Chronicle Spring 2014 by The Chronicle Literary Magazine

Spring 2014

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

Parker Essick Gabby Nugent Emily Mattison Aileen Marrero Jenna Richard William Chelton Brooke Sidener Emerson Smith Reâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ven Smalls

Staff Members Ben Barkley, Caroline Brittingham, Lauren Craig, Benjamin Curtis, Elizabeth Davis, Matthew Delarosa, Nicholas Frederick, Arsalan Kouser, Eduardo A. HernĂĄndez-Cruz, Cody Hosek, Meghan Moran, Laura Ostendorff, Lesley Smith, Shelby Studebaker, Kristina Toney, Sydney Wells

Cover photographs by Chris Phillips with compilation by Brooke Sidener Inner photographs by Emily Mattison, Chris Phillips, and Laura Ostendorff

Editor’s Note I’m sitting in my desk chair, swiveling towards my Hendrix office window to look down at the pavement, watching the students scuttling along from lunch to class to home. I always felt like I could watch it all from here: orange and white t-shirts, Longchamp bags full of text books and makeup, and custom designed Nike running shoes rolled across the sidewalk in the warmth of the South Carolina Palmetto sun—I could see the story of Clemson unfold below me with an uneasy grin and a more certain pride. But if there’s anything I’ve learned in my two years as Editorin-Chief of the Chronicle, it’s that there is a secret side to our little college town, and it’s really not much of a secret. ]It is a town made up of a vibrant population that stretches far beyond the material—beyond the bags and the brands and the clock towers. It is more than the images I can see from my window because it hides its more important identity in the hills and neighborhoods that surround the university. With this issue of the Chronicle, the last with my name in its masthead, we have presented you with the stories and images of the Clemson community, from Chris Phillips’ beautiful photographs of the area’s peoples and sights to our very own Kristina Toney’s feature on the meaning of “home” in our accepted hometown. As you turn the pages of this issue, I hope you will take time to think of the atmosphere that helped create, shape, and mold the work featured here; our artists and writers have not only their academic training but also their social upbringing of their homes (both in Clemson and afar) for their beautiful productions. This magazine will

always provide both university and community members the opportunity to share their talent and put it to show, but we must continue to recognize that our act of production brings those artists together, adding another level to the â&#x20AC;&#x153;something in these hillsâ&#x20AC;? I hear everyone brag about.

It would feel unfair to not take the space here to reminisce about my time as Editor-in-Chief of this fine magazine. And I call it fine because I know I can happily step down with the knowledge that we have made something worthwhile. When a few students followed me into the darkness in 2012 to revitalize a dying publication, I never fully expected the magazine to become what it has today. Boasting a staff of nearly 25 dedicated members, including nine incredible officers, we have created something that encourages students to learn more about their artistic talents, the art of publication, and the processes and hardships of raising and operating a business. We have continued to grow the quality of the magazine, receiving more and better submissions every semester; we have allowed Clemsonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s university and community members the opportunity to express themselves creatively and showcase their talents within a beautiful platform. Every year, I am amazed by the incredible work put forward by our staff and submitters. There have been setbacks. There have been missed deadlines, unrealized chances for growth, and frustrating financial struggles. I have found myself nearly screaming at officers; I have seen retaliation; I have seen friendships strained by the intensity of work and stress during production. I have buried my head after long, unproductive meetings in fear that I was going to let the magazine we built dissolve under my leadership.

Yet, we have kept it together. I have made friendships during my time with the Chronicle that I could never trade, and I could never imagine being proud of something more during my time at Clemson. As I step away, perhaps I can find some self-usefulness for you all to take away in the coming years. To my staff: never forget that this magazine is something that you have made, that you can be proud of, and that (like me) you should never trade for anything during your time at Clemson. This magazine is special, and I trust that you will all keep it so. To our readers: there aren’t enough thanks that I can give you for your continued support of this crazy project. It resonates not only across this little office in Hendrix but also across the entire Upstate, and it will grow that resonance from South Carolina to the rest of the United States. I have never liked saying goodbye, and this goodbye comes with a particular bitterness. However, I leave the Chronicle in more capable hands than those that leave it. I may never sit in this desk chair again. And that’s okay. I will miss writing to you, readers, and I will miss working with you, staff—but nothing excites me more than the road ahead. Thank you all again for your support—and enjoy. Parker Essick

CONTENTS Feature Kristina Toney — Calling Clemson Home............................................................................... 34–36

Fiction Eduardo A. Hernández-Cruz — Strix................................................................................... 20–22 Jenna Richard — How One Person Can Fuck It Up for Everyone............................................ 46–49 Seth Christmus — Humans Have Vices................................................................................... 61–65 Ethan Moore — Amalgamation...................................................................................................... 77

Poetry Heather Owens — Nana.................................................................................................................. 8 Creg McAda — The Hair of the Dog......................................................................................... 10–11

— Full Disclosure.................................................................................................. 50–51

Anna Jewell — Holy Ground.......................................................................................................... 14 Nicholas Frederick — A Mind Is an Island................................................................................... 15 Kristina Toney — The Pocket Watch.............................................................................................. 16 Ben Barkley — Portrait of a Monday.............................................................................................. 21 Matthew Delarosa — The Window Display ................................................................................. 22

— Statuesque Love ......................................................................................... 53

Sam Nottingham — From Larva to a Beautiful Butterfly......................................................... 24–27 Joshua Kulseth — In Spades.................................................................................................... 29–31

— After a Painting by Motte................................................................................. 67

Justine Pekalak — America........................................................................................................... 38 Aileen Marrero — Don’t Look Gift Boots in the Heels............................................................ 39–40 Joshua Martin — Existentialism, hello..................................................................................... 42–43 Anonymous — The Light Has Gone Out of My Life................................................................ 54–56

Spring 2014 Farris Steele Johnson — Bit & Bridle.................................................................................... 57–58 Redmond Heath — Seedling......................................................................................................... 59 Re’ven Smalls — I saw a shooting star last night............................................................................. 71 Jenna Richard — My Pants Through Time............................................................................... 72–73 Caroline Brittingham — Kaleidoscope........................................................................................ 74 Meredith Davidson — On Animal Rights.................................................................................... 79

Art Caroline Brittingham — Pale and Bright Tranquility .................................................................... 9 Nina Kawar — Armored Opposition............................................................................................... 12

