BRIO Spring 2025 // Reckoning Issue

BRIO RECKONING SPRING 2025 VOL.19 NO.2

NYU UNDERGRADUATE COMPARATIVE LITERATURE JOURNAL

Many thanks to Tim Xu for providing the photos for the front and back covers.

All alien illustrations made by Polina Belova.

/BREE-oh/, noun Vivacity, spirit, an individual energy.

The discipline of Comparative Literature is based on the assumption that the study of single texts and cultures is enriched by a knowledge of the texts and cultures surrounding them. It views literature from a broad and inclusive perspective in which philosophy, anthropology, history, language, and literary theory come together, and where the visual arts, theater, and modern media suggest crucial comparisons. This journal aspires to embody those ideas.

BRIO is a student-founded publication that combines literary criticism with fictive works and visual art. In an effort to represent the wide spectrum of discourses that serve as the foundation of comparative study, the journal accepts submissions from any sources and in any language. *

Letter from the Editor-in-Chief

As we explained in our poster, “Reckoning signifies a moment of accountability—political, social, environmental, or personal—when difficult realities must be confronted, past actions acknowledged, and responsibility assumed.”

Reckoning asks us to look outward: to channel our thoughts, emotions, and convictions toward something greater than personal concerns.

In this issue, you’ll encounter works inspired by real-life events that have shaped generations of people, and narratives that invite you to examine your own responses: How do you cope with hardship? How does your environment influence your perception? How do you react when unexpected challenges arise in your community? My hope is that each piece will encourage you to remain fully present, because it’s often difficult to stay engaged with an important cause. It is true that many of us today experience the consequence of consuming more than we create, and that is why it’s so important to remain reflective in order to stay present: it may feel daunting to speak out rather than watch or listen, to create rather than copy or consume, but it is in the moments of action and creation when you feel truly present.

While I prepare to graduate from NYU, I want to thank the Comparative Literature Department for the exceptional freedom they grant to explore one’s passions. It never felt like mere acceptance of my interests, but rather a genuine curiosity about what sparks me as a student. On behalf of the entire BRIO team, I want to thank the department for caring so deeply about our vision. I have loved leading BRIO, and I can’t wait to see how diversely it continues to grow.

Many thanks to Cristina Vatulescu and A.M. Wild for providing me with guidance and truly listening to me. Thank you to the BRIO team for doing an incredible job on this issue, to everyone who shared their work, and to my fiancé, Ryan, for compiling this issue and helping me make decisions with confidence.

Very best wishes, Polina Belova Editor-in-Chief

Table of Contents

Eye on the Bat

9

by Ashley Ngyuen

Sonnet to Robber, Dear Man

13

by Lauren Stanzione

Tourist in My Home Country

14

by Leslie Zhina

Graphic

20

by Maia Villalba

Jalisco Bonito (with translation)

22

by Fernanda Sanchez

The Fire and the Fabric

28

by Maximus Allen

Photograph

32

by Hannah Weisz

Brio Quiz

34

Language Barriers

41

by Meili Liang

Burning

47

by Gia Nicole Carillo

Rose-Ringed Fountain

49

by S.R.H.

Fish Bowl

52

by Sara Finnegan

Blood Diamond

59

by Katherine Simon

Turmoil of Our Reckoning

64

by Sophie Daniel

On My Days Off, Playing Cherry Bomb and

65

Suburbia

by Saachi Sethii

Photographs

70

by Alia Attar

A Dry Frustration

by Franklin Dong

74

8

9

Eye on the Bat

by Ashley Nguyen

Many years later, as he reclined in a La-Z-Boy chair surrounded by daughters and pale diapered grandchildren, Major Le Minh Gat was to remember the echoed clinking of the last bullets to pierce commie flesh falling to the blacktop. At the time the major, too, was diapered. After his last surgery, his eldest daughter wheeled him out to the hospital parking lot, where he soiled himself discreetly and then barked at her to open the minivan door faster. Of course, he understood that one cannot rush machinery. For the pace of anything, war or tumor removal alike, is ultimately determined by the clicking of some metal master — the artillery of the heart monitor, the gentle beeping of a still-sleeping grenade. Even the La-Z-Boy chair with its automated reclining feature required somewhat of a wait.

But it wasn’t the purr of the chair that brought him back to Saigon 1975, the scent of gunpowder in the wet air, the earth’s rumble as if giants approached the city’s heart. It

10 wasn’t even the stiff yank of the windows’ vertical blinds of his eldest daughter’s guest house, the glare which blanketed his china-store living room in an awful white light reminiscent of an accidental M79 blast mere yards from the foxhole. It was, instead, the toddling grandchild taking his first four steps before a crowd of jubilant, shushing mothers – before he stumbled into the major’s glass display cabinet filled with wedding china, snow globes, and war memorabilia. Three precariously resting 12.7mm bullets toppled down three levels of Christmas cards and Hawai’i knick-knacks, where they fell to the unfinished cement floor and rolled around in arbitrary circles before arriving at the foot of the major’s La-Z-Boy reclining chair.

With the sudden virility of a second lieutenant, Le Minh Gat leapt from his La-Z-Boy chair before it had even finished reclining. All the daughters and their husbands gasped at the sight of the sedentary old man putting such pressure on his aching, knobby knees that typically wobbled during even the briefest of walks from the couch to his electric wheelchair. The daughters, all fair in the face but equally sturdy in the mind, rushed to the major’s side as loving daughters do–their husbands keeping a respectable distance from him, as well mannered sons-in-law do–because all three recognized the look of a man reinvigorated by memories of a once-glorious life. The major, now

11 furrow-browed and crouching in his boxers and undershirt, silenced the room with a hand. “Everyone shut up,” he said, “the enemy is closing in.” As he inspected each bullet through his low-hanging reading glasses, he placed them one by one into the inside of his right cheek. The three bullets in the major’s mouth — which he kept over the years in case Sergeant Nguyen Gat Hao ever found him all the way in Orange, California — were not intended for a commie, but for the mercy of each member of his family, back before the younger daughters were born.

Over the next thirty minutes, as three sons-in-law grabbed the major’s arms and secured him to the couch before he could reach for the old rifle leaning against the wall right behind the La-Z-Boy chair, once a deadly weapon, now forty years impossibly jammed and practically a toy, the youngest daughter watched the glazed expression in her father’s eyes subsided. He disappeared into a puddle in his own mind, muttering orders to men long dead and wishes for a loving future he’d forgotten came true. In the major’s grey-rimmed eyes, the youngest daughter, who preferred to stay in her condo in San Diego than visit her elderly parents, saw the young soldier trapped inside her father all those years. She much disliked what she saw.

On the car ride back to San Diego, her husband would bring up the bizarre unfolding of events of her father’s

12 eighty-fourth birthday celebration; the way they held the children back, scooping the crawling ones back into the arms of their mothers and fathers, shielding them from the crazed expression on their loving grandfather.

She would try to put a hundred miles between herself and the memory: “Someone needs to put some carpet in that guest house. Everything sounds so echoey in there.”

Sonnet to Robber, Dear Man

by Lauren Stanzione

You’re probably the man I think most about besides my boyfriend, or James Joyce.

