retained the allusion. I’ve heard before I talk in my sleep— more moaning and groaning than anything else. With my heart so small and buried inside a chest I had done little to cultivate—much less so than the fire; an only source of warmth. We tried to sleep—under the stars and the moving, weathered heights of natural Grandeur. But tonight I couldn’t. My grace is gone. In a little over a month, my grandfather will die. Unbeknownst to me, less than a few miles away, a moan erupts— just like mine—from where the mountains lie. And everything seems an echo of something else. And that, that, may be a way to love God.

Proliferation Sarah Butler

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THANKSGIVING Juliet Lamb

n the dark, with only the soapsoft sounds of distant church bells and the blue glow of her alarm clock, she will be at peace. She will wrap her arms around her rib cage, fingertips digging into her hipbones, on her back atop the counterpane her mother brought her from Greece. She will listen to them fighting in her mind, but she will not hear. She will be at peace inside herself. She will get up before everyone else and walk to school, forgetting breakfast. She will arrive an hour early and climb the tree, where she will sit, her back curled into the crook of a branch and her knees under her chin, to watch patches of sun cohere over the second-growth evergreens. She will wait as the others swarm in, then climb slowly down as the last bell rings and drift silently into her seat. She will not talk, will not move, will count the number of times she blinks. Thirty-seven. Just before the lunch bell, she will be called on to present an oral report on pilgrims. She will not know anything about pilgrims. She will move to the front of the room and tell the story of a woman named Abigail whose 15

husband has died, leaving her to board the Mayflower alone with her new baby. She will tell of her arrival, of the Indian man with high cheekbones and puckered brown skin who helps her plant squash and pumpkins. She will tell of the timelessness of winter, the windowpanes milky with frost, the days that snow reaches her roof and Abigail holds her child by the dim, filtered grey pinpoints of light that sear down through the snow. She will tell of the flat flint-blue of the sky, the forests that last forever, the bird that calls a low warning as Abigail buries her baby in the spring rain. But she will not tell any of this aloud, and her teacher will give her an F and a noteMr. and Mrs. Linde, Astrid has consistently failed to do assigned work and rarely, if ever, participates in class. We hope that you will consider speaking to a counselor in order to assess the fundamental causes of her behavior. Sincerely, Margaret Finch, Grade 3-B She will duck out of the lines of shrieking children as they enter the cafeteria, will wrap her parka more tightly around herself as she heads for the front door. The door will be heavy with the force of a bitter wind, which will blow in when the door finally opens. Yellow and orange cellophane turkeys will rise, horizontal, off the bulletin board, rattling like dry bones; leaves will dance and tumble end-over-end into the waxy-smooth hallway as she escapes. The door will breathe a sigh of relief as it swings shut behind her. She will walk into the wind, down the street, away from the building. She will smell salt and wood-smoke as her nose and cheeks stain with color. She will bunch up the insides of her pockets in her fists and burst inside with song that pounds with her footfalls. She will imagine the note in her backpack, its corners curled, standing stiffly upright between her blue notebook and kitten folder. Her sneakers will scrunch as they hit the skittering leaves, will crackle on skins the color of dryness. She will fill herself with the chorus of crunches and the harsh screech of windblown pine boughs, she will forget something sharp-edged as the hollow slap of the waves draws nearer. She will not wonder if they have noticed she is gone. Her toes will hit the sand first, where the road breaks up and makes way for the dunes. She will struggle over the ridge of seagrass that whips her 16