— Filtered Identity...................................................................................................... 13 — Order Series............................................................................................................ 13

Taylor Kienker — Fair Weather...................................................................................................... 17

— Shem Creek...................................................................................................... 66

Katherine Rose — Boxed In.......................................................................................................... 23 Benjamin Hines — Missed Connections....................................................................................... 28 Rebecca Beaird — Suburbia..................................................................................................... 32–33 Chris Phillips — A State of Negligence.......................................................................................... 37 Rachel Anderson — Go................................................................................................................ 41

— All I Need..................................................................................................... 60

Sarah Chappell — Reflection................................................................................................... 44–45 Elizabeth Davis — Female Form.................................................................................................... 52 Katelyn Chapman — Toxic Incursion........................................................................................... 56 Ashley Davis — Love Like a Sunset.......................................................................................... 70–71 Adrienne Lichliter — Brittle......................................................................................................... 76 Toni Franken — Purple Veil........................................................................................................... 78 Kolton Miller — Only good for one thing...................................................................................... 75

— I want to Remember, I want to Forget........................................................... 80–81

NANA Heather Owens I wish for words to say words to have been said tell you stories the stories of my life the stories of my mind I wish I had your words framed in caramel I wish that flowers dripped from your eyes that breath shined light I wanted to share the long years with you as many as possible I wish I could revisit my long lost memories with you filled with butterflies and pages of bubbles floating into the sun I wish more than anything to hold your hand the cool warm skin you gripping my hand back I miss the wrinkles of your fingers next to mine smooth I wish I had held your hand more often

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Pale and Bright Tranquility by Caroline Brittingham

HAIR OF THE DOG Creg McAda I remember every animal Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve ever killed. Notwithstanding the sterile cutlets, brickstacked in the tundra of my freezer. But the more personally impersonal slayings run down with the front pair of Goodyearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the left a little more worn on the inside shoulder Three squirrels plus Two birds in the windshield. And a dog. When I was a younger fool. Perhaps a stray, but the family pet in every dream. A daughter crying in the street, or a gentle father hiding the wreck Gone before my return trip, like nothing happened, a farm upstate, like a good neighbor. Let that be the trough the low, the rock bottom. The worst I have done, Clearing the ridge and not seeing in time Ages after to consider.

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I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t kill spiders anymore Triplecheck, and cover the brake at the curve Insects escorted outside under glass domes, pending assignments for a floor. How many spiders and flies make a squirrel? No sympathy for mosquitoes and roaches, But how many for a bird? How many squirrels dodged make up for a dog? How many dogs are there in a man?

McAda / Hair of the Dog

Armored Opposition by Nina Kawar 12

Filtered Identity by Nina Kawar

Order Series by Nina Kawar

HOLY GROUND Anna Jewell It is, she willingly follows him, blind Snow underfoot, each step a painful note A symphony of aches in muscleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind Everything lost, forbear progressive tote. Willingly she follows the man through thatch And briar, unbeknownst to the world, she Bears no name, but bleeds red from the scratches Each attacks her identity, soon he Reshapes her, a child to woman, behold He, a rightly cruel remolder- igniteThe snow glistens red, reflecting the old. Painfully- she follows tonight Who she is - defined by this snow A slaughtered angel lies, scattered to and fro

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A MIND IS AN ISLAND Nicholas Frederick Minds are like islands, I say. Trees, sands, whatever you may permit to stay, here and now, what’s there is what you allow. Castle, mansion, house or hut, peace, discomfort, rage or rut, its mood is what we make it. Control’s control, don’t discredit. But in the midst of freedom’s bliss, please, please, remember this: No matter what riches you may stock, in the mind, you are alone.

THE POCKET WATCH Kristina Toney

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He reaches his hand down into the pockets of his old black coat. It was his father’s coat, you know, and his grandfather’s coat before that. It would’ve been his son’s coat too. At last, he feels the palm of his hand touch the cold, smooth metal, the gold still gleams even in the rain that spots its round face, a little sun in the palm of his hand on this grey day. A sun, A sun, A son. He stopped. No more of this. Stop. Don’t weep. It’s over. Stop. Stop. Stop. Go. He continued walking down the cold dark street on this grey day in the rain. He tried only to think of that-the rain. Not time. No, not time. But still, he glanced down at the cold, gold watch that he held in the palm of his hand wrinkled by age, by time. Time. He thinks maybe, he will know In time.

Fair Weather by Taylor Kienker

STRIX

Eduardo A. Hernández-Cruz

hen Jaime first saw the woman, he was taking the ghost tour of the old city in middle school. His classmates didn’t see her; nobody paid attention to the woman in black robes when she stepped out from the cemetery and approached the crowd of students. He looked around, and no one even noticed as she waded through them. He didn’t know if she was walking around them carefully, or if she was walking through them, but she tapped one of his classmates, Alyssa, on the shoulder with a slender talon-like hand, leaving a small glowing mark that faded when Jaime looked closer. She kept walking, turned a corner, and was gone, her face expressionless the entire time. “Did you see that?” Jaime asked Nathan, pointing at the corner. “See what?” Nathan said, whipping around quickly. “Did you see a ghost?” “There was someone who just walked through us,” Jaime said. “She tapped Alyssa 18

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on the shoulder.” “Through us?” Nathan asked excitedly, but Jaime shook his head. “Well, not through,” Jaime admitted. “She just didn’t touch anyone. Except Alyssa.” “Was she hot?” “I don’t know.” He had no idea. The woman wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t attractive as much as beautiful—but like a painting or a statue. Pretty to look at, but disconcerting when it moved. “But it was a ghost.” “Maybe.” But he doubted it for some reason. He always imagined ghosts as trying to be noticed somehow, but the woman seemed to be minding her own business, except for tapping one of the children on the shoulder. Nathan asked about it a lot, but Jaime didn’t offer up any other answers. Later that month, Alyssa’s house burned down in the middle of the night. The family couldn’t get out in time. He and Nathan stopped talking about the apparition after that.