We met and you startled me, I was very Freaked. You watched me wake up and you urged me not to go. I told my mom about you, and five police officers, and four detectives, And one DA’s assistant, who’s hot, who got me through my testimony. I identified your face in a sea of persons and I picked you. Always. You’ve been sitting in Rykers for nine months, growing forgiveness — I still think of you all the time. Every creak and it’s your boots, clompity clomp. Eyes in the dark, floating boba orbs, chilling Me. To escape you would be to have never encountered You, or your imaginary knife, or our love for gold jewelry.

Tourist in My Home Country

by Leslie Zhina

I am eighteen years old and boarding a plane to go back to Ecuador. I’ve told myself it would be a fun trip, with my cousins, aunt, mom, sister, for only three weeks, but I wasn’t really going back since I had never been.

Where are you from? A question often asked by adults looking down at me as a child.

New York, I would answer.

No, where are you actually from?

I knew what they meant, the implications hidden behind their thin veil of courtesy: you don’t belong here, so where the hell are you from?

I’m from Ecuador, lying.

Have you gone before?

No, I repeated until I was eighteen.

The inquisitors’ response varied. A frown, a mention of it being a splendid country, or saying they hoped I would visit home someday. Home? Yes, of course, the place

15 I didn’t visit until I was an adult is my home, naturally.

Just as natural, the pit of dread I felt as the plane lifted off. Some power glued me to the seat, repeating: sit down,

sit tight now.

Homesickness, my mom labeled it as we got out of the Guayaquil airport. She looked around at the sea, land, and sky—every fiber of her being had ached for this return for two decades. And now, here she was, face pressed against the buseta window, peace radiating from her warm breath, a Green card snugly hidden in her purse.

Hadn’t I returned home too? A home I never knew, that could have been mine, given to me in fragments, hazy images.

I had imagined it would be a desert landscape, desolate, with tumbleweeds passing by and small wooden houses. These thoughts were instigated by my mom’s description of growing up in the countryside, poor, backward, needing to escape— hideous thoughts that dissipated by my teenage years.

Yet, I was surprised to see the abundance we passed by: endless fields of corn, bananas, and wheat, the foundations of life. There were clusters of stands on the side of the highway— families selling fruits that overflowed on the tables. Guyabana, naranjilla, grandallia, achotillo,

sapote, unfamiliar fruits. It was a paradise, the ideal climate, but not the ideal country. Millions had fled, the great scattering across the Earth. Their home could not

16 provide.

My father often said that the language spoken in Ecuador was not Spanish but money. He was intelligent with the ambition to become a doctor, but none of that mattered here because he was poor. His story is not unique. My mom only attended school until she was thirteen. Afterwards, there was no more money. I struggled to find significance in returning to the place that had disregarded so many for the crime of being poor. But my mom wanted to—needed to—return.

America had become her second home and the country of her daughters, but not where she belonged or where she thought we did. Always urging me to remember that I am completely, one hundred percent Ecuadorian. Of course, I have lived in America only for all my life, not knowing any place beyond the borders of New York State. How could I feel homesick if I was returning to Ecuador, my native land and supposed home? Not that I subscribed to the idea my father attempted to imbue in me, that I am American, completely, one hundred percent.

For my mom, our arrival was a homecoming of tearyeyed smiles and falling into the rhythm of old relationships. I don’t remember who was there. I often have trouble putting names to faces, and I was introduced to person after person. A wide smile and a tight embrace. They all knew

17 who I was—my mom’s eldest daughter—while I knew they were important to my mom.

I sat next to them, but my mind ran towards the airport, rushing through security, jumping onto the plane to get back home. My home? Is it? Has it ever been? It’s the place where people like me are constantly demonized: we take jobs, but also we are lazy, worthless, stupid leechers, a plague which must be cured by any means necessary.

How pathetic, then, laughable to want to go back home.

But the thought of home lingered in my mind even as we went to some of the tourist places. Taking pictures of sites found in articles titled “BEST PLACES TO VISIT IN ECUADOR!” A tourist in my home country. We went to the cathedral, beautiful but exhausting with too many stairs, to the bath houses, which were closed, to a mall, desolate, and two markets, Diez de Agosto y Nueve de Octubre.

I asked my mom why the markets were named after days of the year. She did not know. Slightly agitated at the lack of an answer, or maybe because of the bright sun in my eyes, sweat beads began to form along my forehead. I turned to Google.

August 10th, Ecuadorian Independence Day or Día del

Primer Grito de Independencia de Quito. October 9th, Independence of Guayaquil, October 9th, 1809. In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. Three hundred years, three hundred

18 years of Spanish rule. They imposed themselves, their language, and diseases because the Spanish wanted what was sold most in this market: gold. It was all around me, and I ran my fingers through endless chains. True, authentic, cold. But what they found was never enough. There had to be more—they wanted more—and left destruction in their search for their city of gold.

We left for the Nueve de Octubre market, where there were artisan crafts. We were called over to buy because they knew we had the money they needed to survive. Shoulder to shoulder with strangers who haggled, as did my mom. I asked her to stop, let it be, give them what they wanted, but she insisted it was unfair. But nothing is fair, I wanted to scream into the humid air. Nothing, none of this, why did the Spanish have to come here, ruin all of us, take everything, and leave us with a puzzle with the pieces scattered and then smashed into dust by a hammer.

None of it was good for anyone. If you stay, you suffer; if you leave, you suffer, what to do, what to do? What to—I began to feel a bit like I was blinking for too long.

Water, water, it became dark, eyelids feeling the weight, open, open, go back up. Why am I here? Leave, leave, leave.

I grabbed onto tables, splinters slipping into my skin.

Half smile to the vendor, face melting away.

My lips stuck, Mom, Mom, words trapped, scratching to

19 get out, Ma, Ma. Get out, get back. Home, I need, open eyes, somewhere, go—even when open, my eyes, darkness, clouds, vision. My body bends, hands over my knees, hot breath escapes my chest, I need to, up, a chair, stool, I see, I don’t know, but do there get, sit.

Heavy footsteps, dim distance, muffling, shuffling, a lollipop in my hand. Hastily in my mouth the sweet molasses, making the inside of my cheek soft, my mom, same lollipop my mom would bring after cleaning some office, back home, I want to.

Twice, this spell has come, fainting, same questions arise just as brightness increases, clouds move, where, who, what I am? I want to be back home. To that place? This country? No, no, no home, rented space, holds my, everything, life, mine. The place I call home, in the place that I am told is not home, thinking, while in the place that would have been my home had my parents chosen differently,

no somos de aqui ni de aya, but I, I want, need to be from somewhere. I want to go home.

20

21

In collaboration with Artists Against Apartheid, an international anti-imperialist organization representing more than 8,000 artists, activists, and cultural workers in over 60 countries, I designed a political poster to celebrate the history of solidarity between Palestinian olive farmers in the occupied West Bank and Afro-Mexican water defenders in the Pacific Coast of Oaxaca. From olive trees to mangrove leaves, I hope to visualize how racialized human and other-than-human bodies are traversed by local and global structures of power. Inspired by the dynamic writings of Meztli Yoalli, Rodriguez Aguilera, Gladys Tzul Tzul, and Kim TaliBear, I believe that Indigenous dignity means the desire to live communally, organize alternative economies, and perform everyday practices of resistance in service of the lands which give them life.

by Maia Villalba

Jalisco bonito

por Fernanda Sanchez

La primera vez que visite Jalisco era tan pequeña que ni recuerdo nada.