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jeans and chatters in the wind. The sand will not blow in her face today- rain will have clumped it into a smooth, brown, clinging crust. She will half- run down the other side, sending sheets of sand crumbling down the slope, the tips of her ears stinging and crimson. As she makes her way toward the tidal flats, seagulls will rise from the sand, blown sideways by the wind, more winter-grey than white. The wind will be stronger here, so forceful that she cannot stand upright. It will fling salt-flavored ropes of hair into her mouth as she sinks to her knees. The soaked sand will spread dark blue patches over the ridges of her jeans, and the water will feel stiff and icy as a prayer. She will be silent inside herself, feeling the land as it disappears into planes of pale mist. She will hear in her skin a distant foghorn echo that blends seamlessly into the fall of waves. There will be fish and whales and squid of other times calling from beyond the extremity of the tidal flats, and she will listen. Perhaps Her head will be scooped-out something in her will answer. and hollow, echoing with voices She will struggle to open from the sea. The sun will appear, her backpack, manipulating dazzlingly white, finally burning chapped fingers thick and stiff as through cloud. wooden dowels. She will find the note and will be half-surprised that it is still there, resting between her notebook and folder. She will take the note, leave the backpack, and run across the flats, water filling her socks and shoes. She will remember Abigailâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grey winter and dead baby, the raised voices of her parents humming soft and low, soft and low, the seagulls rising like smoke and souls from the sand. Her head will be scooped-out and hollow, echoing with voices from the sea. The sun will appear, dazzlingly white, finally burning through cloud. And then there will be nowhere else to run. Just water. She will stare at the note for a moment, memorizing the shadowy creases and faint blue lines before she lets it fall. It will rest on the surface for an instant before the sea claims it. Blue ink will blur and stream like tears. Then it will be gone, fallen below the clouded opacity of the water and the splintered-glass sheen of sun, slowly insinuating itself into sand and salt and seaweed. There, buried like a child beneath the soapsoft sounds of distant waves and the blue glow of ocean water, it will be safe. She will struggle upright, not realizing that she has fallen, her soaked Lamb/Thanksgving

jeans clinging to her legs like a skin of ice. The wind, now at her back, will propel her toward the shore as though she were a tumbling leaf. She will retrieve her backpack, stumble over the ridge in a tangle of legs, meet the comparative calm of the pavement with long strides. Clumps of sand will gradually detach themselves from her sneakers as she walks. She will veer off into the pine forest, and make her way slowly home in the deadened murmur of the wind. Leaves and boughs will melt harmoniously into conversation. She will let herself in through the back door, balking in the sudden oppression of warmth and silence. She will hesitate for a moment, as though to turn around, but will sigh and move forward instead. She will move to her room, footsteps noiseless on the carpet, past the blank sterility of walls and furniture. Nothing will move inside her, not songs or blood or space. She will reverberate with stillness like a prayer. In some corner of the house, Abigail will be waiting, bowed over a childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grave; her parents will mourn the dead in a low hum of disagreement as the birds call a pilgrim baby to rest under the fresh green rain of spring. Her room will be just as she left it. She will leave her soaking shoes and balled socks by the door, her feet even colder in the sudden rush of warm air. She will pull back the counterpane and burrow under it so that the light filters like grey dreams through the lattice of fabric. Her body will still sting from warmth as the red drains back, prickly, into her blood. She will be at peace. Alone inside herself, she will wait for thanksgiving.

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Heartbreak

Emerson Smith

MY DAUGHTER CLOUD Aileen Marrero Roaming nights, On a flickering eye She wields her entire Entourage As if they were unyielding, Undying to her gracing hand. No farther does it come Than to where a timeless Horizon holds a handle For those who seek A golden aged end. My daughter cloud, Why do you appear Withered, Worn, When there is So much more than Here? There was once, No more than a time, Where your feet Could play In the fluffage of A flourishing waterfall.

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And there You Concealed your Face, corrupting Other minds of Who you might be. My daughter cloud, You mustn’t care For those who Abide by a lost law. Luminous lyres lay Along a more Fictitious road – One that only A Mother’s child Could ever Hope To behold.

Marrero/My Daughter Cloud

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Attached to the Sea

Alice Wannamaker

DAWN Stephen Fessler Did morning fight through such dense air, And hence, night’s sparkling hoard subdue? Once armed in flight, now warbling pairs, Birds sing of dawn’s won honey dew! Bare, beastly buds so dutifully crawl, Upon the brim to drink its brew; Dubbed dumb and drunk, they start to gnaw, On royal blue, frail honey dew. Now slave away with rush renewed, Watch, revel, fight young pompous crew, And search those old wooded casks unhewn, Which bloody, thorny vines o’er grew, Before the day has waxed hot through, And slaughtered thy sweet honey dew!