The next time he saw her was a college student, while he was in the hospital visiting Nathan after he sprained his wrist skateboarding down the hill. She walked by Nathan’s room, and he had to excuse himself to watch where the woman was going, much to his friend’s annoyance. He followed the woman, who treaded down the hall with purpose, and avoided running into doctors, nurses, patients and visitors with ease. He could see it this time—people did step out of the way of her path, but in no other regarded heeded the figure in black. She finally turned into a room—Jaime did not follow her that far. She exited soon after, and Jaime peeked inside to see an elderly man sleeping, another fading glowing mark. He turned around and the woman was already gone. “I saw her again,” Jaime told Nathan when he returned to his hospital room. “Jenny?” “No, that woman from the ghost tour.” Nathan’s eyes widened. “She’s here?” “She was.” He gestured out the door. “I followed her. She marked some old Hernández-Cruz / Strix

guy on the other side of the building.” “But not me?” “No, not you.” Nathan breathed out a sigh of relief. “You sure it was the same person?” “It was her.” The next day, Jaime found out that the old man the woman visited had passed away in the night. After his report, Nathan whistled. “Sounds like our mystery lady.”

The last time he saw her was after graduation when he totaled the car. Jaime had fallen asleep at the wheel for a minute, and the next thing he knew he and a minivan were wrecked in a ditch on the side of road. And there she was when he got out of his car, looking at the unconscious couple in the minivan with titled head. She strode to the passenger’s side and reached through the window with her spindly arm, marking the woman in the seat on the shoulder as she touched it. “Wait!” Jaime reached his hand out to her, though he didn’t want to get near enough to touch her. She turned her hooded face to him. Jaime nearly recoiled—her face was pale and her round unblinking eyes almost seemed to glow blue. “Not you,” she told him in a chirping, cricket-like voice. “Not yet.” “What are you?” Jaime asked her. She slowly tilted her face too far to the left. “A promise.” And when Jaime blinked, she was gone.

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PORTRAIT OF A MONDAY Ben Barkley So there was sun and water and light and the comfortable kind of chill. And it was her birthday; no not hers… hers is tomorrow, although we’ve already celebrated. And there was food which we ate on blankets and no one wanted to be the first to open the cheesecake. And some did handstands while I watched, because I could never do one or had even tried. And he noticed how I had spilled pesto on my jeans and we all laughed but I didn’t care because I didn’t like those jeans anyways. And pictures were taken and I was in them and I felt a sense of inclusion; you know the one. And she told me: “I’m excited to be friends.” You can say that again. “I’m excited to be friends.”

THE WINDOW DISPLAY Matthew Delarosa Here stands an arcade beset by the reckless lull of darkness, The few moments of blindness forced on those too ingrained in sight. In the farthest lengths of this seemingly deserted landscape, a window dimly preserves Not by will, nor by desire—by sheer truth A canvas of creation stands propped inside, This time a wild of mannequins and models and humanoids; husks and parts and abandoned ideas Forever obscured by the grim-sighted signs of “FORECLOSED” and “VACANT” and “SPACE FOR SALE” Each tries to shape itself with what it is given, Enduring an environment that pushes back with empty intent. The blinds may shut and reject what isn’t art, But at least attempting may count for something after all. Outside a little girl catches a glimpse of this scene, Her rosy-cheeked face faltering at the sadness. (Such sadness eclipses ones she usually braves, More stinging and raw than simple scraped knees) As she finds herself trapped behind the glass Drawn into the signs that so boldly declare nothing. At dawn, the bare bodied mannequins still stand propped inside in haphazard chaos, Yet feel assured they must be doing something right.

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Boxed In by Katherine Rose

FROM LARVA TO A BEAUTIFUL BUTTERFLY Sam Nottingham And her wings were beautiful. Gently she now sits In my grasp, no fight Or trouble to run away from. A nice little butterfly Roaming from flower To flower. A real free spirit You might say She was. The light passed Through those little eyes Like a disco ball At the end of the night. Before the music dies. Quiet. I haven’t seen a disco ball in a while. Didn’t much like them With so many people Crowded around. They always made me Nervous. I’ll have to keep walking around Until I find a good place To lay her down. I worried that 24

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My muddy fingers. Might weigh her down, Might have drowned her, But I always wanted To touch her. Drifting, dancing, diving Through the air and Through the trees of this forest. I always pictured her. Almost magical, The way her strong body Could be held By those tiny, little, legs. Looking at them now They seem awkwardly Thin, But still Elegant. Its hot as hell Out here. Damn, if I don’t Keep sweating, Eyes keep burning. All these trees start To look the same. But at least I get to look At her. Can’t believe She was once some Nasty, fouled larva. Anyone could touch her. That’s no kind of life To sit Nottingham / From Larva to a Beautiful Butterfly

And do nothing. She had to be freed, And bloom, And become beautiful, Like all the rest of them I have. Thank god, I was there To see it. I could keep her With the rest, In my book of Monarchs, Swallowtails, Brush-footed skippers, And Sulphurs But she is more rare than that. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to keep her in a museum For all of eternity For anyone to touch Or evaluate. To get to see her. No, Ill let her drift, And dance, Like she used to do And ill be the last to see her. So I laid her down into the water. Let her float On top And let the tide decide Where she would end up. Her silky blonde hair All matted and knotted From being dragged through the mud. 26

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But now, Submersed in the river, Her beautiful hair can flow. Almost looks like The veins in a Butterflyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wings. I guess thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s What made me think Of butterflies.

Nottingham / From Larva to a Beautiful Butterfly

Missed Connections by Benjamin Hines

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IN SPADES Joshua Kulseth John Ivanoff sat at the head of a back table, and dealt out a small stack of cards to each of us sitting there. He’d been a heroine addict— dealing, but using mostly; sent to rehab a year ago. It’d made no difference, though; he was here now teaching me Spades. It’s a prison game, he told me; he learned it in a juvenile detention center from a gangbanger when he was fourteen. Jason Dobrowski, a roughlooking Pole with a low, labored Brooklyn accent that sounded like his mouth was always full of food, sat on my left, stopping with his hand the cards sliding along the table; making them uniform, sorting them according to rank and suit. He glanced at me with a smile full of duplicity, 29

condescension, masking his brutal street reticence. And Pierce Schultz, a pudgy, pleasant Jew from Boca was at my right, chuckling; joking some. I liked talking to Pierce and tried to trust him— as far as we could trust one another. He used to freebase Roxicodone in the bathroom of his courtmandated AA meetings. Looking at his paunch though, I could tell—his Roxies taken from him—he left off one craving for another. I was myself at home In this room of suffering young men. Troubled in my own ways, and blind. We took as partners— John and myself—nil over four, and collected 140 points: my mentor, and I adept. Jason sucked his teeth, whined complaints at Pierce. John mouthed the words to a Wyclef song playing in the background, before fading back, finally, as a fractured memory. 30

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The whole scene exists For me now in a cloud of almost-recollection; the people, friends of sorts, all spread across the country. John now out of prison for robbery; another stint. Pierce a successful economics major—suitable, as he would joke; and Jason, I don’t know—swallowed As a half-thought, a remainder. We lived in time together, and do now, always in our blindness; imprecision.

