Aerial Magazine -- Nov 2018

November 2018

Verbal & Visual Arts

carefully created, composed, and curated by

students

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Lower Perspective of Aerial Tram in Black and White Angel Bello Dental Student

Aerial Magazine is a platform for student expression where we strive to bridge our passion for art and for science. We seek diverse works that showcase the unique perspectives of budding medical professionals and scientists in the Pacific Northwest.

Science illuminates the Universe around us and within us.

As we progress through our education, Aerial Magazine offers a place to share our collective creativity and discovery.

Cover Art by Maggie Aulet-Leon

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It began with an idea.

An interdisciplinary art and literature magazine that connects creative minds across OHSU. The idea ignited a small, passionate group of students: some with backgrounds in visual and musical arts, others with backgrounds in literature and writing, and all with an appreciation for creativity. A group united by the opportunity to reconnect with artistic pursuits that had been set aside to accommodate full grad school schedules.

But an idea cannot stand alone.

When we sent out our first call for submissions, we crossed our fingers and hoped that the OHSU student body would share our vision. As submissions poured in, we realized that the community support was greater than we had anticipated. Thanks to the contributions of our student-artists, we’ve created a collection worth sharing.

Aerial is a platform for the hidden talent within the OHSU student body and an invitation to reconnect with your own artistic passions. Our hope is that after reading this issue, you’ll pull out your dusty guitar, open your watercolors, or take a dance class.

Please enjoy this sampling of the incredible spirit that drives OHSU students to learn, create, and explore different avenues for self expression.

-The Aerial Editorial Team

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Aubre Gilbert MD student

content

All viewpoints expressed represent those of the students involved in the making of Aerial Magazine. We are not endorsed by or in any way officially connected with Oregon Health and Science University, or any of its subsidiaries or its affiliates.

Tessalyn Morrison MD student

Red currants are important.

Omi, my German grandma, taught me about them when I was a little girl. We’d toddle through her giant garden checking the status of the blackberries, gooseberries, and currants. They were swollen Chinese lanterns of sour, seedy goop. Deeper into summer, they became slightly sweet. A farewell to the firefly season.

Omi taught Dad to make rote gruetze (“red groats”), which is a summer berry compote made with pearl tapioca and topped with runny vanilla pudding sauce. Somewhere else it’s probably a crème anglaise, but in our family, Jell-o pudding mix with extra milk will do. My sister and I would gather all the raspberries, blueberries, gooseberries, and currants from the yard and come back to my dad with armfuls full of berries, begging for rote gruetze to be made. My dad would reciprocate by reducing them in apple juice and jelling them with the pearled tapioca. Then we had to wait until morning for it to chill overnight. In the summer, there was no reason to

wake up early in the morning, unless there was rote gruetze. Without alarm clocks (...we were children), we’d wake with dawn and race each other downstairs to crack open the fridge.

Dammit! Meredyth already got to it. I would compensate by taking twothirds of what was left and douse it with vanilla sauce, so that David wouldn’t get any. Dad woke up next, and David always woke up last. David didn’t like good things anyway. I would eat my rote gruetze at the kitchen table looking out, in rare fashion, at the sunrise in the backyard. I never remember eating rote gruetze with anyone. I always ate it alone, which looking back, is a curious thing for an 8-year-old to do. I would go to school. People would ask me what my favorite food is. I would say rote gruetze and everyone would look at me like I was a German freak. This look never improved throughout high school. Rote gruetze brought be closer to my Omi who thought it was cute that I liked to berry pick and make German recipes. She made me

Lindsay Parlee, MD Student

use a bucket to go around my neck out of a paper milk carton so that I could go with Opa (grandpa) to pick blackberries in the old train yard near where they lived in Western Pennsylvania. Through her I learned to repurpose things, hoard rubber bands and old jars, appreciate well-made appliances, sew, and make food good enough that you never wanted to eat out. She was very loud, cursed at eve-

rything, and had very strong opinions about very small things. She never missed tea time, cocktail hour, or evening open faced sandwiches. She was a man’s girl, played a wicked game of tennis, and drank coffee with syrup consistency. I looked up to her and have become a version of her that I guess I like a little bit more. Long story short, I’m looking for a currant bush to put on my balcony.

