Lighted Corners 2021

Lighted Corners Chronicle

Mount St. Mary’s University 16300 Old Emmitsburg Road Emmitsburg, MD 21727 301-447-6122 lightedcorners@msmary.edu msmary.edu/lightedcorners www.twitter.com/lightedcorners www.instagram/lightedcorners

Volume 40 Spring 2021

Editor

Rachel Donohue

Design Editor

Emmy Jansen

Art Editor

Janelle Ramroop

Poetry Co-Editors

Sarah Johnson & Alba Sarria

Fiction Co-Editors

Betsy Busch & Jazlyn Ibarra

Creative Nonfiction Co-Editors

Kerri Czekner & Maria Stollenwerk

Submission Manager

Tyler Jackson

Public Relations Manager

Kayla Cooper

Faculty Adviser

Tom Bligh

Staff Oloruntomi Dare, Claire Doll, Madison Hall, Kayla Jones, Sydney Kelly, Javon Sankoh, Malcom Stidham, Victoria Tyler ______ Production Lighted Corners partners with Valley Graphic Services in Frederick, Maryland.

Two hundred fifty copies are printed by the company. The Spring 2021 issue is printed on 100# Gloss Cover and the inside is 70# Uncoated Opaque Text. The magazine body text is set in Museo and headers are set in Korolev. The cover is set in Lamar Pen. Lighted Corners is created using Adobe Creative Cloud. Editor Rachel Donohue and Design Editor Emmy Jansen worked collaboratively on the layout of the magazine.

About Lighted Corners is an annual literary and arts magazine that publishes poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, fine art, and photography created by students of Mount St. Mary’s University. Lighted Corners holds memberships with the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, the Associated Collegiate Press, the Society for Collegiate Journalists, and Sigma Tau Delta.

Policy Statement Lighted Corners recruits its staff in September and opens for submissions in December. Students from across the university submit works that reflect diverse perspectives and themes. After removing the names of contributors, the Lighted Corners staff reviews submissions. The editors make final selections and design the layout for the magazine by striving to create a union between word, image, and theme. All Mount students, regardless of major, are welcome to join the staff and submit their work for possible publication.

Awards The Columbia Scholastic Press Association is an international student press association, founded in 1925, whose goal is to unite student journalists and faculty advisers at schools and colleges through educational conferences, idea exchanges, textbooks, critiques, and award programs.

Gold Medalist 2020, 2019, 2016, 2015, 2014, 2012, 2008

Silver Medalist 2018, 2013, 2011, 2010, 2009

Silver Crown Award 2014

Gold Circle Awards

2020 to Tess Boegel, Gigi Gaston, Jazlyn Ibarra

2015 to Shannon Gilmore The William Heath Award is an honor earned by the student who demonstrates outstanding achievement in creative writing. For more than twenty-five years, Dr. William Heath taught American literature and creative writing at Mount St. Mary’s University.

Breanna DeSimone and Cara Gose 2020

Katherine Brittingham 2019

Trevor Fulmer and Maggie McCormick 2018

Joseph Theis 2017

Samantha Solis 2016 Our contributors have earned recognition in Delta Epsilon Sigma National Scholastic Honor Society’s undergraduate writing competition. Delta Epsilon Sigma is a national scholastic honor society established in 1939 for students of Catholic universities and colleges in the United States.

Betsy Busch 2021 First Place in Short Fiction for “Between the Playlist and

the Gas Pedal.”

“The Day It Happened,” Betsy Busch’s short story from Volume 39 of Lighted Corners, has been selected for plain china: the Best Undergraduate Writing.

Note “Tagalog and Ginger,” a short story written by Alba Sarria, was originally published in the 2021 Edition of Polaris: An Undergraduate Journal of Arts and Literature.

Follow us! @lightedcorners

Untamed | oil painting Natalie Meador

Editor’s Note I’ve always been passionate about the arts—from what I can remember, at least.

At age eight, my parents enrolled me in art lessons, and I haven’t put down a paintbrush, pencil, pastel—you name it—since. I fell in love with the creative process. Throughout middle and high school, I was eager to spend hours bent over my desk sketching until my graphite pencils turned into ungraspable nubs.

Then, on a whim, I took a creative writing class my senior year of high school. It taught me the importance of imagination and developing a personal voice . . . and the character traits that belong to each house at Hogwarts. Thanks, Ms. Saylor.

During my first semester as a first-year student at the Mount, I noticed an email from Lighted Corners in my inbox. “If you are interested in editing, art, and creative writing, then consider joining the magazine here on campus!” About a week later, I sat on the floor of the Academic Center’s lower level for Lighted Corners’ interest meeting. Looking around at the other creatives, a feeling of fulfillment bubbled inside me. These collegiate artists and authors knew the joy of sketching with ungraspable nubs and writing with the imagination. Three years later, I’m the one leading the interest meeting for Lighted Corners.

Without the dedicated and enthusiastic staff members and editorial team, who practiced patience and understanding as we ventured into this digital academic year together, this magazine would not exist. I would like to extend a special thank you to our faculty adviser, Dr. Bligh. Every year, he graciously hands over the magazine to a group of students that have a passion for the arts—a passion that comes nowhere close to his. I am beyond grateful to have such a supportive and knowledgeable adviser who is there to cheer us on every step of the way. I’d also like to thank Robin and the Valley Graphic crew for being a loyal partner to Lighted Corners.

Nothing about this year was easy. However, one thing that never failed to lift my spirits—and the spirits of all students who contributed to the magazine—is reminiscing. Reminiscing on better times, hopeful that we will once again be able to join our friends and family without masks as barriers. Reminiscing on less technologically-developed times, thankful that we can still communicate with one another because of the devices we have. This idea of reminiscing led us to conceive the concept of Volume 40, Chronicle.

We hold on to memories for as long as we can, even when the details have begun to fade. Art, photographs, and writing chronicle the memories we have, solidifying their existence for years to come. The cover photo for the magazine, “Hallway to Happier Days” by Kayla Jones, is an image from the contagious diseases ward of the hospital at Ellis Island, New York, which was once the busiest inspection station for immigrants in the United States. So many of us owe our residence in the United States to grandparents and great-grandparents who traveled to this island with only the American Dream. Our contributors followed suit in chronicling personal and historical memories through their works, posing a single question to readers: what is it that is worth chronicling to you?

Chronicle explores a variety of themes: parent-to-child relationships, sibling-tosibling relationships, romantic relationships, growing out of innocence, growing old with time, and relatable historical and mystical tales. The Lighted Corners team hopes that the creative works within this magazine resonate with our readers— young and old—and stir memories that were nearly lost to the passage of time.

—Rachel Donohue

CONTENTS

Fiction

Between the Playlist and the Gas Pedal 15 —Betsy Busch Tagalog and Ginger 29 —Alba Sarria The Thief 36 —Rebekah Balick A Shadowy Figure 48 —Eileen Rosewater

Creative Nonfiction

Polaroid of My Mother 10 —Claire Doll The Antique Shop 33 —Claire Doll Devil’s Blues 49 —Gerald Dukuly Freed in the Streets of Florence 50 —Maria Elser

Photography

Bullet 12 —Jazlyn Ibarra Horseshoe Falls Afternoon View 20 —Timothy Hrabinski Snow Covered Trail 21 —Trinity Imes Morning Dew 24 —Victoria Tyler Pouty Fish 27 —Victoria Tyler In Between 31 —Natalie Meador Cotton Candy Sky 36 —Victoria Tyler Wings of Summer 39 —Paige Moseley Cryotherapy 44–45 —Trinity Imes One Bridge Ends, Another Continues 48 —Kayla Jones Sunset Over the Cumberland Valley 54 —James Kempisty El Pimiento 57 —Maya Marks Corridor of Contagions 58–59 —Kayla Jones

Poetry

Cover Photograph: Hallway to Happier Days

by Kayla Jones

Hall Light 11 —Ian Schirra Unhealing 13 —Maria Elser A Sacrificial Bond 14 —Javon Sankoh Until You Came Along 21 —Eileen Rosewater Boy 22 —Gerald Dukuly Time 24 —Eden Arouna A Midwinter Night 25 —Margaret Stine The Grove God Loves 26 —Alba Sarria The Longing of Loving You 28 —Abbie Woods Hanging Tree 46 —Eden Arouna The Austrian Alps 55 —Ian Schirra Ode to Patriot Hall 56 —Maria Elser Restaurants During the Holidays 57 —Joanna Kreke

Art

Untamed 5 —Natalie Meador She 18 —Rachel Donohue January 22 —Rebekah Balick Salivate 28–29 —Rachel Donohue The Battle Within 46–47 —Katie Creamer Matin Nöel 51 —Logan Lencheski Rosalia 56 —Oloruntomi Dare

Chronicle

Lighted Corners

Polaroid of My Mother Claire Doll

It’s summer, and the sun paints a wash of gold on my mother’s face.

Behind her, the whitish-blue beach sparkles in the distance. I can tell it is morning because she stands on a balcony holding a mug of coffee in her hand, a light one with lots of sugar and cream. She is caught offguard, but the smile is effortless, lips curving up and pressing dimples into her skin. Her ink-black hair swirls in different directions, and her eyes, colored evergreen like stained glass, glitter in the sunlight behind her thickrimmed glasses. Wearing a tattered olive sweatshirt and cerulean jeans, my mother radiates beauty.

I smile while looking at the picture, dated June 1991. She is young, only nineteen, exactly my age. It is hard to imagine her life before she had two daughters, a life of her own where she did things like drinking coffee and leaving her hair curled and watching the early morning tide.

I wonder who took the picture, if they

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shouted “Smile!” beforehand, or if an expression of delight naturally took form on my mother’s face. I wonder if the air smelled like salt, if one could hear the waves crash rhythmically from a distance. And I wonder if my mother remembers this day, holds onto it in her heart.