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BE THE VOTER Nicholas Frederick

hen you are a kid, you often imagine the magical privileges you will have when you reach a certain age. We all wondered what it would be like to drive a car. To think, we would be able to go wherever we wanted! We could drive ourselves to restaurants, stores, anywhere. And most of all; we didn’t have to ask our parents to take us anymore. That alone got us fantastically excited. We were ready for this privilege The next privilege on the list was, of course, the drinking age. Sure,

people don’t pay much attention to it. But when you were a kid, you couldn’t help but be giddy at the idea of being able to drink the big boy drink. The drink that all your dad’s friends drank. The drink that makes people act funny and do quite stupid things. Oh, and you knew those tiny sips your parents let you have didn’t count. That’s nothing compared to drinking a whole can, of course: you were ready for this privilege. But what about voting? Oh, your parents may have talked to you about it before. But unless you had the heart of a political 25

science major and your parents were more than happy to express their political beliefs and were ready to hear yours, you probably never really gave it much thought. I was like that. Sure, I recognized the solemnity of voting, and how it is a core action in our country, but I never lost sleep about it nor was excited about it. However, after doing speech and debate, Youth in Government, and becoming generally more involved in political topics and verbally destroying other people’ opinions, I found my self recognizing the importance of this responsibility. I realized that you have no right to complain about the status of our nation if you don’t vote; if you don’t at least try to change the way our country is run, then you have no right to continually complain about how much our nation is in the pits. But more importantly, I realize now that people have the wrong attitude on voting. We ask ourselves a question like, “What could this vote possibly do to make things better?” Or perhaps we think of these statements: “My vote won’t change anything.” “It’s pointless.” “All politicians are scumbags anyway.” These are understandable sentiments. And there are genuine 26

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reasons why people don’t vote—because they feel they are too uninformed, or perhaps they don’t trust any of the candidates. However, for the other reasons, I feel these people underestimate the impact and importance their vote carries. A vote is a symbol of choice. It is a symbol that you want your opinion to count, that you want your voice to be heard. You want input on how this country operates, and you feel that your opinion matters. You are doing your civic duty because you feel it means something in the end. And that is the truth. The voting process is a symbol of what this country stands for, the value of democracy. A value we hold highly, that we hold high over all forms of government. Voting is also a symbol of adulthood. As we reach the voting age, we have enough life experience to take an active part in civic decision-making. This nation now trusts you and your opinions. It is an awesome responsibility, and not one to take lightly. As an adult, a voter may use his or her collective experiences effectively and give life to opinion; neglecting this duty is neglecting an amazing opportunity. Winston Churchill once stated, “It has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except all the others that have been

tried.” And he is right: democracy is slow and it falls victim to the uniformed masses from time to time. Why would we want to go through a difficult process like democracy when we can just appoint a sole leader, who rules over everything and makes all the important decisions, and be done with it? The answer is simple; democracy is the only form that works. It gives the people a voice. It lets people choose their destiny. It gives power to the powerless. This is why it works.

I encourage you, reader, to vote on election days—from local to presidential, to send in an absentee ballot, to encourage others to vote. Be optimistic—your vote can make a difference, and your opinion does matter. Now to the pessimist, to the people who honestly feel we can’t change anything and that nothing can save us now, I say this: Don’t you want to at least help pick the one who will lead our country to ruin?

Frederick/I Wanna Be The Voter

FUTURE ETHAN: Ethan Moore We haven’t talked in quite some time, I guess I haven’t disappointed in a while. I’d tell you what not to forget— like a reminder on an answering machine— but for the life of me, I can’t recall what I forgot to do. I guess if this is years from now, and we’(you)re not married yet, I’d say to probably shave your face, and dawn a thin, repp tie. I know how hard it is sometimes, to be what you want to be. But remember what w(sh)e said at 16: what we didn’t want to see— her behind some wooden desk, drinking Starbucks all day long; yo-u(s) in a desk job working nights, humming the tune to a song. [you probably don’t remember the words] She probably does. She probably showed you the song, oh so ma(n)y years ag(o) (w)hen We were both so young and pretty and pure.

