BRIO Spring 2024 // Evil Issue

/BREE-oh/,noun

Vivacity, spirit, an individual energy.

Te 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. Tis journal aspires to embody those ideas.

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

All Images by Lepus Li

Table of Contents

You ’ ve Always Seen Through My Lies

Gabriel Lancaster-Dixon

Marion Cline

Peaches

But Im Orange Sun Catcher

Katie O’Connor

Anika Mathur

Lauren Stanzione

“Nothing is easier than to denounce the evildoer; nothing is more difcult than to understand him.”

-Fyodor Dostoevsky

Note From The Editor

“Evil” is a somewhat challenging word to defne. A dictionary defnition would involve words like “immoral”, “cruel”, and “wicked” altogether, proving the fact that “evil” is an umbrella term for all the brutal unpleasantries of life. In literature, “evil” ofen seems to be an overused topic that yet again opens itself to new interpretations. Te imagery of Lady Macbeth, both in Shakespeare’s and Leskov’s works, presents itself as a regular and clear interpretation of “evil”: a poignant immoral ambition that subsequently descends into murder, corrupting the soul and the body. It’s a deliberate choice to embrace evil in all its forms, which then chaotically yet evidently spreads to every aspect of a character’s life. Tese are traditional stories of evil. Ten, there is Nietzsche’s BeyondGoodandEvil , where the conventional moral binaries of good and evil are pushed away, focusing on the simplicity of moral absolutes and on the notion that “evil” is a construct imposed by those in power to control the masses. Dostoevsky’s CrimeandPunishmentprovides a psychological study of evil, as Raskolnikov justifes his cruel murder by deeming it morally permissible for a “greater good.” Te list goes on, and BRIO adds itself to this lineage of well-worn thought, yet with an avidity to explore how intricately “evil” can hide within the grammar, wordplay, genre, intonation, alliteration, style, language barriers, banality, absurdity, and the expectations that one sets for life. In this issue, we invite our readers to seek out the shadows of evil in the works presented, morally judge them as one would judge a representation of something multifaceted, and, as always, enjoy the publications accompanied by the visuals!

A separate note is due for the cover of this issue. Against a classically evil red background, we see a hand and half of an accordion (the other half appears on the back cover). Te accordion is chosen as a reference to the satirical TeDevil’sDictionarywritten by American journalist Ambrose Bierce, where the instrument is described as being “in harmony with the sentiments of an assassin.” Te hand playing it was created with the help of AI - an “evil” collaboration, as indicated on the cover. We view Artifcial Intelligence (AI) as an excellent representation of evil through the prism of modernity: debatable, provocative, and ever-present discussions, praised by some and loathed by others, particularly for its undeniable role in exacerbating climate change and undermining artists’ livelihoods. Is it evil to use AI to create a cover for an issue that explores evil? You tell us.

A zestful debate happened over the summer among BRIO’s editors about whether we should use AI to provide a food for thought, and the majority decided that we should, for the sake of provoking discussion, while fully acknowledging our actions—because that is, perhaps, the truly moral thing to do.

Tis note ends with sending many thanks to Ryan Kosick, who has done an excellent job compiling this issue for us!

PolinaBelova Editor-in-Chief

You ’ ve Always Seen Through My Lies

I told you I wasn’t scared, Tat it was ok for you to die. Why did you believe me?

Women on the Verge

in mexico city, maria is situated adjacent to the toilet. one night she hears all four fatmates take a shit respectively, and fnally the cat. she hangs her dresses on the wall.

her room came with a glow in the dark rosary. her fatmate is trying to make the place comfortable. “it’s a shithole.”

her fatmate buys a white washer to celebrate. she rips apart the door frame to push it through.

“gynephobia,” maria says “is the fear of ovens.”

in my dream we were forced to sleep on the roof. we chased each other to the ledge to face it.

my foot tangled in a basket of african violets

i wear the violets running.