Carefully sliding the Polaroid from the photo album, I hold it under the lamp light. Upstairs, I hear the clang and clatter of pots as my mother prepares dinner, the smell of Caprese pasta wandering into the basement. I slide the photo into the back pocket of my jeans and make my way into the kitchen. Instead of giving my mother the picture, however, I tuck it carefully into the book she’s reading. I want her to come across it like I did and relive the moment, to smell the salt in the air, hear the crashing waves, taste the sweet boldness of the coffee, and I want her smile to be exactly as it was twenty-nine years ago, effortless and radiant.

Chronicle

Hall Light

Ian Schirra It calmed me when she left the hall light on It calmed me when he sang the storm away It calmed me when they read me to sleep.

I loved her smile, bright as the dishes I loved his laugh when he tickled my neck I loved the way they halted their quarrels at my peeking through the door crack.

They sped me to the hospital (my father, reluctant to go: “Superglue and Butterflies”).

They fed me broccoli (my mother dumping on cheddar while he was at the conference).

They taught me how to work (I put away the silverware; handed him the glasses).

They answered cries of pain They answered bouts of rage They answered lots of phone calls (most at 2 a.m.).

I grew into a young man, reluctant to work I grew into a young adult, needing to work I grew into a man, forced into work.

Now I stare at a room once empty Now I stare at wooden things fresh from IKEA Now, I stare at you, cradled in blankets in a wooden nest.

I hope I’ll leave the light on.

I hope the storms will leave, I hope these books will suit you.

I promise I’ll smile while scrubbing pans, I promise I’ll tickle you happy.

I promise we won’t ever fight.

I’ll drive you to the ER. I’ll even give dessert.

I’ll grab the cups going to the top shelf.

I want you to be happy; I want you to not know anger.

I want to answer all your calls— For love is no stranger, Love is my mother, Love is my father,

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Lighted Corners

Love is you, little son: The light will always be on.

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Chronicle

Unhealing Maria Elser

Once when I was two, I bashed my head falling off a swing.

My small face covered In streams of warm tears, You rushed to my side Like all loving parents would.

Once when I was six, I crashed my bike into a tree.

My scrapes covered In yellow SpongeBob Band-Aids, You made me an ice cream sundae Like all loving parents would.

Once when I was ten, I broke three of my fingers.

My hand covered With ice and a metal splint, You let me have the TV remote that night Like all loving parents would.

Once when I was sixteen, I felt that I had no one.

My self-hatred and pain covered By a plastered-on smile, But you didn’t ask if I was okay— My wounds weren’t something you could see.

Previous Page Bullet | digital photography Jazlyn Ibarra

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Lighted Corners

A Sacrificial Bond Javon Sankoh

As twins, we entered this world together As twins, we shared everything with each other As twins, we depended on one another Thus, our names became exchangeable Thus, our place was with each other Thus, we were one person As persons, we corrected others’ mistakes As persons, we supported distance As persons, we favored difference Thus, we each became recognizable Thus, we became more than just twins Thus, we became less than brothers As twins, we do not confide in each other As twins, we do not help one another As persons, we have our own friends As persons, we have unique traits Thus, we are two people Thus, we are far from close

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Chronicle

Between the Playlist and the Gas Pedal Betsy Busch

All good road trips start with the Sign of the Cross and the Star Wars main theme blaring on the radio.

At least, that’s what my older sister used to say every time we’d go for a drive, even if our road trip was as short as a trip to Aldi for milk or toothpaste.

Whenever our parents needed an errand to be run, she’d drag me into Lacey, her silver Honda Civic, the one she saved up for ever since she was eight. “For companionship,” she’d say, “and adventure.”

Leah got her license on the 24th of May, right at the end of her sophomore year, exactly six months after her sixteenth birthday. I was twelve, watching our six-year-old brother Brian at home while our mother took her to the test. The moment they got home, Leah wrenched open the door and flew into the kitchen, where Brian and I were doing our homework.

Without explaining that she’d passed or flashing her license or anything, Leah declared, “No kind of time for homework! Into the car, minions! We are going on a road trip.”

Without stopping to grab water or go to the bathroom, we gave our mom fleeting hugs and dashed for Lacey. As I buckled into the front seat and Brian messed with his booster, Leah thrummed excitedly on the steering wheel with her left hand

while scrolling through her music library with her right.

“Got it!” she exclaimed. “You all ready?”

“No!” Brian shouted.

“Get it together, Brian! What the heck do you learn in first grade, anyway?”

“Lots of things. Today, we learned cups and pints,” he explained, but only a little whiningily, probably because he knew Leah was teasing.

Leah’s adrenaline was infectious, the kind that made your stomach lurch and your neck tingle, like when you’re on the top of a rollercoaster and it pauses for half a second and you know that you’re about to go down this deep gulch but for this moment that lasts way longer than it should, you’re just hanging there in space. I squirmed in my seat, impatient for Brian to finish his buckle so Leah could hit that glorious play button and we could take off on our glorious adventure to some glorious location that only Leah knew.

“Ready,” came Brian’s sanctimonious little voice from the backseat, and we were clear to go.

“Father, Son, Holy Spirit,” murmured Leah, and I mimicked her in tracing the cross from my forehead to my belly button and then across my shoulders.

In the right-wing mirror, I saw Brian do the same thing, only with his left hand.

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Lighted Corners Having said the prayer that would keep us all safe no matter what went wrong, Leah hit play and a chorus of brass blared as we set off down the driveway. In a blaze of glory, we careened down our street, past the park, and onto the main street where our school and church were. As Leah prepared to take the first exit onto the northbound highway, Brian roared, “Punch it!” and no adult shushed him or asked him to think of the driver, who was having the time of her life. With the windows rolled down, her cropped brown hair flapped everywhere, and the late spring sun warmed us all through the dashboard without burning us into kid-shaped steaks.

We drove for an hour and a half, not counting the obligatory bathroom break for Brian, and then we pulled off the highway at this little park. It was a Tuesday at five o’clock, so no one else was there, but Leah ordered us out of the car. Besides the tiny gravel parking lot, we beheld a grove of trees, some peeling picnic tables, and then, the crown jewel—a lake.

Without a word, just tons of shrieking, we tore off for the beach, dashed past the empty lifeguard chair and the snack shack with its faded posters advertising fries and hamburgers, and flung ourselves, shoes and all, into the lake. The water was still icy from the winter and full of mossy stones that made Leah slip even with her shoes on, drenching her shorts and t-shirt and inspiring Brian to slip, too.

For an hour, we jumped and kicked and searched the tide pools for

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shells and pirate messages, until Brian began to whine that he was cold and thirsty. I was, too, but I wasn’t about to tell Leah that. Still breathless and flushed from her newfound freedom, Leah led us back to the gravel lot and Lacey, our shoes squelching all the way, promising we could stop for drinks at the nearest gas station, which was good because of course Brian had to go.

As we waited for Brian to finish buckling himself in, he requested that we listen to The Lion King on the way home. “Sure,” said Leah as she traced the Sign of the Cross once again, “but you know what we’ve got to listen to first.”

And the brass screamed their finest as we trundled out of the gravel lot to find a gas station.

— It’s finally getting warm again, I realize as I step out of my apartment, but maybe that’s just the newlylate sunset against the shelter of my building. Soon it’ll be April, and I won’t have to lug a coat or even a sweatshirt to class with me.

Campus is alive with countless students on their way to night classes, work, labs, or clubs. As I lock my door and double-check my left pocket for my phone, a group of my friends from history pass on their way to the Hub, ready for a night of relaxing after this morning’s brutal exam.

As for me, I’m off to the library, nearly half a mile from my dorm, since I have a paper due for my History Methods class at 11:59, which I didn’t do earlier because of the exam.

While I weave through dorm building

Chronicle after dorm building, I figure out my schedule for the night. Get there at 7, procrastinate for a while, get started seriously at 7:15, break for coffee at 8:30— That stupid guitar strum, which serves as both my ringtone and my alarm because I’m sometimes short on common sense, makes me jump.

I fish into my coat pockets until I find my phone, sure that it’s Brian with a question about homework or my mom wanting me to talk to Brian about his homework.

Instead, it’s Leah.

Surprise freezes me for a moment, but I swipe to answer the call and make my way off the sidewalk to one of those convenient benches that colleges have everywhere.

“Hey, Leah!”

“Hey, Maura,” she says, and her

and she tries to laugh but really her voice just starts trembling. “Can you pick me up?”

The silence between us stretches for a moment, and then she clarifies, “I’ve had an accident.”

— Leah sends me a pin of her location, only twenty minutes away, and after I remind her that it’ll take me ten minutes to get to my car, she thanks me and hangs up. I stuff my phone back into my left pocket and plunge both my fists into the others—it’s nowhere near as warm as I thought—and I reverse directions towards the parking lot. One of my roommates yells at me as I pass the Hub, and I’m so disoriented that I yell “Good morning!” in response.

When I finally reach my car, which is a newer, unnamed version of Lacey

“My stomach is knotting— why is she calling now . . .” voice is so much more tired than it was when I talked to her last. “What’re you up to?”

“You know, the usual—just going to the library.” My stomach is knotting— why is she calling now, when I haven’t heard from her since I graduated high school? “Are you okay?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” she says,

but green, it takes me a minute to find my keys, get the location pin up on my Google Maps app, and prepare to drive. It’s not a road trip, but I make the Sign of the Cross and queue up the Star Wars main theme on my Spotify anyway.

The brass comes in on that opening triplet, and before I can

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Lighted Corners

She | mixed media Rachel Donohue even put my car in reverse to leave the lot, I’m bawling. I stop the playlist and switch to the radio, where a pop singer tells me about how his girlfriend cheated on him and he’ll never be happy again. Sometimes, that’s just easier to take.

