Chronicle Fall 2014 by The Chronicle Literary Magazine

Fall 2014

Editor-in-chief Managing Editor Creative Director Promotions Director Art Submissions Editor Literary Submissions Editor Merchandising Director Webmaster Business Manager Assistant Business Manager Layout Editor Copy Editor Staff Photographer

Emily Mattison Matthew Delarosa Brooke Sidener Kristina Toney Chris Phillips Aileen Marrero Libby Davis Emerson Smith Meg Moran David Kerfoot Cody Hosek Laura Ostendorff Casey Bunda

Staff Members Ben Barkley, Larissa Barkley, Andrew Bell, Louise Benton, Caroline Brittingham, Kayla Brunelle, Jessica Bulow, Sarah Chappell, Lauren Craig, Parker Essick, Anna Ferrante, Briana Firth, Nicholas Frederick, Blakeley Garrett, Katie Gash, Caroline Hoffman, Katie Hyland, Brittany Jerome, Katelin Johnson, Carlie Kerechanin, Kaley Kerr, Julia Koon, Gray Murphy, Elijah Neumann, Diana Nguyen, Elizabeth Nichols, Chelsea Patenaude, Rachel Rinker, Bekah Shaffer, Nicolaus Sherrill, Saavon Smalls, Sara Stamatiades, Christian Steinmetz, Shelby Studebaker, Kate Thomas, Adda Turbyfill, Kelsey Worthington, Meghan Zieger, Everett Zuraw Cover art by Brooke Sidener

Editor’s Note Whenever our staff works to produce a new issue, we always try to have a theme that encompasses things that are larger than the magazine and that the university’s artists and writers can use as a basis for a piece that we hope they will later submit. As the former creative director, I’ll admit that some of our themes don’t always work out. Many of them also translate better visually in the completed magazine than they do linguistically in an early written or audible description. I think that, as readers, you will find that this semester’s theme, which we have titled “Fragmented Reality,” is relevant to many of the pieces in the issue, as well as things occurring in the wider world. “Fragmented Reality” works, I believe, because it is open to so many different interpretations. Although I initially thought about this semester’s theme in terms of a broken mirror, the shards of which reflect a distorted image of whatever is facing it, I have lately been considering it in terms of the “fragmented reality” we are all a part of in relying on technology to understand what’s going on around us. As a result of their now rather sophisticated mobile operating systems, our phones instantly bring us brief “snaps” of the fun times our friends and family members are having around the globe, anonymous “yaks” letting us know where the hotties are from other people around campus, and short “tweets” that update us on what the celebrities we follow are doing at any given moment. The list of programs, websites, and applications that contribute to our knowledge of what’s going on in the world could go on for quite a while. And they’re a good thing,

right? I would say so. They certainly keep me informed of where there’s a road block in our area, what’s going on with the Ebola crisis in Africa, and whether or not my friend who’s going to grad school in California will be home for Thanksgiving break. They also arguably enhance what it is to be a part of the “Clemson Family” by allowing students, faculty members, and other people within our community to communicate concerns and well wishes when one of our own has been hurt, which seems to have occurred an unfortunately large number of times so far this school year. These programs, websites, and applications are nevertheless some of what breaks us apart. A morning bus ride from the commuter lot behind the stadium to the street in front of Brackett is enough to prove how frequently we, as Clemson students, use our phones. I will sometimes glance around the bus and notice that more than half of the people in the surrounding seats are on their phones, often out of boredom or a feeling of awkwardness that comes from sitting next to someone they don’t know. And I am not an exception; I frequently use the window of time while I’m on the bus to send texts or check my email, sometimes to avoid acknowledging that there is another person sitting next to me. I think that we feel more comfortable interacting with one another, whether anonymously or un-anonymously, through media than in person. In fact, I know we do. There is also something about sharing media that we think validates us as people. For example, my roommate and I went to a concert last night in Atlanta, at the start of which I took as many pictures and videos as I could. I’ll admit that the main reason why I even bothered to do so was to experience that little feeling of awesomeness that comes from having a really cool Snapchat story or having several people like your Instagram posts.

Halfway through the headlining band’s performance, however, the lead singer asked us all to put away our cell phones and experience the concert with the people that were there with us instead of the friends that couldn’t make it. The concert was, needless to say, more enjoyable after that point. And it was because everyone decided to temporarily set aside their individual digital networks in order to embrace the more obvious one that we were a part of at that moment. If the lead singer hadn’t said that, the concert would have been experienced only as a fragmented reality. We would have each seen the concert mostly through the screens of our phones and would have gone home to show our pictures and videos to those friends who couldn’t come, barely able to remember seeing it ourselves. In telling this story, I don’t mean to say that the technology we use to understand the world and to help other people understand our world is fundamentally bad. As I said before, I consider our programs, websites, and applications to be a good thing. Although they give us a fragmented understanding of reality, our understandings would be far more limited without them. Nevertheless, I think that the fragmented reality that we see as a result of this technology can become more whole if we allow ourselves to become more aware of the realities in which we live. Talk to your neighbor on the bus, before a class, at a concert and maybe you’ll find more of the bits and pieces belonging to the broken mirror. This is simply my take on our Fall 2014 theme though. As you read through this issue, I encourage you to think about what a “fragmented reality” means to you and how the contents of this magazine relate to one. Thanks for picking up an issue by the way! And as Parker has said before, enjoy!