Pero unos años después visité la tierra de mi familia. ~ El ambiente olía como a selva quemada, y los árboles mueven o bailan con el aire, y yo también me muevo con la naturaleza.

Llegamos a un pueblo pequeño, el hogar de mis abuelos, y el hogar de mis ancestros.

Y mi espalda se enfría como si mis ancestros estuvieran cerca.

23 Y en verdad si puedo sentir su presencia: porque están presentes en la comida que prepara mi abuela, y en las flores que crecen afuera en la calle, y los retratos que se cuelgan libremente en las paredes.

La tierra pertenece a ellos, y ellos pertenecen a la tierra de Jalisco bonito, y serán enterrados en todo lo que vive.

Yo, con tanta curiosidad, atravieso la tierra de Jalisco, y encuentro tanta vida entre las calles y corredores. Los domingos se llenan con tejanas y caballos porque los toros llenan el estadio, y comienzan con sus travesuras mientras mostran un espectáculo.

A la misma vez los caballos bailan y tratan de atrapar al toro.

La noche se acaba con tacos del puesto, y comemos hasta que salga el sol, y caminamos a nuestro hogar,

24 charlando y riendo de todo y más allá.

Jalisco bonito, lleno de lagos celestiales, comida que nos llena la panza, y una lengua que nos unifica.

Siempre será la tierra que quiero visitar Al que espero llevar a mis hijos y sus hijos, porque mis ancestros nunca serán muertos, ni la tierra en que pertenecen.

Beautiful Jalisco (translation)

by Fernanda Sanchez

The first time I visited Jalisco I was so little that I don’t remember a thing.

But a few years later, I visited the land of my family. ~ The atmosphere smelled as if it was a burning forest, and the trees swayed like dancers the wind, and I too move with nature.

We arrived at a small town, the home of my grandparents, the home of my ancestors.

A cooling breeze brushed as if my ancestors were near.

And in reality I can feel their presence:

26 in every food my grandma prepares, in the flowers that grow in the streets, in the frames hanging loosely on the walls.

The land belongs to them, and they belong to the land of beautiful Jalisco, and they will be forever buried in all that lives.

I, with lots of curiosity, travel along the land of Jalisco, finding plenty of life in between the streets and corridors. Sundays are filled with cowboy hats and horses because the bulls full of pride, furiously runs into the arena, mighty and tall as it looks to create chaos, and meets eye to eye with red; a great enemy, and they begin their shenanigans as they begin a spectacular.

And the horses dance, swaying their hips, stomping up and down, as the men gloriously try to claim victory;

27 tying the bull around the neck as if it were a present for the crowd.

The night finishes with tacos from the street stand, and we eat until the night ends, and we walk back home, talking and laughing about everything and beyond.

Beautiful Jalisco, full of celestial lakes, food that fills up our stomachs, and a language that brings us together.

It will always be a place where I yearn to visit forever, where I hope to bring my children and their children, for my ancestors will never die, nor the earth they belong to.

The Fire and The Fabric

by Maximus Allen

Downtown was quiet. Nothing could be heard for miles except for the croaking of toads and the crackling of flames.

A teenage boy pulled the collar of his jacket over his nose to block out the fumes. His pale ankles itched in the stalks of knee-high grass as he took in the sight before him: fiery tongues lapping up the blackened sky, white smoke billowing into the humid air, and a burning flag sprawled across the loosened asphalt of a roundabout.

Squinting through the smoke, he could make out another, smaller flag, even more dangerous, stitched into the upper corner of the cotton fabric. He couldn’t believe it; the hateful, century-long legacy of that banner and its symbol was ending right before his eyes. A simple trick of arson was to blame, and his best friend Sarah was the culprit.

She was standing beside him now, matchbox in hand, a canister of gasoline in the other. Her breathing was heavy,

29 and her brows were furrowed, dark eyes glowing in the orange light. They were concentrated, focused on the crime she—no, they had just committed.

His freckled face grew slick with sweat as he pictured the next few hours: the rapping of a fist at the front door of his father’s house, blue and red lights spilling through the blinds of his bedroom window, the shackles on their wrists— “Eli,” Sarah said, breaking the stillness. “You still with me?”

Eli startled at first but cleared his throat, glossy eyes still glued to the burning fabric as he managed a sound of agreement.

But in all honesty, he wasn’t sure. This had never been a part of the plan. Two weeks ago, when they met under the bleachers during Sarah’s basketball practice, Eli had made their order of operations very clear: 4 AM, Wednesday morning, Brandon’s town square, two cans of spray paint.

The statue of the seven-feet-tall rebel soldier first, and the state flag of Mississippi with that symbol of the Confederacy next. But not a second after he tagged the fabric with a defiant black fist, she doused it with gasoline. She had been hiding it in her backpack the entire night, and he didn’t even have time to react before he saw the first sparks.

30 Eli never would have thought that all of those talks in the back of the bus would lead to this. That bitching about their small town, its twelve thousand residents with their perfectly bleached smiles, orange-colored spray tans, and Southern hospitality would culminate in a roaring blaze.

But it wasn’t completely unexpected.

In

the

past

month,

Sarah’s

entire

demeanor

had

changed. The straight-A student, once quiet and agreeable, had dropped all her pleasantries. She now walked with purpose through the crowded hallways of their high school, shoulder-shoving students to get to her next destination.

In the classroom, her answers were quick and curt, and her eye rolls and sighs made it abundantly clear: the entire world was her enemy.

And Eli knew that the recent George Floyd protests were responsible; it was all she talked about. They had awakened something in her, and maybe it had always been there, bubbling under the surface and threatening to explode from a brown girl that could no longer afford to stay silent.

Could he really blame her? Every day, Eli bore witness to the ugly history that haunted this place: boys doing donuts in the school parking lot with their Confederate flags proudly displayed in the back of their pickup trucks;

31 “Heritage, Not Hate” stickers plastered to the red walls of student lockers and bathroom stalls. Teachers didn’t do anything. How do you fix a problem that seems to be ingrained in the very culture of a people, hiding and buried deep within their beings like the overgrown roots of magnolia trees under sidewalks?

People were desperate for change; Eli saw that every morning on the Channel 3 News. This was that for them, but obviously it had meant more to Sarah than he could have ever imagined. He looked up at her now, saw her shoulders rose and fell with each breath. She needed this.

Sarah wiped at the corner of her eyes and sniffled.

“We need to go,” she said. “Now.” Eli pulled down the brim of his cap. “Okay,” he whispered.

But as Sarah collected her things, slinging her backpack over her shoulder, and started walking away from him, he caught sight of a glowing ember drifting over his head.

He turned and traced the burning wisp as it traveled off the road and past the grass, catching on the treeline back toward downtown. A sickly feeling pooled in his stomach, and he felt his face go numb.

It’s spreading, he thought. The flames are spreading, and we didn’t even notice.