As I drive south to Leah’s wreck, question after question floats through my mind. Has she really been this close to me for two years, but she never came to visit? Is she okay? Do our parents know where she is?

Even if I didn’t have Leah’s location on my phone, the wreck wouldn’t be hard to find, since the tow truck is just leaving. As I pull over to where Leah

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waits with some EMTs, the truck drags Lacey’s mangled body away. The silver car has lost more of its paint since I saw it last, but I can still see the same bumper stickers on the back. Save the Dolphins. Life is a Highway. Defeat the Patriarchy. The front is what makes me feel as if someone has decked me in the stomach; the hood is open and torn up, the engine smokes, and the bumper resembles a paper clip.

My hands shaking, I unbuckle, hit the hazards button, and turn off my lights before flinging open the door and rushing to Leah. She’s pale, and thinner than I remember, and her hair is down to her waist instead

Chronicle of cropped at her shoulders. She’s still speaking to one of the medical technicians, wringing her chafed hands and nodding uncontrollably.

Her face is all blotchy and I burst into tears myself as we embrace.

Once we separate, the EMTs ask if we’ll be okay. “You’re not going to drive home, are you?” asks one who’s in his fifties and looks like he thinks he’s hilarious.

I wait for Leah to make some bold statement, but she just shakes her head. “No, Maura’s a good driver. She’ll take care of me.”

Assuming we’re free to go, I guide Leah to the passenger seat and then slide in on my side. I put the keys into the ignition, but I don’t start it yet. As I watch the ambulance and cop cars drive away, it’s time for answers.

“What happened?”

She props her face against the window. “I wasn’t paying enough attention and hit the railing on the side of the road. The tow truck guy said I was lucky to be alive and not to have hit anyone else. The ambulance techs said pretty much the same thing.”

“You were on your phone, you mean?”

“No, I was not on my damn phone. I know about road safety.” She pauses and looks out the window into the darkness of the trees lining the highway. “Sorry, Maura. You don’t deserve that. I was just distracted by . . . what’s going on.”

Shivers run down my back, but it’s not the good kind of adrenaline, the kind I associate with the younger version of Leah. Do I ask what’s going on? Do we still have that kind

of relationship after over two years of silence? “What are you doing out here? You don’t live here, do you?”

“No, no, I’m three hours west, this little town called Holden. I’m just out here for a drive.”

“A road trip?” I propose, hoping to get a smile out of her.

“Sort of. A lot’s been happening— just a lot—and you probably don’t remember but the day I got my license, we went to this tiny lake around here, you and me and Brian, and—” “We went right into the lake. It was so cold.”

Now she smiles. “I can’t believe you remember. That was almost ten years ago.”

“Of course I remember. It was our first road trip without Mom and Dad.” She nods and is quiet for a bit.

Passing headlights make her skin glow with shifting shades of orange, red, white, and yellow. There are bruises on her face, and I wonder if they happened before or during the accident.

“So, where do you want to go?”

She jumps, then reaches for her phone. “I’ll find a hotel. Don’t want to go home. Or make you drive that far.”

“Are you sure? You could come back to my apartment.”

“No, I’m not going to do that to you after—after I’ve been gone so long. I’ll find a hotel.”

“Well, I’ll start driving. Let me know where we’re going.” I make the Sign of the Cross, and Leah gives me a look but doesn’t say anything or copy me. I glance at my phone and decide to leave my playlist alone, unwilling to hear Leah decline our traditional

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Lighted Corners theme song and realize how much has changed in almost three years.

Then, I pull back onto the road and look for an exit that’ll help me get my bearings. This isn’t the highway I take to get home, and it’s been a while since I’ve driven on it.

The first exit I see advertises an industrial area. The second has a historic mill and two gas stations.

The third makes me smile, and after a glance at my older sister, who’s still tapping through hotel listings, I pull off.

The fact that it’s so close makes sense, given that it was her destination, but it feels magical nonetheless.

“So there’s this one ten minutes south, if you take—where the hell are we going?”

It’s completely dark on the exit, so I switch on my high beams. “You’ll see.”

I’ve never been on this exit because we approached from the south that time right after Leah got her license, but it’s short. Before Leah

asks another question we’re trundling into a little gravel lot, and the trees and tables and lake are before us in all their glory.

“You didn’t have to,” whispers Leah.

“I know,” I whisper back. “Let’s go.”

And we rush from the car, joining hands as our feet hit grass and then approaching the beach, removing our shoes in one small concession to adulthood, and we are in the water with its mossy, slippery rocks. We have things to discuss—where she has been, what she is doing—but for now, we are children, relishing our half-forgotten freedom, drunk on this moment where time seems to stop and the world expands infinitely, like the space between when you start your playlist and when you hit the gas pedal for the first time, a chorus of brass swelling to mark your arrival into this new world of freedom.

Horseshoe Falls Afternoon View | digital photography Timothy Hrabinski

Chronicle

Snow Covered Trail | digital photography Trinity Imes

Until You Came Along Eileen Rosewater

Who knew something so small could impact you so greatly?

Your tiny green eyes are my favorite color, your laughter is my favorite song.

Yours is the softest smile to ever grace the world.

Holding you is a privilege, and one I’ll never take for granted.

My arms will forever remain open, should you ever need a place to run.

You have stolen my heart, but I don’t want it back.

I never knew so much love until you came along.

I never knew I needed you until you came along.

Lighted Corners

Boy

Gerald Dukuly Awkwardly, you gaze and comment on his gentle Boyish features, certain that there would Come a day when his sing song tone would start to Deepen. A day when his frame, by nature, would Enlarge, surpassing that of yours. That day is far, Far away, so in the meantime you wait. You Gesture for him to say “Hello” to the pretty new Hairdresser, and laugh when he stutters and Invents new words. He wants to be the first to see Jupiter he tells you, so you tell him he could be Clark Kent if he wanted to. He asks you to comfort him, to Look under his bed before he sleeps because even the Mightiest men are afraid of monsters sometimes.

“No worries,” you tell him, leaving the light on, because One day he won’t need you to offer up your Protection from the monsters. He’ll squash them Quick and easy. He’ll be tough and strong, Rightfully handling all life throws at him one by one, Sure enough to know when to cry and admit he’s Tired. But that day is far, far away. Now, he’s tucked Under his Superman covers dreaming he were on Venus or Jupiter. You watch endearingly and Whisper sweet things into his tiny ears. While he eXplores his dreams, you stand there hoping that the Years to come wait a while, hoping time doesn’t Zip by too fast.

Next Page January | watercolor painting Rebekah Balick

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Chronicle

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Morning | digital photography LightedDew Corners Victoria Tyler

Time

Eden Arouna Take me as I am—as I’ve taken you, and as the hourglass runs near, soon you shall be as now am I. Your teary eyes hold such pain, that is true.

They will, in time, grow tired my dear.

Take me as I am, as I’ve taken you.

When the weight of the world pools at your shoe— as the ground swallows you into its sphere— soon you shall be as now am I. I too frolicked through meadows of dew, never thinking life would grow unclear.

So take me as I am, as I’ve taken you.

Soon we will meet where all have met their due, gracefully walking with no fear.

Soon you shall be as now am I. Side by side we shall pass through.

Between you and I, time never forgets, dear.

Take me as I am, as I’ve taken you, Soon you shall be as now am I.

Chronicle

A Midwinter Night Margaret Stine

Flames flickering like forked tongues— sipping ashy breezes, choking out pieces of burnt nothings as scarlet fades into twilight.

With a great roar, the beast howls; increasing velocity, victorious in its feat, to conquer the decayed skirt discarded for slippery satin.

Darkness descends around it, like a cape caressing a woman, though no warmth is contained—only spread to embrace the barren landscape and fill it with a burning desire.

The phoenix arises, fueled with passion, Wings unfurling, coals radiating in a generous fashion, making the fields dance in red.

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The Grove God Loves Alba Sarria

Based upon a Hindu tale of the snake goddess and her human lover.

The old grove goddess turned to the young man as they lay Sprawled under primeval forest’s Sweet night shade.

“Is it Love?”

Her voice curled like wood shavings hissing against the knife “or is it the five arrows of desire?”

The youth cupped Her scaled cheeks between shadowswallowed palms.

Not even the milky light of moon reached them: “Your face is lovely.

Dream beyond what men could fashion in fantasies.

Your lips are full; berries in July.

The texture of Your skin, The feel of scales against my thighs, under my palms.

The w e i g h t of Your tail Coiling at my neck.

Your laugh is deep. I never tire of it.

It catches me like a sudden storm blowing back a golden afternoon and Fills my chest until I forget to breathe.

Your l i f e fills the world; pushes against its boundaries.

Chronicle To hear You speak is wonder.

The subject matters not.

It is Your thoughts,

Your feelings put into words: Traces of Your life.

You are enchanting as both a woman and a god.

Which, believe me, are two Very different things.

All of this, beloved, is genuine Love.”

Come dawn, She turned; Woke him, stroked him beneath the sun golden in bloom.

Full glory of woman; full glory of snake.

Goddess— A being of violence

And love.

Come noon, he was gone.

Pouty Fish | digital photography Victoria Tyler

Lighted Corners

The Longing of Loving You Abbie Woods

The day I knew I loved you, I looked at you.

I looked at you long and hard.

I took in every part of you sitting before me: your hair falling slightly over the right side of your face, how you looked at me ever so endearingly.

I wonder if you knew I was thinking about loving you.

I thought how lovely it would be to look at those eyes forever, and how lovely it would be to be loved by you.

The most prominent thought I had though was about the song we were listening to: “God, it’s going to hurt when I don’t love you anymore.”

Now I sit here, two years later, and I was right.

Hearing this song stings.

I no longer long for the lovely feeling of loving you.