CONTENTS Fiction Elijah Neumann — Fresh Journey.................................................................................................. 26

— Wholesome Love............................................................................................ 51 — Wanderlust..................................................................................................... 70

Lisa Imber — Stalker................................................................................................................. 60–63

Poetry Rowan Lynam — Even if you Miss........................................................................................... 10–11

— Communion...................................................................................................... 22 — Park Sunday.................................................................................................. 24–25

Creg McAda — No Use Crying Over............................................................................................... 13

— Pollen Count.................................................................................................... 40–41 — Deeply Personal Poem Number One................................................................ 66–67

Kate Thomas — Boston Time........................................................................................................ 15 Joey Wilson — Solitude.................................................................................................................. 17 Cody Hosek — The Only Thing Left............................................................................................... 20

— Postmeridian Paganism..................................................................................... 79–81 A.J. Mackenzie — Now Is Well................................................................................................ 30–31 Emily Geyer — The Task of Hands........................................................................................... 32–33 Kristina Toney — Oblivion...................................................................................................... 36–37

— He and I Fancied a Drink........................................................................... 57–58

David Kerfoot — Greenhorns (Old Man Anxieties)....................................................................... 38

— The Shadow of a Heron...................................................................................... 77 Ethan Moore — Just War Theory.................................................................................................... 44

— Japanese Steel....................................................................................................... 47

Nicholas Frederick — Identity...................................................................................................... 48 Sara Stamatiades — A Blindness................................................................................................... 50 Anna Jewell — 91........................................................................................................................... 54 Patrice Warren — Knightfall................................................................................................... 74–75

Fall 2014 Art Lorelei Sanders — Wastelands....................................................................................................... 12 Hannah Miller — Innovation........................................................................................................ 14 Katherine Gash — Dark Waters.................................................................................................... 16 Victoria Watkins — Future Shocks.......................................................................................... 18–19 MJ King — Immerse........................................................................................................................ 21

— Submission.................................................................................................................... 46

Bridada Bethea — The Golden Child........................................................................................... 23

— Translucent...................................................................................................... 59

Hallie Shafer — Mirrors................................................................................................................. 27 Alexandra Giannell — Death Canal............................................................................................. 28 Rebecca Beaird — Topiary Cake Stand.......................................................................................... 29 Ella Wesly — Skeletal Dancers................................................................................................... 34–35 Rebecca Warren — Explosion........................................................................................................ 39 Virginia Yearik — Back at the Farm after the Funeral.................................................................... 42 Simone Wilson — Midst of Mist................................................................................................... 43 Laken Bridges — Economy model S-7121: User friendly, easy control........................................... 45 Hannah Gardner — Leaf Self-Portrait........................................................................................... 49 Christian Steinmetz — Pianissimo......................................................................................... 52–53 Brent Pafford — Woodfired Pitchers.............................................................................................. 55 Chelsea Patenaude — Claire........................................................................................................ 56

— Stone Elephant......................................................................................... 78

Rachel Rinker — Brick-Laying................................................................................................. 64-65 Libby Davis — A Fowl Tea Party...................................................................................................... 68

— Walking on Expectations........................................................................................ 69

Megan Hueble — Facets................................................................................................................ 71 Wesley Trutwin — Intayuk Village 01...................................................................................... 72–73 Lexi Mathis — Untitled.................................................................................................................. 76 Katherine Rose — Diffusion......................................................................................................... 82

EVEN IF YOU MISS Rowan Lynam He’s grinning in the middle of Broad, his shoulders hunched in Boston light— the sound of bars opening early, flooding the streets, he’s got his collar turned up and his converse dirty. Three-thirty afternoon blooming over buildings, he’s got that looking-for-a-job walk, wearing his current bank balance on his sleeve, a balancing act of faux-gold cufflinks and the only button down he owns, wrinkled from the dryer, job flyers cluttering his kitchen table, able to taste the mortgage in his stale morning coffee. There’s false modesty in his smile, like he’s got fishhooks in the corners of his mouth, life turned south since smoking pot in college and getting that one D freshman year. He’s picking at the classifieds to keep from falling apart, kicking himself for still fearing the dark, his mother lives three states away now, and he doesn’t call her enough. There’s the rough slide of the concrete beneath his shoes and he’s losing what it means to be mean on the streets, twenty-six and still looking 10

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for a fix, he’s not a kid anymore. And student debt doesn’t pay for Starbucks, star struck by the cost of gas, heart of glass blasted down a social class, by his bills. He’s popping pills to keep his smile in place, graceless in his fall from grace, he’s lost faith in his college education, he’s in a nation made of inflation and denial, trying to redial the number for success, a mistrial of his dreams and he’ll spend his last twenty in a bar tonight because he can’t see the stars they used to tell him he would land among.

