A student-led journal centered around the Cleveland Institute of Art’s student voices, amplifying individual creative expression, and inclusively representing student work and experiences.
A Letter from the Editors
Welcome to the first issue of Ctrl+S !
We wanted it, you sent it, we got it. We are proud to present to you the culmination of a semester’s worth of effort in the courses GDS 352 Publication Design and WRHC 330 Editing + Publishing Workshop. Highlighting individual creative expression within our community and representing student works and experiences, this issue reflects themes of creation, the whimsy and groundedness of living, apocalypse, death, what comes next, and what stays behind.
As developing artists and designers, we often find ourselves saddled with assumptions about our character, the depth of our work, or both, but this publication proves that we think and feel deeply. We are ready to talk about it. This issue reflects the work and ideas of CIA students and is delivered for our readers’ consideration and enjoyment.
From the bottom of our hearts, we hope you find reading Ctrl+S as fulfilling as we found making it.
Thank you for joining us on this journey. The Ctrl+S Team
176 Perry Covington (Animation, ‘25) Still from Flipside
Lucy
Her mother had a membership and she regards it as the best decision she ever made when it came to raising her. That museum supported every era and interest of a childhood. Animals bled into dinosaurs, which bled into space, which expanded into geology, archeology, and cosmology. The stars always fascinated her, and she would have spent every waking moment at a planetarium show if she could. The sublime question of who we are as humans was contained in the museum, more specifically in one display case. The earliest encounter with a beautifully destructive connection to humanity was contained in a small skeleton. Lucy was her sister, related by cosmic connection.
When she was found, there must have been a celebration. It’s said that “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” was a frequently heard song of the night. No one remembers who named her. I like to think the universe called out her name in unison for those scientists to hear.
Lucy (*Australopithecus*)* was found in Hadar, Ethiopia by Donald Johanson and Tom Gray on November 24, 1974. She is classified in the Hominidae zoological family which originates from the human and African ape ancestral split. She was bipedal with supporting evidence found in her bone structure. She is just less than 3.18 million years old. No cause for her death has been determined.
Lucy Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds Lucy Lucy Dacus Lucy Dacus released Historians on March 2, 2018 (one day off from my birthday) Natural History Museum Lucy Lucy your history unknown Historians 2:47 (was I most complete at the beginning? or the bow?)
I think about her often. When I look at the stars or when I remember the place I learned how to be curious has been devastated, destroyed, and reborn for a new little girl to look at Lucy with wide eyes. She will never know my name, but I know hers. I love her more than she could have been able to understand. In my heart, that is my sister in that glass box. I always wanted a sister. I hope she wanted a sister too.
Thank you, Time magazine for highlighting Lucy’s importance in 2015. Fuck you, The Institute for Creation Research for calling her “just an ape” in 2018. Even if she was, her scientific contributions were great. Her effect on me: even greater.
Lucy’s bones are small. (I wonder how they compared to mine when I was young.) Her bones were puzzled-pieced in with a model of what the rest of her skeleton would have looked like. She stood opposite an artistic recreation of herself as she was alive. She stood in a glass case and she stared up at those viewing her. (I stared up at her) I don’t know where she is now. (Perhaps it’s time for her to go home.)
Daisy Fleabane
I should’ve stayed with Mother. Her gentle nudges leading me away from the edge, if only that had been enough to deter me. Her chestnut fur so soft, so gentle, the border of white lining her tail; I would’ve been the spitting image of her. The white speckles would’ve eventually faded from my back, my spindly legs would’ve grown strong and tall. But now everything lay twisted and warped as I stare at the sky above. I cannot move my head. I cannot glance and look into the eyes of a buck passing by and beg for help with my wide-eyed gaze. This is just the cycle of life. I try to resign myself to that fact; it would make things easier if I believed it.
A wave of pain passes through my spine and that all goes out the window. I yearn for my Mother; her silent protection, her warm side pressed against mine, her cold nose bumping my shoulder, leading me away from the edge. The view had been too overwhelming. I was taken in by the intensity of the sun, the silhouettes of the Giant Ones beckoning me as they lumbered by in the distance. The grass had seemed so much greener on that far away side. I stare at the sky above, the intensity of the sun much more violent than it had seemed before; beating down on my body at the bottom of the rocks as if it was meant to punish me for my foolish desires.
