Alloy Literary Magazine 2021-2022 Edition by Emory Alloy

Alloy LITERA RY MAGA ZINE 2021 2022

MASTH EA D EDITOR IN CHIEF Nikki Horton TREASURER Sarah Swiderski PUBLICITY CHAIRS Zack Levin Kelly Martinez MULTIMEDIA CHAIR Amanda Wolf SENIOR WRITING EDITORS Raegan Allen Monse Juarez JUNIOR WRITING EDITORS John Cai Naurica Encarnacion Esther Hung Alina Kim Henry Koskoff SENIOR ART EDITOR Anna Lindquist JUNIOR ART EDITORS Matthew Buxton Emma Dollar Nick Pehrson EDITING AND L AYOUT STAFF Matthew Buxton Aurora Cai John Cai Jada Chambers Isabel Cuellar Erin Devine

Naurica Encarnacion Abia Fazili Eileen Hernandez Esther Hung Zuha Jaffar Monse Juarez Henry Koskoff Zack Levin Anna Lindquist Kelly Martinez Nico Mestre Nick Pehrson Ben Spiegel Sarah Swiderski Amanda Wolf Sophie Xiao READING STAFF Eleanor Byers Aurora Cai Jayden Davis Erin Devine Sofia Gukelberger Eileen Hernandez Jason Kraft Clara Mendoza Nico Mestre Caroline Quan Walker Tracy Oli Turner

LET TER FR O M TH E EDITO R Dear reader, I am incredibly excited to share with you the 2021-2022 edition of Alloy Literary Magazine. It is a privilege for us to showcase the poetry, prose, art, and photography that talented members of the Emory student body have created. I hope that reading their writing and viewing their art will fill you with the same sense of wonder, joy, and pride that it gives me. As you read the magazine, I invite you to consider how magical art truly is. No matter the medium, art has the power to broaden our perspectives and make us feel new things. The pieces in this edition will give you a glimpse of the world as these writers and artists see it. They will make you feel ecstatic, despairing, messy, afraid, silly, enamored, and so much more. It’s a startling and wonderful sensation, and one that only art has the power to deliver. I ask you, reader, to allow yourself to feel as you read this magazine. Allow yourself to laugh when you want to, and cry if you need to. Allow yourself to be. Alloy would not be possible without the support of many dedicated individuals. I would like to thank the Executive Board and General Board members for the hours of hard work they have invested into this publication. A special thanks goes out to Anna Lindquist, my Senior Art Editor, for the time and care she put into redesigning this magazine. Thank you to the contributors for sharing your work and allowing us to see the world through your eyes. And thank you, reader, for supporting this magazine and the arts. Most sincerely, Nikki Horton Editor-in-Chief 2021-2022

Nikki Horton

P OETRY

TA BLE O F CO NT E N TS “When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” Haruki Murakami

TRANSFIGURATION, 2021 Raegan Allen

BACARDI Eileen Hernandez

THE LIFT Henry Koskoff

JANUARY Raegan Allen

MY FATHER WHO FORGETS Erin Devine

10 11

INDOLENT SUN AND KISSES Josh Rubin enantiomers Matthew Buxton

LIPSTICK LADY Katherine Khayami

PATRON SAINT OF LOST THINGS Matthew Buxton

PRELUDE TO AN EPIC YET UNWRITTEN Josh Rubin

I SEE Anna Lindquist

REFLECTIONS UPON CARAVAGGIO’S SAINT JEROME Josh Rubin

DIAGNOSIS Raegan Allen

BOX 180 OF THE TED HUGHES PAPERS Raegan Allen

TO LOVE Josh Rubin

SORENESS John Cai

IN KENT Henry Koskoff

CORCOVADO Josh Rubin

MANY HANDS FOR MANY FACES Anna Lindquist

ALICE PORTRAIT Katherine Khayami

AFROFUTURISM Zoe Hughes

LEDGE Anna Lindquist

AFTER THE PARTY Zoe Hughes

MORNING Nico Mestre

25 27 28

PRO S E 29

TEN YEARS LATER Ben Spiegel

TOP DRAWER, LEFT Nico Mestre

How to get him back Nico Mestre

VIS UAL ART 1 4 6 9 13

ABANDONED NO. 1 Jason Kraft you are the risen Esther Hung SELF PORTRAIT Zoe Hughes GIRL Zoe Hughes RYAN WITH A CIGARETTE Jason Kraft