Eli opened his mouth to speak but was stopped by a

32 hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to meet Sarah’s gaze, saw something in it that made him shiver. And in that split-second, she was unrecognizable.

“Leave it.” Her voice was low and quiet, her face burning with a bitterness. She pointed up the road with her chin. “Let’s get out of here.”

A flurry of thoughts flashed through his mind, but he only gave her a slight nod. Eli followed her down the sidewalk, back to his car. As he did, he took one last glance at all that was left of their confrontation: the smoldering pile of ashes, the blackened stain on the pavement, the fire and the fabric.

I spoke with a printmaker named Eric about the recent evictions of artists in Washington Square Park. He’d been selling his work here for years, and admitted this wave of police intervention was unlike anything he had seen before.

He handed me a repurposed USPS sticker with information to contact the local government to fight for peaceful public art. “You can’t stop Wash,” he said as his goodbye. Based on Baudelaire, Abbott, and what I’ve seen so far in this city, I choose to believe him.

by Hannah Weisz

Quiz

by Lola Bosa What type of activism is right for me?

Are you new to activism and unsure where to begin? While all methods of activism are important and necessary, it’s helpful to find an approach that aligns with your personal needs and interests. A healthy mix of various methods can be beneficial, but some ways of getting involved may resonate more with you—take this quiz to find out which form to try!

How to Score Your Quiz: Count how many As, Bs, Cs, and Ds you selected.

The letter with the most answers will reveal which type of activism is worth looking into!

If you were to throw a party, what would be your priority?

A. The invitations — You are quick to send out that Partiful.

B. The people — You let plus ones, bring plus ones.

C. The refreshments — You have everyone over for dinner.

D. The decorations — You love curating a vibe.

35 Who do you enjoy spending time with, and what will you do?

A. Your best friend — You will spend the day getting coffee and scouting places to take photos.

B. Your squad — You will go to the movies or the park if it’s nice.

C. A stranger — You will go out, whether to the store or the club, to meet someone new, with whom you will share a new experience.

D. A friend or two — You will attend a reading or an opening with a longtime friend or an acquaintance; you’re not picky.

If you’re watching a movie, what genre will you go for?

A. A romantic comedy, like When Harry Met Sally — You love to equal parts laugh and swoon.

B. A feel-good, like Good Will Hunting — You want to see people coming together, realizing their dreams.

C. A crime-thriller, like Zodiac — You enjoy watching people get to the bottom of things using strategy.

D. An absurd fantasy, like Eraserhead — You like art that confuses, delivering a surreal vision you must piece together.

36 Where do you find your music?

A. You listen to whatever is viral on TikTok. B. You get recommendations from friends.

C. You have Shazam on the ready.

D. You like finding small, underground artists.

If you were to opt for a sweet treat, what would it be?

A. A cookie with Dubai chocolate, a matcha croissant, or another dessert that is on everyone’s mind at the moment.

B. A cake so that you can share.

C. Something new, maybe even something savory.

D. Something local, made with love.

If you were to go on vacation, where would you go?

A. Hawaii — You want a drink in hand while you curate your perfectly beachy photo dump.

B. Paris — You thrive off the buzz of a city, meeting new people, and its cultural rhythms.

C. Home — You prefer returning to your roots and finding the new in the familiar.

D. Barcelona — You travel for inspiration, often spending your time in museums and galleries.

37 You’re picking an outfit to see your favorite artist live.

What vibe do you go for?

A. A T-shirt with the artist on it or an inside joke discussed in the fandom — You want to stick out in the hopes that they’ll notice you.

B. A t-shirt and jeans — You always opt for comfort, so that way you can dance and freely move through the crowd.

C. A shirt and dress pants — You want to be able to move, but still look elevated.

D. A jacket you designed — You love putting things together that others wouldn’t dare to try.

What is your favorite social media app and why?

A. Instagram/TikTok — You like how easy it is to share things with large followings.

B. Twitter — You want to get your point across simply and quickly.

C. Reddit — You enjoy connecting with people on niche topics.

D. Pinterest/Tumblr — You are a firm believer in the motto that a picture is worth a thousand words.

38 Results: Mostly As: Media Activism You are aware of the power of social media, and, if you haven’t used it in such a way yet, it can be a valuable form of activism. Whether by sending emails, signing forms, or sharing a helpful infographic, the sway of public opinion can go a long way. There are more ways to come together than in a public space, with social media enabling people to connect globally. Take, for example, Starr Carter in Angie Thomas’s The Hate U Give, who uses social media, op-eds, and viral infographics to shift public opinion after witnessing police violence. Still, don’t feel pressured to always stay behind a screen—discussions with friends, peers, colleagues, or even the person next to you on the subway are just as important in engaging with diverse audiences.

Mostly Bs: Protest Activism You are someone who enjoys addressing problems in the public spotlight. If you believe change does not happen in isolation, attending a march and thriving off the energy of a community advocating for a shared outcome could be right for you. Turn to Enjolras in Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables for a textbook example of taking to the streets. Although

39 you are strategic, you also appreciate a little risk, which may motivate you to take action quickly. Remember, though, that making a difference does not happen overnight—be sure to stay steadfast in your purpose. All good things take time.

Mostly Cs: Political Activism You recognize that, although we are all individuals, we must act together to create meaningful change. Although voting is one of the most important things a citizen can do, many don’t. Whether through campaigning for candidates you believe in or collective signatures for a petition, you understand that representation comes in the form of participation. To be heard, we must be involved. Like in George Orwell’s 1984, Winston Smith, a member of the underground “Brotherhood,” writes in his secret diary to record his thoughts and feelings about the Party in an effort to rebel. If you start to lose your spark, with the end of the road not feeling near, we recommend trying one of the other forms of activism to realign yourself with your purpose.

Mostly Ds: Art Activism Whether you create art or simply enjoy basking in it, you recognize its ability to inspire thought, but what you may not have realized is that it can be a valuable tool in en-

40 couraging others to take action. Similar to Liesel Meminger in Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief, who paints words on walls and reads banned books aloud to resist Nazi censorship, you understand that art, in its numerous forms, has the ability to convey new perspectives and even challenge the status quo. You are someone who is creative and expresses themselves in various media. For your next piece, we recommend that you consider the world around you, what you do and do not believe in, by generating a piece of activist art.

Language Barriers

by Meili Liang

The light above you was as enticing as the stars I stared at during the twelve-hour airplane trip. In Chinese, moths always dart into fires. I wondered if humans have kinships with moths. At least, my father had.

We, the immigrants, had waited for this moment. The dazzling light dignified your face. Dignified as a bag full of gods.

As a child of a recumbent figure, I was only attracted to your anteater-like nose.

However, you were a glutton, so nonchalant. With your seasoned dismemberment techniques, you could always calm me down. A knife of your mother tongue cut down my ears. You put them into your mouth:

42 People were friendly in my middle school, but I didn’t understand their words, so it was natural that I was alone.

Blood gently oozed out, but it felt like water.

Warm water.

They said every immigrant would experience cannibalization.

It was only in hindsight that I felt the heat.

Not the heat underneath the July beams,

43 but inside a crematory with cadavers dancing death.

Do not, do not let me speak English the second time as you digest my tongue.