Lynam / Even If you Miss

Wastelands by Lorelei Sanders 12

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NO USE CRYING OVER Creg McAda

i see the tour groups pooling between the columns like freshly spilled blood milk i want to stop them and shake them wake up this is real what else could i say? break up with him before you graduate call your mom more often than i have leave your class of 2012 2013 2014 sweatshirt at home don’t tell anyone you don’t like football because it reinforces the commodification of black youth at the cost of the self-value of those who couldn’t catch a ball well enough people tend to frown on that buy underwear in increments of seven then i remember that they are probably coming here to learn how to sell me things like touchscreen shake-weights and bedazzled carbon fiber boat shoes they will live in the monstrosity that overlooks west campus they walk by applying sepia filters to photos of frozen coffee and i decide to let them figure it out alone the vultures circle above me as well full of wisdom but hungry

Innovation by Hannah Miller

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BOSTON TIME Kate Thomas The streets of Boston laid out before them: a sea of concrete buildings, bright street lamps, rushed people. “Time is inevitable,” the city cried out to them. “The clock is ticking steadily whether you like it or not.” On the fire escape they sit, backs to the city smoking cigarettes just like the real adults do and dreaming of an infinite reality where they can slow It down.

Dark Waters by Katherine Gash

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SOLITUDE

Solitude sets the mind free, To wander all about things that cease to be. Joey To go about memories and current reverie, Wilson And explore all conundrums and possibilities. The beautiful compilation of activity, That we call being applied and busy, Lets us ignore our subconscious brevity, And live in the moment, able to think clearly. The human condition is one that goes on, We seek acceptance, try to belong, But we’re very painstakingly wrong; We’re a part of an intricate story: long. We all fear being alone, but this we seek. We all toil from hatred, but this we reap. We all are comfortable, but the great eventually leap, Because progress comes from venturing to uncharted deeps. Music and art are forms of personal expression Without these, we would fall into a spiraling depression. Yet we make those who are themselves feel less than, This isn’t fair; in the end we’re all akin. We are rooted in everything we are taught and know So let’s reform our minds, it’s time to go. In solitude, in good company, we must strive to show, Change is coming, change is better, change is how we grow.

Future Shocks by Victoria Watkins

THE ONLY THING LEFT Cody Hosek you never told me you needed me just lists of other things deserving your attention. your dreams were what was most important to you and i can’t say i blame you. people are fault ridden creatures after all. i don’t get lonely anymore. the stench of coffee and the staggered breath of the same old records keeps me. my only frustration is that the music was too short the dreams too painful the quiet too loud. the space between tracks is where i live that repeating abyss you can’t ignore as you await the next song hoping it will take you from this place. it’s odd how we never think anything of the silence until it blankets us and is the only thing left to talk about.

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Immerse by MJ King

COMMUNION Rowan Lynam He had the same kind of touch that her motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hostas did in late summer, when velvety petals brushed her arms and bared thighs in the heat. She sighed into it, her skin open for the pads of his fingers. New galaxies were born from the soft sounds she made into the dark. Mouthing at her collarbones, he drew from her the girl that wanted to quit her job and hitchhike to the Pacific. The woman who dreamed of the bottomless night sky over the desert and the flavor of peyote mountaintops. He loved that woman. He held her like rich women hold their cigarettesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;so delicately she was almost smoke in his grasp, writhing with some native dance to wind. And then, hesitantly, her touched bloomed, arctic fingertips skimming down his spine. There was color behind his eyes, as the current of her rushed against him. He was unmade. She tasted like late night coffee and the warm memory of diner-booth conversations, and he let her pull him to the edge of space. Where all there was was the cheap cotton sheets and the time he pulled her onto the subway by the ends of her blue scarf and laughed into her auburn hair as she fell into him, the doors shuddering closed behind him.

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The Golden Child by Bridada Bethea

PARK SUNDAY Rowan Lynam Galaxies fall from his damp mouth, supernova stars unfurling in the Sunday rain; he says, quietly, that he doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe in God, but he did believe in dying. She thinks about holding his hand, but doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t reach for him. They are staring at treetops in the park and missing their college days, when knowing that the earth turned beneath them was enough to get by. He lifts a cigarette to his lips and she watches his tongue reach for the filter before his cheeks hollow out. She wonders how it feels to fall inside his lungs and scorch him, like he scorches her. She takes slow breaths, watching the flutter of his eyes. He sees her for the first time in years when she tells him that she believes in people and stoplights because they always seem to catch her by surprise. The wet park bench is accepting kisses from the rain, while their coffee cools and he is remembering every time her fingers have curled around her to-go cup while her voice 24

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slips into staccato complaints about their landlord. And he kisses her, the last breath of his cigarette curling, like the dancing arms of galaxies, into her smiling mouth.

Lynam / Park Sunday

FRESH JOURNEY Elijah Neumann A fading star, its final breaths trickling down an arcing black sky to the end of the earth. My steps beat softly into the leaf-padded ground, marking the star’s descent. A cold wind flows by. The owls give their last remarks, their voices mournful. I knew nothing of the star. I waded out though this tugging underbrush to pay my respects. In the clearing of the treetops was its last home. I have nothing to say, I never visited it before. All I know is I had a dream earlier this night where I saw it shining, brighter than any other I had seen before. I recognized the area and came over as soon as I could. It’s just over the hill from my old home. I stare up through the clearing and see the millions of small twinkling lights still there. I wonder how they feel. “Did you know him well?” I ask them. Strange, I know, but I’m curious. The fact I am here is strange. Maybe I’m still dreaming. Yes, you were quite lovely. I heard this like the lowest whisper, at first I thought was imagining it. Then I heard it again: We wish you a nice journey. “What do you mean?” You have been chosen out of all of us to start on a new path. That is why you are here now. This star is only part of you, and it is time to discover who you are. Follow it to the end of the earth and you will see.