Andrew Duchesne MD Student

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM or maybe it was supposed to be BOOM-BOOM, BOOM-BOOM, BOOM-BOOM or most probably Lub-Dub, Lub-Dub, Lub-Dub but when I pressed my stethoscope to the 8-year-old boy’s chest it most certainly wasn’t supposed to be ---------

Jenna Davidson

MD/MPH Student

There is a defiance In my spirit.

A survivor of a deep abyss.

Maybe I will get The retrograde version of myself back.

Maybe I won’t.

Maybe this new me isn’t so bad.

She is good to people.

Even when she shouldn’t be.

She is every fear realized.

She is every hurt accosted.

She is nerves.

She is pieces.

But she is also the glue, And she is me.

Minhaz Sarker MD Student

Sophie Carlson MD student

Lindsay Parlee, MD Student

Sarah Spears PMHNP/DN Nursing Student

Andrew Duchesne MD student

Major depressive disorder The smell of urine and homelessness A self-inflicted gunshot wound

The gilding metal had entered her left bicep And erupted through her shoulder Now a scar long since healed The pain still present The physician’s words slow and gentle “Do you still have suicidal thoughts?”

“No. Just pain.”

“Bolivar, Bolivar” they shout. Along with liberator, hero, and freedom fighter. Coming from high, he went down. Fought for a nation, for a home. Struggles and failures.

It was a climb. It was cold. It was war.

More friends lost than a man should be S. Cody WolL able to find. Traveled up river into the mountains. Goals were accomplished.

Treaties were made. Nothing lasts, and the Md student gifts given can be used for unintended purpose. Freedom to one is not always the same to another. Some are clumpers. Others are definers. Some saw something grand. Others saw anarchy. In his home they came put out his light, but he ran with the cook in the middle of the night. Under a bridge he sat. But he came storming back, but with creatures in his lungs. They tore at him and made him a husk, but still he went on. Making a kingdom. Making a home. The years were good, but the years weren’t kind. The plan was failing. The structures were disappearing. The time to go was nigh. “Bolivar, Bolivar” they shout. Along with falsifier, deserter, liar, coward and looter. To flee was the plan. To leave and let live. Stopped and trapped in the sea of distain. In the middle of your creations, you were no longer needed and hated. Cold once again.

Down river. Struggling for just one. Word spread of a fallen adopted son. There was nothing left. But left he did, but at least in a land he knew. “Bolivar, Bolivar”.

Alyson S. Dental Student

Alex Sievert MD Student

This is a portrait I painted of my dog Stella, who I rescued in 2011 from an organization in House Springs, MO. When I put her in the back of the car, shivering and scared, Sade's "By Your Side" came on the radio. It's been our song since.

Rose city Inspired by nature and its ability to make us feel small in the best way possible.

radiation Therapy Student

LOST

Abiqua falls

from

to

Two parathas – pan seared golden, the flattened dough is chewy on the inside, crispy on the outside (perfect for ripping then wrapping around savories or sweets); an omelet (pronounced “mumlet” by Desis) embedded with tomatoes, onions, cilantro, and chilis; aloo bhaji – julienned potatoes sautéed with spices…

“But my favorite part,” Babu says, licking his lips clean in anticipation, “is the finale.” He drums on the table as I gently place before him and his sister the dish filled with semolina, cooked with butter, milk, cardamom, cinnamon, and a few golden raisins. “Soojir halwa!” I spoon a large dollop onto his plate, and he immediately sets Taj taher upon it like a man who’s not eaten in ages (and certainly unlike a man who cleared away two parathas, a 3 egg mumlet, and aloo bhaji not 5 minutes Md student ago).

“Eat, eat my poor boy,” I croon, softly stroking his hair while he feeds in a frenzy. “I wish I could cook for you like this every day.”

He snorts, turning towards me with a raised eyebrow. “Oh please, as if you ever made me breakfast every morning when I was growing up.”

I take a dramatic breath, my eyes widening in exaggerated outrage. “How dare you? I always cooked for you.”