Then suddenly, I am overtaken by darkness, the sunlight vanishes and a strong chill runs over my fur. I find that I prefer the heat. I assume this is it, the end, and I close my eyes in anticipation; perhaps I won’t even feel it, it will be like I’m just falling asleep. My body begins to lift, a gentle pressure surrounding me, not quite strong enough to jostle my broken legs and bring me pain. And then…the sunlight returned. Opening my eyes in confusion I saw not the embrace of death, but the face of a Giant One. They lifted me out from where I had lain with stones and set me on the grass. I did not know hands so large and calloused could possess the same tenderness as Mother’s embrace. Fluttering above me like vast birds, the hands reached for me, somehow touching the broken bones within me. Softly pulling and shifting, the Giant One was healing me. My legs, as stiff and raw as they were when I had first been born, gathered beneath me. My neck, as if someone released the clamps that had been holding it in place, dropped with the sudden weight of my head. Finally able to look around, finally able to stagger to my feet I watch as the Giant One leaves without a second glance, their task seemingly complete. The strange weight on my head continues, but I ignore it to cry for Mother. She must know I’m alive; I have to find her, console her, be under her protection once again. Eyes searching the forest line for her chestnut fur.
I see her.
She is frozen still, looking at me through her large eyes, taking me in as if I would disappear if she looked away. I cannot contain myself.
I run, faster than I’ve ever run before, to her. Whatever that Giant One did has renewed me, I can feel endless energy charging through me; like I have never been truly alive until this moment. Mother is shocked, and takes a step back. I reach her and bow my head, wanting to nuzzle into her side, to feel her warmth and confirm that she is truly there. I cannot reach her. Instead I feel a strange poking sensation, as if someone has placed a branch in between me and Mother’s side.
Antlers.
The Giant One had changed me more than I realized, the fuzzy nubbins protruding from my once smooth head a signifier of some greater shift deep within me. Does Mother not recognize me? The relief I felt turned into something ugly, a stomach-churning fear that was worse than laying at the base of the rocks in a broken body. Fear that she would abandon me, believing that I am not the doe she once loved. Fear that she would see me as a stranger and nothing more. We stand there, facing each other waiting for the other to move first. She breaks the standstill, bending her head down to the grass. I notice a tear rolling down her cheek. It falls to the ground and immediately something emerges from the dirt; a small green plant with small innocent buds that bloom before my very eyes. I understand now that they are not tears of sorrow, but instead tears of joy. Tears of joy at the sight of me standing in front of her, tears of relief that my body is whole, no matter what form it takes, and that I am safe. She takes the flowers in her teeth and places them on my head, nestled between the antlers that now occupy the space. She nuzzles her head into my side, her cold nose bumping my shoulder in reassurance.
I am no longer the spitting image of my Mother. The white speckles have faded from my back; my antlers have grown strong as a crown above my head, but I feel no sorrow. For every time I rise from my slumber on the forest floor I am surrounded by her flowers. Her small white daisies resting on my back where my own speckles once were, embracing me as she did.
DANIELLE LARSON
Do My Bones Look Pretty?
Fragments
She’s bleeding out, the cityscape within reach. The asphalt is digging into her skin and staining her hands red. Her ragged gasps get caught in her ribs, protruding violently from her chest.
She’s bleeding out, adrenaline seeping through her finger tips and leaving her hollow.
She’s bleeding out, grasping at the nightscape in front of her. Her eyes claw at the lights of the nearest building, hazy and blinding against the blistering air. She creates shapes in the windows, moving about rapidly from light to light, creating flits of color to dance along to.
She’s bleeding out, the taste of iron tart on her tongue and the smoke engulf her senses, carrying her to Christmas tamales. They’re pink from the strawberry Nesquik, that was her abuelita’s secret ingredient. They’re sweet and moist, wrapped tightly in corn husks until they’re on the brink of overflowing. She always managed to mess up how much masa went into them, always too much or too little, but her abuelita would just smile and fold them away. Down they go, all in one pot on the comal, larger than life, and taller than the clouds.