Kulseth / In Spades

Suburbia by Rebecca Beaird

CALLING CLEMSON HOME Kristina Toney

he notion of â&#x20AC;&#x153;homeâ&#x20AC;? is one that is near and dear to our hearts. It is also one that conjures up different images and feelings for all individuals. As students, Clemson offers us a home during our college years: a place to live and to earn a degree in the hopes of doing something great. But for the residents, this city is so much more than a simple place to live, and Stephen Speaks is one such resident. Speaks knows firsthand how the beauty of Clemson can create community. During his college years, he transferred to Clemson to earn a degree in Parks, Recreation and Tourism Management. He left in 1993 following graduation, but something about the college town drew him and 34

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his family back. He offers a unique and powerful perspective on home, through his description of how his roots are seated deeply in moments created in the Clemson landscape. Speaks got engaged to his wife at Whitewater Falls in Oconee County. He sees the community as a sort of amalgamation of the natural world and the world created by the existence of the University. In addition to that, he also recognizes the value in both of these worlds, as his job is to build relationships with students in the community through his ministry. Speaks believes that unique and lifeshaping opportunities are open to all of the students if they take just a few moments to examine a map of the area to find a place to explore. He advises

students to, instead of going home for the weekend, stick around Clemson and take adventures to discover the landscape that surrounds them. Speaks believes that Clemson offers his family a life that is not easily found outside of the city. Shortly after the birth of one of their children, the parks gave Speaks’s wife the opportunity to form a community with other young mothers. These women shared a powerful milestone with one another and were able to support each other in this serene landscape. Within the city limits, his children still have access to a wealth of other cultures due to the existence of the university. They have the chance to meet students of other cultures in their classes at school whose parents have come to Clemson for the educational opportunities. In other parts of the state, Speaks believes that this unique opportunity just isn’t possible. This is a great gift that the university offers to residents that we students may take for granted. To Speaks, many residents term Clemson a “return community.” For a majority of students, it is not possible to find a job in the area after they graduate, but although they can’t stay, Speaks says, they can always come back. Leaving Clemson, according to Speaks, would be a very hard idea to even conceptualize. He and his family

have formed a strong relationship with the city and the community. Their connection is rooted deeply in the memories that they have generated here and in knowledge of the gems hidden in these hills. Toni Millslagle, another resident, talks about Clemson as a place that she is glad to call her home. On a whim, she decided to follow the recommendation of her GPS and found herself at one of Clemson’s popular beaches. Here, she states, feels like home and a place that “everyone should check out at least once.” She also says people are open and “you can interact and socialize” in ways that are not prevalent in this way in many other communities. Millslagle states that one of her favorite things about visiting the beach and the area is getting to meet new people and have new experiences. It is this open atmosphere that has created the sense of home, which welcomed Millslagle into the Clemson fold. The atmosphere also influenced her desire to come to the university in order to study criminal justice. In the event that she does attend the university formally, she says that she looks forward to all of these new opportunities that she has found through living in this community and being exposed to some of its treasures like the beach. The most powerful Toney / Calling Clemson Home

sentiment Millslagle offers about being a resident of the college town came as she discussed how the area has caused her to change the way she looks at life. She states, “You can find something beautiful in everything you look at: all you have to do is try. Life is art in general and as long as you see it that way there is no way that you can be not positive about it.” One could say that home is looking around for the hidden treasures in any community you come to find yourself in and appreciating the little quirks that exist around you. Taking chances, like Millslagle did, can cause you to discover a place and a group of people who grow to become your family. Spending time in the Clemson’s natural beauty, as well as in the hub of a city created by the university, as Speaks does, can expose you to a unique side of the city and generate powerful, lifealtering moments. Clemson is home to residents who see its beauty in a deeply personal way. It is our home too. They say that home is where the heart is, and that when you’re home, you feel it. In this day and age, it is so easy to be cynical about everything in the world. It is equally easy to dismiss the notion of home as cliché or overrated and to exclaim that we are living our lives in the moment, 36

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wild and free, with no regrets, and no strings attached. As college students, we are in the middle of a tumultuous chapter of our lives, and it all seems so transient. In dealing with all of this, establishing roots in Clemson seems to beckon heartbreak when we have to leave this new home that we are creating in every moment up until the end of our four years here. But in this crazy time of our lives, it is more important than ever to realize that we can find community in the semblance of isolation in a small, rural college town, stability in the uncertainty we are feeling, and a home that will always be there for us after the time we spend here furthering our education. Taking the time to see Clemson in the way that some of its residents do, to witness its little wonders and appreciate them by taking more than just a passing glance at the city that surrounds us will truly make all the difference when we look back at our time as Tigers – no matter where we go or where we finally decide to call our home.

A State of Negligence by Chris Phillips

AMERICA Justine Pekalak America, my mother makes a living cleaning floors of your grocery stores. America, you do dirt so well. You swell, pirouette, and spill; she sops up your juice. America, is she clean enough for you? America, do you like my face? Stop asking if I’m underage. It’s my exotic, Slavic cheekbones. You must have seen them up real close at New York Fashion Week. America, don’t pretend you close your eyes. America, my mother calls me a Communist and I don’t know if it’s with love or without. She knows what it was and I don’t. In that I am the same as the man who addressed you in this way. America, my mother didn’t take me to any meetings. She didn’t have to. America, you can’t call me by name. I’ve made one up especially for you. I can’t remember if it was because you forced me or I chose to. America, when I put this name that is not my name on paper, I put myself up for debate. America, won’t you let me be your James Dean? America, I’ll recite you foreign poetry, and most importantly, America, I won’t read this poem out loud and laugh. America, I hate it when your poets speak of Russia. Come lick my concrete and then we’ll talk.

