Chronicle Spring 2016 by The Chronicle Literary Magazine

CHRONICLE MAGAZINE

NOSTALGIA SPRING TWENTY-SIXTEEN

CHRONICLE MAGAZINE

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

Matthew Delarosa Cody Hosek Christian Steinmetz Kristina Toney Ella Wesley Kate Thomas Kelsey Worthington Kristina Toney Larissa Barkley Emerson Smith China Moore

STAFF MEMBERS John Armstrong, Tara Brown, Lauren Craig, Nicholas Frederick, Austin Hays, Lisa Imber, Katy Koon, Diana Nguyen, Kylie Raines, Rebekah Shaffer, Valerie Smith, Sara Stamatiades, Carlie Van, Everett Zuraw COVER ARTWORK BY MICHALA STEWART

EDITOR’S NOTE For better or for worse, the concept that I think gets most associated with the millennial generation is nostalgia. In the tumultuous economic and social atmosphere of the United States today, nostalgia stands at forefront of popular culture aimed at our demographic, mostly referencing the ‘90s and early ‘00s. With all the reboots, cartoons, and internet media based off of it, the meaning of nostalgia becomes entangled in a web of assumptions and viewpoints about its true purpose in our millennial worldview. What I consider to be the most widely talked about and derided form of nostalgia is the kind exemplified by Buzzfeed. We’ve all seen and even may (secretly) enjoy articles such as “44 Life-Changing Moments for Girls Born Around 1990”, “What’s Your ‘00s Teen Score?”, “17 Facts ONLY People Born in 1995 Will Remember”, and “5 College Student Existential Crises That Match PERFECTLY to Rugrats Characters”. Okay, that last title isn’t a real article (as far as I know), but it sounds like one, doesn’t it? While we want to celebrate and cherish our childhood nostalgia, sometimes it comes off a bit too saccharine and insincere. Although this bright, indulgent approach to nostalgia may be the most prevalent in our generation, I think it hints at an underlying dichotomy that we are faced with: the world is increasingly both more peaceful and more dangerous and a rapidly changing place, where childhood values and expectations espoused to us seem antiquated and wrong while also being simpler and more comforting. We may be criticized for reverting back to childhood interests and support, but I believe it’s wholly warranted. Throughout this issue there are works that truly encompass the full spectrum of what nostalgia can mean, revealing how personally tailored the subject is to everyone. For some it can be wistful idyllic scene, others a terrible memory that can’t be forgotten enough, and even a melancholic reflection on an entire lifetime that never seemed to go as fast as it ultimately did. Art, poetry, and prose also provide an outlet for these feelings that may not be as eloquently or personally expressed in other means. ---------------

Personally, my own unique reflections of nostalgia arise from the situation of growing up as an Army brat. By the time I left for college at age 18, my family had moved five times, including around the US and over to Germany. Because of this, my nostalgia focuses less on a tangible connection to a piece of land that others may prize and more on a combination of experiences and growth that happened at each place. Perhaps contrary to most people’s focus, I tend to reflect mostly on my high school years spent in Heidelberg, Germany. Attending Heidelberg American High School, my friends and I got to enjoy our prom in a castle, our graduation in a city hall, and an overall sense of ennui we couldn’t quite shake. The crux of it all came with the base closing down after my graduating class; looking back, the combination of the atmosphere pushing us to an existential point and the closure of the base combine to form a feeling that’s more abstract than others. With this in mind and these works in front of you, I implore you to think about your own unique feelings of nostalgia that your life has given you and turn them into a creative force. Yes, bright and colorful Buzzfeed nostalgia is fun to indulge in every once in a while, but don’t let your life become just another list of wacky hats that PERFECTLY describe ‘90s kids.

CONTENTS 09

REDOLENCE OF MEMORY

SADIE HAWKINS DANCE

TRMINUS

TUESDAYS IN SEPTEMBER

MIRIAM MCEWEN

POOLSIDE TRAUMATIC STRESS

MADELINE REILLY

LOVE BY DRIVE

MOULIN ROUGE

SEARCHING

EN ROUTE BACK TO DUBAI

GUIDE

WALKABOUT

NOSTALGIA

FLORAL FACE

UNTITLED

RACHEL RINKER

UNTITLED

ELLA WESLY

AFTER POTTER’S PLACE

THERE’S SOMETHING MORE...