“I’m pretty sure I started packing my own lunch for school when I was 7.”

Smacking him on the shoulder, I sit down next

to him. “Otherwise how you will learn? I was teaching you to be self-sufficient.”

“Aha! So you admit it!” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at me.

“Yes I admit, I was being a good mother.”

“No, I meant the lunch – ” “Besides, I know how much you like to cook,” I say, closing my eyes, tilting my head from side to side, and smiling with self-satisfaction. I open an eye to find him shaking his head.

“There’s no winning with you. You’ll never own up to anything.”

“What?” Feigning misunderstanding or mishearing, I laugh his comment away. “Here,” I say, spooning more halwa on his empty plate, “Eat more.”

“You see that,” Babu says to his sister, “She always changes the subject whenever she’s in the wrong.

But if she finds any dirt on you she’ll stick to you like a magnet.” My daughter, with the timid soul she inherited from her father, stares straight down into her plate and remains silent. I take this moment to plop more halwa onto his plate. He furrows his eyebrows. “Stop. I don’t want any more.”

“Well who’s going to eat all this halwa then?” I stand up, putting my hands on my hips.

“It’s not my job.”

“Remember when you used to finish all the leftovers like a good little boy?”

“A fat little boy! I don’t want to go back to being fat.”

“You won’t,” I say soothingly. “You exercise now. Your body needs more energy. When you go back to college you can eat your leaves and lentils. Now you’re at home, you eat well.” I run my fingers through

his hair once more. “You know, you should really think about putting coconut oil in your hair if you don’t want to end up bald like your father.”

He jerks away from me abruptly. “Quit it okay?

You’re always treating me like a little kid. I know how to take care of myself!”

I feel my face fall slack and the sharp stab of air tightening in my chest. I say nothing. Walking away from the table, I ease into the couch and pull my phone from the side table. I busy myself with Facebook, scrolling but not seeing. My eyes are filled with him at 3, 7, 10, and 16: birthdays, school assemblies, weekends spent on the couch reading Harry Potter and watching Pirates of the Caribbean. His face: joyous, anguished; chubby cheeked at first then stubbled later. I can’t remember his voice not deep as it is now – the sting of its vehemence makes it hard to recall.

Gone are the days when I could, towering over him, snap back and put him in his place. I could bellow “No son of mine would be so disrespectful. From now on, don’t call me mother!” The tears would come quick, the apologies soon after, and finally after holding up an air of indifference for an excruciating amount of time for him, I’d forgive and pull him into my arms.

I don’t want to believe that little boy is gone.

If food doesn’t entice him, if hugs don’t heal him, then what keeps him here?

What am I to him?

I need to be needed to know who I am.

The chairs squeaking brings me back from my thoughts. The table is empty. Wearily, I walk over to clear it. Raising the pot of soojir halwa, I pause when it lifts easier than expected. I smile, for it’s been licked clean.

My boy lives.

I raise an eyebrow. “Everything you can find on the internet these days.”

“It’s so easy to find, so easy to follow. It’s nice when the instructions are specific. Not like when you showed me. It’s like you were just throwing in things randomly.”

“Listen, my grandmother and mother taught me without tablespoons.”

“Well you all must have a special sense. I need to do this right at least the first time. Maybe I’ll develop your powers eventually.”

I place a hand over his to still the stir. He looks up at me. “Trust me. Let it sit. It needs a chance for those flavors to sink in.” He glances over to his phone on the counter, open to the recipe. Reluctantly, he pulls away and places the lid atop the pot.

“Your father is wondering whether your sudden interest in cooking has to do with this new girl in your life.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I can’t feed my family Top Ramen for every meal.”

“Family? You and her are already having those conversations?” The buzz of the fume hood drowns out the tinge of anxiety that shoots through my voice. Far from the embarrassment or avoidance I would have expected, he smiles with…contentment?

“Not seriously, like, we’re not planning anything.

Just hypothetically. To get a feel for what we want one day.”