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You should give her a call sometimeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; you st(I)ll have the number memorized, iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sure. Sincerely y(ours), Present-past-never, ethan Ps. pick up milk at the store; it always expires before you used it.

Moore/Future Ethan

Level 99

Sarah Butler

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VILLANELLE FOR KIKI Joshua Kulseth Your blood is stilled. You lie alone and cold. The light has gone. The birds have flown. No sun-filled days: you will never grow old. You sat alone; at least that’s what I’m told: Better off to chance the unknown. Your blood is stilled. You lie alone and cold. A vision of your face, framed in its sad mould, Sits in my mind, your eyes bemoan— “No sun-filled days: I will never grow old.” Back in short time, in my arms I enfold— Entwined your warmth: now cold as stone. Your blood is stilled. You lie alone and cold. There on the beach, fog so thick we could hold: Night followed, but left me alone. No sun-filled days: you will never grow old. Smile once for me now—your smile bright and bold! Gone away: lifeless flesh and bone. Your blood is stilled. You lie alone and cold. No sun-filled days: you will never grow old.

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Constructed Space Rebecca Beaird

THE WAY YOU LOOKED Dorsey Craft Selma, do you think of me Sometimes when you work Your thighs out at the gym? We used to race when we were Younger, but you stopped wanting to When you realized I was quicker. Tomorrow we’ll go out running and Pass by six gas stations and two grocery stores and I plan on coughing a lot and not looking both ways before I cross the street to see if you’ll grab my arm or watch me get flattened. I think it will depend on who is watching. We will mostly discuss your boyfriend While we run. If I survive the run, I won’t take your boyfriend out To lunch and tell him about the Way you looked when you lay In the hospital bed after you fell Off the back of my father’s truck And broke your legs and you told all our friends I pushed you, or about the way you told me To leave you alone, please, go away, 34

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Instead, I’ll paint “Selma” on his doorframe In red or brownish paint. And Then he’ll get freaked out And rush out to find you, which is all you really want from me anyway.

Craft/The Way You Looked

ODE TO BRYAN BERG Ethan Moore i once built a house out of cards. the foyer was homey, and bigger than expected. it took me three years to get the windows in. every time i turned on the ceiling fan i had to rebuild a wing. i never really got used to eating in it. when i was fifteen a harsh winter fell on my castle of sorts. i had to build three fires a day to keep it insulated enough for living. by the time spring came around, the kings and queens were dead of smoke inhalation… but Jack lived on—a shattered shell of who he used to be. the house caved in its ninth year, killed Jack. —thankfully not me.

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AN INVITATION THAT I ADVISE YOU TO DECLINE Jenna Richard Behind my eyes the world is empty space. And though empty may not be the most accurate word, It fits. And I think it works. And if you tell me it doesn’t, I’ll most likely agree. Empty may not be the most accurate word. Let me help you in imagining my dark room’s whispers. Tell me you can’t hear them, the whispers. I’ll agree. This is my trouble. Let me help you. Now try to imagine one whisper in a dark room. My skull standing in as a makeshift wall. This is my trouble. To hell with my empty, dark skull. Hiding my thoughts, my skull is a makeshift room. It attempts to hide its quarantined intentions. To hell with this ominous skull! If I can’t explain it, neither can you. And I know this. Its quarantined intentions are revealed! And alas I can breathe, but only for a moment (if I can’t explain this, how could you?) This is my trouble.

THE STATE OF

LIBERAL ARTS AT CLEMSON Eduardo Hernández-Cruz

eing an English major at Clemson has certainly been an interesting experience. For those of you that haven’t noticed, Clemson University sort of has a reputation for being an Engineering and Agriculture school, and so we liberal arts majors tend to be overlooked or outright looked down upon. After all, we’re useless, aren’t we? What practical use does a liberal arts major have? I’ve even heard fellow English majors say that they think their degree is useless or express doubt about finding jobs after 38