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Mirrors by Hallie Shafer

Death Canal by Alexandra Giannell 28

Topiary Cake Stand by Rebecca Beaird 29

NOW IS WELL A.J. Mackenzie She stepped into August, quiet like the dawn, never fully there before she had gone In this city she was a statue of white opening the gate of today and expelling the night Lingering there, for a moment at most, she stood poised like an angel on Bishop’s Gate Post She was caught in the sight of a never seen boy marveling at the mystery, of affection’s first joy Before him she stood in glory and might; neither having known the other’s solemn “goodnight”

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There in that moment when blue witnessed green the lost time of ages closed the distance between And then, the world slowed so time was measured in beats and time was measured in breaths when the two stood on Irish streets. And he whispered to her where she stood on a perch “I’ve been waiting for you here, just near the church.”

Mackenzie / Now Is Well

THE TASK OF HANDS Emily Geyer Heart and words, they fight and flow a coursed river to be led, to be held, or released to its own, white-capped and hungry. I catch small glimpses [the dancerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s slipper shows] And it awes. It stops. Pointed in the light. My frail senses reach but it retracts and hides beneath the layers of tulle. The shapes elude but without small shadow: The mast. Green crinkly eyes. You just stand there and look beautiful, he said. Over worn sandals and skilled hands. A canvas, numb, and stretched across nothing, holding together the metal pieces. Then like a spark, so beautiful and bright, knocked over and torched the whole garden.

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beautiful, he smiled, a wonder to behold, to be held. His old t-shirt, those large hands that played John Mayer and set the sails.

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Hair plastered to my face, the wind changed and I dodged the boom, a quick shift and I slid down into the cold, it swallowed me, for weeks, at least.

So now I push it away instead and I reach for a plastic spoon, its tune so familiar, the bleak clink of assorted plastic ware, the tear of the new lid. The peanut butter sticks to the roof of my mouth, and like the words I want to write, the feelings I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t explain, they swirl, content to remain. Something like Olivia, he sang and he sought, but he kept on sailing. My fingers on black keys readyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; unsteady, surrendered to the gale.

Geyer / The Task of Hands

Skeletal Dancers by Ella Wesly

OBLIVION Kristina Toney We were cascading over stretching black streets of night, whirring by bright white streetlamps in our crimson Cadillac. My hands outstretched for you, only you, always you. Captivated by the movement of your lips to the radio slowly, catching every beat. And everything we’re leaving behind glows gloriously on golden pyres and it’s pushing us faster, faster, and faster, on, on, on. Our eyes went black, like the doe’s, moments before the electric rain first kissed our skins. So numb, we never even knew that it was over. I’m still convinced it isn’t true. Aren’t you?

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I feel your hand I do, I do. I do. Now, forever drags on like the long black scars on the pavement, stems to our crimson Cadillac, now crumpled like a rose swept to the side of the road, left lonely to gleam in the golden highway lightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beams.

Toney / Oblivion

GREENHORNS (OLD MAN ANXIETIES) David Kerfoot It was something like drowning in a lake of nostalgia or pain, when I saw the young couple sitting where we would sit, talking, laughing— same as we did. I saw him smile, bend down, Pluck a flower, whisper in her ear, and tuck it in her golden hair— same as I did. And same as you— on a bench at perfect noon, she had that lucky, sparkling smile. It was something like drowning. In angst, I nearly reached for the two, I flailed my arm with a warning. And that handsome boy in his spring Shetland sweater And that timid girl in her lily-white dress only saw a lonely old man waving slowly. It’s easy to remember how we were in youth when I remember you with so much life.

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Explosion by Rebecca Warren

POLLEN COUNT Creg McAda I am not very good at guessing ages There is a little boy outside my window most days, he never seems to have school so he must be younger than I think I notice him because I’m not sure who else might He reminds me of me but in a way that feels like Indigestion The knobby knees, playing with sticks alone chasing bees, digging for its own sake He plays sometimes with the Filipino toddler in spite of a language barrier and a hovering father but mostly he plays alone I want to sit on my porch and talk to him But I wouldn’t want my child to talk with someone like me I want to help and let him know that it’s just because no other little boys live here I want to but I am afraid like when The teacher discovered me awake during naptime I hit my leg with the hatchet and it didn’t bleed at first Someone says okay, it’s time Let’s get into groups I am afraid because he might really be like me and I don’t want that for him He might grow up but not out 40

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of feeling alone and scared He might chase things other than bees to prove how tough he is He might sit on his porch and write poems instead of just talking to a little boy who might just be enjoying the sunshine

McAda / Pollen Count

Back at the Farm after the Funeral by Virginia Yearik

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Midst of Mist by Simone Wilson