JEN FLORIAN WESLEY HEATON DEIGHTON ABRAMS

ROWAN LYNAM MARY MICHELLE PEARCE MICHALA STEWART KATE THOMAS MJ KING MIRIAM MCEWEN ANONYMOUS WESLEY HEATON

LEAH VANSYCKEL KRISTINA TONEY

FOR MARQUAVIOUS, INMATE...

EMPTY ROOM

AS WESTERNER’S WE CANNOT...

ROWAN LYNAM

NIGHT SERIES

RACHEL RINKER

OMA’S DRESS

NOTES ON FIGHT CLUD

WINDWALKER

UNTITLED

REFLECTIONS ON A WINTER...

STATUE OF POWER

EN IWAMURA

RED POT-MUTATION

EN IWAMURA

TWIXT DUSK AND DARK

LEAH VANSYCKEL

SELF AWARE: PRESENCE

RACHEL RINKER

GRANNY SAT THERE

YOU ARE MORE THAN...

IMMERSION

ABBY COTHRAN EN IWAMURA

ALINE ABDERHALDEN MIRIAM MCEWEN HANNAH SPENCER MEGAN HUEBLE BLAKELY GARRETT

CAITLIN GURLEY-CULLEN RE’VEN SMALLS EMILY TUCKER

REDOLENCE OF MEMORY JEN FLORIAN Down the path of the past Cotton Candy Din of hundreds of voices Carnies A million twinkling lights 4H, kids laughing, tilt-a-whirl Memories drift in the wind Tomato Soup Angels in the snow Sledding A white blanket world Wet socks, snowball fights, fireplaces In the fields of the future Coppertone Crashing waves Sandcastles A mosaic of towels Flip flops, blistering sun, ice cream The fragrances of life await

// 9 //

SADIE HAWKINS DANCE WESLEY HEATON

// 10 //

TRMINUS

DEIGHTON ABRAMS

// 11 //

TUESDAYS IN SEPTEMBER MIRIAM MCEWEN I need another rock like I need a hole in the head. Another plane has hit Tower Two. Somebody’s doing this on purpose. Our children just don’t know it yet. This is why our parents told us to read the fine print. It’s called the long road to freedom. Something like an old Spiritual hums and shimmies. America delights in the Blues. There’s a pain in my head. People enjoy that raw humanity. Lead me to a new level of thinking. One thing I learn to do is follow directions from north to south. You interview someone and they will give you their shoe. It is a detailed record of every move they made. The man is to stand with a folded newspaper in his right hand. Stories break out of buildings up in the air. We love to dissect the bewildered laughter. Look just there, my sweet. Lower Manhattan is crashing. Incidentally, my paper cut stings. The florid woman is to change her clocks presently. Monday was the last good day of the week. I cut my grass down to the roots this morning. Everything beyond my front stoop was becoming a wilderness. It comes to me that smoke carries no sound. We all fall back to Zero annually.

// 12 //

POOLSIDE TRAUMATIC STRESS MADELINE REILLY Happy people are all the same, but each unhappy person is unhappy in his or her own unique way. I have decided to rip off one of the greatest authors of all time in lieu of crafting my own opening sentence due to my doubts regarding my own creative abilities. How does one create an opening to the story of one’s own life? I absolutely disdain myself for utilizing the pronoun “one” so often in this introductory paragraph. It’s making me sound like a pretentious tool, which I can assure you I am not. Then again, I may in fact be. According to a number of highly trained professionals I am simply a compliant citizen in the delusional universe crafted by an illness that has been thriving in her mind for an undetermined, and as of yet disagreed upon, number of months. I beg you to bear this in mind as you anxiously hang onto every word of the following narrative— there is an alleged chance that I have completely misrepresented or, worse yet, misunderstood the events that I have experienced over the past two decades that I have spent idly roaming our quickly decaying biosphere. Good God. My thoughts seem so much less melodramatic when they aren’t delineated in the stark form of black Times New Roman I swear.