The awkward accents that I knew I would utter, I let die inside my body and escaped into a room where I always return: ଑ީ▲୿௰਩ङ۰୿ͫ௰਩‫ײ‬ыङज剗ͫ௰਩‫࠾ײ‬ъङ১ࡊ澞֨଑ୌсળ‫؍ڮ‬ ‫ͫڶ‬҂ћ߄һգङઢொ澞 I stayed in this room.

This was how

44 you- the stars glistening - swallowed my limbs.

I recalled the screaming from the crematory within my silent body.

On the plate, only a resigned heart that you may see from an old elephant in a cheap circus, drawing pictures unknown to its artist to avoid whipping.

You cleaned up the plate.

A plate so white,

45 as if it was completely assimilated into the White.

Slim eyes weeping.

Hoarse roaring.

Once, before the new trainer, the elephant ran unhinged.

Its wildness still survived, it thought.

So it was released back to the forest, grabbing a drawing brush

46 in its long nose.

Oil paints dipped in its wrinkles.

Scarlet.

There the elephant found that through ages of drawing, it was a stranger to all forests.

Burning

by Gia Nicole Carillo

The world is burning, and I’m craving popcorn. The news is blaring of people losing their homes, a grandmother’s priceless Ming vase, family photo albums, and birth certificates—all living proof that they ever existed— blown away by the Santa Anas. And yet I lay on the cool concrete of the driveway, oil-stained and porous, staring up at the sky, letting the ashes of all that was lost coat my body. Ashy knees, ashy elbows, ashy lips. Benjamin Franklin is dying again — along with other green American heroes, charred American slaveowners—all ablaze beneath the hot California sun. Invisible toxins enter my lungs, but if I can’t see them, they can’t exist. Like hope or memories withered to black. My Ferris Bueller luck is stinging my eyes, not the guilt that I still have a home when others do not. Never the guilt—because it’s invisible too. Fire is simply a casualty of living in the desert.

Why do I feel so cold? My body is begging for laugh-

48 ter, for release from this conflict between concrete and heat. The sky is red; the wind is gray. The world is on fire, but I’m craving popcorn.

This isn’t real. This is a movie. We live in Hollywood, after all. Where do the silver screens end and the props become real? When they’re filled with pet hair, half-dead flowers, dirty dishes in the sink, and unfinished homework on the dinner table?

Yes, popcorn would be perfect—a perfect pairing with chemical fumes choking the sky. Then Mother Nature yells “Cut!” And the wind stops exhaling, while the stunt doubles pat out the fires on their shoulders, and everyone grabs refreshments.

It’s real. What? It’s real.

That can’t be true – because I can’t see a damn thing.

There’s too much smoke.

Rose-Ringed Fountain

by S.R.H.

There’s a corpse in the rose-ringed fountain the auburn tufted fur solemn, a face-down floating phantom.

The roses are dead in February.

The auburn tufted fur is silent in the bright water guarded by creeds and dead roses. It’s February, and the onyx fence hasn’t always caged the bright water guarded by creeds.

I’ve only just got here, and I wonder why it’s there, that fence whose corners they leave open.

But I worked hard to get here, so I mutely make to pass the fountain;

50 today they opened one corner of the center of the school and its libraries.

In the muted air of the fountain I behold a chiseled tear-stained coven: the heart of the school and its libraries.

Community cries more than Church in that convent of kneeling women,. but Her square of sisters will never see the dark tracks of despair upon Her cheeks.

There is no kneeling Madonna for Brutality, yet she was here in this square with her sisters and her truncheons, tear gas, zip ties, and blood.

There is no kneeling Madonna for Brutality.

If there were, she’d only care for us to know her truncheons, tear gas, zip ties. “Blood spilled by allies isn’t blood worth caring for,” she’d smile, hardly caring for us as we are caught in America’s loving fist, blood spilled by allies. Isn’t it worth caring for?

Genocide for generations

51 sculpted by America’s loving fist?

I’ve only just got here, and I thought that protesting genocide for generations would be school-certified. But I see that I’ve only just got here, and to protest the gas and the fence and the blood is not school-certified. I see that face-down floating phantom, the gas and the fence and the blood: There’s a corpse in the rose-ringed fountain.

Fish Bowl

by Sara Finnegan

Siegfried stood centimeters, no inches, away from the fire alarm. Red and tempting. A Catholic might say it meant something. What a small, delicate lever. How harmless. And for Siegfried, how perfect. One slight squeeze and the lifeless carcass that was Surman Inc. can feel, for a moment, alive. He can make his escape. For months, Siegfried systematically walked the line between insane and slightly less insane, watching, day in and day out, the “9 to 5’ers” sit, numbed by sedentary jobs. They really should walk more. Maybe get one of those standing desks. Siegfried, himself, fell into the practice of bouncing his knees to remind his heart he still had legs. Shoved in that fluorescent coffin, he wondered which hand, big or small, hour or minute, he was chained to. Which would kill him first?

But eventually, some piece, some semblance of his soul, or for the skeptics, his will, had begun writhing beneath his hunger. Now Siegfried stood only millimeters from temporary

53 relief. Just 45 minutes of freedom while the fire depart-

ment comes. Just so I can grab a coffee and enjoy the sun.

“Lovely weather we’re having, ay,” his boss’ baby mama’s third cousin, job title unknown, began walking towards him and stopped at the appropriate distance for the workplace.

“Yes. Very warm. Uh, but not too warm. Just right.”

Sigfried’s will was slipping.

“Any weekend plans, friendo?” He took a swig of his coffee and swirled it around his tastefully selected mug, which said “I’m Not A Gynecologist But I’ll Take A Look.”

“Nothing too crazy,” the words cut the lining of his throat as they passed through.

It was true. Siegfried had no crazy weekend plans, “friendo.” Or any at all. He hadn’t for months, maybe years. Then again what’s the difference between two springs ago stuffed in blazers and this autumn, also stuffed in blazers. The overhead lights bounced off the white walls all the same. It was always 65 degrees. Now it’s important to note, because of Siegfried’s pride and my dedication to the truth, that Siegfried did not fall victim to the online cult of involuntary celibacy or become a part-time recluse.

No, he was a white-collar man. First gen and bright eyed.

He had every intent to rise the ranks and make a name for himself.

54 “Ah, well, I’m going out with a couple of the boys.

The night might end up a little crazy, Ha!” Nepo baby #1 flashed Siegfried that plastered-on smile, which, despite its familiarity, startled him just as much, and titillated him far less, than those pop-up porn ads on his worn down Lenovo computer.

“That’s my guy!” Siegfried said and before he realized, the muscles in his face began to lift up and produce that same synthetic grin. In fact, such workplace grins take up most of the company’s energy and time. One smile equals about 3,000 w/h or watts per hour (more if you decide to show teeth.) And since each workday has around seven small talk encounters, averaging about four or five smiles each time plus the routine “Good morning” and “See you tomorrow” ones, the daily energy usage to maintain such pseudo-kinship is estimated at 94,502 watts. In other words, that shit is exhausting.