SECRETS ARE IN THE EYES Anna Lindquist TO BE LOVED Anna Lindquist TO BE KNOWN Anna Lindquist

A LLOY CONTESTS 40

THE INCESSANT ITCH Isabella Kaufman

BENEATH THE LUNAR ECLIPSE Zuha Jaffar

NOSTALGIA, 2021 Ananya Mohan

BI O S 45

ABANDONED NO. 1

Jason Kraft

TRANSFIGURATION, 2021 Raegan Allen

My prayer list is pages too long It’s been April for as long as I can remember I can’t remember An unmuffled how great thou art Alone in my kitchen doesn’t count If my laptop dies, so does the preacher I can’t focus on the message Only the glitch that stains his cheeks With pixel pigment, his eyes open For two seconds too long His voice a faintly burning wick Brothers and—ters, let—emember the sick I close the screen And bow my head.

BACARDI Eileen Hernandez

I’d see you in his flush, slurs, and sweat, And I’d pray you wouldn’t take him yet. You’d come on Christmas, New Year’s, Tuesdays; No matter the occasion, you’d find your ways. When other men grew weary of your hours-long hold, He nurtured and kept you until you grew old. I’d hear your clink in his glove compartment And see you now, sitting boldly in his apartment. Your once fragile fate has begun anew; It seemed as I grew taller, so did you.

you are th e risen

Esther Hung

THE LIF T Henry Koskoff

I was seven in a muddy lawn freshly shot by the sky. Bugs waded in the carnage. My brothers & I, my two brothers & I, we slid through as the rain upcycled leaving sheets of clay for landscapers to deal with. We were painted. The pigment was hot. I remember knowing the innate fixture of things, how this shallow bog would soon lift & become a fantastic dirty cloud. Science was readymade as the snacks that brought us inside. My brothers ran. I waited in the carnage. My parents took note that it was odd. Recently they’ve been unfurling stories which paint me as a cosmic invader flung headfirst into Real Life. But no, I was actually a bug in that warm plot. I wanted to be lifted—thought if I covered myself in enough of earth’s juice I could rise & fall back into place. Thought it would be nice to see our house from above. No one ever told me otherwise, so I stayed there for about five minutes with my eyes closed. 5

SELF PORTRAIT

Zoe Hughes

JANUARY Reagan Allen

When my mother didn’t leave her bedroom for nine days Dad said we should start by cleaning the playroom. That the mess was stressing her out and we could help by putting the Barbies away. Well we got distracted because we finally found the green purse with the flower clasp we’d been hunting since Thanksgiving, and picked up our November storyline like no time had passed. Somebody’s Mom always had cancer and usually someone’s boyfriend was cheating. One of these problems could be solved. Unless it was cancer of the brain. Then the solution was dump him and pick up the playroom. When Dad found us lying on our stomachs, marching our dolls across plastic shoe strewn carpet he didn’t yell. Just stood there scanning the clutter and finally made us pinky promise to never stop taking care of each other.

MY FATHER WHO FORGETS Erin Devine

My father who forgets often remembers, and frets, that he has a golden ring. It’s on his left finger and a memory lingers: someone who was his everything. My father who forgets will come inside and set his coat down; we talk for a while. He’ll watch the snow fall, laugh at pictures on the wall, and offer me his widest smile. But my father who forgets sees his ring—now he’s upset, he starts to ask how and why. So every single time I will tell him it’s fine— his trust makes it easy to lie. So my father who forgets will never have to regret the grave outside in the snow. So every December I’ll stay quiet and remember something he’ll never know.