Fatigue

crimson when you leave the lights of, the blankets twist where I lef my head

defamed, the walls marked by indecision, violence in indecision.

I felt so close to God in a hotel room once, unconsoled by the rain patter, children in the halls.

once a swan, always a swan make a face for the tinted windows, when you see yourself

on walks, the same scheme. there are so many ways I could’ve come home.

Peaches

It squirms, clicking and crawling and oozing through wet wounds out of the spaces between fesh. Out of a peach I picked in a modest efort to fnd joy.

Six legs creep onto my hand. I bring it closer, carefully, into my wet mouth with a crunch. It twists and writhes until I am lost in digestion, lost in disgust.

But it is not a stranger, it was always part of the peach. It belongs here more than I do.

I thought we could just watch the world be beautiful. Take pictures of unbruised fesh, nascent and ripe. Just wait until it would sofen, tear, and fall away to be consumed once more.

We are lef with fruit gouged by greed. Am I just unlucky or am I greedy too?

But Im Orange

CHARACTERS

ORANGE

JOHNNY

SETTING

An optimistic, mature orange.

A whiny 5-year-old kid. Has no rationale.

Halloween night. JOHNNY’s home kitchen.

(ORANGE sits behind the kitchen counter. He is in a Halloween basket full of candy. He is the only orange.)

ORANGE

(Calling attention from the counter) Hey! Hey, Johnny!

(JOHNNY avoids ORANGE. JOHNNY is in the corner, trying to use a big chef’s knife to cut the stuck peel of a candy wrapper.)

ORANGE

Hey, Johnny, psst, come over here. I’ve got something for you.

JOHNNY

What do you want, Orange?

Peel me!

(Waves his knife around) Why?

ORANGE

JOHNNY

ORANGE

I’m really yummy. I’m full of juice and Vitamin C, and I’m the color orange!

JOHNNY

But I want candy. (JOHNNY picks out a handful of candy from the basket. He continuously peels and loudly munches on pieces.)

(Steps out of the basket and twirls.)

ORANGE

But, look, I’ve got a shape. I’m very round, you can peel me like a wrapper, and I’m orange!

JOHNNY

Huh?

(JOHNNY pokes ORANGE with the back of his knife.)

ORANGE

(Partially peels himself in agony.)

Aghh, see, look, I can be peeled. I can bleed. Can your candy bleed orange?

JOHNNY

No, but pumpkins can.

ORANGE

Oh! Pumpkin, my friend. Yeah, Pumpkin and I are the same…Look, I can be scary… RAWRRR.

JOHNNY

Tat was lame.

I told you. I’m here for you. Use me.

ORANGE

JOHNNY

You said you’re round, right? Can I play with you? (JOHNNY takes ORANGE, ready to throw him across the stage.)

ORANGE

Wait, what, no, no, no, no no. No, thank you. (Afer breaking free, ORANGE brushes himself of. He slumps back into the candy basket.)

ORANGE

Eat me, Johnny. You’re not supposed to eat candy.

JOHNNY

But, mommy and daddy aren’t here!

Tey will be.

So?

ORANGE

JOHNNY

ORANGE

So, the fber in oranges can keep blood sugar levels in check and reduce high cholesterol to prevent cardiovascular disease.

JOHNNY

Okay, and?

ORANGE

And oranges contain approximately 55 milligrams of calcium or 6% of your daily requirement.

JOHNNY

But–

ORANGE

Tey protect your cells from damage, make collagen, and absorb iron to fght anemia. (Corners JOHNNY)

You’ll get smoother skin, stronger bones. Your blood will pump steadily and your breath will never die. (Beat. JOHNNY blinks in oblivion.)

ORANGE

Right, I forgot you’re fve. You don’t even know what Vitamin C is. (Pauses)

You won’t get TV time.

JOHNNY

Ughh, but I don’t wannaaaaa… (JOHNNY stomps around the kitchen in a ft. He will not stop.)

ORANGE

J–wait, no–J-Johnny. Johnny. (sweeter voice)

Johnny, come sweet boy, come here. (yells)

Johnny!