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college. “At least it makes it okay for us to like cats,” an English major friend of mine once pronounced glumly before class (this comment in particular caught me by surprise, because I wasn’t aware we needed an excuse to like cats). I didn’t stop to ask what exactly it was that cats had to do with anything, but I received the impression that the individual in question wasn’t thrilled with her choice in major at that particular moment. This doesn’t just apply to English majors. I’ve heard it told to a

Creation

Darby Ward

eing an English major at Clemson particularly grating as said student has certainly been an interesting is, in fact, male. I understand that experience. For those of you that it was not meant as a serious insult, haven’t noticed, Clemson University but the sentiment against the idea of sort of has a reputation for being an a Communications major was still Engineering and Agriculture school, present. Because seriously, what can and so we liberal arts majors tend to you do with that? There’s not really be overlooked or a practical job outright looked that requires that I’ve heard it told to a down upon. set of skills out prospective Communications After all, we’re there, right? major that “there are easier useless, aren’t Here’s the ways to become a housewife” we? What practhing guys: just tical use does because we don’t a liberal arts major have? I’ve even push society forward technologically heard fellow English majors say that or heal the sick, doesn’t mean we’re they think their degree is useless or nothing. express doubt about finding jobs after I’m not going to make this college. a rant on how liberal arts majors are “At least it makes it okay for better than engineers or doctors or us to like cats,” an English major anything like that, because that’s not friend of mine once pronounced true; we need those people in our glumly before class (this comment society. And the fact of the matter in particular caught me by surprise, is that I’m rather fond of engineers, because I wasn’t aware we needed an truth be told. My dad’s an engiexcuse to like cats). I didn’t stop to neer, as is my sister and several of ask what exactly it was that cats had the friends I made freshman year. to do with anything, but I received They’re down-to-Earth, practical the impression that the individual people as far as I can tell, and I feel in question wasn’t thrilled with her blessed to know them. choice in major at that particular mo- That being said, liberal arts ment. majors bring something new to the This doesn’t just apply to table. I know several incredibly intelEnglish majors. I’ve heard it told ligent individuals in the more “practito a prospective Communications cal” departments who cannot commajor that “there are easier ways to municate effectively on paper. They’re become a housewife,” which was not stupid, it’s just that writing isn’t 40

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their strong point, in the same way that anything other than writing isn’t mine. So I found myself being asked to look over papers for friends and neighbors freshmen year. Likewise, for many people (myself included), public speaking is more than just frustrating, it’s terrifying. Communications majors, bafflingly enough, can communicate to large audiences and not sweat bullets. And while I can’t say that my communications classes have taught me to relax in public speaking, I have learned useful skills that help me speak more effectively and sweat somewhat smaller bullets. Let’s use an analogy to illustrate my point: different tools have different uses. You don’t use a hammer to put a screw into a wall, and you don’t use a screwdriver to staple the pages of your research paper together. The moral is this: different kinds of people have different real-world applications that benefit the world in different ways (and also: we’re all a bunch of tools). That doesn’t necessarily mean a hammer is better than a screwdriver, it just means that one works best in one situation and that the other doesn’t. So no, I’m not going to invent a device that revolutionizes society by technical achievement, or save lives by giving organ transplants, or even design the next national monument. And does it bother me?

Not particularly. People who can do those things know things I don’t, but I’m certain the reverse is also true. I’ve heard friends say that they could never be English majors because they just couldn’t handle all of the writing that’s involved with it. I know for a fact I could never be an engineer because mathematics just makes me angry; the second I finished my math requirement, I practically skipped out of the exam room. And yes, we English majors can have jobs after college that make money (other than teaching). As stated above, we write. We write poetry, fiction stories, nonfiction stories, reviews, commentaries, scripts, notifications, instructions—if it is read by someone, we can write it. I had someone once tell me that a friend of theirs made their living off of writing the fine print on your credit card. If nothing else, we English majors can be versatile in what we write. And anyone who knows anything about history could tell you that literature can and has changed the world— from fables and stories to pamphlets and religious texts. Communications majors can work in advertising or public speaking, the latter of which is something prominent political figures always have to do well to be perceived as intelligent by the general population. Proper communication is most Hernández-Cruz/Liberal Arts

c ertainly important, and I’d argue it’s something today’s world could use more of. Political Science majors exist to teach the public that politics is, surprisingly enough, about more than just saying the opposite of what your opponent is saying (something I wouldn’t have guessed in a million years by observation). Having someone who actually knows what’s going in today’s confusing political climate is incredibly helpful. And so on, and so forth. There is a common expression that has become cliché: “diversity is the spice of life.” It’s true, as clichéd as the phrase has become. At the risk of sounding like a paranoid traditionalist, we need liberal arts in