GIRL

Zoe Hughes Rendition of “Musing~Giclee Print” by Michael Maczuga

INDOLENT SUN AND K ISSES Josh Rubin

I miss those days of effervescent blisses, When Apollo and you would rain down Upon my lips indolent sun and kisses, Days we would spend stealing from fleet time stillness, That in each other we might drown— I miss those days of effervescent blisses, When on both our minds was lovings’ loveliness, And on each head a daisy crown— Upon my lips, indolent sun and kisses. Bygone bliss of past, which was, and is, timeless, Though it wears a less vivid gown… I miss those days of effervescent blisses, Days when candescent bliss was to be listless, And you would lay, if I might frown, Upon my lips indolent sun and kisses. I think of another apotheosis, And I remember thereupon: I miss those days of effervescent blisses, Upon my lips indolent sun and kisses.

enantiom ers Matthew Buxton

isn’t it ironic that you both wipe your wet bodies down the front and back— him with his right hand and you with your left—before you even step out of the shower and grab a towel to dry? or how you both floss both sides of your incisors at the same time because its the most energetically efficient way to clean them? i used to rub my fingers through his scalp the same way i rub through yours right now but i’d never go any lower or you’d both quiver and pivot because you’re so goddamn ticklish. the other night in bed you told me that you

ran into him at your guys’ campus café when you were on the way to class. when you stopped to talk did your brown hair fall to the opposite side as his and when your brown eyes looked into his brown eyes did you recognize that i was the plane of reflection that bisected you and your carbon archetype? is it organic to fall for the same shapes of men or do i just keep conforming to their parallel builds because i can’t seem to fill the empty space?

RYAN WITH A CIGARET TE

Jason Kraft

LIPSTICK L ADY Katherine Khayami A quick smoke, A strong grip, A satin ash-colored balloon tied to my body, Bows and buttons sitting on my chest looking pretty, Fine lines on a tight canvas displaying a beauty. A presentation of what my mind would look like. He asked me to pose In what feels like a mix of contradicting ideas. My legs are stuck to the ground Yet my arms have lives of their own. I’m glad I don’t see my reflection Even though I can picture what I look like. In this bold position I feel different sensations all over my body. It suits me. As I hold my breath, letting the white smoke cover my painted face, I look at the emptiness that’s in front of me with a firm eye. Odd sensations.

PATRON SA I NT OF LO ST TH I NG S Matthew Buxton

I love when Anthony finds his way on my tongue. Strung from a devotional medal inherited as a relic of an old faith, his smooth silver back slides between my lips like a quarter in a slot tied with a chain-link thread by a kid in an arcade who tugs it in and out of the game he plays, guaranteeing himself a prize of purple coins the color of a Lent chasuble across his slender neck. I’ve been baptized before, but nothing compared to when I found him covered in bubbles head to cock to toe in our rust-lined bathtub, a grown man reborn in effervescent blue suds—his giggles ringing across the porcelain-tiled walls as if it were St. Peter’s Basilica. When he found me wandering faithlessly like Saul in and out of gay clubs and false gods with gaping holes in their self-righteous hearts, I’d spent so long trying to kill another guy who took up more space in my life than a giant ever since he’d killed me off in his mind. But like an angel, my baby came for me in candy-red flames, sucking out the apostasy that still stained my lips, and for the first time in so long, I remembered what it felt like to win. I don’t think he knows that I owe him everything. Dear St. Anthony, please stay this time around, something was lost, but I think it’s been found. 16

PRELUD E TO AN EPIC YET UNWRIT TEN Josh Rubin

O how sweetly flows thy sweat abounding, As in the distance war horns art sounding! How splendidly does thy body glisten In the golden sun recently risen— Like a Doryphoros in Greek oil bathed! In those crazed eyes is fire where once love blazed. O how can it be that thee should do so, And headstrong into an ugly war go?— When thy body and thy soul of beauty Are paragons to be praised lovingly In some amorous sonnet or ballad, Not in a bastard epic most haggard For in this heroic form it must sing, Though it yearns for another muse’s spring. I wish to make no hero out of thee— O to do so seems a profanity!—, And yet the world hath done so already With all of old Fortuna’s cruelty, When she should have looked on thee lovingly. Still, I shall sing of war most sparingly, And always with an aching, heavy heart That curses the day death did us part. Lover, mine wit, mine imagination, Know only thee and thy most sweet dominion, And after thee all mine thoughts do hearken: How now shall I this song of ours begin?