(Johnny settles down in a corner. Arms crossed, he still munches on some Twix.)

ORANGE

Why don’t you like me, Johnny? I’m the only orange lef. Everyone has been eaten. Oranges are healthy, and…and…well that’s all I know. All I know is that all my friends are gone. All they lef me with is my nutrients, but, but my inside is not special enough. You’re better of taking me. (hesitates, before a burst)

Why today, Johnny? What’s so special about today? What’s wrong with me? (JOHNNY moves closer and cups ORANGE.)

JOHNNY

You’re an orange. I didn’t ask for you.

ORANGE

Oh. I-I didn’t realize. I guess that makes sense. I’ll leave you to eat your candy then. I wouldn’t want to be a bother. I’m sure a kid like you needs all those cavities. (Beat.)

JOHNNY

Oh my gosh, fne! If I eat you, will you shut your blabbermouth?

ORANGE

(playful)

I don’t know if your mom would approve of that language, mister.

JOHNNY

Hey, I’m eating you. Or should I wait for you to fnish yelling at me?

ORANGE

(chuckles)

No, no, go ahead.

(ORANGE steps out of the basket and ofers himself to JOHNNY. JOHNNY grimaces. ORANGE reaches his arm out to Johnny.)

ORANGE

It’s alright.

(We hear a car door slam followed by the sound of a garage door opening.)

JOHNNY

Mom, dad-I-

Shh. We can go to the other room.

ORANGE

(ORANGE guides JOHNNY with his arm trailing back as JOHNNY, dropping his candy on the ground, follows afer him. We hear the door close behind as they exit. An awkward silence. Te knife on the kitchen counter glimmers in a harsh light. If only it would cut the tension in the air. Ofstage, their voices rasp in breaths.)

ORANGE

Yes. Just, right, there, Johnny. Yes! (A beat.)

JOHNNY

I thought you said you were orange. Now, you’re white.

ORANGE

Born hairy! I guess. (Awkward Pause.)

Sorry.

It’s okay.

Maybe…we stop talking for a bit?

(Hesitates) Sure.

JOHNNY

ORANGE

JOHNNY

ORANGE

Perfect. Tank you, Johnny. (We hear subtle “peeling” noises, then it stops. A few moments later, JOHNNY comes back. JOHNNY stops center stage, struck frozen. Suddenly, he turns to the other side of the stage and anxiously peers out of a window for his parents, who have returned. He rushes to his seat behind the kitchen counter. JOHNNY gulps a glass of water from there and lets out a breath. He peels another Twix.)

(Blackout.)

Sun Catcher

Based on a Dream

Italicized: drowned out dialogue, MOM’S POV

INT. FAMILY HOME - THE DINING TABLE - DAY

MOM (36) exhausted with messy hair - CUTS red apple slices, slowly feeding her neatly dressed daughter KATIE (4) with a SMALL KNIFE. Katie CRUNCHES, chewing the APPLES.

KATIE

Laura’s daddy came to school today. He’s a freman. (Mom continues to feed Katie.)

KATIE

He said he likes going places. He goes to Italy... India... Singingpore, and I forgot. (Mom continues to feed Katie -- more tensely. Katie chews with her mouth open.)

KATIE

One time, he took Laura and her Mommy to Florida in Europe for Christmas and food. Laura was hungry so they ate lots of banana that 3 teeths came out. (a beat)

Where’s daddy?

(Mom reacts, cramming apples into Katie’s mouth. Katie chews for a beat.)

KATIE

Daddy missed Christmas, but I think he was gonna come for Easter to paint all the eggs... and...and... Mm-maybe this time he might come for Halloween because...he loves trick or treating. (Katie refuses the food.)

KATIE

How long is a business trip supposed to take?

(Mom SHOVES apple slices into Katie’s mouth. Katie whines, almost choking. She spits the apples out on Mom’s face. Feeling hopeless, Mom wipes the apple chunks of her face, as Katie jumps of her booster chair.)