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our education to progress this society; critical thinking, analysis, and effective communication are all starting to be de-emphasized by this society. Let me put it this way: our culture produced an audience that let six seasons of Jersey Shore be produced and aired on a channel that calls itself Music Television despite the intriguing lack of actual music. Clemson isn’t exactly the center of liberal arts in the South, and I’m not saying that we should be. But what I am saying is that the liberal arts are very much necessary and relevant to today’s world. Liberal arts: we’re more than just creepy cat people.

TO AN ANONYMOUS LADY Joshua Kulseth Your good intentions are a pair of tired Suspenders: the teeth of the old buckles Are filed down, and unclip, striking my head. If I had enough sense, I’d wear a belt. Seeing you wouldn’t be so difficult if I Didn’t still want to hold you in my arms, Or grow old with you and leave the door Open wide when I go to the bathroom.

OUR BINDING WINDOW Jenna Richard In all reality, you are the one I wish I had thrown mud at after school. We shared a day dreaming window and in your dreams you wept. Painted on your face, buried deep in our window’s reflection were streams of Nile proportion that had not yet been real until our window became the binding force that drove out nurture and said “We are more powerful than our past!” From then on, I wept with you. You told me if we were to kiss, it would taste like bananas. It was true.

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Untitled (Wait Up!)

Adrienne Lichliter

REAL HOTEL FOOD Joe Hendricks

Roger slammed the car door shut and stretched as far forward as he could. The ride had exhausted both mind and ass. Sarah’s door closed quickly after his, and they started walking towards the hotel. Outside, they passed a man in a large coat with a small dog sticking out of the inside pocket. Roger figured he probably wasn’t staying at the hotel. Roger and Sarah walked through the rotating doors and paused in the lobby. Sarah started left, to the front desk. Roger was shuffling to the hotel bar and grille. “Roger, we should check in first.” “You take care of that. I’m hungry.” “Roger, we just ate an hour ago.” “Yeah, but that was just fast food trash. I want some real food.” “Some real hotel food?” “Yeah, that’s right. Some real hotel food.” Roger sat down at the first table he came across and ordered the French onion soup. Sarah was waiting on the bench at the front. The soup came out in minutes, and Roger drank it in one long gulp. Wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt, Roger sat back in his chair. It was his favorite meal of the trip.

Chronicle

Lookin’ at You Lookin’ at Me

Savannah Mozingo

THE DECLINE OF READING OR, THE OBSTINACY OF LIT MAGS Jillian Danson

ay back in the day, the liberal arts were considered something that every free citizen needed to be considered an active participant in politics and in civic life. The ultimate goal of teaching citizens these various skills was to have a society of intelligent and articulate individuals—and who doesn’t want that? I don’t believe those ends are any less important to navigate in today’s media-driven public sphere—in fact, I think the skills taught by the liberal arts, particularly that of being a good reader, are para48

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mount to a healthy society. When we read, we examine metaphors and symbol structures— from the letters in a word on a page, to the plot twist where the villain is actually the hero’s father, to the subtle nuances in the foundation of grammar—that increase our mind’s ability to handle complexity and abstract thought. I consider language to be its own form of arithmetic; and as much as I loathe admitting it, even condensed Tweets have their value in the realm of reading. However, studies show that fewer adults consider themselves