The communists and anarchists claim that is some deliberate tactic of the Man to subdue and control those beneath him. And in fact, Siegfried did become subdued– whether or not you agree with that commie stuff. All previous plans of pulling fire alarms or breaking from his enclosure slipped deep into that sponge that existed in the confines of his skull. Siegfried now sat at his cubicle with each vertebrae resting so delicately on top of one

55 another that if one were to snap, the entire chain would collapse. There’s too much at stake, he reminded himself.

The fit of mental derangement or mental clarity (Siegfried couldn’t tell), replayed as a sort of bad dream. What he didn’t know was that for a number of weeks, he had been inching towards, and back down again, from that ledge. Fire alarms were simply replaced with other office appliances or amenities. On one occasion, Siegfried braced his hands for the scorching pain of a freshly made pot of coffee before an intern stumbled into the breakroom asking where she could get 11 x 17 inch computer paper. Such a shame. He had just gotten used to the idea of his hand all mangled from third degree burns. Each time, however, some internal or external force had stopped him from doing anything too drastic.

Maybe he thought of his mother in these moments. Perhaps he only imagined her as a mirror. Peering into her eyes to see himself there, wielding a real smile this time and wearing a Ralph Lauren hand-tailored suit, pockets stuffed with cash. Who’s to say?

There was, dancing just above his computer screen, the image of trips to exotic places with beautiful women, food and drinks he couldn’t pronounce the names of, and undeserved plaques hung around his mansion that named his “excellence.” He believed it was just around the corner from where he sat now. This was what it had all been for.

56 “Pssst,” a stoutly man called out to Siegfried from behind.

Siegfried whipped around. “What’s up?”

“I heard that hotshot got promoted. Something Jo-” “There’s no way,” Siegfried said, more so to himself,the synapses in his brain working overtime to keep him grounded.

Hotshot came in with eyes creased from the widest grin this office has ever seen. It was real. No wattage needed. No energy used. Siegfried would’ve marveled at such a spectacle under different circumstances. Murmuring broke out as a gaggle of workers surrounded their new superior.

It was all too much for Siegfried. He could not partake in the festivities.

“Excuse me,” Siegfried stumbled to the bathroom, each nerve ending struggling to remember the space around him.

Siegfried

steadied

himself

on

one

of

the

sinks,

squeezing his palms into the edge of the ceramic basin until his knuckles turned white. He peered into the mirror before him. He didn’t see himself at all. Stretched before him was the terrible abyss of timetables and coffee breaks.

He could not escape. There was a pang deep within his throat as if some creature had possessed him and was beginning to express its presence through the deep vibrations of Siegfried’s vocal chords. Long and drawn out hums soon built

57 to high-pitched shrieks. A growing pressure grew along his shoulder blades and at his temples, as if something was about to burst out from his skin. Hunched over, he frantically checked his back and head for any semblance of the animal he felt inside beginning to break free, practically undressing himself to feel every inch of his torso, only to find the stiff cotton of his button up plastered onto his back from perspiration. No antennas, no wings, no spindly legs, no claws. In a way, he had hoped for something to really take hold of him and free him from such misery. But here, there were no saviors. And Siegfried was left with the future he imagined for himself slipping further and further from his grasp. The shrieks continued to gush out of his body. He had no control over the physical entity he appeared to possess. Siegfried could do nothing but wait until this fit of insanity passed, until this creature he did not recognize as himself became exhausted.

Whatever possessed him did eventually tire itself out, leaving Siegfried even more of a shell than before.

Sweaty, dehydrated, with strained vocal chords, he picked himself off the ground. He tucked in his shirt, buttoned it to the top, feeling the collar choke him once again, and re-knotted his tie. Time had escaped Siegfried. He could not tell if it had been minutes or years of him thrashing around the tiled floor hoping to regain the strength (or

58 maybe subservience) that had kept him so diligent and so persistent in his efforts to “climb the ranks.”

In the mirror, Siegfried practiced which grin would dissipate any suspicion of his disappearance. He began with a real toothy prospect. 10,000 watts. Too much. He relaxed a bit, giving a slight smirk. 1,000 watts. Not enough. He balanced the corners of his lips between 3,000 and 5,000 watts and squinted his eyes just enough to appear human.

Perfect. Siegfried spun around, adding some bounce to his shoulders, and headed for the door. In the end, he looked quite chipper. You wouldn’t have suspected a thing.

As he left the bathroom, Siegfried gestured to the door still swinging behind him and fixed his muscles for that perfect 4,500 watt smile.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” he let out a hearty laugh, ignoring the soreness in his throat the screaming had left.

Before him, a synchronized audience looked up from their computer screens and let out an equally hearty laugh, flashing smiles all the same. 5,000 watts. Siegfried had avoided suspicion. No one was truly there. But everyone seemed happy enough.

Blood Diamond

by Katherine Simon

Fuck. I didn’t shave, again. I knew I was forgetting something. I should’ve gotten that brazilian last week, it was thirty percent off. Prepping for the big day with a hairless asshole would’ve been nice. I wouldn’t say anything, I didn’t need to. They’ve probably seen hundreds of bushes.

They try to make you as comfortable as possible, but it reeks of a downtown laundromat. The static noise of machinery producing something awful, the muted TV. hanging awkwardly, and the obtrusive glare of white light. Cotton breeze tumbling away over the intrusion of chemical-grade hand sanitizer any day. A faint tinge of alcohol lingered somewhere in between.

Somehow, the silence here is even

more deafening. I guess that’s a bonus. There’s a tender gesture sitting next to me, something to lighten up the mood of premature death: an artificial dandelion sitting in an ivory vase. It reminds me of my childhood with Dino

60 the dandelion. A plush wonder. He was composed of a tawny stitching that mimicked a smiley face. A man always content. His felt-lined stem, with long, aged fibers, extended crookedly, like a bad case of Peyronie’s disease. A choking hazard my parents failed to notice.

Dino satisfied me when Jake couldn’t. At sixteen, my priority was making sure my boyfriend wouldn’t break up with me. I didn’t dare comment on his pleasuring skills.

Nonetheless, Dino never disappointed—the last thing I could ever rely on. That’s when real guilt brushed upon my radar, not the type when you leave dirty dishes in the sink, but the calm deliverance in telling a vowed upon secret to the town gossip. Knowing, deep down, that your complicit words could ruin someone’s life. Truly, I was a man, screwing the nanny and telling his wife that her delicate blowjobs were more than enough. Jake, your tongue was more than enough.

“Faye. Are you ready?” the nurse asked excitedly.

Maybe it was her first one. That makes two of us.

“Are you ready?”

“Oh…yes,” she squeaked uncomfortably, revealing a gummy smile. “Dr. Loper will be here in just a few minutes.

Just checking in to see if you’re comfortable. Can I get you anything, dear?”

“A pack of magnums… or those fun cherry flavored ones. Don’t you guys give those out for free?” I supposed

61 condoms at Planned Parenthood were like those toothbrush kits they gave you after a dentist’s appointment.

“Um, we can talk about protection plans after the procedure, definitely.”