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DON’T LOOK GIFT BOOTS IN THE HEELS Aileen Marrero Today, high-heeled boots are a gift from the gods. But, I only say this because I can’t tolerate the other pain that’s currently consuming me. Today’s boots pair pain with pleasure, like the time my boyfriend hog-tied me with a long piece of wire that we found on the dewy ground one morning after coming back from an S&M party. It was only as his crop slammed against my flesh that I found pleasure among the pain. As I walk in these boots, I feel the heels pound against my skin, calling me to put their performance into the spotlight. And, almost too eagerly, I replace my still open wounds with the wooden aches that presently aren’t quite painful enough to make me forget these afflictive memories. Yet, such pleasure, such animosity, finds its way up the clenching muscles of my legs and into a new kind of distressing bliss. I can’t help but notice as I begin to walk across the bridge that there’s a girl who wears almost identical boots to mine, and as I pass I wonder what kind of pain her gift-boots are hiding for her. I’m certain my pain rivals, if not trumps, hers as my wounds flare at the thought of him; it was only a few years ago that I earned my right as a mother, and then lost it to another woman. As I inhale, and then exhale deeply, I stop

on the side of the bridge to look down at my tainted boots. They’re a blessing in truth; they refrain me from taking that leap off the bridge into the shallow pond when my masochistic thoughts aren’t enough to cover up the unstitched emotional lacerations. I shake it off, and forcibly pick my rhythmic pace back up to show myself that blissful pain again.

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I couldn’t hate these damn boots more.

Go by Rachel Anderson

EXISTENTIALISM, HELLO Joshua Martin And after 36 years of monotonous morning dialogue about how you kicked again in your sleep you looked at me one morning and said something about Existentialism, which I knew was on your mind since hearing you recite Nietzsche in the shower for the first time. And as you looked out the window past the oil marked street, into the field of knee high weeds where the kidsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; soccer goals used to be you mumbled something about the magnificent city erected once in our dreams: how there our two hearts would coalesce to form the power source for the workers of our city to love and exist in the molecules of raindrops that never touched the ground. How our bridged minds would manifest a mayor who spoke softly and woke

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up in the same cramped spaces as the rest of us. There used to be a great park in the center of our city where we’d walk in the chapped cool morning and be serenaded by the tunes of half-winged birds. Now you tell me that the park has been demolished in your dreams, that the mayor runs around with sharp pointed scissors, that there are weeds taller than buildings. But I wouldn’t know all that, you say, I haven’t been there in quite sometime. All that’s left of my presence are a few pictures scattered on sidewalks and the whispers of people who can feel the touch of a manipulating hand roughen and crack.

Martin / Existentialism, hello

Reflection by Sarah Chappell 45

ONE PERSON OW H CAN FUCK IT UP FOR EVERYONE

Jenna Richard

urrently, my family is seated around a table discussing funeral options. I am not there, was not invited. They are at Patti’s home. She is my younger sister by 4 years. I have called each of my 5 siblings several times and disturbed, I hung up in multiples of 5, after a series of monotonous rings. We are all in our fifties. We are older now. I will attempt to explain what seems outlandish from the outside. My therapist says I am demented, or rather, that I have dementia. My doctor says I am dying of AIDS. I just watched my father die on a couch.

My parents, Doris and Charlie, created a Brady Bunch dynamic—3 boys, 3 girls in a matter of 8 years. Outside of Boston, we lived in a big suburb and the neighborhood was flourishing with kick ball and man hunt and everyone was outside and boy was that true for my family. Us kids, 6 of us so close in age, we had our hands in every sidewalk posse. In this scene, I am 15 and it is 1971. My brothers and I—me, Ronnie and Larry, we had an in with the ladies through our sisters. So naturally we all got “our first make-outs” well before our friends. We did other things first, too. The clichéd path from weed to pills to—for me—heroin. My brothers and sisters pretty much stopped messing 46

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around after thorough investigation of the drugs that piqued their interests. My brain was wired different. It still is. We never wanted to be home unless our dad was. He didn’t deserve this attention but we gave it to him. We lived in a two-story house but each floor was very small and wore the house tight to our skin like hand-me-downs. I used to wake up in the morning and watch my mother sleep. It was comforting to see her at rest. I often prayed for her dreams to be of the best God had to offer. She deserved that and I think it worked. My dad, he sold cars at Smyly’s Buick. Charismatic and handsome—he did well. And he should have with his most previous occupation being a racecar driver. Cars were “his thing” and that preoccupation, detached from what came along with it (the girls that weren’t my mother, the “need for speed” persona), made him a pretty hip guy. People knew him around town because everyone was in everyone’s business and when I’d tell people I was Charlie Decker’s son, a strange mix of appreciation and pity marked their faces. He was likable but in a way that made you feel bad for liking him. I didn’t understand this when we were young. My dad liked to party. I didn’t understand this either. When I was old enough to ask, I didn’t. I was on drugs. Arguably, my dad was the worst of us, but I was right there with him. I often romanticize the origins of my fall from innocent youth. Perhaps it was my birth order? I was the second child behind the golden one, Debbie. We are the only ones who accurately remember my dad’s fall from grace. She dealt with my father’s growing absence in a way I wish I had imitated—good grades, designated drivers, refined manners, and met deadlines. She embodied the example of a person that learned as they lived, taking mental notes whenever a new injustice was issued in her presence. I resented her, as you may have expected. I resented the fact that her smile was held up with marionette strings, letting God move her through the day. It was only when the strings lost their tension that she would resemble a human, God’s string-pierced cross at rest on the ground. These moments, being both involuntary and essential to Debbie’s success in life, were the only times we could connect on a level beyond DNA. She would scream and yell about fairness in every respect until her face turned blue like an overdose. These fits of realness, is that the word? were normally reactions to something I had done. I was impulsive, always in trouble at school, always lying to my poor mother. Debbie’s cool demeanor was hard to break, but where there’s a will there’s a way and I frequently exploited it. Richard / How One Person Can Fuck It Up for Everyone

Let’s go back even further. At one time, we were a family. After all I’ve already told you, this must seem strange or maybe like another moment of romantics but I swear I’m not making this up. There were mornings when I woke up to the actual smell of bacon, my father’s making! On Sundays there were family dinners and every single seat was filled. A family of 8, my father’s famed meatloaf in slices on our plates. What didn’t reach our mouths ended up in our dog’s and Debbie still hadn’t learned the art of criticism so it was okay by her. My parents didn’t seem to mind either. The only thing that mattered to my father was “clucking”—a word he defined as, “Chew with your mouth closed or you can eat out of a bowl on the ground next to Duke.” If that warning didn’t stick, my father would plaster it to our asses with a belt. This pet peeve of my father’s was severe—so much so that my siblings and I grew to obtain the same contempt later in life for anyone who dared chew with their mouth open. It was a mistake that became anything but—a mistake even I made sure to avoid. In this scene, I am 10 and it is 1966. My siblings are all born by now but not exactly living. During this time my father is racing cars, travelling often but still present. When he wasn’t in the fast lane, he was by our sides. We had