She’s bleeding out and clutching at the asphalt, spreading the chalk to nicely blend the colors, just like her mother showed her. Her finger is pressed down enough to hurt, but it makes the colors blend seamlessly, perfectly, just like her mother’s. She adds more chalk, just to feel the smooth grinding wobble in her wrist.
She’s bleeding out, trembling against the frigid wind.
She’s bleeding out, laying on her cousin’s bed, cradling a cheap half necklace. It’s garish and covered in glitter, but the resounding clink it makes with its accomplice has the air punched from her lungs.
She’s bleeding out, blinded by flashing lights and the bumping hips from a smiling face. She smiles back, eyes hazy and cheeks rosy; with every care she’s cared to learn.
She’s bleeding out, crying, howling out against the needles in her skin and red hot basalt flooding her shoulders and cheeks. She cries for the life she’s lived and the life she feels in the soles of her feet. She screams from the poison of a sword protruding from her chest, hilt pressing against a spine she can no longer feel.
She’s bleeding out, but she clings to life through her teeth, bearing the blood on her lips and pressing.
She’s bleeding out and I’m cradling her head in my hands, warmth bleeding through her cheeks.
I’m wiping away her tears and pleading with my mind, an apology piercing through me.
She’s bleeding out and I’m keeping her alive, flooding life into her being, frantically, desperately. I’m pressing at keys and leaning against her, clutching at her life line, wrapping it around my wrist and fingers, praying it crawls along my skin. If I never stop writing, if I force the words out of my throat, then she’ll never die. She’ll keep clawing at my arms and pressing against the bloody gravel underneath her, gasping and screaming for a life in my hands.
She’s bleeding out, reliving a lifetime of moments she does not recognize. Reliving countless hours of a life left buried. Living through every grief, every love, every touch, every fathomable creation of the stars, until I’m able to take her last breath.
She’s bleeding out, but she’s too strong to die and I am too weak to kill her.
NAT LENINGTON
Ode to a Pickle
THE HOT MAMA GAS STATION PICKLE IN A PLASTIC BRINE BAG IS A CURE-ALL FOR LIFE'S MANY AILMENTS INCLUDING: LETHARGY, MELANCHOLY, COSMIC CONGESTION, GUT MICROBIOME IMBALANCE, FRET, AND HUNGER. THE SHOCK TO YOUR SYSTEM WILL BALANCE YOUR HUMORS AND A LUST FOR LIFE WILL BE RESTORED! THE MELANGE OF ASTRINGENT JUICE AND CONCENTRATED CAPSAICIN CUT THROUGH ANY DISCONNECTION OR INDIFFERENCE YOU MAY EXPERIENCE WHILE ON A LONG HAUL. TIME HAS NO MEANING WHEN THE PRIMORDIAL BURN PERMEATES YOUR PORES AND YOU REALIZE THAT THE DISCOVERY OF FIRE RESIDES IN YOUR TASTEBUDS. YOU CANNOT FIGHT OR FLEE YOUR MOLECULAR MEMORY, BUT YOU CAN RESET YOUR NEUROTRANSMITTERS AND EMBRACE SENTIENCE. OH HOW LUCKY WE ARE TO HAVE $2.50 MIRACLES AND TO FEEL PAIN INSTEAD OF SIMPLY SOAKING IN SACKS OF SWEAT!