Procedure. Procedure. This wasn’t a procedure. It was a task. It was a bucket list check box. It was an appointment on my Google calendar. It was also murder. At least that’s what my friend Celeste devoutly kept telling me when I broke the big news to her. Celeste wasn’t religious or a Republican, but she didn’t engage in “common sex” as she proclaimed to her cohort of dinner friends. She was just too beautiful to be burdened with an unwanted pregnancy. A revolting poison infesting her pilates-induced,vegan-eating temple of purity. According to Celeste, I had already committed fraud by being so careless with myself. By terminating it, I would pay the consequence of lifelong guilt.

To Celeste, that was murder. If I ever bore wanted children in my future, the fleshy murdered fetus would glimmer in their eyes, haunting me for the years to come of my selfish immorality.

This whole process was excruciatingly long. A few hours ago, I assured the consultant with weak “mhms” as she went over my options. Xulane, 500 mg of naproxen sodium, and a shrink who holds an office on top of this smoke shop in Greenpoint. The consultant’s name was Joyce Diane, a

62 motherfucker that went by two first names.

“This can never be reversed,” she repeated over and over again.

Her sincerity was oddly moving. She must have been a lapsed Christian. Afterwards, some nurses ran tests and fed me this small white pill to open my cervix up. Larger than the usual ones, I attempted an effort at dry swallowing it. The bitterness flaked into acidity, and so I requested a helping of cranberry juice to wash the remaining shape away—an ode to all those UTIs of my past. I admired the diligent preparation that went into the five-minute-long massacre, all while Joyce Diane held my hand.

“So, I should’ve read up on this, but what actually goes on during it?”

“Well, they place a speculum in to open up your vagina, and then insert a tube to suction out the pregnancy tissue. It doesn’t take long, a bit painful, but they numb the area to relieve much of the discomfort,” the nurse proudly responded, as if she memorized it dutifully beforehand. “Joyce Diane didn’t tell you?”

“It was more therapy talk than, you know, what I’m actually getting into.”

“Oh, well, makes sense for her. I’m going to check your labs for a few minutes, but I’ll be back soon.”

I glanced once more at the fake dandelion by my side.

63 What would Dino think of me? “Always use protection!” was the tune that rang, buzzing in my ear until I ignored it for the first time, my junior year prom night. I thought about the old man outside this building when I came in this morning, who greeted me with disgust and recited Psalm 127:3 to me, the holy scripture engraved on the back of a Dunkin’ Box O’Joe. He seemed characteristically out of place. Sure, it was Planned Parenthood and the usual Bible thumpers protested up front, but this was a city that consecutively gleamed blue during each election cycle, and he looked like he was abducted from the set of Cool Hand Luke. He, for a sacrilegious reason, knew it was murder too. Maybe I did deserve this, after being so reckless all these years.

Maybe the chlamydia, two summers ago, was just a light prelude. I began having second thoughts.

I couldn’t do it.

Turmoil of Our Reckoning

by Sophie Daniel

On My Days Off,Playing Cherry Bomb

by Saachi Sethii

Can I smell your drink? Dan tells me his question is a weird one, and without batting an eye I oblige, push over a martini I probably shouldn’t be drinking on a Tuesday. Too obvious.

My father ordered martinis when he was alive.

Oh. Eventually, dinner rolls itself out in between anecdotes on a bar cart— powder blue, the color of raincoats.

And I think about Ned. About “6 Friends: for Rosemary.” And the break in Dan’s beard a line in the sand. And then, of course, the weather— which means harping on global warming.

Denial. How (and why) incompetence is still cool.

But Dan doesn’t really care, and neither would Ned if he were alive, so we’ll talk about something else now. The New

Yorker published a hit-piece last year that made me won-

66 der if they were even worth it. $4.00/month I could spend instead on thumbtacksor a trip to Staten island. One-way, like cornbread.

Do they even care?

They probably have better things to do (like not reading poetry and letting us stew.)

Are you on Tik Tok? You should be on Tik Tok. It’s the newest way to show us who you are.

The newest way to convince us: not all the books have burned just yet. Me? No. I would never sell myself like that.

But everyone should, in theory, do so. Everyone should be everywhere always, like department stores or magazine stands. Back in London, I found the phone booths so irritating— little glass vestibules, I felt like Joan Jett.

Yeah. That’s it. Everyone should feel like Joan Jett once in a while.

Maybe then, it would all stay sexy.

Suburbia

by Saachi Sethii

Summer stumbles in & we never wonder if we are worthy of a gazebo (or a lawn.)

I go to the corner store for hot dog buns, little flags & beer, the works.

The cashier asks me where I’m from & I tell him here and there & we say nothing at all.

My father used to say that “Original Sin” was a white picket fence

68 on an Earth which would outlive both the fence & its makers.

What a silly, liberal hippie!

I buy a pack of cigarettes for good measure & hang outside with the other realists. Rub the butt out on a fire hydrant, then toss it into an ant-hill & imagine what chaos must have overtaken their meaningless little world.

I dig my heels into their homes & schools for good measure.

The thing is, I would die for a bucket of nacho-cheese-sauce before I died for my country.

But you’re not ready to talk about that. So instead I’ll take up at the Taco Bell & make fun of all the dads who order for their kids

69 with funny accents. & own a pick-up truck. & shoot up in Kaplan’s backyard while his mom makes a family sized box of Kraft mac n’ cheese. & think about all the ways I hate you.

70

71

These photos are a part of a visual archive I began during my trip to Syria, to my homeland, in January 2025.

After 14 years, the fall of a regime, and years of my family’s exile, it was the first time my mother and I had stepped into the country. In memorializing this historic moment of return, I want to use these photographs to acknowledge the brutal oppression, displacement, and trauma Syrians have faced over the last 50 years. I wanted to document Syria in transition: featuring posters of missing Syrians, destruction sites, and signs of life among the rubble. I am reckoning with what it means to reconnect with a place that demands accountability for its painful past. It is also a place that holds so much beauty. Haunted, yet still alive with memory.

These photos are dedicated to my family, to the refugees who will return, and to the Syrians who never did— those who were killed or disappeared by a brutal regime and who will never be forgotten.

by Alia Attar

A Dry Frustration

by Franklin Dong (Staff Submission)

Streams of cold wind came in through the slightly opened window and brushed against his bare arms, resting gingerly at his sides. The room was so hot that he could feel the trapped air charged with temperature pressing against his blushing cheeks. Coughs and clearing of throats came incessantly, dry scratches on his irritated body.

The lecture was about halfway done, but there was still an hour left, and somehow the hands of the clock had begun to move slower than before. The thorny feeling of heat crawled from his face and down his back. He had taken off his coat and sweater and sat in his t-shirt, trying to turn his body to the window, which seemed to offer an only reprieve. But it was no use. It was too hot, the room too crowded, the lecturer’s voice too loud and stifling.

He had bought a bottle of water before the lecture and thought the cold liquid would cool him down. Reaching into his bag, he took out the plastic bottle and was de-

75 lighted to feel its chill on his skin. This will do. This will get him through the next hour. He examined the plastic and marveled at its design: the wrapping around the curving body was a delicate, playful green. He liked it. He even thought it was beautiful.

He pinched the ribbed plastic cap with his right thumb and index finger and turned. It didn’t move. He tried it again without thinking, but it still didn’t move. He stopped and looked closely at the bottle for a moment, wiping the sweat from his hands on his t-shirt and chuckling to himself slightly. That must have looked so embarrassing.