// 13 //

When I was little I spent a lot of time attempting to pinpoint my first memory. For a while I was convinced that I actually remembered the time when I fell off a six foot slide during one of my brother’s t-ball games. In this memory, a large male bully shoved my defenseless 3-year-old form from the peak of the infamous piece of playground equipment. This bully, as I would discover upon later evaluation of my childhood, was in fact falsely accused of toddler harassment, his main form of defense being that he never actually existed and contrary to what my post-traumatic stress disorder has since convinced me of on several occasions figments of your imagination have a very difficult time inflicting physical pain. In my youth, which in my particular case refers to anything preceding my fourteenth birthday and the onset of the horrors of puberty, it appears that I found it difficult to process the fact that my two year old self was not the victim of unspeakably cruelty but was actually a first party participant in the ridiculously mundane power of gravity. I have since released myself from the burden of my fictional victimhood, a weight that my small, underdeveloped shoulders had struggled under for I have no idea how long being that I was a mere child and time passes differently when you are attempting to place it on a spectrum spanning roughly 48 months. Please cut me some slack. Introspective analysis of your entire life can prove difficult when it turns out that society barely considers you a conscious and contributing member until about the last two or three years of it. Whatever blah blah latent social disregard for the intellect of our civilization’s future generations blah blah. Okay, now that I’ve said my piece. My peace? Good God. Shut the book now.

// 14 //

Okay! My first memory ACTUALLY was when I was probably two or three years old. Papa Tom, the patriarch of my sprawling Irish Catholic family and consequently the founder of what some would argue constitutes a small colony, had funded the building of a pool in Uncle Tim’s backyard in the late 80s in order to properly facilitate the picturesque pool parties and cookouts the would characterize the childhood of my own and the majority of my cousins’ childhoods. It was in this simple setting of late 1990s primary colored fashion and economic prosperity that I made the horrendous mistake of wrapping my chunky little arms around the hairy calves of my dimpled Uncle Gerry rather than the slightly larger and hairier calves of his older brother Dan, whose I had been desperately seeking. Quite unlike his niece, however, rather than being shocked and disgruntled by my mistake, Uncle Gerry seemed pleasantly surprised by my act of affection and quickly scooped me up into his arms. This would prove to be the salt in my metaphorical wound. When fully expecting to look upon on the permanently stern brow of your “daddy” but instead finding yourself in the arms of a man very much not him proved a traumatizing childhood experience, regardless of how much DNA I happened to share with said man. I subsequently cried and thrashed my stubby legs until poor Uncle Gerry happened upon my father sipping on a beer with the rest of the seemingly oversized humans. Placing me in his lap I buried my Shirley Temple head into the gigantic soldiers of the collegiate lineman and attempted to forget the humiliation and shock of the entire incident. But here we are.

// 15 //

My life, in some unfortunate ways, has been a perpetual reenactment of what I can only characterize as the Case of the Mistaken Calves of 1997. There is, however, something oddly comforting in the realization that the majority of our human relationships—that we, in all of our maturity and social consciousness, delineate as fraught with emotional complications and betrayals and heartache and disappointment—when simplified to their purest form prove to be just another instance of us throwing our chubby little arms around the wrong pair of hairy calves. In 1997 the calves, though unintentionally sought, were trustworthy nonetheless. The same cannot be said for the 2015 case. Flinging my arms around yet another man’s calves he delivered me, not to my father, but into the similarly affectionate swaddle of mental delusion, which in turn cuddled me into a dysmorphic perception of reality and comforted with maladaptive behaviors. Burrowing my curly head into its broad shoulders I attempted to forget the humiliation and shock of the entire incident. But here we are.

// 16 //

LOVE BY DRIVE ROWAN LYNAM And it all happens so quickly, losing light in the early afternoon, your hands on a mug of coffee horchata, complaining about the strength, strength in your uncovered eyes looking straight into the sun. The music playing in the car is quiet and you tell me that the trick to good sex is laughter—the fragile sound like raindrops on colored glass. Your hair is dark against my skin, and I curl it around my fingers while you drive. It feels like easy memories of childhood, tickling my life line—even though you don’t believe in things like that. On another night, my fingerprints find matching grooves in the left-behind smudges of you on the steering wheel. There are the beginnings of laugh lines around your mouth, and the road goes on.