Kid in a Gas Station
VICEROY
GIOVANNA MCLEAN
Fantastical Creature of Ecuador
AUGUST THOMPSON
Inky Pen Holder
oARTMISTAKES
Stills from Jewelry
The Body
Sleeping
Eyes are rested
Joints are loose
Muscles are free
The body is asleep
Streetlights shine away from the body
Cars keep distance
Noise tiptoes around the world, As snores pass through neighborhoods
Darkness covers all,
But the darkness is not evil
It wraps around the body like a glove, Providing stability
The stillness is calm, And peaceful
A new event
Approaches slowly
The body is well rested
It awaits the sun
Warmth of life
To begin again
The dawn will come But it is not dawn yet It is night, And the night is sleeping
The body lays still Dreaming about stars
Resting Living
Eyes are rested
Joints are loose
Muscles are free
The body is asleep
The
Awake
Eyes are open
Joints become stiff
Muscles tighten
The body is awake
The day begins with the sun
Shining onto the world Its light is strong and graceful
The light is good It is warm It is soft It is comfortable
The sun holds onto the body
Like a mother with her child It grips tight Not to let go
The light provides strength to the body It provides life
The body is awake, And at peace
The body thinks about its journey Its life
The path it has taken And where it will walk
The body begins to move Its form starts to open
The body has awaken from its sleep It is rested
Eyes are open
Joints become stiff
Muscles tighten
The body is awake
Living
Eyes are awake
Joints move
Muscles flex
The body is living
The body moves Drifting Aimlessly through the world Aimless through time
The body is neither here Nor there It wanders Fluctuating
The body lives It moves and experiences It thinks And breathes
The body is strong It understands It questions It thinks
In the dark In the light
The body travels Through the realms of thought
The body drifts and wanders It is open and closed It is awake and living It is you, and us all in one
Eyes are awake
Joints move
Muscles flex
The body is living
Orange
1. My favorite color is and has been orange for years. I don’t know how people can have more than one favorite color.
2. I used to have this orange notebook that I loved. Just the cover was this sweet, light yellow-orange. I can’t remember where I put it.
3. I dyed my hair orange once. My mom didn’t like it very much.
4. Carnelian is one of many orange gemstones. Each piece has a few different shades in it, sometimes a streak of white, but I’d say it’s an orange rock. Either way, I’ve worn a piece on my necklace for years.
5. I collect the orange pill bottles. I keep telling myself that I’m going to make something with them someday, but I’m not sure I ever will.
6. I see love in shades of orange. The way I love someone shines in a different shade. My parents and family are a bright yellow-orange. My friends fall somewhere in the midrange, a true orange. My partner shines in a deep red-orange.
7. When I first met my girlfriend, her favorite color was orange. It isn’t anymore. We bonded over the fact that we both liked the color orange. She used to wear this orange crystal necklace everyday. It broke a few times, then she lost it.
8. I’ve grown to like clementines. My dad eats 3 a day and has for as long as I can remember. I didn’t used to like them, but maybe I do now so I can be more like him. Sometimes the pulp is too much for me. The juice is the best part anyway.
9. The wood on my grandpa’s guitar has an orange stain. I don’t know how to play very well, but I try to so I can remember him better. My dad says that we really would’ve gotten along.
10. CIA’s color is orange. I think it’s nice. It’s not often that places put orange in the building, unless you’re in Home Depot. I worked there in the summer of 2021, 30 hours a week, and I grew sick of that shade of orange. I still see it everywhere.
11. I love sweet potatoes.
Moving at High Speeds
KALAB BUMBAUGH
VIVIAN WATTLE
Cathedra Serrata
Excerpt from Death, the Dead, and the Undying
What will be my last thoughts before I die?
I’ll never see my dog again. I’ll never see my dad, brother, sister, grandma, and uncle again. I’ll never talk to my friends again.
What will death feel like? How much will it hurt?
I can’t die like this. I have so much left to do, so much left to see, so many people to love.
Then there is life after death. Do I believe in what I was raised with: Heaven and Hell? Or do I choose what is mostly real–nothing? Even though I am so petrified of Hell that I feel it in my bones, the nothing scares me more. That can’t be it. Is it just black nothingness for eternity, like falling asleep with no dreams? Or is it like how completely blind people describe what they see–not black, just nothing? Where will my consciousness go? I almost want to be a ghost, so I don’t have to leave everything behind–so I have somewhere to return to.
If there is truly nothing after death, then I will never talk to my mom again. No chances to say “thank you, I’m sorry, I love you.”
CAMERON KRIZMAN
Dracula’s Wolves
ALDER HILDEBRAND
Two Princes
MYCHAEL RUCKER Merchant
EMILY CHANEY
Ode to Mini
Four legged little lamb, filled with now smooshed cotton stuffing, a long time has passed since you were first given to me.
Once a child’s plaything, you have survived the years of torment of grubby hands and drool, Now a young adult’s old friend, you are a testament of our similar ages, with soft yellowed fur, and dull eyes. I will always remember the old days.