How hard was it to open a bottle of water? He smiled quietly and put his two fingers to the cap again and turned harder this time, but instead of twisting open with a click, the bottle remained closed as his fingers simply slid along the plastic cap without even making it turn at all. He leaned forward, two arms cocked like arched bows at his side, straining with futile force, working at the bottle without avail. His smile had disappeared.

After another few seconds, he sighed and leaned back into his chair. The harder he pulled, the hotter he became. Now, little beads of sweat were forming around his forehead, and he could feel the goose bumps along his back prickling through the cotton fabric, and there were damp half-moons under the armpits of his t-shirt. He felt his

76 ears turn an angry crimson, and the slight comforting cold breeze was no longer there. But how could this be happening? It was only a bottle after all. Maybe his hands were too sweaty, maybe the bottle was a defect, and something around its cap was glued too strongly against itself. He thought of every possibility. A classmate turned and cast a glance at him for a second before turning away again. The attention made him grow even more upset. What must they think of him, struggling to open a plastic bottle of water, when they could surely see he was a strong, well-built man?

The lecturer’s voice was now distant and vague, a monotone drone that somehow added to the headache the dull heat had initially caused. But it was no time to think about any of that now; he had his mind made up. He was just about to lean forward and give it another attempt when something caught his attention from the corner of his eyes, and he looked up just in time to see a girl sitting a few rows in front bring out of her bag an identical bottle. He snickered; now anyone who would have laughed at his pathetic attempts would see that it was difficult for everybody too, and retract their judgment. He thought it hilariously unlikely that this girl was going to open the bottle after he had struggled with it. After all, he was way stronger than her: that much was clear. Nothing could have prepared him to see the girl twist open the cap with ease, without even

77 turning her gaze from the lecturer, and take a drink from the bottle.

He felt something suddenly lurch and give away in his stomach and thought for a moment that the heat had finally reached his heart. He didn’t understand: there must be something inherently wrong with his own bottle. There was no reason she could have opened hers with such ease. He was dumbfounded. Perhaps she’d had someone else open it for her just moments prior—yes, that was far more likely. She could not have opened it by herself. But what would he do with his own? Surely he must find a way to open it, not so much to quench his thirst but to prove to himself that he was at least as strong as that girl.

He leaned forward again, head bowed down, and a frown stretching his face. He cocked his arms again and they slightly shook as he managed to put everything he had left into this exertion. The thumb and index fingers on his right hand were red, and the edges of the bottle cap imprinted a deeper shade of maroon on the tender flesh. He tried and tried, pausing momentarily to wipe his hands on his clothes before resuming. He gave this attempt everything, but there was simply nothing that he could do to open the bottle.

He looked ahead at the girl again. He’d seen her before in class and thought her to be gorgeous and charming, but could never find the right time to speak to her. But

78 there was now something about her that bothered him, something that he’d just realized suddenly, but because his emotions traveled faster than his thoughts, he could not verbalize any of it. He sat there looking at the back of her head, his fingers aimlessly curling around the bottle of water, closing in on its condensating body, choking it, releasing it. He decided to refocus his effort, so he wiped clean his hands and massaged the sore red fingertips with a scowling smile. As frustrated as he was by the bottle, its refusal to yield was starting to become annoyingly entertaining, and he somehow relished in it. He closed his hands around the cap, bowed his head down, and gritted his teeth.

With his other hand, he grabbed onto the curling body of the bottle and kept tightening his grip until his knuckles showed white. He twisted and twisted; after a few seconds, he stuck his tongue in between his teeth, biting down to prevent making noise. There was a slight quiver in his elbows but he did not could not would not relent even when his fingers kept slipping even when he let out a small grunt that made people look even when the bottle still would not fucking open. Each time he twisted the cap, he could feel something tugging at the edge of his throat like the memory of the pronunciation of a word long forgotten, but was just now coming back to him in a moment of distress. He thought of the girl who had just effortlessly bested him. He saw

79 red.

And then his left elbow slipped, and his hands jerked sideways, and the bottle flew out of his hands. There was a shocked yelp from the people sitting next to him as the plastic water container hit their sides with a thump and landed on the ground. His world froze, and he realized that the lecturer had suddenly stopped speaking. Looking up, his gaze collided with the girl who was now looking back at the source of the noise, perplexed. He turned to apologize to his neighbors; they were fortunate that the bottle had stayed shut, otherwise it would have all been much uglier. His face was burning scarlet, and he felt the flush creeping down his neck as he leaned forward to retrieve the bottle. Coming back, he dug his fingernails deep into his swollen hands, turned, and slouched slowly towards the cold air coming through the window. He was angry and alone. The lecturer resumed, and the girl turned away again. It was as if no one had noticed.

The People Behind BRIO Polina Belova - Editor-In-Chief Polina Belova is a senior double majoring in Comparative Literature and Computer Science.

She does believe in imposter syndrome, hates being on her phone, loves yoga sculpt, thinks very highly of Nathan Fielder as a creator, wants to learn how to sew, aims to become vegan by the end of 2025, and loves listening to Russian 2010s pop music.

Lola Bosa - Managing-Editor Lola is a senior majoring in English Literature and minoring in Creative Writing. In her spare time, she loves doing the Wordle when she remembers, reading creative non-fiction, and talking about her current favorite musicals.

Veronica Shirokova - Socials Team Veronica is a junior majoring in International Relations and minoring in Economics and Russian & Slavic Studies. She loves to read and drink coffee - preferably simultaneously

81 Franklin Dong - Socials Team Franklin is a junior double majoring in English Literature and Data Science. In his spare time, he loves to listen to & make music, read & write, support Manchester United, and stare longingly but wearily into the distance.

Lili Raynaud - Editing Team Lili is a sophmore double majoring in Journalism and Politics and minoring in Creative Writing. In her free time, she enjoys going on walks, eating Asian food, and wistfully reading Proust on the Metro-North. She does the New York Times crossword every Monday, and tends to write poetry about the same thing twice. Her work can be found in Same Faces Collective, A Partager Zine, and The Weasel.

Kate Lamarre - Socials Team Kate is a junior majoring in English Literature and minoring in English Education.

82 Faye Walalangi - Editing Team Faye is a senior double majoring in English and Anthropology. Her home is in Jakarta, Indonesia, but her heart is currently in New York City. She is pursuing a degree in English and Anthropology. She writes. She listens to the Smashing Pumpkins. She rewatches the Star Wars prequels to an alarming degree.

Ruhi Malipatlolla - Editing Team Ruhi is a senior majoring in International Relations. In her free time she loves to read, hike and drinking tons of coffee. She loves classical music (when she isn’t being forced to play it) and reading murder mysteries.

Hongjian Ye - Editing Team Hongjian is a junior majoring in Comparative Literature. He likes sashimi.

83 Isabela Fitzgerald - Graphic Design Team Isabela is a junior majoring in English Literature and minoring in French and Studio Art. She adores dabbling in the arts —from running a small sewing business to bad poetry in her notes app— and enjoys listening to audiobooks on walks. Otherwise, she spends a lot of time overthinking and indulging in sweet treats.

Compiled by Ryan Kosick