“These moments…were the only times we could connect on a level beyond DNA. She would scream and yell about fairness in every respect until her face turned blue like an overdose.” a healthy fear of him, as children should of their fathers. The type of fear that accompanies sneaking fingers of raw cookie dough when mothers and fathers aren’t looking. When I was 12, dad took up snowmobiling. His need for racing cars—though never obsolete—diminished, and the wintertime brought heaps of snow for him to mount and carve with his neon Arctic Cat. This new obsession marked the end of our family’s normalcy. If you ask my siblings I think they’d agree. For him, snowmobiling was a different type of speed; one marked by a literal yet metaphorically frigid fascination. When he came home 48

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at night, red-faced from the cold whip of riding, he would sit on the end of our mint green couch, blindly grab at the wooden lever on its side to elevate his feet. His free hand focused on lifting a cold beer to his lips though sometimes the beer was surpassed for scotch. On these nights, his face was redder. Dad eventually stopped racing cars altogether and it was around this time he started selling those used cars at Smyly’s. His absent presence grew in severity and I no longer expected to see him. Financially, his support was holding us together but a 13-year-old me needed much more, and I’m living proof. This piece of evidence supports my theory of a doomed birth order. My mother remained silent through it all, like she did when dad swore they could handle Ronnie, “Just one more kid, Doris… just one more.” Her silence said “I will persevere no matter how fucked up the situation. I made my choices and God will guide me through.” Except my mother would never say fuck, and this is my story.

Richard / How One Person Can Fuck It Up for Everyone

FULL DISCLOSURE Creg McAda In the interest of full disclosure, One should never fully disclose You see a stag straddling The double yellow line At a hairpin: you are alone That image is yours, why Share what means less with The telling and retelling? A thousand die in ditches, bloated, Four hooves splayed as the compass This is no special moment, they say Per buddha: happiness is the flame Undiminished no matter how many Fires it lights – But he must account For moldy wood and wet kindling You see a bookish father Calm and stodgy in tweed He scoops up the toddler Chasing the squirrel round The ancient oak, circling As the spiral ascends away One cackling, one squealing Blended with the clucking Chorus of the oak’s grey lord Keep that one in that useless front Pocket of helpless once-blue jeans There’s room yet for the loose change Of images and scenes once you break 50

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That dollar, room yet with your bank, Library, and coffee gift cards stacked Neatly in faded leather, save that one For only you, and let the others traffic In what vernacular currency remains

McAda / Full Disclosure

Female Form by Elizabeth Davis

Chronicle

STATUESQUE LOVE Matthew Delarosa Two lovers stand Beneath a crumbling archway Amongst a ruined Roman bath Decay may cake the walls Perhaps in their love as well But their mute vows reveal no prophecies Invasive tendrils may cling to the pillars Like the continuous affairs of secrecy But static love prevents an action Incomprehensible runes may be etched in eternity Definitely impeding a passionate embrace But the newest statues are lost as well The ruins may be left present for history But the spark of love has left long ago

LIGHT HAS GONE OUT OF MY LIFE THE

Anonymous

Oh, God. I’m craving. It’s only been four months away from you, This isn’t going to end well. As I sit in silence, Eyes focused, Attentive to nothing, Seconds seem to scream Your name. And the thought Of staying sober is lost amongst My confusion once our eyes ultimately lock. I see you and I collapse. My walls fail and I give in to my addiction. My art; Of making Something out of nothing. Somehow, whilst that dress denies your express, you escape. Burst. Combust. Explode. Ignite. You escape the confines of your veins and enter mine. Slowly at first, From my lips, To my tongue, To my lungs, To every recess of my brain; Endorphins release, Dopamine skyrockets, Sobriety dare not show his face. You envelop me. Something dark, like a polar night, With only the spark of a single cigarette to show the way.

Chronicle

The light goes out. Clouded in mystery, misery, and intrigue I move towards nothing. Or Something, For Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never know. But I can still smell the aroma. For you are not what you seem. Untamable? Yes, Inconceivable? Yes. Untouchable? No, For there is still a way to capture you. Like the deadly smoke of every cigarette, The only way to feel your heat, Graze your texture, Smell your scent, Is to inhale your toxins. So I walk on. Towards the darkness, Placing one last ember between my lips. Tonight: I move towards nothing. Or Something, For Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never know.

Anonymous / The Light Has Gone Out of My Life

Toxic Incursion by Katelyn Chapman

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BIT & BRIDLE Farris Steele Johnson At the Museum of Science in Boston, I receive a bridle, raise my head above the bit. Scraps of papyrus blaze up on the bright plasma screen. Each button to press plays one of the commandments, the Decalogue, first in Hebrew, then in English. The plaque beside the display cites, “these perishable parchments were the pillars of morality and rights.” Every letter and stroke confirms the body is a wild ass, stamping her hooves, laughing her head off in the desert plain. Memory canters to you, white lace, red wine stained lips, your fingers playing with my glasses, tilting the frame to the side, pressing them crooked, “this is how you look when you fall asleep reading,” while my warm palms stuck to the mattress. You left, I trotted strides behind, and saw all of you, filling the frame, straight-backed and stiff. You rounded for goodbye, my fingers slipped into that small knot in your shoulder, where muscles tangle when you fall asleep crooked, reading, they pressed firmly, you collapsed, abrupt, dig in — I thresh the spurs, thorns, against my side. The donkey brays, lowers her head, nose in the missal, grazing to abide. Barn sour now, fantasizing about stylite monks 57

— and plucking my eyes out — I long for days when I’m only drunk on the kiss of cold fountains, the embrace of fog, and my constant lust for the pure curvature of mountains.

Chronicle

SEEDLING Redmond Heath i want something shared. i get myself in a new scape. where should i dig? my ambition is buried bone. somewhere inside you is that lost rib. the dirt my hands sift through is phony. i will wait to enter a hole i am led besideâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; i do not need any pushing. i am still learning how to touch you. is mystery my one guard against the resin that blights my hands? We are mute under questioning. We are promising not to be alone. if no winter comes We wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be.