// 17 //

MOULIN ROUGE MARY MICHELLE PEARCE

// 18 //

SEARCHING MICHALA STEWART

// 19 //

// 20 //

EN ROUTE BACK TO DUBAI KATE THOMAS I know that I have to go because the boxes are closed and stacked around my room and the plane leaves tomorrow but last Tuesday night, I kissed Emma right there downtown under a street lamp. I want to stay in America but I can’t keep bailing her out of jail. We fight when we talk about it. She always says that I have a duty to myself to stay and be happy but she just doesn’t understand. I’d actually be happier if she hadn’t kissed my brother last Wednesday while I was driving home from work. She says that she’s sorry and I almost

// 20 //

believe her when she places her lips between my eyebrows, runs her hand up my thigh and tells me that she wants to take me to the beach. Emma likes to get drunk and reach in my pocket for my keys while kissing me like I won’t notice. Hiccupping, she feels for the ignition with one hand, the other still on my thigh. I tell her no, let me drive but she says she needs to feel the road under her and know that she is the reason why. She hits ninety and I close my eyes and don’t think about how this happens every week but instead, I think about Emma laughing in my kitchen under chopsticks and us sitting on the steps her just one below me leaning on my legs, smoking and her writing on the refrigerator chalkboard, “don’t go” and that time milk dropped from her bowl because the sun was so warm through the open blinds that she had to dance on the counter. I’m thinking about all of this now, in the car with her but I know I’ll think about it when I’m on the way home too.

// 21 //

GUIDE MJ KING

// 22 //

WALKABOUT MIRIAM MCEWEN Follow the marionette Over the trees And through the streets To the corner Where the prostitute sings Of the child it used to be. Listen for the whisper Of a river He spoke of Before you were grown. Do not pass Stoweâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. She hates that. Hunker down for as long as you can stand.

// 23 //

NOSTALGIA ANONYMOUS for some, it means quoting spongebob endlessly for days. for others, it’s an excuse to wear flannel and tattoo chokers. well, here’s what I got. i remember loving digiorno pizza and always asking for it after school. i remember being five years old with a pizza belly i remember one day when my cousin poked at it and said, “ew, what are you? pregnant?!” i remember asking for digiorno pizza less and less. i remember looking at pregnant women and feeling sad for them. i remember christmastimes when i felt scared that god would choose me next for an immaculate conception. now it’s today. february 29, 2016. i am twenty one years old. i never eat pizza. i starve myself to get rid of the patch of fat on my lower tummy. i look for approval in the form of various lovers. i never sleep with them because with pregnancy comes mockery. i do quote spongebob. i wear flannel and tattoo chokers. but what nostalgia means to me is shame. it is looking at my disjointed memories and realizing that they have made me into what i am today: a self-conscious, depressed, starved people-pleaser. i will no longer remember the past. instead, i will make new memories to be nostalgic for later. like binge watching a popular show. like getting black out drunk on a tuesday afternoon in january. like being committed to a mental health institution at age twenty. like hoping this will all end soon. good times, right?

// 24 //

FLORAL FACE WESLEY HEATON

// 25 //

// 26 //

UNTITLED RACHEL RINKER

UNTITLED ELLA WESLY

// 28 //

AFTER POTTER’S PLACE LEAH VANSYCKEL On occasion we are given the sight to see ourselves as more than sinews and voices. Like that time I saw my sister lift her spirit up to greet the orange summer moon— great with child born from the sun — and she threw her arms out with wild abandon, like the dandelion that lifts up her yellow flower petals to translucent stems which spread her contagious beauty. She sifted herself out from the dust of time and space, mixing her essence in the bowl of earth, and being sprinkled with starlight. But when I saw my sister lift up her arms, I feared the day that she might fly away into the night, or like a dervish whirl herself into an oblivion into. which. I could not. follow. I reached out to restore her, but stopped, preferring that she twirl upon the meadows of her mind, instead of being plucked and crushed in the grip of a child. Only fear can imprison us once more.

// 29 //

THERE’S SOMETHING MORE TO HONOR IN THESE HILLS KRISTINA TONEY With a single word, we may be transported back in time through our memories, to a time and place that helped to make us the people we are. This is the power of nostalgia. These memories of longing, of powerful, unequivocal emotions bring us back to certain times and places. It is here we may discover how and why we became the people we are today. With that single word, we may embark on a journey like no other. It is these exact journey that my friend Emerson and I undertook one Friday afternoon in February, when we drove to Clemson Downs, excited to spend some time interviewing Clemson Downs’s residents about their experiences at Clemson. Clemson Downs was established in 1980, and serves the Clemson community as what Marketing Specialist Ruthie Millar terms the “Clemson Area Retirement Center,” whose mission “is to provide excellent services, programs, and facilities that will ensure both a quality lifestyle and a continuum of care for its residents.”