MOM

Katie. (Katie runs to:

EXT. FAMILY HOME - BACKYARD - CONTINUOUS

Mom follows her outside. Mom’s voice is SO LOUD as if we’re inside her head:)

MOM

Katie, eat your apples.

(distanced whiney giggling)

KATIE

I don’t want any more..I don’t want any more. I want to play. I need to fnd the last egg.

MOM

Katie. Come back.

CUE MUSIC: ‘I Ran (So Far Away)’ by A Flock of Seagulls.

(Mom CHASES Katie around the bright backyard holding a half-cut apple and the knife. Katie runs around, arms stretched out and braids fying, like a kite. Mom almost gets a hold of Katie, but Katie slips out. A SUN CATCHER spreads the light, directing us to a PLAYHOUSE that Katie runs into.

Mom follows her into...

INT. PLAYHOUSE - CONTINUOUS

...and stops abruptly.

END MUSIC CUE.

Te vivid colors of the playhouse dance over Mom’s face in REDS, PINKS, PURPLES. She hovers over Katie who lies on the ground, the apples scattered around her. Te child rolls to the side, revealing the KNIFE STABBED IN HER RIGHT TEMPLE. A drop of blood oozes down her cheek.)

KATIE

(fading fast)

I want Daddy...Dada...Dada

(Mom lets out a shrieking SCREAM, sobbing, seemingly reacting to Katie, at frst -- until she looks down -- REVEALING her hands and arms are CATCHING FIRE, turning RED. It’s as if she is being scorched over hot coals. Mom SCREAMS.)

CUT TO BLACK. OVER BLACK:

A baby SCREAMS, crying.

FADE IN: INT. FAMILY HOME - MASTER BEDROOM - 5 AM

(Mom’s EYES snap open from a BABY SCREAMING. She lies on her side, with a blurred background of empty space and the neat side of a bed. She stares at the blinking BABY MONITOR on the end table for a beat.)

CUT TO: INT. FAMILY HOME - HALLWAY - A FEW MOMENTS LATER

(Mom stands right outside a door with the sign, “Katie”. She hesitates. Mom CREAKS the door open, and creeps toward the screaming from the crib inside. She hovers over Katie, revealing she’s still an INFANT. Mom sofly brushes Katie’s tears away, about to pick her up when -- She stops. She stares at the child crying in the crib, caressing the edges of the crib. She turns away, facing the exit. Before she can leave, her EYES glisten...)

INFANT KATIE

Mama...Mama...

(Mom turns around. She slides her hands up to cradle INFANT KATIE’s head. Her hands are unburnt. As the baby coos, Mom cradles her child in her arms. A reddish warm glow spreads from where their skin meets.)

THE END.

Comeva?

gli - him

giunche - junks (boats)

guido

Slick back tough jaw, meaty and Turbulent

Hair curls hand curled

Kisses on back.

Le cittá!!!

Te cities… Sicilia…Firenze

Te city tu piace legge libri

I wish I spoke more italian cosa Hahaha

I asked if you liked to read

A THREE-PART TEXT FOR BEGINNING STUDENTS

é un coccolone - he likes to be cuddled (non) soggiorno-pranzo - living room with dining area teeth al dente on mio corno mio oro

I noticed you were wearing your horn

I noticed He thinks of me

Lui pensa a me He thinks of me limey blood orange limonelibre labbralips labbra guidette hair you have so much hair. I know I know l’imbarazzo della scelta- too much to choose from

mob women O wife woman

guido bocca on angel girl cross her big giant cross guido girl

O guido’s woman non boyfriend non husband guidette girl

GUIDETTE PUTTANA nonnelmiodizionario my dictionary.

addio!- goodbye! farewell! adieu! bye-bye! So you don’t speak much? No, no I don’t. What generation? Fourth. Oh, I’m frst. Ah. Makes sense. Tat you can speak.