The days of tea parties on the living room carpet with pink teacups, The days of learning to cook on the play dinette like we were chefs, The days when you had to sit in the closet for sometimes I was not the best child, like you were the one thing my parents knew was the key to my obedience, Which at the time you were.
You were the one consistency in my childhood, always there for me, Two peas from different pods, Two unlikely lifelong friends, Putting up with my swinging moods, the yelling, the laughter, Occasionally chucking you or something else at the wall with a thud, After which I would instantly be filled with regret since you were innocent.
The future holds many mysterious things, as it should, And the day you finally fall apart will be a day of great sorrow, for my single friend as a child, my single confidant is gone, But do not fret for now I am older, and will live on in this terrible, joyful world,
Remembering the days of childhood when I had your advice, and your comfort, and your silent understanding,
Until I am as old as dirt. Thank you for being there for me.
Bearly Tolls Sunset Stroll
ALONA HENDERSON
Dreams & In-Betweens
Austin Reed and Jon Vilevac are best friends and seniors in Game Design who have merged their creative talents for their BFA thesis. I sat down with them to discuss their game, Tale of the Echo.
IWhat is your game, Tale of the Echo, about?
0
Austin Reed: Tale of the Echo is about a homicide detective trying to solve a crime that has recently reopened.
1
Jon Vilevac: You find VHS tapes to help understand the case and why it got reopened.
IHow did the idea for your game come to be?
1
JV: It was a summer night, maybe a few weeks before school started back up, and we were thinking about different games and what we liked out of each of them. We went through a lot of different ideas, there was an oil rig game at one point and—
0
AD: —and there was going to be a weather man chasing weather disasters, that was also an idea.
1
JV: And then we wanted to do something with a detective, so we decided on a story-driven game where you’re trapped in a police station and have to solve puzzles. Austin had the idea for the lighter, which is the main mechanic in our game.
0
AD: Yeah, it was an idea that came up in my dream.
I
Can you tell me more about the dream about the lighter? That’s really interesting.
0AD: Dreams are so confusing. I think my brain was taking inspiration from multiple games and mixing them together. I saw us putting the lighter in our game, then the light switched colors. I thought that was really cool. I thought, “How can I make that a mechanic?” I turned it into a UV light, like how detectives solve crimes, like blood stains that have already been bleached out and where they use—I forgot what it’s called, iodine or something— and they put liquid over the blood stain and it glows blue. So I thought we could use the UV light to replicate that.
IWhat games and media are you taking inspiration from?
1
JV: There’s a lot of them. For story
aspects and overall feel, I drew inspiration from games like Alan Wake and Outlast. We took inspiration for level design from stuff like Resident Evil 2 Remake, Outlast, where you go around an asylum, and Murdered Soul Suspect, where there was a police station we took inspiration from.
“It was an idea that came up in my dream.”
0
AD: For puzzle-solving, which is going to be a big mechanic in our game, we took a big
inspiration from Amnesia. Usually when you pick up and interact with things, it’s very unique how you do that; instead of an animation being played for you, you have to do the action in itself, like picking up and moving things out of the way like you would in real life. I’ve always been a big follower of Frictional Games.
1
JV: Also Portal. You pick up cubes, and put them down or throw them into different places.
IHow long have you two known each other? Why did you decide to work on a game together?
0
AD: We both went to school at the same time, but didn’t start talking until towards the end of sophomore year. We hung out once in a while. After junior year we thought it would be good if two common minds work together on certain projects–our ideas pretty much matched up. We originally wanted our BFA thesis to show off our work with visual effects, environment work, and level design, but that turned into something different as we saw
“We’re going to just stick with that one game and see where it takes us.”
the capabilities of what we could do with our minds. So we decided to start an LLC.
1
JV: It’s been two years up to where we’re standing now. Going along with what he said about putting our minds together, we’re both very crafty people. He’s more mechanics and overall technical stuff, and I’m more of the modeling or storytelling kind of person. Our ideas and who we are mesh together really well, to the point we can make this giant game and have barely any hiccups. If we do have hiccups here or there, we can solve it, but just being able to work together with someone who’s very close to you who has the same mindset is very very helpful to make a game.
I
What are your plans for the game after graduation?