I don’t know what to say or what to ask. As his words sink in, I feel the heat from the stove wrapping around me; I can’t tell if the bubbling I hear is the curry on the stove or the mixture of confusion and amusement and melancholy within me.

“I really want you to meet her,” he says, turning back to the pot and picking up the ladle. “Your opinion – and um, Dad’s and Afa’s – is really important. If she doesn’t fit with the family, then I don’t see our relationship going very far.” I nod silently. He looks over at me A coconut-milk shrimp curry with bok choy and peppers, atop and smiles. “Can we have her over for dinner? I’ve told basmati rice. her so many times how amazing of a cook you are.”

“Yes, of course.”

I peek over his shoulder as best I can, peering He beams and kills the stove’s fire. The curry’s through the billowing steam to the bubbling contents of bubbling comes to an abrupt halt. Babu swings the pot the pot. “So you’re going to add the bok choy now?” I past me and heads to the table where his sister sits paask. tiently. I shut off the stove’s exhaust, but its hum con“No, I have to let the curry simmer for another tinues reverberating within my head as I take my place at 5 minutes. I’ll add the bok choy at the end so it keeps its the table. I barely register him scooping rice onto my crunch.” plate and ladling on the curry. So lost am I in this haze, “How do you know?” the heat of the curry barely burns as it hits my lips.

“That’s what the recipe says,” my son replies. He “Wow.” is so focused on stirring he doesn’t spare me a glance, Babu and I turn to his sister, whose nor notices his glasses have steamed up.

eyes are wide. She smacks her lips and says “This tastes like something mom made.”

“Really?” Babu is taken aback momentarily, then his face lights up. “That is actually the highest praise you could have given me.”

“Yeah, this is really good,” Afa says and ladles more onto her plate.

I turn my head down towards the food, pretending not to notice him looking at me expectantly. I use a mouthful of curry as an excuse to remain silent.

Roasted curry chicken, masala marinated beef skewers, saffron rice, fluffy fried buttermilk bread, and an entire baked lamb leg “Seriously Ma,” Babu whispers while his girlfriend is engaged in an animated conversation with my husband. “This is an insane amount of food. You didn’t need to go to so much trouble.”

“Nonsense,” I reply, smiling. “For our future daughter, this is nothing. I’m embarrassed I didn’t do more. What will she think? What will she tell her parents? Who knows how the food turned out, or if she even likes it or not.”

Babu tilts his head and raises his eyebrows, as if to ask “Really?”

Though she hadn’t overheard them, the girl looks towards me now and says “Auntie, the food is incredible. Babu wasn’t exaggerating when he said how amazing a chef you are.”

“Oh no,” I say, chuckling politely, “You are so sweet but I’m sure your mom makes even more delicious, delicious food. Did she teach you?”

“I help out in the kitchen from time to time.”

“Don’t worry,” Babu says with swagger. “I’m a pretty amazing chef myself. I’ll be gracious though. We can tell everyone who comes over that you made everything.”

“That’s fine with me.” Smiling mischievously, she retorts “Since you’re so handy in the kitchen you can wash all the dishes too.”

Everyone at the table laughs, but it seems no one other than me notices the way Babu’s and the girl’s eyes linger upon on another. I cannot tell if this is the first time they are sitting together before me, or the fiftieth. It’s no longer a question of what might happen.

He has been trapped and taken. My boy is gone.

Soojir halwa and a cool glass of milk I find him in the kitchen, a glass in hand, staring out the window into the dark expanse of the woods behind our home. He taps the small bowl on the counter before him intermittently with his spoon, producing a light ting, ting to complement his contemplation.

“What are you thinking about with so much energy?”

He looks at me with a start. Then, his mouth eases into a smile. “I want to say the meaning of life, but honestly I was wondering whether it’s worth warming some bread to wrap this halwa in.”

My smile is a flower on the stem of happiness shooting up from my breast. “I can prepare a paratha in a minute.”

“Thanks,” he smiles warmly, “but I shouldn’t.

Too many calories.” He turns back to the window, missing my face fall flat.

“You know,” I say, after a moment. “You’re going to get fat with all the yummy, yummy food Maya will cook. You can’t say no to your wife like you can to your mom.”