JUST WAR THEORY Ethan Moore in my younger years i would’ve stopped by these woods to pick up a gunshaped stick and vanquish any number of projected enemies. i remember running through the wet, red grass watching through sweat-infected eyes my brother take fake bullets for his country I’ve walked for years in mired undergrowth of ragged meadow leaves—fallen reds and rusted yellow. The green always dies in upper reaches. An old man dying young, a young man dies in love. Who was there to chronicle my death in life foretold? we’d be painted green and brown after this venture: a true camouflage built from the ground up on kneecaps and elbows and the blood on our faces like canvassed finger-painted catastrophes This is before I read Plato, Lao Tzu, Christ, or Hemingway. This is much before I knew words like preemptive, proportionality, ad bellum or in bello. Before the ninth month of 2001, war games were fought in the imaginations of neighborhood children all wanting to be killers, killing. ‘The first casualty of war is innocence’ Second: human beings.

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Economy model S-7121: User friendly, easy control by Laken Bridges 45

Submission by MJ King

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JAPANESE STEEL Ethan Moore A man at a flea market with a crew cut and a Marines tattoo offers to sell me a double-edged Japanese sword—a ken—for $135. He says it’s authentic, folded over 250 times. I tell him I’m impressed but that I’d probably chop my hand off with something like that. What I don’t tell him is that an “authentic” Japanese sword would be folded thousands of times. Measured in how many bodies it could cut through in one swing. That $135 wouldn’t suffice as a surface-level down payment. Instead, I reach for an even cheaper replica—complete with stand, wooden scabbard, and undoubtedly Formica-laden blade with the Japanese characters for Honor imprinted on it—because where am I going to get a legitimate katana? I later verify the phrase via Google Translate. What do I know of bushido, really? What do I know about kenjutsu that can’t be learned from Wikipedia, or Kill Bill, even Seven Samurai? What do I know of honor? It now sits above my movie collection in my apartment. Under the posters in the corner turned upward like a wry smile—the incorrect position of a samurai sword, but that’s how it fits on the stand—mocking my naïveté as a white American boy who fears and admires sharp things of a bygone era the way you fear and admire God. Could it chop my hand off? How deep could its rusted, counterfeited blade run? How many bodies is my sword worth?

IDENTITY Nicholas Frederick I cannot find the I in me, that lovely letter of self. There is no self i can see. All the mirrors, cloudy as can be, no home to be found. i cannot find the I in me. I tell loved ones of my needs! But itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s always so futile, hollow. There is no self i can see. Awake at night, all dreams flee. My eyes sunken, black and foul. i cannot find the I in me. Reflections cursed, I cannot see, the awareness I yearn and cry for. I cannot find the I in me. There is no self i can see.

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Leaf Self-Portrait by Hannah Gardner

A BLINDNESS Sara Stamatiades How do I tell it to you slant that I want it told to me straight? Success in circuit may lie, lie, lie, lieâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; But sometimes lightning satisfies more than the setting sun: Us sitting, watching the rays, losing them in our eyes, talking about a girl and her off rhyme. You lean over to kiss my cheek, your frame a hypotenuse, our heads coming to a point.

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WHOLESOME LOVE Elijah Neumann We dance, hand in hand, through big oak doors into a vast concert hall. Eerily silent, I feel the weight of my mind pulling me down. My soul, empty but for the alien voice that made it so, longs for this girl to take me in. Down the aisle we walk, pervading the stillness with hope. A piano sits patiently upon the grand stage. “Will you play for me?” She pleads, a fantastic smile spreading on her soft face. “Of course,” I say, pulling myself onto the stage. The voice told me to stop playing long ago. As I take my seat on the wooden bench before the piano, she follows and sits beside me, her eager eyes taking the moment in. I spread my shaking hands over the polished keys, feeling every whisper of the voice within me. My eyes close, fighting back. This is for her. I take one last look at her, the smile she had not disappearing at all. I smile back, my temporary goodbye. As my hands start flowing over the keys the music pulls me and I float away, confronting the voice in my mind. It slowly slips away and I play louder and louder. I don’t know how long it lasted, but when the music stopped I felt a crushing stillness in the concert hall where the sounds were still ringing in faint whispers. I lifted my head against every feeling that said not to and looked over at her. I catch sight of a tear rolling down her cheek as she hugs me, her warmth piercing through my own, filling my emptiness. I don’t want to let go, because in this moment I finally feel whole. And we sit there, arm in arm, as our souls intertwined into one.

Pianissimo by Christian Steinmetz

91 Anna Jewell i met a guy at a bar last night he called me jessica over and over i corrected him once. the first day of 3rd grade my dad told me to change out of my pink tank top because it made me “look a little chunky, dontcha think?” my belly full of the pancakes i had slathered in the kind of maple syrup that comes in the bottle shaped like a maple leaf — the good stuff. of course i’ll change, daddy! which translated to no more pancakes which translated to no more breakfast which translated to senior year, 91 the perfect number. i wrote my phone number down for zack with a “k” not a “h” because that’s what you do when you’re 24 and haven’t had a boyfriend since college. or because maybe one day we’d tell our kids about this funny story of how we met in a bar and he kept calling me jessica and i still gave him my number.