1
JV: We plan to release it on Steam in the fall of this year. That’s the target at the moment. Overall, we hope to make a trilogy out of this at some point, but right now we’re going to just stick with that one game and see where it takes us.
0
AD: We have another project in the works that’s in the prototyping phase at the moment, and from what we find, the in-between projects help us keep us from getting sick of working on one project all the time. It gets frustrating, so bouncing between the two projects we’ve felt is the best thing to do in those moments.
IWhat are the pros and cons of working on your BFA project with a partner?
0
AD: The pros are you can have ideas merge together and an original idea can become something even greater than it originally was. And the cons are the disagreements. As partners it’s really important to figure out that in-between that you’re both okay with.
1JV: The disagreements are frustrating; when it does happen, usually it’s just two creative minds not knowing what’s the right decision. With the story, I did the majority of writing on it. Austin came up with a few things here and there that I would implement, but sometimes I had to say, “No, that’s my vision.” We had to redesign some levels and a lot of layout designs got changed during production, which kinda upset me, but now seeing it later, it was for the better. It’s always important to have that communication, especially with a partner; you just get more stuff done. And like Austin was saying, you get to bounce ideas off each other. You can come in and say, “I had this dream about this.” When both of us are very excited about those ideas, we get to put our strengths to use and create something like this wonderful project that we’re doing.
Stay up to date with Tale of the Echo: Instagram: @echorealmstudio
What is now... will not stand After the fall... we will rise
Habitual nature
The smoking cataclysm
The ashy, violent cough a persistent memento Like volcanic ejecta Clinging to the rolling tide Yet past mired coasts, An image of breathing eternity
The watercourse way
For your words
All words
Show gratitude toward the page
The blank background Without which
There would be no words Without empty space
There would be no stars
Such is so that The silence implies the sound And your death allows your life
Blue Whale
The blue whale has a 15 pound brain. Despite this, I have a theory. I think we know more than them.
Do you think the blue whale is aware that it is the largest animal to have ever existed? I, for one, think someone needs to tell them.
The blue whale probably doesn’t get much in the way of compliments. I’m not sure there is a noise they make that means you have a beautiful smile.
So, as to avoid confusion, We will just let them know that they’ve won the competition. That would be much easier than a compliment.
The largest blue whale was recorded at 98 feet in length. Which, when you think about it, is only two feet away from a nicer sounding number.
So maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to let them know That they could be doing better Even at their best.
Or maybe, we should let them know Something not so true That they got second place.
Maybe the blue whale would find comfort In knowing that they did well, but there is someone bigger They don’t bear the responsibility
The blue whale has a 15 pound brain. It’s probably worrying enough at this point. That’s a lot to live with.
Now that I consider it I don’t think we should tell them
The blue whale knows exactly what it needs to know. If a blue whale knew it ended with them That beyond it, there were mountains, planets, galaxies An ever expanding universe
I don’t think the krill would taste as nice.
Latona Galaxy
LANE GRIGSON
To Lady of the Laminated Floors
Subject A balm to soothe the ache,
Dear ******** ,
When I was younger there was a goldfinch that used to come sit at the window above our front door During the warm months he would be there every morning when I got up to go to school, and in all of my childhood wisdom I bestowed him with the name “Puffy ” As the weather got cold he would disappear, but for what felt like years he would return with the spring to perch in our window again It was like seeing an old friend I would talk to him through the window, tell him about my day and ask him how the worms were I chose to believe he responded, I just couldn’t hear him through the glass We were thick as thieves Puffy and I The tricky thing about becoming friends with a bird is that any day could be the last I don’t have the exact time I last saw him, but one spring, after the snow melted from the sidewalk and the frost released the lawn, he didn’t return with the sun My parents consoled me and the years went on, no Puffy in sight
The morning of an otherwise completely average, normal day in middle school, I looked at the door as I came downstairs Up in the window was a goldfinch, puffed yellow feathers silhouetted against the light of the sun If I was religious I would’ve seen it as a sign from God I waved at him, said hello and asked how he was, where he had been all this time The bird flew away from the window without answering