readers of literature and that the stylized, but only of the sort that will majority of people are reading online be processed by people immediately rather than in print. Even fewer peo- and then discarded. They search ple still enjoy poetry, and those who for writing that will become viral. don’t admit they don’t understand They search for their fifteen seconds how it works. I confess I don’t just of fame (I say seconds instead of read the “important” works from The minutes because these things seem Canon of literature—my own canon to move much faster than they used has some blushingly embarrassing to.) Much of it becomes vanity and titles and probably too many works the mirror of ideals that don’t address regarding dinosaurs and pirates. But reality. Does this demean the posI do consider myself a reader, of posibilities of writing? Does it diminetry, fiction, and online content. ish the skills we could be learning to Despite the fact that the brain handle higher levels of complexity? processes information differently Or does it simply mean that we are in print than getting fantastic online, at least at expressing They chronicle . . .how a group people are readvisions, ideals, of people felt inclined to ing online, right? hyper-realities, express themselves and I think yes, and and our desire for decipher their world. . . no. The problem them? with a society of To me, readmostly online readers is that it creates ing, writing, and the visual arts open a type of feeding frenzy for published up and exercise new neural pathways books. Publishers search franticly in your brain in the same way math for the next “big thing” in literature, homework will increase various skill for the sure sell. This limits what sets you might possess. Social media is published and what becomes seems to be offering us a diet of conavailable to be read. It changes the stant reading, but the reading pieces packaging and the contents. It all often have too little or too immediate becomes a popularity contest, a mar- depth. Commodities to be tossed keting scheme for “likes.” I admit aside, like juice boxes we’ve sucked this isn’t always the case, but online dry. writing, such as blogging and Twitter This is why I believe in liberal accounts, seem to lack much inward- arts journals like the one you are looking integrity. People might post holding and reading now. They sursomething very personal and very vive, fortified in campuses or select Danson/Decline of Reading

communities, and offer hope to the future of intellectuals everywhere. They promise us that reading and arts are going to thrive—that the skills they can teach will be passed down. They chronicle histories of current thought, trends in communication, how a group of people felt inclined to express themselves and decipher their world, and they do it in a way that isn’t a popularity contest. You don’t

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have to like this journal for it to thrive. And they will thrive—because poetry, literature, and art help us decipher the world around us with a larger base of metaphors, experiences, and a larger palate of exclamations: the iambic pentameter of paranoia, the yellow-orange hue of late homework, and the essaying swagger toward the future.

MX-5

Emily Mattison Grandpa Henry’s way of telling the family he was dying was by buying a Miata. When us kids saw it parked next to the chicken coop, he explained he’d bought it to be sure we’d drive his sweetheart to the store when he was gone. Mom was angry he was giving up, but watching him stare out the window from his threadbare La-Z-Boy at Thanksgiving while Grandma yammered over the buzz of the police scanner, I think she understood.

Pinecones

Rebecca Beaird

Chronicle

MY LADY Aileen Marrero It seems as if A drift upon a drift Is where I stir within My lonesome mind. And yet it cannot rest With its ancestors being So far behind. My lady, my lady, Can you not see? That the drifting Floating, figure is me. Too far, too somber To ever control time Yet that is the time That we all must abide. So I shall tousle and turn Until thine will be mine, And ever drift upon My low casting tide.

THE INTROVERT Re’ven Smalls I laugh. Laugh hard Alone. I’m sane. I walk aimlessly with direction Without direction I’m content, sure. Me, myself, I Work in a box But think outside Of it Inside of it Thoughts Rushing by Around in my mind MY mind Alone I laugh hard I laugh The introvert within always finds its way out.

Chronicle

Reveal

Emily Korth

KANGAROOS Alex Barry

lyssa heard the bell on the front door chime and checked the watch on her wrist. It was exactly half past nine, which meant it would be Peter coming in. She reached up and slid a skinny wine glass from the rack over her head and then knelt down under the register to retrieve a bottle of Drouin X.O. calvados, which she kept there just for him. When she stood back up, a short, widely built man with ear-length shaggy brown hair and wire rimmed glasses was just lifting himself up unto his usual stool at the corner of the bar. Alyssa put the glass down in front of him and filled it half way. Peter looked up at her and smiled. “I moved to Seattle because my cattle ranch in Montana went under,” he said. Alyssa thought for a moment while she pressed the rubber stopper back into the mouth of the bottle. “Kangaroos kill more people every year than sharks,” she said. Peter grinned and took a sip of his drink. Alyssa returned the calvados 56