SECRETS ARE IN THE EYES

Anna Lindquist

I SEE

Anna Lindquist

REFLECTIONS UPON CARAVAGGIO’ S SAINT JEROME Josh Rubin

Nietzche said the last Christian died on the cross; He died again in literati Greek, And once more in old St. Jerome’s Latin. ‘Twas a pretty death, a scholarly one, Etched out upon a saint’s sun-hued pages, The apostle stretching with the sun, His eyes out to the obscure, foreign letters, His hand out to Christ’s new sepulchre (Perhaps it was because he knew his task To be grizzly as such that he so placed A clear sign of death upon his workplace). O my sweet Jesu, we have slaughtered thee With too many overwrought, lifeless words!

TO BE LOVED Anna Lindquist

TO BE KNOWN Anna Lindquist

DIAGNOSIS Raegan Allen

When I don’t eat my mother wants to give it a name. She wants to write me down like an old recipe card. Not to be placed in the wooden box in the pantry, but displayed at holiday dinners like the one with my dead grandmother’s scribbled instructions for Georgia peach pie. Start by peeling and slicing Drain peaches, reserving juices Bring to a boil, wait seventeen years It’s the last thing I have of her, my mother will say, and stroke the card like my jagged, jutting ribs.

MANY HANDS FOR MANY FACES Anna Lindquist

many hands 24

BOX 180 OF THE TED HUGHES PAPERS For Sylvia Plath Raegan Allen

I don’t want your son’s baptism certificate I want five thousand more books. Thirty—a crime with that mind you could have written it all and I guess you did. Inside a Christmas card Nick pencils Latin in curly calligraphy you never saw. Why should I know Frieda improved in arithmetic spring of ‘68 while you lie somewhere still? Her teacher has written “D.P. Delay” on her report card, which I read as Dead Parent. Doomed Person. Dread-Prone. Twelve purple candles dot Nick’s crayola tree and I wonder why this makes me angry. Why the picture in his miniscule frame mocks me. I have to shut the manila—it blinds me with inadequacy. Nick addresses everything “To Daddy and Carol”—maybe I shouldn’t tell you this. Frieda’s handwriting resembles yours. She scribbles poems everywhere, writes about death and trees and secret gardens on the back of a tea-stained pink parchment typescript. You might like to know that Nick can do well in French when he concentrates, but plays too much and is often guilty of turning in stories before checking the spelling. He is “very appreciative” of poetry, of course. In a red notebook he writes stories called “Our Attack on the Spanish” and “Richard V,” the latter earning a “This is very good. Did you copy some of it? In one folder a honey, twine-tied curl safe in a small black box. I have touched your daughter’s hair.

I have to stop when I reach another sleeve of artwork because no one could ever color the world like you, even your own. In this bright room I picture my nightstand where you wait, unblinking, studying my ceiling.

ALICE PORTRAIT Katherine Khayami

TO LOVE Josh Rubin

To sweet nothings and pretty dalliance, Doting days of indulgent indolence, And rooms with scintillating ambiance: To old love and its steadfast loveliness. Who else is as improvident as thee— No other passion is as supercilious And ardently haughty towards the others; None has grand objects so superfluous, Nor prances in stricken minds so gracefully, Nor runs amok therein so freely, As if more thyne than themselves’ are lovers. Impudence discloses a rare wisdom, And of this truth thee are the best teacher: It is written by acts in thy kingdom And proclaimed daily by a courtier Who hath a sweet disorder in their dress And that unwonted wild civility; They bewitch without beguiling With their mellifluous, uncouth address, Which seems sans form or rationality, But whose form is just that deficiency— Is there a more desirable lacking? To this thee owe thy most prized ascendance: The way in which the fleet glow of thy light Lends irrationality resplendence And reveals an otherwise hidden delight. For, what else could be wiser and more true Than that which is known with our whole being And is a fulguration to dark eyes That ne’er look past the bound psychê’s purview And suffer sensibility’s chaining. We need thee to do our unfettering And to add sweetness and weight to our sighs.