// 30 //

Every moment spent inside Clemson Downs presents one with the chance to listen to the stories, to live vicariously through the memories of these men and women from generations before. This is particularly true for Ruthie Millar, who when reflecting on her interactions with the residents, noted that her most powerful memories occur in the everyday. She states, “Every day is prolific in experiences. Every day I get to interact and be a part of the lives of incredible people. Our residents shaped this nation, fought for this country, and made America the super power it is today. Our residents’ blood runs orange, their pride runs deep, they love Clemson University and have so many fond memories of their time spent as cadets and students. Every day, I get to talk to WWII Veterans that were fighter pilots, bombers, sailors and infantrymen from all branches of the military. I get to visit with ladies who were document decoders and ladies who were in the Red Cross. You get a different perspective on life when you talk to someone who is 105 and played minor league baseball in Brooklyn, or who is 100 and comes to see you every day and greets each day as a bonus. I love talking to couples who have been married 70+ years and are still in enamored with one another. Our residents have an amazing outlook on life and they have led amazing lives. It is an honor to know them and to work with them every day.” This power in the aspects of our day-to-day activities, from the conversations we have to the things we keep in our backpacks, to shape our memories, our Clemson experience, is vast. Dawson Luke, a Clemson alumnus from the class of 1956, states that to him, the word “Clemson” is something that resonates in his mind daily. He notes, “[t]here is a plaque on my office wall that states, ‘There is something in these hills that makes Clemson great.’ I think it is a combination of family, friends, tradition [and] a willingness to serve that goes back to its formation and a spirit that continues to grow. I get choked up sometimes when I see an orange sunset over Lake Hartwell and realize how lucky I have been to live in Tigertown.”

// 31 //

Mr. Luke concludes his remark with the familiar phrase that will resonate with members of the Clemson community, past and present: “Go Tigers!!!” It is without question then, that that the word Clemson evokes great meaning for these residents, just as it does for many of us today. A vast majority of these residents have called Clemson home for some time, whether it be from growing up in the community, attending the university, and for some, even teaching here. This is precisely the case for Dr. Joe Dickey, a Professor of Reproductive Physiology and Endocrinology, who also taught Electron Microscopy from 1965-1994. He was the first professor to be awarded both the Alumni Master Award and the Alumni Distinguished Professor Award. For both him and his wife, Clemson was, and still is, a home and a family centered on the students. He stated, “Clemson is about the students, that was my favorite part of teaching at Clemson. I enjoyed the students and they were my main focus. Not only did I teach them, but my wife and I entertained them, socialized with them, and became part of their Clemson experience. We truly loved being with the students and still keep in touch with several of them.” It is clear that the stories we create together are the ones that evoke the most powerful emotions, the strongest waves of nostalgia into perpetuity for Dr. Joe Dickey and his wife, and perhaps, even for us all. For many of the residents, Clemson became a home where they found themselves, whether it be through teaching, scholarship, or service. However, it is in the concept of the service history that came to mind upon thinking of “Clemson,” for many of these individual with whom we spoke at Clemson Downs that we were treated to some of the most profound tales we heard that day. I had the honor of speaking with Mr. Harold Jones, a 91-year-old Clemson alumnus who served in WWII. He came to Clemson in 1942, and left in 1944 to serve in the military effort overseas. He came home in 1946, shortly after V-J Day. With his newly acquired G-I Bill to put to use in furthering his academic career, Mr. Jones knew exactly which institution of higher learning he would be attending; it was the one he had known and called home from the start:

// 32 //

Clemson University. He stated that it was the “beauty of the place” in every way conceivable that made this decision one Jones never questioned. To cement his commitment to and love of Clemson, Mr. Jones made sure that I note that he never missed a football game in the 40 years he has been involved with the university. Many of these stories of military serviced concluded with a reference to one particularly poignant piece of the Clemson Community: the Scroll of Honor. Located across the street from the football stadium, this monument serves to honor 489 Clemson alumni veterans who lost their lives in service to the nation. 84-year-old Clemson alumnus Mr. Richard Hall spoke particularly poignantly about the scroll, noting how powerful this commemoration of service is not only for him, but also to the Clemson community at large. “The Scroll of Honor is an example of a defining moment in the history of Clemson University. These brave men that gave their all, their lives, in defense of our country should be honored in the highest regards. I am proud to be an alumni of Clemson University, Class of ‘58 (then Clemson A&M College) that recognizes the sacrifices of those brave cadets and honors those that serve today.” It is this notion of the past as it can shape so dramatically how we see, understand, and relate to the worlds in which we live today that I feel the true power of nostalgia rests. This scroll that served as the central tenant of many tales that Emerson and I had the honor and privilege of listening to that day is invested with such great meaning as it commemorates the lives, loves, and experiences of so many from times past, and it exists a part of the campus community we walk everyday. Its value resonates to the hearts and minds that call Clemson home, just as we do now. So, just as nostalgia calls us to take a second glance at the memories that made us, it might also beckon us to seek out and value the power in the everyday through the simple acts of pausing for a moment to take in the world around us, though asking questions, telling our stories, and through the creation and sharing of art. These creations are parts of ourselves; they are our links to the past, present, and future. They constitute the moments that will manifest as nostalgia for us years and years from now, and they are made in the here and now.

// 33 //

FOR MARQUAVIOUS, INMATE #363893 ABBY COTHRAN It’s been over a year now since you went away. I’ll never forget seeing you in an orange jumpsuit staring blankly at me from my computer screen. Never forget the way my eyes welled with tears. Never forget how it felt seeing my best friend with a list of charges beside him and counting up to ten. I often think about the last night we spent together. We parked my car off of a main road so all we could see were the silhouettes of trees and we passed a bottle of wine between us. We talked for hours over a mix CD and a pack of menthols. You told your biggest fear was to end up a failure—to end up with nothing to your name. You were going to coach football. Go back to school. Have a family. Be somebody. And you could have been. I just can’t help but think that all you are right now is a statistic with only a series of numbers to your name. In county jail you wrote me letter after letter. You told me you were staying strong, told me you’d be out soon and everything would be okay. Told me all you wanted was a cheeseburger and to be with all our friends again the way it used to be. And then, after months of letters, after months of sitting and waiting and uncertainty, I got the news. Eight was always my favorite number until it became the number of years until you’d see the outside of a chain-link fence.

// 34 //

I think about your little brother all the time— how you took care of him. And what does he think? Where does he think that you’ve gone? And I think about your mom and your girlfriend. If I’m hurting this bad, I can’t imagine how they feel. I hear people call you a thug, telling me I should choose my friends more wisely. Saying you got what you deserved. And you did make mistakes. But they can go fuck themselves. I know you. I have known you. I have known your gentleness. I have known your kindness. Your loyalty. All the laughter you brought. I have known you, but in eight years time I don’t know if I still will. But if I never see you again, I’ll remember you as you always were to me. The boy I’d play video games and chain smoke with every day after school senior year. I’ll remember singing along to shitty music in the car, driving to back woods to drink cheap wine and do bumps off of keys. The way you treated me like a sister—looked out for me. I’ll remember how you were so afraid of my ten-pound dog and how you’d come to my work randomly just to embarrass me by shouting things like “yo, where the condoms at?!” I will always remember you like that, my best friend. I will remember your softness even if you forget.

// 35 //

// 36 //

EMPTY ROOM

EN IWAMURA

AS WESTERNERS, WE CANNOT UNDERSTAND ROWAN LYNAM I stack coffee cups in the dishwasher while the rain comes in, the television flickers evening news and Kafka open on the counter there are more than a million lost, stumbling on Austrian roads with their fingers sun-roughed on baby skin and water bottles and donated blankets and someone on the road has read Metamorphosis translated into the twisting air of inked Arabicâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the souls of their feet remember how Gregor Samsa left this world a burden, perverted into the non-human by a hand unseen. They are still walking â&#x20AC;&#x201C; news coverage returning when US politics are slow, trying to mumble their language and histories into the skin of their children. Their tongues are dry, swollen in their mouths with the weight of convex camera lenses and amnesty paperwork and did Gregor ever really stop being human? Did they on the road? Kafka is open on the counter, and the dishes are done.