Salivate triptych | mixed media Rachel Donohue

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Chronicle

Tagalog and Ginger Alba Sarria

Sidapa and Bulan are central gods from the native religion of the Philippines who, over the course of Spanish colonization, lost their original love story to Christian teachings against homosexuality.

It’s late in the evening—or perhaps early in the morning, just before sunrise when the moon slips back home beneath the darkness of lush jungle mountains. Fireflies cling to the horizon, rounding trees, dispelling shadows as they travel home. Within the smallest mountain, a stove is sparked to life. The front door is open: a carved boulder laid just to the side of the cavernous entrance illuminated by the return of fireflies, and the moon. His footsteps are soft, soaking the swept path in pale silvery light that runs down the nooks and crannies of the mountainside like water. The moon collects each firefly, translucent hands gathering them with a gentle

sweep. He kisses each one until they dim and go out. He tucks them into bed in half-opened orchids before slipping inside. The last of his glow leaves the sky and sunlight begins to wake the world.

“Something smells delicious, and new.” His voice is soft, filling the hall with warmth. Within their mountain rests their home, carved by hand. The narrow hallway from the entrance to the kitchen bears the marks of their love: a playful heart scratched into a jutting piece of stone that was too firm to chip away at, dried flowers from the festival they kissed at tucked away into a dent as if the mountain itself cupped proudly each memory of love.

“It’s tagalog with ginger,” Another voice calls; masculine. Somewhat . . . disoriented. “There’s also rice, with sofrito.”

The moon god Bulan entered the kitchen. It was rumored that on sight, locus flowers would shy away from his presence, overcome by his beauty.

His skin was the rich glow of the full moon, and his hair a long curtain of night to enshroud the moonlight, dappled by stars. Bulan paused for a moment at the doorway, watching his husband set the table.

“The cutlery is new. What’s wrong

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Next Page In Between | digital photography Natalie Meador

with the banana leaves? Have the fads of the Spanish gotten to you too?”

Sidapa turned as if he’d been struck. “No. No, I suppose we have no need for them . . .”

As he reached to remove them, Bulan’s touch stilled him. It was soft— the barest ghost of a hand, translucent, warm as light, resting over one rich as soil.

“They’re alright. It’s good to try new things isn’t it, beloved?”

Sidapa would not meet his eyes.

“Please, eat. You must be tired . . . It was a full moon today wasn’t it?

You’ve gone . . .”

“See-through?” Bulan’s eyes—grey drops within his skull—searched his husband’s face, but the shadow of the golden-horned crown Sidapa wore blurred his features. “My love—” “It’s nothing. Please.” Sidapa lowered his head, defeated, into Bulan’s shoulder. “It . . . has been a long night without you. I’m relieved for your return.”

Silence crept in. Beyond the open window, Hanan had filled the world.

Birds sang to her, dancing in her blessed spotlight which trickled between canopy leaves onto the floor.

As morning settled into the kitchen, the room had never felt lonelier.

“It’s been hard for both of us. The . . . invasion. I see our people turn away from my image in public, as does Apolaki. He weeps for those who have already forgotten his name.

But you . . . It’s not the same. You see them die. I’m so sorry I . . . If it was in my power to stop it I would.”

When Sidapa did not reply, Bulan

sat heavily and turned to the meal set before him. It had surprised Bulan in their first years how well Sidapa cooked.

But then again, as the God of Death he must have come into many recipes over the years—culinary secrets lost to the humans along with their elders.

Breakfast passed tersely, lacking the easy chatter that had filled so many mornings—so many years. When Bulan finished, he cupped Sidapa’s cheek.

“Wake me if you need anything. I mean it. You aren’t alone in your suffering . . .”

— Noon is near now.

The noises of the day come through in waves: the quick snap of twigs and dry leaves as macaques pass by in play, the soft murmur of the jungle, the sudden rise and fall of singing humans far below as they farm. A pheasant takes solace in the rich greenery beneath the glass-less window. His radiant blue feathers catch like jewels beneath the soft dapples of sunlight peeking through the trees.

Sidapa sighs. The sanctuary of the jungle around the window grows quiet, unsure. The pheasant disappears.

Breakfast washes over him like a nightmare: The smell of the sofrito. The slap of a hand, bursts of purple and blue embedded in translucent skin.

The smell of grilled tagalog and ginger.

Love.

The creation of fireflies—the gift of stars made sentient to guide Bulan safely home.

Morning after morning of laughter and banana leaves.

Chronicle

His head crowds. Memory after memory after memory after distortion of dances among the tribe’s men at midnight funerals and choking in the dark.

The smell of tagalog and ginger brings a rush of fluster, an overcoming of awe, And love And love And love And looking at Bulan for the first time.

33

Lighted Corners Their walk along the seashore, catching and grilling tagalog; The way the thin line snapped and the fish got away.

The laughter, the thrill, of Bulan, who had never fished.

The way, with his arms, he had raised the ocean like the walls of a waterfall and encouraged Sidapa to pluck their dinner from it.

Sidapa showing off his palette with a sprinkle of ginger.

— The aromatic spices of sofrito— rage uncontrolled.

The rise of fists.

The contact of skin. The bleeding of bruise after bruise after bruise.

The smell of sofrito.

The smell of sofrito.

The smell of sofrito.

The sound of Bulan choking.

The crack of his skull against the kitchen table.

The new Spanish teachings.

Sidapa is Satan.

Sidapa beats.

Sidapa and Bulan—gross beasts.

The worst sin between men.

Worthy of salt pillars. Of destruction.

— Something within the house stirs.

Sidapa snatches the gutting knife.

“It’s just me,” Bulan is wrapped up in the colorful bed sheets, hair frizzy from dozing. “You’re alright.” He smiles and everything cruel and ugly dispels.

“Follow me back to bed? I missed you

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tonight.”

The knife is put down. Everything feels wrong. Shouldn’t I be cruel with Bulan? Shouldn’t Bulan be afraid?

“Beloved?”

“Yes, sorry. No . . . I’m . . . coming.”

Sidapa hesitates. Then a breeze comes in, warm with summer, carrying the scent of freshly-pulled ginger from the garden. The macaques are back at their thievery. There’s clarity. Bulan on their wedding day. The pair of earrings Bulan crafted for him, pushed through Sidapa’s ears, at the exchange of their vows.

“You look . . . Is everything alright?”

“Let’s not have Spanish food again.

Please.”

“I’ll take the cutlery and the leftovers back to the village then? I’m sure they’ll want it more than us.”

Sidapa nods. It’s something desperate, near-tears. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You never have. Beloved, there’s not a part of you that holds that sort of cruelty. Come here.” Bulan lifts the horned crown from Sidapa’s head, setting it down at their feet. “You aren’t the Philippines’ god anymore. What they know of you is no longer true.

How about this? Sleep for a little while.

When you’re hungry, wake me. I have a lovely ancient recipe that Hanan traded me last quarter moon. You’ll love it, I promise.”

“I love everything you make. Is there ginger in it?”

Bulan smiles. “This is from before the time of ginger.”

Chronicle

The Antique Shop Claire Doll

It was early evening, but the sun already began to set. I watched the sky fade from light blue to periwinkle through the store window, tapping my fingers on the counter and waiting for the clock to hit six. Of course, it was only 5:22, but I anticipated that it wouldn’t be very busy for the rest of this Tuesday night. Sighing, I filled time by filing away lists of inventory, tucking string tags into boxes, and organizing jewelry in the display case, eyeing a glimmering turquoise ring perched on a stand.

Then, as suddenly as a bolt of lightning, the door opened.

“Welcome to Antiques Found,” I said. The words were a force of habit, something that rolled off my tongue before I met eyes with customer.

Peering over the counter, I saw an old man clad in a tattered jean jacket and a flat cap. He stumbled into the store, waved a hand, and slipped into the back without responding.

I didn’t think much of it, or of any customer that wandered his or her way into the shop. If my boss were here, I would follow in the steps of the old man and ask him if he needed help, if I could show him around the store.

But since I was alone, I remained at the counter, organizing the jewelry rather than pricing the box overflowing with chinaware that would never sell.

It was 5:41 when the old man walked up to the counter. Up close, I

saw wrinkles tugging at his skin and eyes glazed like frost as if they had been staring for too long.

“Excuse me,” he said in almost a whisper. The man handed me a single Polaroid photograph with a torn edge.

“Do you know who this is?”

I carefully pinched the picture between my thumb and index finger.

My eyes were drawn to a woman wearing a striped one-piece bathing suit, which hugged her every curve.

Though the color in the photograph was drained, I could tell that her hair, pinned up in bouncy curls, was bright blonde. She smiled with her eyes, dimples etched everywhere in her beautiful, smooth skin, and her eyelashes fluttered up like thin petals of a chrysanthemum. In the background was a lake with dozens of people swimming in it. The photo was dated June 1952.

“I’m sorry sir, but I’m afraid we don’t know who this is.”

The old man frowned. “Why’s that?”

Internally, I rolled my eyes. In this store, whenever someone consigned old pictures, the employees simply tossed them in a bowl labeled “$1 photographs.” Unless they were printed on expensive paper, or unless the photographer was famous, photos were not on the list of “highly prized antiques.”

Instead, I tried to explain our

35

Lighted Corners process in the nicest way possible.

“Our method of researching old photographs does not include identifying the individual. It would definitely be a tedious task, and given that we only have the date on this picture, doing so would be nearly impossible.” I added a fake laugh at the end to seem kind and engaged in conversation.

The old man stood there for a second, fidgeting with the buttons on his red and black flannel. He gently took the photo back. “Eleanor Grace Willis.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Eleanor Grace Willis,” the man repeated. “She liked to go by Ellie Grace. Ellie, she was a model. The summer of ’52, I lifeguarded Willow Beach, this same one in this picture here.” He held this bright glow in his eyes while speaking.

I half-smiled. “It’s one dollar, if you’re interested.”