Amused, he glances at me and shakes his head.

“Ma…” Chuckling softly, he looks down at the bowl.

Spooning up some halwa, he places it in his mouth slowly. It seems to stick as he swallows. Turning back to me, I’m somewhat shocked to see small tears in his eyes. “Ma,” he repeats, in a voice thick with emotion, “Do you really approve of me and her? You’ve said ‘If you’re happy, I’m happy’ but it seemed like something you had to say.”

My mind is chaos. I see him, vulnerable and scared, and the yearning in my breast to strike out his fears and rush to his aid burns within me. Yet, he’s asking me for something which I never planned to give.

Do I even know how? Can I be honest with him when I avoid being honest with myself?

“God has written these ingredients into his recipe,” I say as the flower within me wilts. “And his dishes are always the most delicious.”

Babu – satiated with sooji and solace – bids me good night.

Alone in my kitchen kingdom, I feel my omnipotence finally fade.

RIGHT

Minhaz Sarker MD STudent

I moved to Oregon from Michigan in 2016 with my Husband and dog, without knowing anyone Here but each other.

It was difficult at first, to say the least. Our support system was over 2,000 miles away. I had a hard time adjusting to such a dramatic life change, but there were some things I was able to find comfort in that helped me with the transition. The awe inspiring landscapes that Oregon provides were, and still are, an oasis for my husband and me.

We explored Hiking trails and different landscapes whenever we could, soaking up dramatic mountain-scapes, cascading waterfalls, and ocean views. Creating art has always been a crucial way for me to relax and destress.

The awe inspiring landscapes that Oregon provides were, and still are, an oasis.

Although I have been doing this since I was very young, I never saw myself creating landscapes. However, seeing the beautiful scenery of Oregon was so inspiring and comforting to me that I wanted to recreate it in my own personal way. By combining these activities, our transition has become more enjoyable and now I truly feel like Oregon is our home.

I hope that my renderings can provide others with reminders of fond memories that they’ve made at each special landmark.

Dental Student

Alyson S. Dental Student

Creative contributions to Aerial Magazine reflect student experiences with patients around the world. Whenever these stories are shared, names and details will be changed in order to protect patient privacy.

Larry Alone Cameron Fisher — MD/MPH Student 2 weeks on inpatient service In the mornings we round If it sounds like a drill That's because it is There is an order to be followed Numbers to be ran off

The rounders lift up Larry’s gown Check on his entryways And leave Larry is alone

We rounded on Larry four times Each time he was worse One caregiver called him a vegetable His graft was attacking his lungs So he had a tube protruding from the front of his throat helping him to breathe A tube in his gut helping him to eat And two in his nose to help oxygen flow to his brain His arms were restrained so he couldn't eliminate all the entryways to his body

On the first Second And third round The room is empty On the fourth we met his wife The nurse showed her his signature Next to 2 of 3 DNRs This can't be possible She says He would have wanted to fight

He was surrounded by 8 yellow plastic gowns 8 blue masks 16 blue gloves But Larry was completely alone Questions fired Larry purses his lips A rattling whisper Tugging his restraints Larry opens his mouth A silent sob I frantically hand him a pen Fingers too swollen to hold it

But Larry isn't breathing on his own Not eating on his own Can't speak The stepdaughter from out of state Says she plans to be at the funeral So Larry continues to be surrounded But I know he feels alone

Alyson S. Dental Student

Taylor vega MD student

Katia Erickson MD student

Katia Erickson Md student

Girl made from paper Body torn from trees Bones made from branches Flattened like leaves Blue ocean circles Stolen from seas Brimmed with rainwater Not meant to freeze Huckleberry vessels Cascade range knees Roots reach for water In a desert of disease Season shifting color Of skull tethered breeze In this City of Roses, You can see all of me The girl made from paper Her body torn from trees If you must throw me away Recycle me, please.