SORENESS John Cai

is warmth, a touch that wraps the body inside the sphere of a confited stillness. It lets acquaintances out of sight while makes clear of what is moved by the reflexes from what is moved by the will. Sleeping with it brings rest, whereas waking up with it brings dread. Every task even stretching out the palm needs choreography. How the muscles resemble the heart jumping up and down: guitar strings vibrating performing a nocturne. Come into a remote swimming pool, the guts lay at the bottom; tips of the toes try to step forward against the water echoing foreign languages, these long finishes. If the mind happens to stay intact, the present’ll dissolve into threads of spinning, malleable voices of interests, desires, devotions, of what’ve said and what’ve done. It is mild, a secret that ponders the self of what it has become.

T EN YEA RS L ATER Ben Spiegel

n the first year there was nothing. except me. Someone told me that wherever I go, there I am. No point And then there was a year of in searching, then. darkness. Days passed like kidney stones. It was always winter. The Seven was unlucky. In the seventh air slashed across my cheeks year, I found a twenty-dollar bill in whenever I went outside. The dry the parking lot of the gas station. crust of salt caked my shoes and Then I went inside and used the weighed me down. There was money for lottery tickets for the something deliciously miserable million dollar jackpot and didn’t about it. win a single one. The third was nothing. Life moves in duologies and trilogies and sagas and chronicles, and everything happens again, even nothing.

The eighth year was made up of only the important things. Faded sunlight. Old photos with young people. Blue pools. Green lawns. Yellow dogs. Red hair. I saw In the fourth year, it came back. people I hadn’t seen in eight years, Summer was full of life that wasted and they looked the same as their away like rotten fruit. The bugs yearbook photos but acted so crept out and fed on the decay and differently. Never mind that—they brought new life. Every night I looked different but I saw them was on the couch next to a silent the same, and they acted the same ghost, and the fireworks were loud but I always remembered them enough to see. Even when I felt differently. happy, it fizzled away like the red sparks in the night sky. Then the Nine lasted forever. It was smoke, illuminated by newer ashes, darkness. Someone told me the drifted up into the heavens to darkest hour is just before dawn. silence some birds. The sun couldn’t rise soon enough. In the meantime, life was dust. It Five was halfway, but halfway crumbled away in my hands and if points are never truly halfway. One I breathed too hard it disappeared. half is always longer than the other. I moved through the world as a phantom, and nobody saw me or It ended at six. Then it began right felt my presence. It was as if I’d where it started. The year was like vanished into thin air, as if I was coming back to school after a long never there at all. break, like I never left. I was in an alternate time, a fourth dimension Ten years later. Ten years later. where everything was different That’s what I keep telling myself: 30

ten years later. Where do you see yourself in ten years? Things won’t be like that—things never end up like you think they’ll be. Sometimes they work out. Usually, it doesn’t seem like they will. Ten years later, I am the same person. The world around me is the same. Years grow like plants. Time boils like water. Someone tells me a watched pot never boils. So I put my face over the steam and stare and stare, hoping it won’t boil, trusting that the roiling bubbles will never form, but no matter how hard I stare—and maybe it happens in between blinks—the water bubbles and bursts and bellows and boils. Someone tells me that ten years later I’d be different. Ten years later, I won’t care about the problems I had ten years before. Ten years later, I tell myself. Ten years later. I go to bed and in the morning when I wake up the sun beams through my window and I can hear the birds hoot the same melody they did ten years ago, and my blankets are warm but the day is full of possibility, and I haven’t had that for breakfast in ten years and I can’t tell if it tastes the same, if the flowers smell the same, if the sunlight feels the same, if the birds sound the same, if the colors look the same. Someone tells me that there will always be good and there will always be gray.