The man frowned. “This is definitely Ellie Grace in this picture.”

“I believe you,” I said, suddenly realizing I sounded sarcastic. I added kindly, “You are more than welcome to leave it on the counter and keep searching if you’d like.”

A stretch of silence passed, but it lasted for a moment too long, as the air around us grew stiff and uncomfortable. “I—I don’t think you understand. I know her,” he finally said.

This happened all the time; people would enter the store, dump dozens of photographs on the counter, and persuade us, the employees, that they knew whoever was in the picture. I wasn’t sure what their purpose was.

36

I glanced at my watch: 5:47. Then, I looked back up and forced a fake smile on my face. “What was she like?”

“You don’t care,” the old man said harshly and quickly. Then, he paused.

“Do you have a boyfriend, young girl?”

I didn’t like where this was going.

“Y—yes, sir.”

“Do you love ‘em?”

I nodded. “I do.”

“Then you must know how it is, to love. It’s what you feel when there’s no other person that makes you smile so hard, that makes your heart yearn, that makes you wanna do anything if it means being with them.

It’s indescribable, young lady. That’s how I felt about Ellie Grace. So maybe you’ll understand how I felt instead of trying to make a profit.”

I stared at the Polaroid again, meeting eyes with the woman, Ellie Grace, who sat perched in the sand, her smile wide, her cheeks blushed.

Even though there was no color—just numerous shades of black and white and gray painting a single scene—I could spot a flicker of light in her eyes, a spark, a glimmer of wonder and longing and love.

I then looked up and saw the same warm sparkle in the old man’s eyes. It was timeless, that feeling of adoration, something so transparent from the way he held the photograph tight in his hands.

“Where is she now?” I asked.

“She’s dead,” he said, the two words I dreaded, yet anticipated. “Died in a car accident a few years later, when she was just twenty.”

Twenty. Ellie Grace had a whole

Chronicle life to live, an array of experiences that would fade to memories, an endless number of chances to love, and she died at the edge of young adulthood.

A feeling of despair tugged at my heart as I studied the pure, unbothered happiness in her expression. She didn’t know how little time she had left.

“I’m so sorry,” was all I could say, was all I knew to say.

The old man blinked for a long time, looking at the counter. “It’s okay.

I loved her, though, long back in those days when I thought I had my whole life ahead of me, when time was just a thing, an illusion. Around your age, actually.”

From the single image of Ellie Grace, I imagined what she would look like now, married to this old man; they’d be one of those couples that still had candlelit dinners in their dining room, that read books together, that spent their evenings in local antique stores. She’d have snow white hair, curled neatly, with those bright eyes that could smile on their own.

It amazed me, how old Polaroids could instantly come to life from a simple anecdote or biography, how we had hundreds more photographs collecting dust in the back of the store, all with untold stories. These people had belonged to someone.

“I am sorry,” I said, realizing I had already said that. The words

themselves felt stiff and meaningless, as if they couldn’t describe the infinite sorrow I felt for this old man.

He nodded. “I know. May I buy it?”

He asked, placing the photo on the counter.

I grabbed a warm-colored envelope from behind the counter and carefully slid the Polaroid inside of it. “You may just take it,” I said, smiling sincerely.

“Oh. Well, thank you,” he said, beginning to walk away.

I stopped him with my words. “I’m sorry,” I began to say, “for before, for not really caring at first.”

The old man stopped in his tracks and turned around. For the first time in his visit, a small smile cracked on his face, lifting the sadness from his evergreen eyes and filling his oncepale face with color. He held the envelope close to his heart. “It’s just nice for someone to listen, you know?”

Before I could respond, the man slipped out the door without another word, vanishing into the night. I caught a glimpse of the sky speckled with stars, the buzz of my small town dying down to a quiet stir of noise.

The clock read 6:03. Past closing time. I sat at the counter, wondering, thinking, reimagining the warmth in the old man’s eyes despite the coldness thawing in his heart.

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Lighted Corners Cotton Candy Sky | digital photography Victoria Tyler

The Thief

Rebekah Balick Half-past four.

The watchman knew the time in his bones, but the clocks told him anyway. He continued his tinkering as they chimed—four seconds of chiming before quiet settled over the shop again. Quiet, but not silence. The ticking kept him company, and deep down he suspected it was the only thing keeping his heart going.

The quiet ticking and the sunlight coming through the windows were interrupted as the door to the watch shop opened and a woman came

38

rushing in.

The watchmaker looked up. The woman was pretty, her face flushed from the cold and wearing a polite and expectant smile. She was in her thirties, young but brimming with confidence, and dressed in business attire with glossy hair tied back and eyelids dusted brown.

The watchmaker stood up from his bench and approached the counter. He gave her a brief smile. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” she replied, her words coming rather fast. “I brought a watch,

Chronicle a week or two ago, for fixing up. Is it finished?”

The man nodded. “Just a moment, ma’am. What is your name again?”

“Candice,” she replied. “Candice Walker.”

He nodded and went into the back of the store.

The tables back there were a disaster—a maze of pieces and parts, tiny things, tinkering tools, tweezers and the constant sound of tick, tock, tick, tock. He approached the boxes where he kept the watches and searched the names.

The watch was new and beautiful and ticking perfectly above the name tag scrawled beneath it. Candice Walker. The face was covered in smooth glass, the numbers painted perfectly. He picked it up and ran his callused fingers over the gold links of the strap. When he turned the watch over, his eyes glanced over the engraving.

To William. Love forever, Ruth.

He held it up to his ear. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Perfect.

He took it and walked to the counter. Placing the watch into a blue box, he pushed it across. “Here you are, ma’am.”

The woman opened the box, let out a small gasp, and looked up with a smile. “It’s—it’s nearly new.”

“I do my best,” he said, smiling back.

She ran her hands over the face of it. “This really is fantastic. Thank you.”

“You are very welcome. I’ll take your card, ma’am.”

She fished around in her purse and handed him her card for payment. He

took it and swiped it. “Remind me why you are repairing it?”

“A gift,” she replied. “For my father’s birthday. The watch was originally my grandfather’s—my grandmother had it engraved for him. My dad used to talk about how my grandfather would take it off and let him play with it.” She smiled at the watchmaker, wistfulness in her eyes. “Grandpa gave it to my father when he passed. My father wore it when I was young, but he stopped wearing it when it broke. He gave it to me years ago as a keepsake, and I wanted to have it repaired for him.”

The watchmaker smiled. “A lot of memories in that watch, then?”

“So many,” she replied. Her eyes roamed over the gold as her fingers brushed the glass.

He leaned forward a bit. “That’s a lovely story, ma’am. I’m sure your father will appreciate it.”

She smiled, wider than he ever could, and her eyes lit up. “I hope so too.”

The watchmaker cleared his throat. “If you’d like, I can wrap the box for you.”

“Please, go ahead,” she said, pushing it towards him. He pulled out the paper and string as she said, “I’m sure so many of the things you fix have stories.”

He shrugged and widened his smile. “Yes. Some are sadder than others, but yours is a good one.

Bittersweet, but it’s the sweet that comes at the end, not the bitter. As it should be.”

She gave a small laugh and nodded. “Do you have children?”

He tried his best to keep the smile

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Lighted Corners intact. “A daughter.” He looked away.

“And a grandchild on the way.”

“Congratulations,” the woman said.He nodded in reply, unable to say more as he tied the string.

“I love old things,” she said as she turned and took in the shop.

“Especially clocks and watches and things like that. Time goes on and they stay the same.”

“Not all the same. They change too. And break, as you know.”

She laughed again. She did that often. “Thank you, sir. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. My dad will be very happy.”

“I’m very glad,” he replied. “You enjoy your day now.”

She picked up the box carefully and gave a small wave, bracelets jingling again. “Have a wonderful afternoon, sir.”

He nodded to her, and the bell sounded as she swept out of the shop.

He watched her through the window as she walked down the street. She had a professionalism about her—a sensibility—but beneath it was sentimentality. Only sentimental people brought watches to be repaired, instead of just buying new ones.

Another hour passed. Quiet.

He tinkered at the counter with a different watch but didn’t expect anyone else to come that day. When the clocks struck six, he stood and went to the door, turning the lock.

Click.

A few moments later he was ascending the stairs to the second floor and closing the door to the set of rooms he called home. With a sigh, he

40

walked towards the kitchen. Only one tick, tock remained, that of the clock in his hall. A quieter quiet.

Dinner. He knew he had to eat or else he’d be sick later. He walked to the calendar again, triple-checking the day. December 1. Friday. Exactly right.

The clock ticked on, and soon dinner was finished. He walked into his bedroom and pulled off his shirt.

Rubbing his hands over his chin, he wondered if he could get away without a shave, but there was no harm in doing one. He pulled out his razor.

A few minutes later, the watchmaker dried his face as he thought through his selection of ties.

Bowtie, perhaps? It wasn’t like he had many choices, but . . . bowtie. Yes. That would do.

Shirt. Pants. Belt. Bowtie. Jacket.

He smoothed his hair in the mirror and did his best to make the grey hairs lie flat. After putting on his shoes, he went to the study.

“Study” was the term that should have described the room’s purpose.

But unlike a study, the room was just as messy as the repair room below it, covered in books and papers and clocks and clocks and clocks. The ticking here was as loud as the shop.

He walked in and shut the door behind him.

Crushing paper underneath his shoes, he went to one of the enormous glass cabinets that lined the perimeter of the room. Opening it, he scanned the tags that marked the blue silk shelves and the trinkets that sat on top.

Chronicle

Wings of Summer | digital photography Paige Moseley They read: Last Mother’s Day gift before mother passed away; Eighty years old, found in antique safe, no known origin; Soldier’s watch, broken in war; Child’s present to father, worn for forty-six years; Been in the family for twenty years . . . fifty-two years . . . one hundred and fourteen years.