Sunday afernoon Easy Italian.

Flavor of Wrongdoing

Listen — hypocrite reader, my double, my twin! — I want you to be a voyeur, like me, of words’ secret life.

People might tell you: words have constraints. I will tell you: the constraints of words are their own moles or birthmarks.

Only by knowing how to domesticate words, while in turn accepting their domestication of yourself, will you be empowered to fertilize with them in the shadow, to listen together to the cries of your bastards emitting terrifed, maniacal laughter of meaninglessness.

Words and words are so unashamedly copulating with one another, to the point of no return, to the point where the metaphysical promiscuity becomes a ritual, then de-canonized by itself. Paper is fesh while ink is blood, occupying and trampling on each other. In between the multiplied lines, there is always a favor of wrongdoing.

Listen — my double, my twin — I want to transform my writing to you into promiscuity. Te tip of my pen, like a blood-swollen, shivering tongue, touches the page waiting to be flled. At this moment, the pen is an organic part of my body, completely mine, but not under my control.

I wait — aimlessly — to enjoy the thrill of fuids dripping from my pants when I take them of, just as I enjoy the sensation of words dripping from the tip of my pen when I elevate it. Take over the next page. Fill the next gasping line. Melt myself away until another word removes my clothing for me, or draws a cryptic phrase, a disguise on me.

Listen — my double, my twin — I want to expose to you my self-immolation during writing.

I am drawn to the vortex of words, like a moth drawn to fre. Te vortex shatters me like a sharp sword, and along with my screams, struggles, and reluctance, I rapidly cave downward into an unanticipated lower depth where no boundaries can be seen. In the sea of fre where I burn, words leap into utter silence. In laughter, in weeping, in chaos, in the excess of ecstasy of being continuously crushed, I watch as the words contract and expand, inhaling my being, then exhaling the non-discourse and non-savoir beyond myself.

All other voices are fading away. All that is lef is the gasp of the pen tip caressing the page, the call of not knowing what will come next, the lament or the laugh that sinks with words into infnite silence.

Listen — my double, my twin — I want you to share my insatiability. I burn morality alive for breakfast; it melts in the pot, swirling and screaming, more hearty than any other vice. I slice up the intestines of reason, adding them to the bottomless depths of our appetite. I favor the epidermal surfaces of abstinence, with each layer begging to be washed and tasted. I crawl through your gut, writhing and decaying within, until there is no I in the hilarity. My words are fuids, with a corrosive edge to them.

Hypocrite reader, my double, my twin — I could have advanced into a world of a diferent order with you. But you are so far away from me. You only want to save me.

Fortune plays its game upon the land— beneath one end of the horizon it helms the artillery’s redundant motion while on the other it gambles for the peasant’s survival.

Takiq hawa kawsaqmanta

Chayqa wawakuna rikch’anku, p’onqo ñawikunawan, Manan paykuna imatapas yachankuchu, rikch’anku, chaymanta wañupunku, Chayqa llapanku runakuna rinku ñankukunaman.

Chaymanta misk’i rurukuna wiñanku p’osqo rurukunamanta, Hinaspa tutapi pampaman urmanku, wañusqa Urpikuna hina, Urmayta tukuspa, chuturayayta ismuspa ruru pisi p’unchallay.

Sapa kutin wayra phukuman, chayqa ñoqanchis Uyarinchis, chayqa rimanchis astawan, Llaymanchis llachita, kashanchis sayk’usqa ukhunchispi.

K’ikllukuna mast’arikunku wayllarkunapi, chayqa kaypi, chaypi, haqhaypi ima kanku ninakunata, sach’akunata, qochakunata, Ch’akichispa, ñaq’echispa ima,

Imarayku kawsanku chay llapan kawsaykuna? Manalla Rikch’ankuchuri? Askhatachuri?

Imarayku haywanakunku asiyta, waqayta, wañupuyta ima?