AFROFUTURISM Zoe Hughes

IN KENT Henry Koskoff

My father & I found a campsite overrun by pomp & sanctioned squarely. The extended families Must’ve taken their time in the afternoon to bolster 15Pronged tents, or one father did it all in the fifteen Before we got there. In any case the lot was substantial So we backed in sideways, our feet facing the lake. 49. My father. Fifty-six. Adjacent others keeping The kids busy while numbers kept them warm. We kept Trying, blowing like furious men into our kind of structure, Wondering why nothing caught. Not long after I clambered back into the camper & made a to-do list: Pack for Atlanta Get computer fixed Find husband Stay happy— I opened to rips of merigold over the water.

LEDGE

Anna Lindquist

TOP DRAWER, LEF T Nico Mestre

I folded the red one by tossing the arms back and then flipping it in half, making sure to keep the middle part together just like you taught me the day before you leaned past your mom and waved back at me from the passenger’s seat, looking through the green to see if I was still smiling or had turned to walk home (we thought it out) because I needed time to process.

AF TER THE PARTY Zoe Hughes

CORCOVADO Josh Rubin

I had time on my hands (you in my arms)— O how lovely then were those carefree nights Of stolen glances and killing kisses, Of vanquishing vamps and whispered tempests, Of Love’s sweat flowing forth like marmalade. Let those whose youthful lives are meaningless Savor in that most blesséd luxury Before the world forces meaning on them; Let them give their heart, not to know wisdom, And to know vexing madness and folly; Rather let them get their education From sweet nothings and pretty dalliance.

How to get him ba ck Nico Mestre 1. 2. 3.

4. 5. 6. 7.

Rub your eyes just enough to show that you’ve been crying, but not enough to smudge the makeup. Walk in to the beat of your favorite Dolly Parton song. Look around the room as if you are lost. Make eye contact with everybody in the room other than the one that left you. Do your very best to convince him that your entire life will derail without him, that you’ll be spinning around in the center of that café for an eternity. Then when the barista calls out “Helen,” run to grab her coffee. Make him wonder if that’s still even you in there. But don’t give him a chance to see. Become Helen. Use the kids, use the house, hell, use the dog (that he never walked) if you have to. Look directly into his eyes and tell him that you want to push reset. Thirty five years ago… Before the Mercedes Benz, and the hotel rooms, and the sirens. Before all the pictures. Before you had to type into Google search…

MORNING Nico Mestre

F L A S H FICTION CO NTEST The following piece is the winner of Alloy’s sixth annual Flash Fiction Contest. Emory students were challenged to write a story that focused on the theme “Internal Maladies” in 400 words or less. All of the submissions were excellent, which made choosing a winner extremely challenging. Congratulations to this year’s winner, Isabella Kaufman.

THE INCESSANT ITCH Isabella Kaufman

In my solitude, I am never truly alone. Not-so-subtle cameras line the walls of my cage. Figures armed with syringes peer at their specimen through thick glass, draped in white, masquerading as innocent. Alongside the red blinking lights, the incessant itch at the back of my skull is always watching. The itch whispers to me, scoffing at my cowardice, mocking me with unspeakable schemes.

my cage, if my greatest threats can walk right in and rattle the bars?

When it laughs, the horrible, grating noise echoes in the chasm of my skull. Warm blood trickles into my hands, their vice-like grip futilely clasped over my ears, while the red eye above does nothing but blink.

The voice hisses warnings. It claims they’re slowly poisoning me, eliminating the threat to mankind and giving in to public outrage, after so many months, hours, minutes of involuntary research. For, who really cares about ethics when the lives of your children are at stake?

My condition is deteriorating, and the itch in the back of my brain is demanding me to act. I can’t tell from these thoughts which are my own, and which are not. My eyes are swimming in blood, and the world’s reflection is crimson red. My head is crowded past capacity and it hurts.

The doctors tell me I’m sick, that I’m locked away for my own good, that I need to be a good girl and endure, that I mustn’t infect my saviors in white. But I’ve been thinking. The cell door is locked from the outside, and everyone has a key but me. How safe am I in

If humanity won’t save me, I will save myself. If I’m going to suffer death, it will not be in chains. The itch mutters fervently, dazzled with the prospect of escape. It tells me that we are one, that it would never

abandon me or discard me like trash as the rest of mankind has. It tells me we’re special, that we’re the catalyst for the future. And I’ve always wanted to be special, I think. Soon, we will leave this facility and finally breathe fresh air. The sun’s warmth will seep into our skin once again. We were born in the dark, cloaked in shadows. But in our impending freedom, I will ensure that we die in the light.