Moving down, he read the most recent tag. Grandfather’s watch, repaired by granddaughter for her father.

Above the tag were the worn old gears and pieces of a broken watch.

The pieces that he had carefully,

carefully replaced until the watch in the woman’s left hand was as good as new. He rubbed his fingers over the little bits of metal, the old parts that had made that watch so important and then betrayed it. The parts that had been left behind.

He looked at the note he had written beside the pieces. To William.

Love forever, Ruth.

The woman had been so sincere— so sincere that he had felt more of a pang than he normally did. She had stayed to chat, taken the time to tell him that she loved the old things, like

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Lighted Corners he did. He knew that she was repairing the watch out of love. A grandfather’s love, a father’s love, her love.

She wouldn’t know. After all, it was her care that had made it invaluable in the first place, he reasoned. She wouldn’t know, and her father would be so overcome with love at her thoughtfulness that he wouldn’t know either.

He picked up the gears. They would get him enough—enough time.

The little gears in his hands had known more love than he had, he figured.

They would be especially powerful; he knew the power of a grandfather’s love, and of a daughter’s. He carried them to the center of the room where a massive leather armchair sat, an island amidst a sea of papers and clocks. Special clocks. His clocks.

He settled into the armchair and held the gears in his palm. Clenching them tight, he felt the time seep into him. Two hours, maybe two and thirty?

No, not quite that. Two hours and twenty-seven minutes. He opened his eyes and set the timer on the elaborate watch he wore on his left wrist, entering coordinate numbers into dials.

He flipped a few hourglasses and double-checked the clock on the table to his right. Taking a deep breath, wishing he had a mirror to check that his bowtie was straight, he closed his eyes and felt the gears press into his palms, forcing himself not to think about the price.

Five seconds.

The gears grew warm.

Three.

Two.

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One.

— When the watchmaker opened his eyes, soft golden light hit him.

He was standing at the edge of an alleyway in front of a street. It was night, and the lanterns lit the cobblestones in front of him. He heard laughter, chatter, footsteps on the stones, the sounds of modern life and modern people in an old city. He blinked, swaying a bit, and caught the wall to his right. Thank heaven he’d eaten before, or for sure he would have fainted.

He took a hesitant step out into the street, knowing it would take a few moments for his bearings to return, and looked up to doublecheck the name of the restaurant.

Right location—good.

He walked to the front of the establishment. It had outdoor tables on the street and wrought iron overgrown with ivy surrounding the seating area. Walking a few steps up to the door, he checked the sign outside.

Menu: November 27, 2043.

A smile broke over his wrinkled face. He had made it.

“Grandfather!”

A female voice, filled with joy, called out to him. He turned, and the smile on his face broke even wider. A smile only for her.

She ran across the street to greet him. Her hair was brushed back, with a golden clip on the right side. She wore a wine-colored dress that reminded him with a pang of just how much she’d grown. She stood straighter, her face was brighter, and was she a little taller? A whole year had passed for her

Chronicle since he’d last seen her, and his heart glowed at the sight. He forgot the pang as soon as her arms wrapped around his neck, her laughter echoing in his ear. “I missed you,” she said.

“Me too,” he said, his face buried in her hair. “Happy birthday, granddaughter.”

She grinned, childlike as ever. Had it really been twenty-four years since her birth? It seemed impossible. Yet here he was. The twenty-fourth time

forever, if I could.”

“Me as well, darling,” he said. “But that’s not how this gift works.”

“How is the shop?”

He didn’t want to talk about the shop. It only existed to gain moments like these. He reached out to her hand and rubbed the watch she wore there.

Slender, silver. Delicate, yet nearly indestructible. “Does it still work well?”

“Of course,” she said, a smile on her face. “You made it, after all.”

“It seemed impossible.

Yet here he was.” he’d seen her. And she was growing more and more beautiful each time.

They sat at a table, and the watchmaker let her order their food.

Who knew what they served, twentyfour years in the future? When the waiter had left, she reached forward and took his hand. “How are you? Did you make it here alright?”

He nodded. “Hungry, as always.

But the journey was good.”

“How many gears did you use?”

“Three, but all from the same watch,” he said. “It was quite a powerful one—a granddaughter’s love. I have just under two and a half hours.”

She smiled. “That’s more than last time.” Her smile faded. “Of course, it’s never enough. I would have you here

“You still wear it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He shrugged and smiled back. “I don’t know. It just makes me happy.”

“It’s fashionable, it’s practical, and best of all, it reminds me of you.”

Her smile reminded him of his wife, and that smile reminded him of his daughter.

Tears rose in his eyes, as they always did. He pushed them away. As he always did.

He asked her about her life. Thank God she was out of school, living on her own now. She had a job. She would be getting a promotion soon!

Where was she living? Oh good! That area of town was nice. Maybe he would come to see her apartment

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Lighted Corners one day. What else was she doing for her birthday?

“I have friends coming tomorrow,” she said. “They’re coming to celebrate.”

“Good friends?”

“So good,” she said.

The smile softened. “They’re—a family. Almost. Not quite—not quite you, but . . .”

The tears he had pushed away returned, and one slid down his cheek just as one slid down hers. “My dear . . .”

“I’m alright,” she said, smiling and reaching for a napkin to wipe the tear away. “I just—seeing you makes me think about Mom.” “I know,” he said. “I miss her every day.”

“I don’t understand why you don’t go see her. Or bring her here.”

He shook his head. “It takes a lot, to travel like this.”

His granddaughter sighed. “I just wish I had known her. That’s all.”

The watchmaker looked away. His daughter hadn’t known—and hadn’t wanted to know—how it all worked.

Had wanted to stay far, far away from her crazy father and his madness. She was alive still, in his timeline, but he had no idea where. Yet he knew what was to happen to her. He’d always known, and he knew that he could not leave her daughter alone.

The watchmaker looked up and smiled. “Let’s not talk of that, alright?”

They laughed the rest of the dinner, the ticking of their watches sounding

in sync the whole night. Two hours and twenty-seven minutes passed far too quickly, and when they stood, he felt dizzy. Not with the travel, but with

“Yet he knew what was to happen to her.”

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the sadness.

She walked with him just around the corner of the alleyway, out of sight of the other diners. They embraced for a full minute. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered.

“Me, as well.” He pulled her back in front of him, looking into her eyes.

“Don’t worry. Next year. Only one year.”

She smiled. “You don’t age, you know. How long is it for you between jumps?”

Instead of answering, he kissed her head. “You have a life. You’ll be fine. The time will pass quickly. I’ll see you soon.”

Two minutes. She held his hand.

“I want you to stay. I want my family here.”

“You’ve asked that every year since you were five years old.”

“Because I keep hoping you’ll change your mind.”

He squeezed her fingers, his

Chronicle calluses meeting her smooth skin.

“You know that’s not how this works.

But don’t fret. We’re always out there, loving you. Your mother and I. Even when I can no longer come.”

She shook her head. “Don’t talk like that. I miss you too much for you to talk like that.”

The ticking on his watch grew louder. Mere seconds. “Don’t think about it. One year. One year and I’ll be back.”

She gave him a smile. The most brilliant smile. And he returned it.

Her face disappeared. The golden light, the street, the sounds of the restaurant, the feel of her hand all faded.

When he blinked his eyes again, he was in the study.

The gears were gone. He lifted his hand and flexed the cramped fingers, once again feeling the brief dizziness that accompanied his jumps. He pulled his arms off the leather of the armchair and rubbed his knees.

The clocks chimed. He let them ring. They chimed again, the next hour, and still he let them ring. On the third time, he made himself stand.

The house was very quiet, with only the ticking of the big clock to keep him company. Moving to the calendar, he crossed off the day. Another week, gone.

One week closer to dying.

Less than three months left, he said to himself, before his time was done. A date he knew thanks to the glance at a newspaper obituary in one of his first travels, back before he knew not to ask questions of the future. Only a few more visits. Too few. He would have

visited her every day, if he could, but jumps took a toll on a person. Besides, he didn’t have enough parts, enough memories to go that many times.

Weekly was good. One week for him, one year for her. He could watch her grow, see her live. She could grow up with a grandfather. With a family.

He wondered how it would happen for him. A car, perhaps. Maybe a stroke. He hoped it would happen in his sleep.

Time travel was tricky, and the watchmaker did not like it. But once he had learned his time was close, he had decided that he could not let himself die without seeing his granddaughter. And when he had discovered what would happen to her mother, he knew he could not leave the child alone.

Less than three months for him, but she would have years and years of memories.

He wondered if it was wrong— wrong to travel through time, wrong to steal the memories out of the watches. He wondered if the woman from the shop would do the same if she understood why. He wondered if he would be forgiven for taking the sentiments that lived in the watches and clocks. Some days he believed not. What kind of devil was he, to steal their memories?

He had always told himself that it was not anything to concern himself with. That if he could do this jumping, then he had been given it for a reason, and why not this reason? Taking little memories from people was not bad; the details never mattered to anyone but him anyway. No one cared if some

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Cryotherapy | digital photography Trinity Imes

of the gears were switched, some of the details forgotten. Would her father reallize it, if he suddenly could not recall playing with his father’s watch?

Would she realize it, as she looked at her father’s face, that she did not remember the names of the people engraved on the back of her gift?

People never knew. They never remembered what they had forgotten.

It did not matter, not to him. His granddaughter needed him, and in a different way, he needed her. She was alone, her father disappeared, her mother passed, her grandfather gone before she was even born. She needed someone in her life, and if it was wrong to do what he did—well, he did not care.

She would be a year older next time he saw her, and he would have barely aged at all. A week for him, a year for her.

He shut the lights and climbed into his bed. Lonely. The apartment was lonely, but no matter. Time was not lonely. Time would keep him company.

Time went on. The clocks would go on, even after he did not.

Quiet.

The image of her face flashed before his mind as the clock sang him to sleep.