Imarayku pukllanchis kay llapan pukllaykunata? Ñoqanchis kashanchis sapallanchispuni, Chayqa kashanchis chinkasqa, mana maytapas chayanchischu.

Imarayku rikuranchis chay llapan kawsaykunata qaynunchaykuna?

Ichaqa runa nin “paqarin,” pay riman askhata Chay rimay, kan yachay, llaki ima

Llasa lachiwa mach’aykunamanta lachiwanapi hina.

Ballad of the Outer Life — Translation from the German of Hugo von Hofmannsthal by James Owens

And children grow older deep in their eyes, Who know nothing of the world, but age and die, And the living proceed on their ways.

And green fruits sweeten on a strip of sky And fall like dead birds in the night times, And, a few days on, they rot where they lie.

And ever the wind turns, and we follow its whims And repeat the words we’ve heard or mis-heard. We feel pleasure, then weariness weighs down our limbs.

And paths go through the grass and lead toward Noble places with arbors and ponds and torches, While others are menacing and deathly withered.

Why were they built? Why is it one never matches Another? And so many that our counting fails? Why is it a man laughs, then weeps, then blanches?

Why are we in this game where nothing avails, Where, great as we are but forever alone, we go Wandering and wandering, seeking without goals?

Why have we seen so much, and no good comes? And yet he speaks a truth who says “Evening,” A word from which wisdom and mourning fow

Like heavy honey from the hollow combs.

Selections from Afro-Cuban Tales (Patakines)

Translator’s Note

Cuentos afrocubanos (Patakines), edited by Radamés Molina Montes, is an anthology of Afro-Cuban stories belonging to the sacred liturgy of Santería. Santería is a Cuban syncretic religion with its roots in the traditional Yoruba religion from West Africa and elements of Roman Catholicism. Patakines are instructive tales, like parables, with religious signifcance that are primarily passed down orally. Tese translations are part of an ongoing project to translate the entire book from Spanish to English, with the support of Mr. Molina and Professor María José Zubieta from the Department of Spanish and Portuguese.

For the “Evil” Issue of Brio, I have included sample translations of two stories about virtue and vice: “Elegguá, Lord of Roads and Crossroads,” and “Obbí”. In “Elegguá”, an orisha (comparable to a deity) is rewarded for his humility and loyalty. In “Obbí”, Elegguá reveals the faws of a man named Obbí. As punishment, the man is transformed into a coconut, one of the nuts used for obi divination.

Elegguá, Lord of Roads and Crossroads

One day, Olof asked Elegguá to call all of the santos to his home. Elegguá went of and gave them all the order from Olof, warning them not to ofend him by shirking the meeting.

Tat night, everyone came well-dressed in their fnest clothes: all save for Elegguá, who, though dressed in white, was very humble and honest.

Olof called upon them one by one and presented to each of them a pumpkin. Everyone accepted them with coldness and disdain, and on the way home, all of them discarded their pumpkin in the road.

Te last to leave was the humble and obedient Eleguá, who, as he rode along happily on his gaunt horse, was shocked to see all of the pumpkins Olof had given to the others abandoned along the road. Eleguá, thinking of how sad Olof would be if he knew what the others had done with their pumpkins, dismounted his horse and gathered up each and every pumpkin until he fnally carried them home.

Tere, he told his wife about the gifs Olof had given to the orishas, how they had slighted the Supreme Creator by throwing the pumpkins into the road, and how he had recovered them all. When his wife told him they still had nothing in the house to eat, Elegguá told her that the pumpkins had been flled with gold coins.

Right away, he returned to give Olof the news. Olof received him, listened closely to his account of what had happened, and told him:

“ Tose pumpkins belong to you, for being a good and obedient son. For all of these virtues, you shall be lord of the roads and crossroads, and you shall always eat before the others.”

Olof believed that Obbí was a righteous man, free of pride and vanity, so he placed him up high as an example for all the world to see. Furthermore, Olof made him white both inside and out, to show his purity. And he ordered Elegguá, ever his faithful messenger, to serve Obbí.