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Woodfired

by Brent Pafford

Claire by Caroline Patenaude

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HE AND I FANCIED A DRINK Kristina Toney on saturday night i found myself at a café, sitting on a rocky wooden stool, a half-empty cup of coffee in my hand. and i am sitting across from Himor at least, i will be, when He shows up. which He does, fifteen minutes late, with arms outstretched and a smile like a lamb. i smile back. this was His second time coming late to the bar. it had been some time since we came here last. because last time we fought, and i kissed Him right on the lips right before i told Him to shove off; i didn’t need Him. He’d looked so sad then. still, He’d promised that we’d find each other again. i’d hated Him for that. part of me still does.

but here i am, sitting right across from him again. and i want to be here, i do. because now i remember what itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s like to fall into that Love, to be sewn back together with every word He says. but still i wonder, how long will it last?

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Translucent by Bridada Bethea

STALKER Lisa Imber

ach step sounded with a slosh as the scent of fresh rain on asphalt engulfed the area. A young Ollie marched down in a hurry to get back to the apartment complex. He had already been trying to get home for the past twenty minutes, getting stuck in a downpour by taking shelter under the awning of the local library, waiting for the rain to lighten up enough for him to get home. Now it was only a mere drizzle, which bothered him when it landed on his glasses, even with his hood up to try and keep it at bay. Ollie had to continually clear the lenses in order to see where he was going, not that he didn’t know his way home from the library; it was just more a sense of safety with the advantage of sight than without it. Although after stopping for the fourth time to clean them, he finally gave up on the glasses, allowing the drizzle of raindrops to obscure his vision. Besides, Ollie knew he would still have a ways to go before he made it back home. What had possessed him to watch scary movies at a friend’s house with a few of their core group was still beyond him. Now he was paying for it by walking through the rain to make it back to his apartment. As he rounded the poorly lit corner of the main street to take one of the many side alleyways to get to the next street over, he thought he heard the sound of another set of footsteps. Shaking his head, the honey blonde hair that peeked out of his hood bounced around with a light coating of water droplets. It wasn’t unnatural for someone to still be about around this time of night; it was nearly midnight in a city that never slept and there were a few stores open twenty-four hours. So someone walking nearby was nothing to have Ollie’s 60

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hair rise up on the back of his neck. But when he turned, having thought to have seen a shadow, there was nothing he could see through the water droplets on his glasses. “I’m just seeing things because of all those movies. There’s no such thing as zombies,” he murmured as if to try and make himself believe in what he said. He continued the course he had set, passing by the local comic book shop owned by some Japanese man, who was polite whenever Ollie came by with his brother. The man had ordered a certain comic for Ollie so he could give it to his brother for his birthday once. He would have to stop by there again some time to say hello. It was then that he noticed the sounds of footsteps had receded until they were no longer there. Shrugging his shoulders, Ollie continued on his way, being mindful of all the puddles at the curb or those which had gathered on the sidewalk. He still had about another three streets before his apartment. Just as he passed the bakery owned by someone from Europe, Ollie heard the sound of footsteps once again. This time, they belonged to someone a little farther away from Ollie, but with his rain soaked glasses, it was hard to make out anything distinct. Perhaps he really should clean them, in case something did happen. Wait? What was he thinking? Nothing was going to happen. The goose bumps and shivers he felt were only the result of his overactive imagination. Another right turn down a little more well-lit area would make him feel safe. Besides, there were other people out—granted they were a bit smarter with umbrellas—so there was nothing to fear. If he was really being followed there would be witnesses around him. To calm his now raising nerves, he hummed a little tune he caught his brother whistling most days of the week. It was something that seemed to be “God Save The Queen,” but he swore it was something else altogether. Either way, it helped to relax the poor distraught young adult as he glanced behind him only to see the figure again. This time he could make out the bright blonde hair, pulled back along with the rather muscular build of his body. Okay, he had to calm down. Perhaps they were just going in the same direction. There were many different areas that used this road as a sort of connection point. Maybe he should just phone a friend or his brother to come and pick him up. Pulling out his phone, he remembered it had died in the middle of the last zombie movie the group had decided to watch. At the time, Ollie hadn’t Stalker / Lisa Imber

realized how important his phone would have been, but at the moment he really wished he had taken up the offer of having it recharged. Now he was stuck walking to his apartment. His next brilliant idea was to pick up the pace. He had only one more street to walk through before catching sight of his apartment. Besides, if anything there was still the local pharmacy he could spring in to at least see if the stalker was really after him or not. Yet within minutes, he passed the site of the safety, wanting to get home before the dark clouds overhead decided to pour more rain upon the earth. His breathing coming in small quick huffs, Ollie tried to calm his racing heart. If he wasn’t careful he would trigger his asthma, which would not have been a good thing. He hadn’t had an attack for a very long time. So Ollie decided to focus on relaxing as he slowed his pace to walk down the last street. Yet his breathing picked right back up as he saw the man once again behind him. Instead of just turning around, Ollie decided that this man was really out to get him and before he could, Ollie was determined to take him out. He would then just use the culprit’s cell phone in order to call the police and that would be the end of the story. Nodding his head a little to himself while steeling his nerves, he jogged to the end of the street and turned the corner. There was an old metal trash can he could use the lid from to knock the man out if indeed he turned around the corner in hopes of finding Ollie. The young adult was ready for him, or at least as ready as an almost hyperventilating person could. The sound of footsteps felt like loud marching drums pounding right in his ear as his heart leapt to his throat, making it hard to swallow. Shutting his eyes, Ollie waited for the sound of footsteps to be upon him before blindly swinging the lid. The metal hit something, jarring Ollie’s arms as a solid weight hit the asphalt. Peeking through one eye, Ollie saw the man who had been stalking him. He gave a small squeak as the man’s eyes fluttered open slightly to reveal jade colored irises, obviously disoriented from the way they were unfocused. The man brought up a large hand to rest on the spot where Ollie had hit him, but seemed to register the blow had not drawn blood. “Any bloody reason to hit people upside the head with the lid of a bin?” The man asked darkly as he glared at Ollie for a moment, seeing the trash can 62