All I Need by Rachel Anderson

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HUMANS HAVE VICES Seth Christmus

“H

umans have vices.” The words cut through my haze of thought like the slicing of a guillotine. Colorful stained glass windows surrounded me. Looking around, I classified the typical churchgoers with habits that were all too familiar. There were those who intently listened to the eulogy, staring straight ahead at the speaker, hoping that their body language would somehow honor a man who they barely knew in life but cared enough about to feign closeness to in death. The others were dozing off to sleep, their heads falling slowly and then snapping back up with sudden jerks, dreaming through the insipid, repetitive speech. Of the two types, I was neither. “We all have our own sins and wrong-doings to confront; this man was no different.” I grimaced and shifted in my seat, wringing my hands. The hard, uncompromising wood made my back sore. I glanced up at the aged pulpit and the polished coffin that glimmered in the light from the overhead bulbs. The orator’s remarks had begun to settle on me, annoying like mosquitoes buzzing around the ears. Perspiration dampened my skin even though the sanctuary was not particularly hot. I placed my hands on my lap and began to pat nervously. “Paul!” 61

In the relative silence of the church, the noise was deafening. My head shot to the right, where my mother sat beside me with an expression of pure annoyance on her face. “Paul, you can either hush or leave,” my mother whispered. “The rest of us wish to honor Joseph’s life in peace, without your noises.” A smirk crept across my face. “I think I’ll go with the second choice,” I murmured back. I stood quickly and squeezed my way out of the pew, leaving my mother open-mouthed, astonished. I felt the piercing stares on me as I made my way towards the exit. My view was focused straight towards the door; eye contact was something that I wished to avoid. Stepping outside, I was met with a wall of rain that had begun to pour since I had entered the service for Joseph’s death. The clouds were an ominous grey shade, matching the cold, unforgiving stone of the church. The weather looked and felt absolutely dismal. It was funny; I still felt better out here than I did in there. I leaned against the wall under a covered walkway and fumbled a cigarette into my mouth. As I rested my head against the cold stone and brought a lighter to my lips, I glanced upwards and was met with the menacing view of the church steeple, sharp and uncompromising. Why my mother had insisted on dragging me to that wretched place I could not understand; I barely knew the man when he was still breathing, so why should I care that he was dead? No, she had an ulterior motive. The last few months had been tough on the aging woman; some of her closest friends had kicked the bucket recently, no doubt leaving her with the nagging feeling that she might be next. Joseph was only the latest to join the ranks of the dead. He had been a high school friend of my mother’s and they kept in contact after they graduated. Joseph even came to visit once, but I was six at the time and cared more about my G.I. Joe action figures than one of my mother’s friends. She had become somewhat of a recluse since his death and I noticed that her friendly, outgoing personality of years past had all but vanished. A gust of wind whipped past, chilling me to the core. Shivering, I pulled my thin coat closer around my body. A shot of whiskey would have been nice to warm my frozen limbs, but drinking outside a funeral didn’t appeal to me much. I took a long drag from my cigarette, basking in the blend of tobacco. 62

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Smoke trailed from the end of my cigarette, dispelling in the open air as quickly as it had been created. As I watched it, my thoughts followed suit, eventually landing on Joseph. Judging by the numerous pictures surrounding his coffin, he was a glutton while he was alive and now he was gone. Gone, done, finished, his last chapter ending just like everyone else’s would, as a corpse in a coffin. Just like mine would, too. I shuddered again, this time more from my morbid notions than the cold. The time I had spent with my mother this week had made me start to think more like her. I took one last hit of my nub of a cigarette and flicked it into a puddle. I felt a need for my hands to be occupied but forced myself not to reach for another cigarette. The staccato patter of rain on cement soothed my nerves as I lost myself in the steady rhythm of the rainfall. My solitary peace was soon interrupted as the wooden doors of the church creaked open and a river of black clothes and solemn faces poured out. I caught a few disapproving glances in my direction. I stared back indifferently. My mother hurried past the others and came over to me, umbrella in hand. “I didn’t think that you’d take me literally, you know,” she said without looking at me. “You should have stayed.” “I think you know why I didn’t.” She continued to look away from me out towards the thinning pack of cars in the parking lot and to the buildings beyond. Her brows furrowed in thought, as if words of wisdom were on the tip of her tongue. However, the small talk continued. “You were smoking out here, weren’t you? You told me you would quit.” “I’ll quit when I damn well please,” I said irritably. “The more you nag, the more it makes me want to smoke.” She finally turned her head towards me. “You’re just as stubborn as your father was,” she snapped, and added, “and you remember what happened to him, don’t you?” I met her gaze with irritation, but found myself defeated by the worried lines on her face and the calming ocean blue of her eyes. It was hard to argue with her. I have a stubbornness that was on par with my mule of a father, when he was alive. My father died the week after I left for college. I remember standing at the front desk of my dorm, holding the phone as my mother sobbed uncontrollably on the other end. My own tears were over in a matter of minutes after hearing what caused his death: alcohol poisoning. Dad’s stubbornness had more and more often turned to anger. Holy man though he was, he loved his whiskey Christmus / Humans Have Vices

and always hit the bottle hard in the privacy of our home. And when anyone, even his own wife, tried pull him away from his booze, there was always hell to pay. “I’m sorry, Ma,” I conceded, “but now’s probably not the best time to quit. I’ve had to travel and write a lot lately, pretty much running on coffee and cigarettes. The paper is a bit short staffed right now.” “You aren’t too busy to come have dinner with your old mother, are you?” Her eyes pleaded. I smiled in defeat. “I don’t see why not. I’ll stop by some time next week.” She turned her view once again to the horizon lined with buildings and skyscrapers. A sigh escaped from her lips. “Do you know how you got your name, Paul? I’m sure I told you before. Your father named you after his grandfather, the first Paul Freeman. He was a great man, one of the most beloved pastors in Charlotte during his time. Your father and his father followed in those footsteps, leading the flock and saving the lost…” What she was saying had some truth to it. All three men had been pastors. To me, their greatness is debatable. I never knew my great-grandfather but had the opportunity to read some of his sermons; they weren’t far removed from “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” My grandfather had been a fairly open racist; he often used scripture to support his racism. As for my own father, he was drunk more often than not during his later years. But it takes charisma to inspire and turn people into followers, something the two men that I knew had in abundance. I folded my arms across my chest and took a deep breath to calm myself. This loaded lecture was nothing new and neither was my mother’s exaggeration of my family’s work. Although I had never explicitly told her that I was atheist, I assumed that she got the hint whenever I stopped attending church when I was eighteen. The speeches too were a hint that she suspected my soul of being in danger. I never pushed the issue. Over the years, I had grown accustomed to tuning out my parents’ tag-team onslaught of eternal damnation. “My moral base is fine, Ma. I’m fine. My life is fine. I get by. And I can keep getting by without judgment looming over my head at every turn.” She shrugged. “I just hope you repent before it’s too late. And repent of that awful smoking. And drinking. And…” 64

