Editor's Note

Dear Reader,

Last night I ate some really spicy chicken wings. Not the excessively spicy ones made with battery acid or a particularly radioactive isotope of Uranium, but spicy nonetheless. When I ordered them, the waiter even asked, “Are you sure about this?” like a skydiving instructor might ask before opening the plane door. I reassured him I could handle it, and he put in my order. 

When I began chowing down on those wings (I’m a drums kind of guy, just in case you were wondering), my body immediately replied: tears, tingles, and sniffles abound. With each bite I tried to convince my now shaking body I enjoyed it. And I did, enjoy it that is. Those wings were delicious, and in the end I only wanted more.

I don’t think I could call myself a writer if I don’t try to find significance in this moment, in the battle between mind and body for what is good for them both, for the dual appreciation of pleasure and pain. Eating spicy chicken wings is like writing itself. That much is obvious. But the same could also be said for helping to begin a literary magazine, knowing eventually you will need to leave it. And that time to leave has come.

Since this magazine’s first issue two years ago, I have had the privilege to witness first hand the literary prowess of Arcadia University’s undergraduate community. I have had the privilege to make friends, meet gifted writers, and, most of all, read and publish incredible submissions. So I want to take the time here to thank everything single person who has played into this process: every submitter, every faculty member, every student reader, editor, and every position in between. 

The immense pleasure I feel now, and have felt for the past two years, is worth the pain I feel to leave it. It outmatches it, and is, perhaps, the reason we do it in the first place.

Like eating spicy wings. 

Happy reading, as always,

Brendan McCourt