// 38 //

NIGHT SERIES

RACHEL RINKER

// 39 //

OMA’S DRESS ALINE ABDERHALDEN Today I put a dress away A dress that can’t be returned But can’t be worn either. It is my grandmother’s: Bought, hemmed, and shortened For her fiftieth anniversary With her husband Who left for a world Where an anniversary is soft music Barely audible, dreamily noticed, And a crowd is a ripple in the water Failing to break the serenity. I put a dress away That wanted to celebrate fifty years Yet reminded of forty nine And eleven months, That wanted to be danced in But hung on the side of the closet In plain view Because a life is hard to let go of. I put a dress away Because he is in a place Where a hemline is merely an evasive But amusing afterthought Already gone, And fifty years is one fleeting second Never felt come, never noticed pass.

// 40 //

I put a dress away That held a goal meaningless Compared to the road travelled, That held a celebration trivial In contrast to the long journey. That held a burden heavy With the significance Of not reaching That meaningless goal, That trivial celebration. I put a dress away That means nothing To five hundred ninety nine months And everything To one, That was heartbreakingly close And willfully fought for, Reminding that A memory is more than an ideal A life is more than its numbers. I put a dress away Between his buttoned shirts; A comforting home for a dress Holding on to a past of togetherness, Bracing for a future of separation, While mending a present of pain. I put a dress away I put one month away And freed five hundred Ninety nine others For a vital celebration Of a meaningful goal: A loving marriage A life well lived. She put her dress away.

// 41 //

NOTES ON FIGHT CLUB MIRIAM MCEWEN The moral is, Inside every Edward Norton There’s a Brad Pitt laying him flat. Everyone I know is engaged In subliminal acts of terror. John Doe for Generation X Is a sexed up apparition Of a boy with broken teeth. I am Miriam’s throttled scream. She doesn’t know it yet, but A guy (let’s call him Tyler) Will break her knee with a Hammer if it means he Steals a kiss. Millennials Are suckers for fair-trade Coffee beans. And sound-bites.

// 42 //

And donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t kiss me for an hour, At least. Maybe longer. I have coffee breath. Practice being different from Young people seventeen Years older. Use a mirror. Or plant an invasive species Because itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pretty. Or punch, Me? I want world peace to be The work of someone less angry Than us. Or sure enough to bite In self-defense. And imaginary Friends are only good for one, Maybe two things: a place To crash and a subtle hint That our mind is drifting.

// 43 //

WINDWALKER HANNAH SPENCER The rooster is broken. No matter, thinks Grandfather, as he yodels through the house. The grandchildren are up in a moment, but the children—the grown-ups—they will take a while. The grandchildren join the chorus. They are so loud that they wake the spirits that slumber in the pasture, and the spirits begin to sing along. It is six o’clock in the morning on Windwalker ranch. Downhill the river is talking to itself again. It is remembering the summer when little pink bodies jumped in and out. Now it is cold and nobody swims but the fishes. Three-Fingered Jack wakes up to Grandfather’s yodels and he gives himself a shake. He is ruggedly handsome in the morning half-light and he knows it. He makes eyes over at the Sisters in the south, but they don’t pay him any mind. He is a rogue and a flake and you can’t ever depend on him for anything. He roams the High Desert on his own. The Sisters love Broken Top, who is older and wiser and kinder, though a little melancholy. He remembers a time before the young mountains, the Sisters and the rogue Jack, were born. He has seen many things. The donkeys and the horses and the grandchildren wake to Grandfather’s yodeling. Yodeling means breakfast time to them. But to the romping puppies yodeling is not half as delicious as cooing, and Grandfather does not coo. Only Grandmother can do that.