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“Yeah, yeah. Go wait in the car.” “Your vices, they’ll catch up with you in the end, Paul.” She chanced another worried look into my eyes and opened her umbrella. The bright yellow of the nylon forced me to blink a few times, but I found the shade of color welcome after being under the melancholy skies of grey and surrounded by the black of mourning all afternoon. I watched her closely as she tramped through the rain to my forest green convertible and opened the door to crawl in. Humans have vices. The words reverberated, bouncing off the walls of my skull. Cars drove past slowly, sloshing through the wet streets and splashing water onto the sidewalks. I reached into my pocket for my lighter, watching each car and wondering about the lives of each driver. Each one stared straight ahead, focused on the road and the task of driving in the rain. One by one, they passed the church and kept driving, disappearing from vision. I lit another cigarette and looked at the grey sky then back down at the pack in my hand. The rain continued to fall, but a small sliver of sunlight pierced through the blanket of grey. An odd mix of relief and sadness welled up as a startling revelation washed over me: the pack was empty. I crumpled it and threw it in a nearby trashcan and walked to join my mother in the car. There was no reason that my vice couldn’t join Joseph today.

Christmus / Humans Have Vices

Shem Creek by Taylor Kienker

Chronicle

AFTER A PAINTING BY MOTTE Joshua Kulseth There is blood on the dock posts, and a single cannonball stuck, impotent in the floor planks. The amassed hosts, and distant ranks of vague soldiers pluck from the scene its figurehead: Richelieu wrapped in papal red— The Cardinal in his prime stands still on the vanguard docks; unknown ships burn close by. He hides his hands in the folds of his crossed arms, and gazes out partly at the scene—stock still and secured from harm. A brown friar hunches, leaning on the dock post, his fist to his chin in contemplation— of the souls, flying in the instant to face their final gall or consolation. In vain may many wish for shriving grace. Is the battle lost then, or won, 67

when sea trenches fill their depths with the thousand sons of distant fathersâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;mothers fraught with worry as young men and old are smothered alike in the battleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fury, and go unwept.

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I SAW A SHOOTING STAR LAST NIGHT Reâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ven Smalls But it made me livid Knowing good and well It would catch your eye It mocked me and our distance In this Instance My stance of clumsily folded arms And water-facet-dripped-on cheeks Did no justice to the speed That star fell Short-lived and long-gone Before you even thought To look

Love Like a Sunset by Ashley Davis

MY PANTS THROUGH TIME Jenna Richard

III. My Pants in Bed Tonight sitting ass inch below mattress level and knees higher than. Silk pants. No, if the fabric shines it is silk to me all the same. Army silk. My pajamas are fake army silk. Shades of blue. Second grade to present blue. Time.

II. My Pants on the Ass of Another winding down. My sister’s friends after partying in my home, ‘rents away. Rock paper scissoring to see who gets my pants that night. The silk feels nice on any bottom. Too young for it to be my turn. Tonight they’re 72

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Matt Fraserâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, and heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chosen to free-ball it.

I. My Pants as Lubricant for My Ass down a stairwell brimming pillows in my house when I still shared room with my sister.

Richard / My Pants Through Time

KALEIDOSCOPE

Caroline Brittingham

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â&#x20AC;Śfeels like ending in the middle of chapter eight she said- and the light clicks from yellow to red the bloom from existing to not why not just finish it she said-or never end itthe changes of a kaleidoscope always do I say

Only good for one thing by Kolton Miller

Bristle by Adrienne Lichliter

AMALGAMATION Ethan Moore “Holy. Or close to it,” she says, as she places a jade green box between us. We sit cross-legged on a leather couch facing each other, our knees touching occasionally. We were debating about what movie to watch, about to fortify layers and layers of silk-encased downy feather roofs and woolen afghan walls, when she decided I needed to see her happiness box—and no, that’s not a euphemism. Filled with matte & glossy paper pictures of all her friends—and one time more than friends. Loose leaves—those with scribbled cursive notes of endearment; those with cracked browning exteriors plucked from whatever maple or oak was outside of her new favorite city. Nothing from me. Not yet. No notes or poems or carefully extracted pieces of me. It strikes me how all these little trinkets and collectables from other people somehow become part of us. I’m not yet to the point of anxiety where seeing (or not seeing) myself in the box would make me want to vomit, but I still feel like running away. One time I drove from her house to mine in sixteen minutes, which should have been impossible. Have you ever been on the interstate at 2 a.m.?—it’s nothing but you and eighteen-wheelers. You feel very small and alone.

Purple Veil by Toni Franken 78

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ON ANIMAL RIGHTS Meredith Davidson Matthew Quick penned that playbook I’m rather fond of. It mapped moves to maneuver making amends with my mother but she never read it. She hasn’t read a book since that Old Testament back in 2009, within the pages of which she found the inspiration to make mere records of carnivorous cuspids maxillary and mandibular. Maxwell Smart parodied the secret agent man, and did you know James Bond had 94 drinks per week? Guy did his job trashed. I’m even more impressed. And when we got a poodle we heard they were smart dogs so our puppy became Maxwell Smartdog, Max for short. A cliché. Max was a moron. And Max died when I was in London three years ago, he’s still in that Hefty bag in our garage. If the ground would unfreeze if I could decide which Kipling poem to use as my eulogy maybe we’d bury him and make space for that fifth dartboard. I did hit a fox last week. Thing darted out in front of my Volvo at two a.m. And I swear my BAC was only a .09, just above the limit, which we thought was a funny slogan for our senior t-shirts back in high school. So now I own a stupid shirt and feel the fox beneath my tires on every morning’s drive to school.

I want to Remember, I want to Forget by Kolton Miller