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lid in the young adult’s hands. “Y-yo- w-well,” Ollie tried to get words to come out but he only stuttered about, retreating a few steps away from the man. “Look, I have no clue what I did to you—” “You were following me!” Ollie accused, pointing a finger towards the man as he slowly moved to sit up. “Yes, but that was because I knew you were living in the same apartment complex as me, mate. I was lost and trying to find my way through the area. I saw you this morning leaving the flat next to mine. You do live at 47A Maple Leaf Apartments, right?” He held up the key to one of the apartments Ollie stayed at. The keys were unique because of the maple leaf pattern on the keys that were given upon obtaining one of the apartments. “I do, but the apartment next to mine has been—” It dawned on the poor boy that the apartment was supposed to be occupied after the 6th, and today was 7th. Groaning, Ollie dropped the metal lid and rushed to help the man to his feet. “I’m sorry. I watched all these horror movies with a few friends and while walking home in this sort of weather and all, I just assumed the worst was going to happen. Come on, I’ll lead the way back to the apartment and make sure to check out that blow you took,” Ollie said with a sympathetic smile. “Thank you, at least you have some manners after hitting people upside the head,” the man chuckled for a brief moment as he let go of Ollie’s shoulder, which he had been using to help hoist himself up. “My name is Scottie by the way.” “Nice to meet you, I’m Ollie. Welcome to the Maple Leaf Apartments.” What Ollie did not see was a rather dark stain on Scottie’s jacket as the two headed towards the apartment complex. It looked rather distinctly like dried blood.

Stalker / Lisa Imber

Brick-Laying by Rachel Rinker

DEEPLY PERSONAL POEM NUMBER ONE Creg McAda The more personal it is The better it should be Right? Let me see How many times can I start this next line before I have to stick with it? I like movies films I’m pretentious I identify more with my teachers than classmates I tell myself this is why I will be a teacher I tell myself I am enough For me For her For them I masturbate Deal with it Just while I’m being honest We don’t talk about that shit enough Even this poem is masturbation I can’t decide if this is a confession Or an exhibition My thoughts get too meta to follow But they can be passed off as profound Did you ever watch catdog? That cat going into the dog’s mouth in a Mobius spiral? (Ah, see, pretentious again) That’s what we’re working with here I have a complicated relationship with:

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My parents My brother My extended family My friends My conception of a deity which is more closely related to The Force than any particular godhead in the pantheon of god allah buddha krishna yahweh zarathustra jim jones jesus ronald reagan johnson and johnson halliburton gozer the gozerian and colonel sanders I like star wars That’s referring back to The Force My advice to my almost assuredly bullied children will be: “Kick’em in the dick” I fucking know you’re all faking it I have read a full third of Feodor Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov in which he advises that “As a general rule, people, even the wicked, are much more naive and simple-hearted than we supposed. And we ourselves are, too” And that is complete and unutterable bullshit Because this shit that we wade through on a daily basis is complicated I assign roles to you You are the extras in my life I am an extra in yours I am saying an interesting thing right here That you will contemplate later in an internal monologue Or perhaps you will go over it with a minor character in your narrative Or it might not be that interesting or important, Thus reinforcing the point.

McAda / Deeply Personal Poem by Number One

A Fowl Tea Party by Libby Davis

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Walking on Expectations by Libby Davis 69

WANDERLUST Elijah Neumann Drop by drop the rain started falling, each one tickling his skin. The sky had grown dark with the clouds swirling above, letting loose a wild wind that ravaged the ground below. He had been ignoring this, his mind blank as he walked along the park sidewalk. It wasn’t so much a park as it was a hiking trail abandoned years ago, leaving overgrown weeds and rusted benches. He liked taking walks on it because he could be alone and still occupy himself, the act of walking somehow distracting from his usual thoughts. But now as he felt the drops and saw them dotting the ground in front of him, their plummet quickening, he knew he needed to find shelter. Walking quicker now, he searched for any tree or cliff that could somehow shield him from the swelling downpour. He found a large tree where the ground beneath it seemed dry, and he sat under that. He stopped feeling the rain, but could see it now in front of him start falling in sheets, obscuring his vision beyond several feet. The leaves above him were dripping, but not much so it didn’t bother him. As he sat there, watching the rain splash into the fresh mud and listening to the drone of leaves being pelted above, the usual thoughts started to return. Thoughts he had when he sat in his office with work to do but couldn’t stop staring out the window, thoughts that came when sitting in his room at night, with lights dimmed low or off completely, and the thoughts just before he fell asleep, hearing that last call of an owl as his eyes close. “Why is life so lonely?”