Hanging Tree Eden Arouna

Sunset to sunrise, Every day, the same.

Black men, black women, swinging on the branches.

White children sing about coming to the tree, Their hateful words all wrapped up in glee.

Their racist laughter bounced within my trunk.

In my shadow, their ignorance basking.

One man, two men, three men, four— Each negro is more innocent than before.

Is this the life they chose for this sapling?

To make me stand mighty and tall, yet nothing but a reminder of hate?

Are the roots stretching out to meet the horizon Meant to be watered with innocent blood and tears?

But every day, it stays the same— 200, 300, 400 hang.

The Battle Within series | mixed media Katie Creamer

A Shadowy Figure Eileen Rosewater

I lay down on my bed and pull a photo out from under my pillow. A family photo; the last one, too. I close my eyes and suddenly find myself back in my parents’ house just weeks before.

“Help! Somebody please!” The last words my mother ever uttered.

Thud.

The unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. Two feet lay at the bottom of the stairs, completely still. On them were gray and blue slippers; the slippers I got my dad last

Christmas.

My description of “a shadowy figure” wasn’t much help to the police. Weeks of investigations and interrogations but no evidence of this shadowy figure was ever found. Not a single trace of non-familial DNA was discovered in the house.

I’m startled out of this memory as the warden bangs on my cell door.

“Get up! The judge is ready for you.”

I guess “a shadowy figure” wasn’t my brightest idea.

One Bridge Ends, Another Continues | digital photography Kayla Jones

Devil’s Blues Gerald Dukuly

Robert Johnson was an artist whose short-lived career and death were shrouded in mystery. His quick ascent from a complete amateur to a master blues guitarist and song writer made people believe that he handed his soul to the devil. Whether this is true, or whether he was just an incredibly talented and unfortunate man, there is no doubt that his music would inspire many important musicians to come.

Sometime ago, somewhere in Mississippi, young Robert strummed his tired mahogany guitar while the bluesmen cooled off. The way his fingers clumsily collided with the strings drove the weather-beaten people of the juke joint nuts. “Tell that boy to stop making that damn noise!“ they yelled. The musicians got at him, dogging him until he was broken inside and out. “Leave those guitars for us,” they teased. Driven from the stage, he walked out with his head grazing his feet.

He gave in that night, or at least that’s what they say. Lugging that old scratched up guitar down to the crossroads, close to midnight, by the old Dockery Plantation, where those folks were worked a fair amount, he stood face to face with that large horned man. Robert handed him the guitar, not a single word spoken between the two. His gaze was fixed on the man’s skeletal fingers, fixed on the way he carefully tuned and bent the guitar’s strings unlike any other man. The man played a couple of songs Robert liked, then handed him back the guitar. The contract was signed, and for six months not a single soul saw Robert.

One humid night down in Banks,

Mississippi, at a different, slightly more crowded juke joint, a mysterious figure stood in the entrance. It was little Robert squeezing in through the front door, carrying that guitar with him. Maneuvering through the crowd, the bronze-faced people recognized him. The air fell still and quiet, apart from a few whispers from the crowd.

Where is he taking that thing? Planning on annoying these poor folks to death again. When Robert got down to the front, he unloaded his instrument, handling it carefully. He started, and a sound too good to be pure engulfed the room—it was unnaturally beautiful.

His hoarse vocals mixed with such powerful macabre cries gave new meaning to Devil’s Blues. That marked the beginning of the end.

Walking side by side with the devil, Robert became a legend, going on to record twenty-nine songs. The problem with legends is that they always seem to die young. Hellhounds resided in his shadow cursing every step he made, each one closer to his last. Soon after his wish came true and he received the recognition and talent he craved, that large horned man knocked on his door. He opened it, guitar in hand, and without uttering a single word, he followed him.

Lighted Corners

Freed in the Streets of Florence Maria Elser

When I had signed up for a threeweek pilgrimage across Italy, I had not factored in a major aspect of my personality: my Contamination Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD).

It tends to infiltrate every possible aspect of my life, from the overly careful way I prepare my food, to the painfully orderly way I prepare for bed. So of course, this debilitating mental illness would affect the way that I travel, too.

In the months that led up to the mid-July pilgrimage with the Institute of the Incarnate Word (IVE) religious order, I experienced a mixture of excitement and anxiety. For years, I had been grappling with the question: how can I be a woman of faith and still struggle with this much anxiety? Do I not trust the Lord and His will? The irony was not lost on me. I was seeking peace and a deeper relationship with God through this pilgrimage, but I was—in the process of preparing for said pilgrimage—brimming with anxiety.

My thoughts were not all doom and gloom. At times, my mind filled with images of the beautiful churches, statues, and relics I would soon see. I imagined the close friendships I would form with fellow college students and religious priests and sisters as we traveled from the towering cathedrals of Milan to the quaint monasteries of Montefiascone. I dreamt of the endless bread baskets and authentic

52

pasta dishes that would make every American-made meal afterward taste vaguely of disappointment.

Still, for every wistful and pleasant thought that flowed through my head, four more anxious thoughts threatened to derail the trip before it even began. I feared the cesspools we call airports, the plane seats that held a thousand butts before me, and the communal showers we would inevitably be using in convents and monasteries across this country that I knew so little about. I clung desperately to my few pleasant thoughts and hoped they would carry me through to the end of this journey.

Before I knew it, the day of our departure had arrived. I squeezed down the plane aisle, limiting my breathing as much as possible to avoid sucking in the germs of a hundred strangers. I finally found my seat in the second-to-last row and struggled to shove my carry-on into the overhead. As I took my window seat, my mind visualized every surface I had touched. My fingertips tingled as I imagined the myriad of germs squirming through the grooves of my skin. I decontaminated my hands with sanitizer. And then did so four more times to appease the taunting monster within me that is my OCD. Despite the flight being a full eight hours—from 7 p.m. to 3 a.m.—I did not catch a wink of sleep. Nor did I sleep

Chronicle on the two-hour flight from Paris to Rome. My anxious thoughts about germs and the unknown three weeks ahead kept me wired and alert. Movies and books served as a wonderful semi-distraction during this time, but they weren’t enough to block out my fears completely. Still, I was grateful for Ralph Breaks the Internet, Rango, and John Steinbeck. It would be remiss of me to not mention their contributions to my plane ride survival. These forms of immersive fiction allowed me to ever-so-briefly escape from my own problems and bully of a brain.

For a few fleeting hours, I could be someone somewhere else.

Somehow, someway, I eventually found myself taking my first few steps across the Rome airport. Once we had all shuffled off the plane, I located my friend and fellow pilgrim, Veronica, amidst the crowd.

“You made it!” she exclaimed, fully aware of my ever-looming anxiety.

When I saw her face light up, I realized my small victory. For a moment, I felt entirely fearless and this trip felt entirely possible. I could not and would not let my anxiety disorder stop me from creating memories and immersing myself further into my Catholic faith through this pilgrimage.

— Unfortunately, my disorder could feel conquerable in one moment and undefeatable in the next. Perhaps the most anxiety-ridden incidents of the trip came two weeks in. My fellow pilgrims and I were traveling by bus from Pallone to Bagnoregio, a not-sosubtle seven-hour drive. By the time we arrived at a large convent, I had

not gotten to shower in over twenty four hours. This was not an issue for most people, but—of course—a massive one for me. I felt repulsively dirty as we exited the bus and wearily dragged our luggage toward the convent. I imagined my sweat mingling with the bacteria from the two gas stations where we had taken breaks and refueled. I could visualize these germs invading my body and giving me some debilitating illness that would put me in critical condition.

I would die in this foreign country, thousands of miles from my family, all because I had not gotten to shower all day. If this thought process sounds irrational, that is because it is. But that is the kicker with OCD. I can recognize that my thoughts are ridiculous and Matin Noël | acrylic painting Logan Lencheski

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Lighted Corners implausible and, at the same time, still believe my fear-invoking worst-casescenarios are possible. As a result, I am always at war with myself.

The thought of a long-awaited shower was setting my mind at ease, but this calming idea was soon obliterated.

Rather than going inside, settling in, and showering, we were welcomed to an outdoor feast with about fifty sisters. I wanted so badly to rejoice in this moment of being surrounded by so many holy souls. Certainly, there was no better group to learn from about accepting the Lord’s peace, combatting human fears, and following His plan. These women were witnesses of faithfulness and trust, even to the point of giving their whole lives to Him. I was certain I could learn so much about the heart of Christ from each and every one of these sisters. But instead of rejoicing, I was bogged down by invasive thoughts of germs once again. The only thing I could think about was the shower that I so desperately needed. In cleansing my body, I could also cleanse my mind of the intrusive thoughts that would not let me rest. But I was stuck at a dinner table, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and languages. I fell into a trance, wordless, and mentally absent. Veronica must have detected that something was wrong.

With a heavy dose of concern in her voice, she asked, “Are you okay?”

For whatever reason, that very question always summons a well of tears to my eyes in times when I am stressed. “I think . . . I think I am having a panic attack,” I uttered.

She seemed surprised. She

“I am always at war with myself.”

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probably did not expect a panic attack to look so externally un-panicked. On the surface, I just looked distracted and distant. But—as I have already delineated—I was internally wigging out.

“I need to shower. Like, now,” I went on.

“Then go do it. They won’t mind if you leave dinner early,” she replied, putting a calming hand on my shoulder.

“I . . . I don’t want to seem rude.

Isn’t that rude? I feel like that’s rude.”

“Maria, you are having a panic attack. It is not rude to leave dinner to alleviate a panic attack,” she said as she waved over a sister I thankfully knew —Sister Joy. Veronica explained the predicament, and Sister Joy joyfully lead me to my room to settle in and calm down. Twenty minutes later, I emerged from the shower with my body cleansed of germs and my mind cleansed of germ fears. I was a new

Chronicle woman—refreshed and revitalized.