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to its spot under the register and went about attending to her other customers. It wasn’t a busy night, there were only three other people spaced out around the bar and a dozen more at the dark wood booths lining the walls. Peter reached into the breast pocket of his powder blue dress shirt and pulled out a pack of cards which he placed on the thick varnish of the walnut bar in front of him. He picked them up and began shuffling from one hand to another while he watched Alyssa top off drinks. She was a taller than he was, almost six feet, and she had straight black hair that fell around her shoulders. She had smooth dark caramel skin and a soft, round face and shining black eyes. She moved with grace and efficiency. Peter liked to think he was watching a dancer when she worked. While one hand poured out a bloody mary, the other slid reached behind her to retrieve a bottle of gin for her next order. The pitcher of bloody marys went back into the cooler while the gin went into a waiting glass of ice. When the gin went off with a waitress to the customer, Alyssa turned around and replaced the bottle in its place on the mirrored shelf on her way back to Peter’s corner of the bar. Peter kept the same steady, neutral gaze on her right up until she leaned against the bar just a few feet away from him. “It’s been a month,” she said. “Has it?” He looked down at the cards flashing between his hands. “You know it has.” Peter nodded. “I like the music,” he said. He looked around the bar in a moment and returned his attention to the cards. “And it’s not too bright. A lot of places are full of TVs and flashing lights. Too bright.” Alyssa opened her mouth to ask a followup question, but she was interrupted by a middle aged, balding man in an old red polo sitting around the corner from Peter. “What in the hell are you people talking about?” the man asked. Both of them looked to their fellow barfly with questioning looks on their faces. “Every time I’m here,” he said, “You two go back and forth like you both know what you’re talking about. Not a single thing you say makes any sense. Do you two always talk like that?” Peter nodded with an amused grin and he looked the man in his eyes. Barry/Kangaroos

“No.” Alyssa rolled her eyes at him and smiled at her customer. “He means yes, Tim” she said. “He lies a lot.” Peter shrugged slightly and put down his cards to take another sip of his drink. “That’s the point,” he said. Tim squinted his eyes at them and gestured between them with a pointing finger. “You two together or something?” he asked. Alyssa shook her head. “We’re neighbors. He moved into my building a couple of months ago and “People don’t come to started coming down here a couple weeks bars to drink,” Peter said. after that.” “So what was that about the kangaroos? That can’t be right.” Alyssa smiled at him. She was about to answer when one of the waitresses called her over to the opposite end of the bar. Tim watched her go and then looked back to Peter for an answer to his question. Peter fanned out his deck of cards on the bar in front of him and then scooped the whole line up into his hand. He looked straight ahead without paying any visible attention to Tim. “People don’t come to bars to drink,” Peter said. Tim looked down at the half empty bottle of Sam Adams in his hand. “What else is there to do?” “They watch games at sports bars, they flirt at singles bars, they play out fantasies at themed bars.” Peter began shucking off the top cards from the stack and flipping them so they did one flip in the air before landing face down in another pile. “None of it has to do with drinking,” he went on. “People can drink at home. It’s cheaper, and you don’t have to put clothes or makeup on to do it.” “So they’re all just trying to hook up? Is that it?” “Not always that simple.” He picked up the loose stack of cards and began flipping through them again. “They come to lie.” “To lie?” Peter nodded. 58

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“They watch a sports game on the TV and tell their buddies about how they predicted the outcome of a player draft, or they brag about how amazing they used to be at the sport way back when. They hit on one another and say they’re working on a novel in their free time or that their apartment has a great view of the city. They get together with other people dressed up as cowboys and throw together as many ‘old west’ words as they can remember from movies. They lie.” “So what about just regular bars like this? What do we lie about here?” At the other end of the bar, Alyssa turned back around and caught Peter’s eyes looking up at her. He smiled at her quickly and looked down at the cards flashing between his hands. “Kangaroos.”

Barry/Kangaroos

Fungus Clouds

Adrienne Lichliter

Chronicle

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