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Facets by Megan Hueble

Intayuk Village 01 by Wesley Trutwin 72

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Trutwin / Inyatuk Village 01

KNIGHTFALL Patrice Warren Emerging from the burning forest The glowing forest A knight of Crimson armor Overlooked the deep, amethyst foliage In hopes to unearth The flaming demon his Queen ordered him to conquer. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wish for him to kill the beast. For slaying such power would cease The opportunity to seize The beastâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s blazing power of a thousand degrees. The knight of Crimson armor was to become master. Champion. Lord. Suspended above his helm The sky shone with a malevolent sanguine. Scorching his eyes not with brightness, but fear. Beyond his sight, he senses the beast. Breathing that seemingly echoed Through tunnels before bursting out into the red sky. Running indicative of size so grand The kingdom seemed to tremble in its wake. Weakness washed over the knight. His eyed widened.

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His mouth plagued with dryness. I somehow must obey my Highness. Before gaining the strength to search. The beast made it clear It rather would be seen than simply heard. A reflection of Lucifer himself seared the knightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes. With one glance, every ray of hope vanished For the beast had eyes of onyx ember Not accompanied by a head. The lonesome eyes burned a wound into his faith. Untouchable by sutures. He felt as if heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d seen these eyes before. Within them he witnessed. Realized. Could somehow recognize. The evil score that his grandfathers wore. His mother wore. He wore.

Warren / Knightfall

Untitled by Lexi Mathis 76

THE SHADOW OF A HERON David Kerfoot While watching trees along the lake shaking their boughs to gusty wakes I saw a shadow falling. It seemed to fall from tree to tree from top to trunk. And when the shadow fell upon the final tree in line, I— (fearing it was Icarus) I looked up from the trees relieved to see not a tragedy; rather, I was glad to find the object flying. In boy’s conception and sunbeam glare, it was Hermes’ rise.

Stone Elepant by Chelsea Patenaude

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POSTMERIDIAN PAGANISM Cody Hosek Flipping through old memories, nostalgia visits with hands full of pagan polaroid idols. Tracing the silhouettes of once fresh-faced friends, I rekindle embers of my lost youthful age. Familiar flames flash beneath my skin as ancient rushes of blood usher crimson in my veins And I am taken back to memories long since unspun, to forests obscured by the fingers of the leaves, To memories that thrust me into the loam of the mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s freshly exposed sillion And remind me that we were wolves once, waiting in adolescence amongst the pines. In that bygone era, our camaraderie budded and grew strong in the shade of nurturing pines. We were quick to rise and run, throwing ourselves into forest depths to find Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s idols That lived and died in the form of stamped flowers that slept bloomless, limp in the sillion. We spent lifetimes in the solitude of the woods, basking appetites that came with young age, Finding isolation from the world by burying ourselves deeper into exploration, leaving All notions of doubt, of mortality, of futility, of age far from the vigor of our veins.

We were baptized there in the current of abandoned ore veins, Our hides and our hearts infused with flesh and will of iron, under the watchful gaze of the pine That shed needle after needle, littering our fur with debris and dirt that left Us looking more like vicious beasts that carved their way from the nightmares of pagan idolatry, Leaping from cave paintings, still fresh with blood and berries from that primordial age When mankind was lost in the world and gods slept in untouched sillion. As we explored, fresh impressions of footpads burst upon the canvas of downtrodden sillion, A physical record of where we journeyed and where we were going to through the wooden veins Of the forest depths. With unbridled speed, we raced and raged All the while sharpening our teeth and learning to hunt, howl, bite, and pine. We devoured tales of mirth and myth that would guide us like haze to horizons, like pagans to idols, Like wolves to prey in the haughty underbrush of vine and leaf. Soon we were masters of the dark wooden depths, challenging gods and shaking the leaves From the branches to die in droves upon the ground, rotting in the now grim sillion. And all at once our endeavors in the name of adolescent ideals Seemed virile and vital in nature. All other birdsongs, howls, and yelps rang in vain To our unhearing ears. As young men, as young wolves, we had answered the pines Of Mother Nature to return back to prehistory, to delve deep, and to spit our fears in the face of age.

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Yet, no vigor, no violence, no vitality that youth springs can halt the trudging of age. As summer postmeridian faded into autumn twilight, our tracks were concealed by the bodies of leaves. Our legs began to slow and we humbly settled in forts built from branches and bodies of young pines That once rooted themselves in the gore of upturned soil and sillion. As we grew older, the idealism of our minds congealed in our veins And we began to drift apart, digging rifts between ourselves and setting once fervent dreams idle. Years now have passed and I am alone, breathing in the dusty age of my picture-sized idols. The youthful race of pulse fades as I return memories to their home, leaving blood cool in my veins, Leaving fingers trembling like pines in wind, remembering how we once stood in shining summer sillion.

Hosek / Postmeridian Paganism

Diffusion by Katherine Rose