WIN TER A RT AND POETRY CO NTEST The following pieces are the winners of Alloy’s third annual Winter Art and Poetry Contest. Emory students were asked to submit poems and art pieces that related to the theme “Nostalgia.” The winning poem and the winning art piece were chosen to appear side-by-side in the magazine. The submissions were extremely high-quality, which made choosing the winners particularly challenging. Congratulations to this year’s winners, Zuha Jaffar and Ananya Mohan.

BENEATH THE LUNAR ECLIPSE Zuha Jaffar

with november scraped skin, subdued starlight blew our features away, wind pulling our sleepy eyelids apart until tears flimsily flooded from our weary eyes under the pomegranate moon the sun the earth the moon their gazes met in a passionate affair that candied copper blush illuminated our young faces pennies glinting in fountain water wishes wandering, waiting rusted and pink like soft raw flesh like infant love dreary dreams, disappearing metal oxidized—green tired, rusted but we were no fleeting fling we were denser than the flowing water we sank to the bottom and did not move our color stained the concrete we stood on or so we believed but i loved the taste of that pomegranate in the sky—sugary it would crumble, fade deliciously in my mouth while we watched, firmly planted in the soil below 43

NOSTALGIA , 2021 Ananya Mohan

CON TRIBUTO R S

RAEGAN ALLEN

Raegan Allen is a third-year creative writing student who enjoys loitering in independent bookstores and pressuring her friends to read Sally Rooney. After graduation, Raegan dreams of working in publishing in New York / London or opening a cafe devoted entirely to oatmeal.

MAT THEW BUXTON

Matthew Buxton is a sophomore majoring in Chemistry and Creative Writing. When he’s not studying or in a pandemic he loves writing, weight-lifting, running, skiing, traveling, concerts, films, and the DCT soft serve ice cream.

JOHN CAI

John Cai is a senior and an international student from China studying Playwriting and German Studies. He loves playing tennis, watching old French and Italian films and listening to classical music and 80s music. He likes cooking, dazing at the ceiling and having contemplative walks around the neighborhood while conjuring up a story in his mind.

ERIN DEVINE

Erin Devine is a first year at Emory University from Cincinnati, Ohio currently studying English and Creative Writing. In addition to reading and writing fiction, she enjoys watching Marvel movies, drinking excessive amounts of vitamin water, and calling her huskies by the wrong names. Beyond Emory, she hopes to live off of her roomate’s big science money while she tries to publish something.

EILEEN HERNANDEZ

Eileen Hernandez is a junior from Miami, Florida majoring in English. In her free time, she enjoys visiting her cult of neighborhood cats, crying over fictional characters, and reading movie reviews. After graduation, she plans to overcome her existential crisis, free sea animals from captivity, and bring One Direction back together.

ZOE HUGHES

Zoe Hughes is a sophomore majoring in Chemistry and Visual Arts. She enjoys creating and selling art, fashion, exploring Atlanta with her friends, and being involved in numerous organizations around campus.

These include the Dreaden cancer research lab, the Taiwanese American Student Association, the American Medical Student Association, and the Pipeline Program in which she tutors Atlanta high school students in STEM subjects. For her junior year, Zoe is looking forward to creating more impactful art and getting a cat.

ESTHER HUNG

Esther is a senior majoring in English and Creative Writing, with a minor in East Asian Studies. She enjoys obsessing over snakes, thinking about magic and various ways to torment her characters, and generally being a menace to society. She is looking forward to setting up a slice of life comic series after graduation where she can talk about her Taiwanese identity, funny things about growing up in Asia, and hilarious situations she has encountered as a writer.

ZUHA JAFFAR

Zuha is a first-year from Cleveland, Ohio studying creative writing on a pre-med track. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading, bothering her cat, Gatsby, and spending time with her friends.