Interview by Michelle Park

Christian Carnett Christian Carnett, a third year nursing student at OHSU, began producing and writing music in the 6th grade in his childhood home on the island of Hawai’i. It started with a gifted copy of Cool Edit 95, a proto-music editing program that allowed the artist to cobble together tracks by painstakingly recording, cutting and pasting individual sounds and layering them together. Chris’s early ventures into crafting beats began humbly, banging on pots and pans into a microphone. Inspired by the great early DJ’s, Chris soon began to incorporate vinyl tracks into his beats, carefully sampling a high-hat here, a snare roll there, timing the rhythm and the rate just right and entirely by hand. It was around this time that Chris began to develop his penchant for rap as well. Chris took his first steps into rap by memorizing and reciting lyrics by artist such as Tupac, Mobb Deep, Bone Thugs in Harmony, Tha Dogg Pound and AZ, eventually writing lyrics for his own tracks.

During Chris’s formative years, the rap and hip hop community in Hawai’i was undergoing a cultural explosion. Chris likens the Hawaiian hip hop scene in the 90’s to that of

New York or LA in the 80’s. “It was wild,” Chris says, “I was enveloped in it. Rap, R&B, break dancing, graffiti - it was all there. The four tenets of hip hop culture.” Chris describes going to his friend’s house to scratch vinyl and freestyle, and competing in breakdancing battles with his B boy crew at freestyle summits, attired in matching orange Adidas tracksuits.

During those years Chris also began to venture into R&B, inspired by artists like Joe Thomas, Jagged Edge, Dru Hill, Jon B and Craig David, incorporating a more sensitive and introspective approach than his earlier works. “It took me a while to find my voice,” Chris says. “Tupac was the one who really showed me, you can have a heart when rapping. Me against the world, the first song that I memorized, talked about his struggles and having a positive attitude. It helped me find my voice, to learn to channel positive energy, pour your heart into a song. You can rap about things that really trigger the human psyche and passion. Rap about feelings and past. The point of music is to convey a thought or emotion and prompt a thought or feeling.”

Chris states that he considered going into music as a career, but chose instead to pursue healthcare. “My whole family is providers,” Chris says, “Caring for people kind of runs in my blood.”

While nursing school has not inspired any lyrics from Chris yet, it has inspired him as a person. “I always want to give my best to people, and for people to feel real human emotion, because when you care about someone it makes you vulnerable, and it can put you in bad situations - but it’s having strength to carry through to actually care for someone that really makes a difference. So going to school, this all is fuel to my fire. Eventually when I get done with school and I’m in the

field working, I’m going to write about the experiences that I’ve had in school and things that I’ve seen-I’ve seen so many sad things in school, people sick, or dying, I’m still digesting it. And later on I’m going to write about it. It’s the emotion that I have, the connection.”

Chris presents three songs in this issue under his moniker “Ancient Changed”. All three are heavily influenced by R&B, and Chris describes them as a little more “sentimental” than some of his previous works. “I’ve had my heart broken recently,” Chris says, “and once I’ve gotten all my feelings about that out, I’ll go back to writing more rap.”

To aspiring rappers and R&B artists, Chris gives the following advice: figure out wat you want to talk about and keep it close to home. Don’t try to go out and be something you’re not, because it’s gonna cause you to fail. And go out and have life experiences travel, or join some type of group, or pick a job where you really affect people’s lives. Because in order to start rapping, great, but what are you going to rap about? You need to find that foundation. Find what you love and a view point you have and pour your heart into it, every single song that you make, every lyric you write, “Learning how to rap though, you can learn anything on Youtube.”

Minhaz sarker MD student

Find more of Chris’s music at ancientchanged.bandcamp.com

Chris Graulty [MD STUDENT] & Luis Valenzuela

Michelle Bloemers Dental student

Y

J

S

o u ’ r e u s t t r e s s e d

Shelby Van Leuven MD Student

LEFT

BOTTOM BOTH: Lavinia Turian MD student

RIGHT Whitney LovenA Wright Public health student

ABOVE Lavinia Turian MD student

I don’t know you and you don’t know me I just had to talk to you, you see

anonymous

MD student

We’ll disappear in a room in the back of here Tell me about yourself, how did you get about

I’m overconfidence, it was a rash move

But I was told you take a risk, your odds improve See, you don’t know me and I don’t know you I’m not weird or strange, I’m telling you my aim is true