// 44 //

She says, “Ooo-hoo-hoo!” and the puppies come running because “Ooo-hoo-hoo!” means breakfast time to them. And even though they are not puppies, the children—the grown-ups—they begin to stir, too. Grandmother gives them soft kisses and sweet words. Grandmother’s kisses are so soft that the hens give Grandmother a dozen eggs for just one soft kiss. And her words are so sweet that the cows give her a bucket of fresh milk for just one sweet word. She cooks the eggs in a cloud from yesterday’s sunset. Just one of Grandmother’s eggs is enough for a whole day’s laughter, but nobody can eat just one. Grandfather blows in through the door with the grandchildren in tow. He is so strong that he can feed the horses and the donkeys with three grandchildren hanging on each arm. He is so tall that the mammoth donkey is like a herd dog to him. The children—the grown-ups—catch the grandchildren and help them take off all their coats. Their faces are like little porcelain dolls’, white and rosy-cheeked. They run to Grandmother and she paints them a playhouse using a feather from a spirit and paint from the river, which keeps all colors in itself. “Ooo-hoo-hoo!” says one grandchild to Grandmother nestling into her arms. Grandmother smiles. Her face is like a soft piece of carved butternut wood. Grandfather sees her smile and he grows three inches taller, and he yodels. The next morning the rooster is broken again. He does it on purpose, you see.

// 45 //

// 46 //

UNTITLED MEGAN HUEBLE

REFLECTIONS ON A WINTER WINDSHIELD BLAKELY GARRETT #1 A broken soul shivers to stay warm shaking to put the pieces together a tantrum of thought pounds its fists inside the skull screaming to get out of this cage of bones called home where you feel you no longer belong out grown the overgrown

// 48 //

spine of vines that leaves your thinking numbed in overdrive pulses with the ice blue swallowed to make you stay a shivering soul the bars are cold but the heat is trapped somewhere inside. #2 A scratch forms infinitely repeating thoughts recorded on finger prints beats on the ridges carved in skin. The needle set free an attentive touch to the arm you cannot move That lets the frost melt.

// 49 //

STATUE OF POWER EN IWAMURA

// 50 //

RED POT-MUTATION

EN IWAMURA

// 51 //

TWIXT DUSK AND DARK LEAH VANSYCKEL Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s something comforting about driving in Twilight Streetlamps curving over the side of the highway, Lamps unto thy wheels. Angled headlights pollute the night sky, Polaris abandoned for Yellow. Red. Green. Yet hundreds of cars lay standing still between interstates, Merging together like grafted apple trees, 526 to 26 to 85 All those cars like ants, getting back to their nest, Shouldering loads beyond imagination. Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s something comforting about driving at twilight When the streetlamps gleam almost as bright as headlamps And the sun has set after the thickness of day has ended And out come the whispers of the road to accompany drivers home.

// 52 //

Honk Honk Blink er blink er blink er Wipe, wipe. The whir of four tires in one lane going 70 mph. There’s something comforting about being part of that long chain of red tail lights. I suppose. But surely, sometime, long ago, People used to think, “There’s something comforting about traveling at twilight.” When twilight meant seeing twixt dusk and dark, instead of between the glare of brights reflected in a mirror, and receiving the stars blessing, no tickets for bumpers meeting, owners’ eyes off the road. When only the voices of naked sky and earth accompanied travelers home.

// 53 //

SELF AWARE: PRESENCE RACHEL RINKER

// 54 //

GRANNY SAT THERE

CAITLIN GURLEY-CULLEN

// 55 //

YOU ARE MORE THAN WELCOME RE’VEN SMALLS To be welcomed to me I am from the misspellings And misplaced apostrophes That apparently equal the accent That suppressed the real power And class of what my name is supposed to be I am from 1/64 parts of the way to A Native American woman three times great But five times past where I was Be more than welcomed Be welcomed to me I am from ‘92 Aren’t we all from the 90s too? The home of orange videotapes Staying outside until the sun tells us It’s too late I am from the “famous” family fourth generation Of a mother whose mother is the “other” (I mean, the only sister in a group of brothers from my only living great-grandmother) Be more than welcomed Be welcomed to me I am only 4’11” from the ground up

// 56 //

But the sky still laughs because It’s where I’m reaching for Yet the highest point I can probably reach Is maybe your shoulder or yours or yours I am from the nature of truly being natural When it comes to this hair of mine And natural for me doesn’t mean curly It just means no “Just for Me” I am from where the Blue Ridge Yawns its greatness An alumna of where the Tigers play Where orange and purple sunsets Over Death Valley are displayed You are more than welcome That you have been welcomed to me But recognize that you now have been welcomed To someone Most Extraordinary.

// 57 //

IMMERSION

EMILY TUCKER

// 59 //

CLEMSON UNIVERSITY SPRING TWENTY-SIXTEEN