Such an incident might seem trivial, dramatic, and dumb to some, but to me, it was an all-consuming problem. My disorder generously sprinkled additional panic attacks throughout our three-week journey.

I took each one stride by stride and shower by shower.

— There is something ironic about having an anxiety disorder while striving to pursue a life of faith in which you trust God fully and without reservation. As a Christian, I am called to “cast my worries on Him” and to “have no anxiety at all.” I have been told a thousand times to trust in His plan, but there has always been a disconnect between this call to trust and my ability to actually do so. A part of me knows that He can quell my fears more than anyone—if I could only give them over to Him—but my desire to be in complete control of my life has always won.

I quickly realized that there was no better time or place to grow in trust than this pilgrimage. I was walking through the unknown, surrounded by holy priests, sisters, and pilgrims that knew how to live out this virtue.

With each conversation, I was further enlightened about what it means to be a trusting and loving servant. These faithful men and women encouraged me to enter into silent prayer with Christ so that I could come to know Him more personally. As the weeks pressed on, I came to know His patient, consoling heart. In moments of shared silence, I could feel Him looking at me and saying, “I understand your every

fear. I understand your pain. But you, my dear Maria, do not have to bear them alone.”

Little by little, I learned to cast my worries on Him. I handed over my every fear. When I felt an overwhelming compulsion to wash my hands but there were no bathrooms in walking distance, I’d close my eyes and silently pray, “From my fear of germs, illness, and death— deliver me, Jesus.” I also uttered this prayer every time I felt overwhelmed by surrounding strangers, or when I felt an intense need to shower, or when I had to drink water from a random water spigot we found in the bustling street. The whole trustthing grew easier with each passing day. While my anxiety did not entirely disappear, I found that life was much more manageable when God was the primary manager of it.

— On our final week of the pilgrimage, I found myself walking through the picturesque streets of Florence, more joyful and at peace than I had ever been before in my twenty preceding years of life. On this warm July evening, I could see the orange and pink setting sun peeking between the space that separated each stone building. We meandered through the streets as we delighted in what had to have been our twentieth gelato of the trip.

As a group, we eventually came to rest at a pavilion in the middle of the city. Brother Peter, one of the seminarians we had been traveling with, broke out his trusty guitar that never left his side. Just when I thought

55

Lighted Corners the evening could not be any better, he began playing the most cheerful selection of songs. At the urging of Sister Joy, all of the sisters and pilgrim women were convinced to get to our feet and dance—right there in the streets of Florence. We stood in a small circle as Sister Joy patiently taught us a traditional European group dance. Bystanders gathered under the pavilion and watched with curiosity as we all fumbled about for fifteen minutes. Soon, however, we had all caught on and were dancing with synchronized movements and synchronized exaltation.

Before long, Sister Joy kicked off her sandals in order to dance more freely. At the first sight of her bare feet in direct contact with the undoubtedly dirty streets of Florence, my anxiety swelled and threatened to take over

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this blissful moment in time. But then I made the conscious choice to focus—not on the germs—but on the pure and absolute delight in her freespirited smile. This was a woman who trusted in God. This was a woman who gave her every fear to Him. Following her lead, I kicked off my own sandals without further thought.

I had never known that such an action would bring such limitless joy.

Each woman took off her sandals until there was not a single shoed dancer in sight.

As my bare feet skipped about on the ancient stone street, I thought not about the abundance of germs that my body was surely gathering. Nor of the shower that was waiting for me back at the convent.

I thought only of life, and how very in love with it I was.

Chronicle

The Austrian Alps Ian Schirra

In CMSCI 449: Introduction to Artificial Intelligence, students were assigned to write a natural language processing program and generate commencement speeches. The result was authentic English, and although some sentences did not portray logical thought, others were rather profound. After playing around with different seeds and generating different speeches, the most compelling lines were “cut out” and spliced together, creating a piece that comments about the state of society today in a fragmented stream of consciousness.

Anecdote: When I speak The high beams on because, you know, this is an all-embracing moral vision: . . . there were wildcats, endless snow, debauchery— that was 50 years from now on, time will come back to me

because it is for books.

53 years ago time was a bowl of pretzels or potato chips

—that are hardest to reach.

Some of you thrive, and you’re not objective enough.

It’s a place where anywhere you turn

people are responding to others for running into them.

So maybe the history lecture was ill-advised.

You are our parents’ dream of the human mind.

And you are also very annoying.

Finding passion is the luckiest one that offers you the soul of a fire.

Certainly a fire engine.

It is an auspicious occasion of your brainpower, then its slot machines . . .

Machinery has fallen into superstition, into sensuality,

is never quite committing to watching anything.

Those are the Austrian Alps yodeling.

Previous Page Sunset Over the Cumberland Valley | digital photography James Kempisty 57

Lighted Corners Rosalia | digital art Oloruntomi Dare

Ode to Patriot Hall

Next Page El Pimiento | digital photography Maya Marks

Maria Elser

I do miss those meals of mine; In that bustling room of round tables, Where I would break bread With my friends—my newfound family.

In that bustling room of round tables, I have laughed, I have panicked, I have grown With my friends—my newfound family Over subpar food and secret root beer floats.

I have laughed, I have panicked, I have grown In new spaces, no longer Filled with subpar food and secret root beer floats.

But new does not mean good, nor better, nor best.

I break bread in new spaces; no longer Filled with laughter or love Because new does not mean good, nor better, nor best.

I do miss those meals of mine.

Chronicle

Restaurants During the Holidays Joanna Kreke

Why do people ask the day before a holiday: Is there any space for a party of 5?

As if extra space is going to fall from the sky.

Like there isn’t a waiting list.

Is there any space for a party of 5?

A grown-up asks over the phone.

Like there isn’t a waiting list.

Can you get Steve?

A grown-up asks over the phone.

“I can’t.”

Can you get Steve?

Can you tell me if anywhere else has space?

“I can’t.”

Nowhere else does.

Can you tell me if anywhere else has space?

Another customer asks.

Nowhere else does.

Are you having a Happy Thanksgiving?

Another customer asks.

I smile and say, “No.”

Corridor of Contagions | digital photography Kayla Jones

Contributors Eden Arouna is a senior studying Psychology and Human Services. She enjoys long walks on the beach, but only if it’s in The Sims. *Rebekah Balick enjoys adventures and became an International Studies major to travel the world; she didn’t realize there would be so much studying involved.

*Maria Elser is a senior majoring in English and minoring in Creative Writing, Education, and Theology.

After graduation, she hopes to teach secondary English and write novels in her spare time.

Timothy Hrabinski is a junior studying Accounting. He enjoys going on hikes and walks in the great outdoors.

°*Betsy Busch is a junior majoring in English, French, and Music. You can find her hiking, sewing, or rereading The Lord of the Rings.

°*Jazlyn Ibarra is a senior studying English and Communication. She is usually crying laughing at TikToks or found with her nose stuck in a book.

*Katie Creamer is a Fine Arts major who aspires to bring beauty into the world to reveal God’s glory. In her spare time she loves listening to music and going on spontaneous trips.

Trinity Imes is a freshman studying French and Spanish. She enjoys running and takes a good majority of her pictures (consisting of many landscapes and sunset/rises) during them.

°*Oloruntomi Dare, a senior studying Communication and Science, enjoys spending her time drawing digital portraits for her art brand, Toons By Tomi. °Claire Doll, an Elementary Education major, enjoys writing, hiking, and drinking coffee in her spare time. °*Rachel Donohue imagines herself as the main character of an 80s film— she has Ferris Bueller and a good pair of platform Chucks to thank for her daydreams.

Gerald Dukuly is a freshman studying Computer Science. He likes playing soccer, reading, and playing video games in the dark.

°Kayla Jones is a freshman English major with an emphasis in Editing and Publishing. She enjoys reading fiction books, writing stories, and driving. *James Kempisty is a junior pursuing a major in Biology and minor in Chemistry. He enjoys science, the outdoors, photography, weightlifting, learning to play the guitar, and caring for his chickens.

Joanna Kreke is a junior studying Communication. She enjoys watching movies, reading David Sedaris, and cuddling with her cat.

Logan Lencheski is a sophomore Biology major and Art minor. In between playing on the women’s tennis team and being in the lab, she likes to paint and sketch. *Maya Marks, a Baltimore native, is studying to become a Physical Therapist and has a lifelong passion for photography. She is also the captain of the MSMU Equestrian Team. *Natalie Meador is a Fine Arts major who hopes to inspire creativity and self-expression through her work. She loves spending time with her friends, family, and two Jack Russell Terriers. *Paige Moseley is a sophomore student studying Communication and Public Relations. She enjoys travelling to various locations with family, friends, and her camera in order to capture the beauty in the nature that surrounds us.

Eileen Rosewater is a sophomore studying Communication. She enjoys photography, painting, and spending time with family and friends.

°*Alba Sarria is an avid rat lover with an affinity for calming walks through any graveyard she stumbles upon.

When she isn’t writing she’s plotting to fake her death and live in the rainforest.

Ian Schirra is a senior Computer Science major. He enjoys sipping loose leaf tea, and after several cups, enters a contemplative state that occasionally produces decent writing.

Margaret Stine is a freshman who plans to double major in English and History. She enjoys making origami cranes and playing basketball. °Victoria Tyler is a Communication major and Psychology and Creative Writing double minor. In her free time she likes to take lots of pictures, explore the outdoors, and make people laugh.

Abbie Woods is a freshman studying English and Creative Writing. She enjoys being a camp counselor, making friendship bracelets, and sending snail mail.

°Javon Sankoh is a senior studying Computer Science. He loves watching anime, which motivated him to create stories of his own.

° Part of editorial team or a staff member * Been published in Lighted Corners previously

What is it that is worth chronicling to you?