Tanks to this, Elegguá came to know who Obbí’s friends were, and found that they were all healthy, well-mannered, and clean: in other words, next to perfect.

One day, when Obbí was planning a party, Elegguá gave invitations to every beggar and sick person he came across. When he saw them, Obbí took great ofense. When Olof heard about this, he disguised himself as a beggar, wearing the shabbiest clothes he could fnd, and went to Obbí’s house. When Obbí opened the door, he once again took ofense to Olof’s presence and gave him the cold shoulder. By the time Obbí realized what had happened and begged forgiveness, it was already too late.

Olof declared that he had not given such gifs to Obbí just so that he could turn his back on his fellow man. He lef Obbí white on the inside, but turned him pitch black on the outside, and made it so that when he fell from his high place, he would tumble across the ground. He also imbued Obbí with a new power: whenever he was thrown, he would reveal the destiny of those in need.

At the same time, he rewarded Elegguá, which is why no ceremony may begin without his consent.

The Trance

“God is dead.”

-Nietzsche

Te last thing I remembered was my poor table manners. No, it was the falling of crumbs. Above the table, three or four crumbs. Tree or four? Am I in a life review or a daze of days?

(Te question is the equivalent of a dead ant.)

And so the gay Garden of Eden disintegrates in front of me. With its debris glistening like the iridescence of a serpent, dies the ant, dies the crumbs, dies the God.

.nihil.

Such was the bleak creation. With or without dis, same the integrations. Adams and Eves reveal no shame of being naked. O, utopia. Tey laugh, ignoring mice also possess parental love.

“For nothing will be impossible with modernism.” Apple blossoms futter as angel feathers or dust. We behold certain cosmic existence vanish: His fesh is milled between the backlash of gears, clouds of incarnadine streaming down the iron, as the foating apple blossoms. Is it not the fairest scene I’ve ever seen?

I alone cry for atonement. (Tree or four crumbs?) People are laughing yet it’s silent. “My death I praise to you, the free death which came to me because I want it-” Te crumbs fall down.

Movie of Tis Issue: EvilDoesNotExist Dir. Ryusuke Hamaguchi

About the Editors

Polina Belova, Editor-in-Chief, is a senior studying Comparative Literature and Computer Science She doesn’t believe in impostor syndrome, uses Depop as a distraction app, misses riding a bike, hates hating on herself, and thinks about her dog Katya at least once a day.

Lola Bosa, Managing Editor, is a senior majoring in English Literature and minoring in Creative Writing. In her spare time, she likes to reorganize her bookshelf, do the Wordle when she remembers, and listen to sad music.

Nikky Lu, editor, is a senior in Philosophy and Computer Science with aminor in math. She thinks about concepts while riding bikes.

Ruhi Malipatlolla, editor, is a senior in International Relations with concentrations in Philosophy. She loves reading, ceramics, and cofee.

Jingchen Peng, editor, graduated from CAS Philosophy in 2023 Fall and is pursuing a law degree. He focuses on poetry and short stories as a Creative Writing minor. He likes MTG, jazz, and exploring vocals.

Veronica Shirokova, editor, is in her third year studying International Relations with a regional specialization in Russia and Eastern Europe. She loves to read and drink cofee — preferably simultaneously — and take very long walks.

Mouna Saab, editor, is a senior Majoring in Drama. She’s not a dog or a cat person!!!

Jennifer Yang, editor, graduated NYU in spring 2024 studying Global Liberal Studies and Comparative Literature with a minor in Creative Writing

Lana Marshania, former Editor-in-Chief, graduated NYU in spring 2024 with degree in Comparative Literature, with cultural concentrations in Russian Literature and the philosophical questions it poses. Currently, most of her waking life and sanity is dedicated to her senior thesis, which explores the nature of the novel in the age of disintegration, following the invisible traces of Alyosha Karamazov beyond the novel.

Lou Valade, BRIO alien creator, Gallatin class of 2024.