ISABELL A KAUFMAN

Isabella Kaufman is a first-year Anthropology and Human Biology student here at Emory, who occasionally writes in her free time. She enjoys penning short stories and prose, especially horror. She takes inspiration from her surroundings, and so her goal is to one day write stories as disconcerting as Emory’s roaches, or the state of NJ as a whole. Until then, you can catch her conducting virology research and fencing with the rest of Emory’s club team.

KATHERINE KHAYAMI

I’m Kika, a passionate mixed-media artist from New York City. I plan on studying marketing and design.

HENRY KOSKOFF

Henry Koskoff is a Junior in the college, majoring in Creative Writing and Anthropology. He dreams of publishing his own poetry and prose one day, and is particularly interested in impressions of magic; how they are instated and how they are broken. This is what he hopes to pursue in his Honors Thesis next year. Otherwise, you can find him on stage at the

Schwartz Center, dancing for Emory Dance Company, or sketching at the first floor of the Carlos Museum.

JASON KRAF T

Jason Kraft is a freshman studying Film & English at Emory University.

ANNA LINDQUIST

Anna Lindquist is a senior majoring in English and Creative Writing and minoring in Ethics, and she is from St. Louis, Missouri. She is on the Financial Literacy Student Panel, focusing on making financial literacy accessible through social media and student led events. She is also Senior Arts Editor for the Alloy Literary magazine. She enjoys reading, writing and photography.

NICO MESTRE

Nico Mestre is a first-year majoring in Creative Writing and (maybe) Spanish. He is passionate about literary fiction and wants to publish a novel one day. He enjoys exploring his Cuban culture at Emory through writing stories, calling his Abuela, and eating the Cuban food from the Farmer’s Market every Tuesday.

ANANYA MOHAN

Ananya is a sophomore studying Psychology and English. In her free time she likes to paint.

JOSH RUBIN

Josh is a Freshman majoring in Philosophy. He is a sometimes-poet who enjoys black coffee, basking in the sun, ruminating, and other poetic things. He is beyond thrilled to have had the opportunity to share some of his writing with his peers and even more so that they liked it well enough to publish it. Hopefully you will be seeing more from him in subsequent issues.

BEN SPIEGEL

Hi! I’m Ben Spiegel and I’m part of the class of 2025, majoring in political science and creative writing on the pre-law track. I love writing fiction of any length, from short stories to novels. When I’m not writing, you can probably find me reading on the quad, climbing on the rock wall, or going on a run around campus.

“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language, and next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.” T.S. Eliot

SUBMISSION INFORMATION

Submit all work as separate attachments to: alloy.submissions@gmail.com

Please send each piece in a separate document, naming each with the title and genre of the piece (e.g. prose, poetry, art, photography). Art needs to be in 300dpi universal file format. Writing must be in Word document format. Author names cannot appear anywhere in the document. There is a limit of ten pieces per contributor. Contributors must be undergraduate students at Emory.

EDITI ORAL POLICY

Alloy is published once a year by students at Emory University. Submissions to Alloy are accepted from all undergraduate Emory students. Students who are interested can attend weekly meetings where the staff evaluates and discusses submissions anonymously. Opinions expressed by contributors do not necessarily reflect those of the editorial or general staff. Issues of Alloy are available at various locations around campus.

COLOPHON

Hardware: Apple Macintosh Software: Microsoft Word (word processing), Adobe InDesign CS5 (layout), Adobe Photoshop CS5 (image processing) Publisher: Emory Document Services Typography: Didot LT Pro, Montserrat Bold, Times New Roman, Times New Roman Italic

WEBSITE

https://alloy.home.blog

CONTRIBUTORS Haega11 Allen \latthe,v Buxton .John Cai Erin l)evi11e Eileen ller11a11dez Zoe 11 ughes Esther )lung Zuha .I a fTar Isahella Kauf'n1a11 Katherine Khavan1i 11 e 11rv Kos k o fT .t .Ja SO 11 Kraf' \1111a. Lindquist \ico \lestre \11a11va \Johan .Josh Hubin Ben. Spiegel