I touch your face with you watching on I lift up your arms, ask if the pain is gone Looking you over, I see what no one sees You trust me that I know what you need

Everybody I know these days is ill Or boring me Or ignoring me But not you…

So I take your hand and find your pulse I feel the beat and you do not repulse Though I don’t know you and you don’t know me I just had to talk to you, you see

So say you’ll come, follow up in due time You could be the one for all I know Well, I don’t know you, though I’d sure like to I can see the light, it looks like you

Lindsay Parlee—MD student

THE people who made it ha EDITOR IN CHIEF

Taylor can parallel park with deadly accuracy and considered this skill for a fallback career. However, she still struggles with Starbucks’ sizing nomenclature.

Literature Review

Design Co-Chief

Many are impressed by Taj’s ability to retain complete focus during lecture; little do they know that while those eyes may be transfixed upon the board, he is indeed only seeing the mountains of food he dreams of consuming (IG: @drs_without_horsdoeurves)

Katia bakes to eat, paints to build her collection of 3/4 finished artwork, does yoga to win every game of Twister, and takes a picture of every dog she sees on the train.

Design Co-Chief

You may know Maggie as the owner of the misplaced item you recently found, for her uncanny ability to walk in the exact wrong direction when leaving a building, or as someone you can go to for a chuckle or a hug. If you're ever in need of colored pens or carrot sticks, she’s got you covered.

appen Literature Review

Lit Review & Treasurer

Most of his time writing is spent on DM notes for his next campaign, because he manages two D&D groups. Between wiz biz and school, Cody is mainly outdoors, but always finds time to read about failed revolutions of the 19th century.

Better known as “that girl with the corgi”. Michelle’s hobbies include obsessively wedding planning during class and wearing progressively wilder makeup on every test day. She has an extensive glasses collection and therefore has refused to update her prescription in 4 years.

Visual Review

A vampire by night and an avid sunscreen wearer by day.

Communications & Social Media

Wakaba may seem like she’s taking copious notes but if you look over her shoulder, you’ll catch her channeling her inner Salvador Dali while drawing floating heads, limbs and inanimate objects in the margins.

Multimedia Review

& Secretary

A frog in a human body.

aerialartohsumagazine.com

By author’s name Alex Sievert…………………………………………………………………………………..11 Alyson S. Batteries to bluff ……………………………………………….23 Lassen Volcanic ……………………………………………………….21 Viti, Iceland …………………………………………………………………….10 Angel Bello ………………………………………………...………………………………….i Andrew duchesne Pain meds ………………………………………...………………………………….8 The loudest sound ………………………...……………………...4 Anonymous……………………………………….………………………………………….35 Aubre Gilbert …………………………………………...………………………………..iv Bryan baker ……………………………………………………………………………..…29 Cameron fisher …………………………………………...…………………………22 Chris Graulty ………………………………………………………………………….30 Christian Carnett Featured artist ………………………………………………………27 Songs …………………………………………………………………………………….29 Ian Straehley …………………………………………………………………………..29 Jeanie dang ………………………………………………………………………………….13 Jenna Davidson …………………………………………………………………………5 Katia Erickson ………………………………………………………………………...25

Lavinia turian ………………………………………………………………………….34 Lindsay parlee Enlighten Out the other side………………………………………………..36 Weathered…………………………………………………………………………7 Maggie aulet-leon…………………………………………………Cover Michelle bloemers Artist’s perspective………………………………………..……...1 You’re just stressed………………………………………..…31 Minhaz sarker Cliffside………………………………………………………………………………….1 Don’t forget me……………………………………………………………1 Lone tree geometry…………………………………………….28 S. cody woll ……………………………………………………………………………...

Sarah spears ……………………………………………………………………………..

Shelby van leuven …………………………………………………………….33 Sophie Carlson ………………………………………………………………………..

Taj taher ……………………………………………………………………………………...

Taylor vega ………………………………………………………………………………24 Tessalyn morrison ……………………………………………………………….1 Whitney Lovena Wright …………………………………………….…34

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