I miss you,
FINN FUEHRER
50 Pounds
50 pounds. The maximum weight we must condense our whole lives into. One bag permitted on the ship. Fleet after fleet of the largest spacer vessels anyone has ever seen, and yet one fucking bag is all I can bring. I’ve been putting it off, I’ll admit. Feeling overwhelmed with the task, I often just stand in the middle of my room with my hands on my hips. I’ve narrowed down the clothes I am bringing. They have assured us once we get out to the Far Reaches and settle in, craft industries should start up again and we can get new clothing and essentials. What is pissing me off is the fact there is never enough room for the trinkets and memories I want to bring. The new frontier. This should be my dream. I should be happy to make new memories, but how can I be expected to do that without my favorite stuffed plush, or my records, or my skincare? It’s the little things. I suppose that doesn’t matter when everything is fucking colossal now: gigantic spaceships, infinite universes, massive and imminent destruction. God, at least they promised us feminine hygiene shit on the ship—Lord knows that would take up at least 10 pounds. Replacing those 10 pounds with my Xbox is a pretty viable option, but to be fair I do not want to have to share it. Anyone lucky enough to have a pet gets an extra 20 pounds of wiggle room. So maybe I am mad at my dog for dying, but to be fair she would probably not like outer space very much. My sketchbook has enough trash shoved in it to account for a whole pound, and adding in all my favorite pens, stickers, and paints is really pushing it. This laptop is coming with me. I refuse to let YouTube go. Maybe if the spacer committee appreciates mediocre Photoshop skills I can get a good job. I doubt Photoshop has a place amongst the stars. I leave in a week now. I’m at 38 pounds. I’m fucked.
I Promise
F
JAMES NEGRON
ROSENPOEMS thorns from a rose
a rose, something beautiful to the eye and feeling of love. people look past the idea of a rose having thorns. they just see the beautiful flower and sigh contently while looking to the sky above. what people don’t seem to realize is the stem of horns. your love was like thorns from a rose, kind of. all the memories flood my brain and show up as storms.
you were once a beautiful rose with very little thorns, looking at you while i was a child. yet as the years went by i’ve seen all your thorns hidden start to show. i was your second grandchild. i never thought i would grow up to see yourself become a shadow. all my thoughts growing up never would think the thorns would become wild. you have thorns growing from yourself, a prick every time i touch you, so different from long ago.
all the times i wanna let you go because you’re not the same, i can’t since my memories flood back. the way i see you is never going to be the same, a shattered shell of your old self. you would always tell me stories, and the older i got the more i realized you’re so broken and manic. you become a book to me that i can no longer take off the shelf.
day by day goes by now and all i see is a broken record. the thorns from yourself take over more and more. i can no longer play you my voice of a chord. you get closer to stepping on the other side of the door. looking back on my life, seeing you in all my accomplishments, something i could never again afford. you would listen to everything i said, all my broken pieces were put onto you
and you never told another soul, you swore.
each day i feel a tug on my arms as the thorns dig deeper. i could never truly forgive myself for all the times i never said “i love you”. you warmed up my life more than you could ever imagine, my source heater. when i say i’ll never have someone else like you to guide and pick me up when i fall, it’s true. you knew all the stories, pain, and deep truths, my secret keeper. whenever i’m around you now, all i feel is blue.
you are my rose with thorns.
“Sweets”
“Sweets… Love Grandpa.”
As a young child, not knowing who I really was, or what I would be, there was a nickname given to me.
Nothing that I knew of until years after your death, not when I was carefree. Something that I don’t remember the sound of, a moment of time vanished from my memory.
A sound that I will never hear from you again, but I wear it like an accessory. Playing out in the backyard, you are watching me with the most glee in your eyes. I always knew you would be my guardian angel, so I stared at the skies.
My life will never be like it once was, since I lost you.
One day I will see you again, a day when it becomes my queue.
Many things were left behind from your existence.
Ones I never knew existed until I went looking.
Something that was just a short distance. A thing that I was overlooking.
Flashbacks of feelings came without knowing.
Finding a paper with the words sweets. “I will always be your sweets,” I sigh as a tear sheds.
The paper becomes my pride, something I don’t share among most.
I choose to live day by day with the nickname on my mind.
One small thing flashes by and I think of you and all the times before.
Life was such a simple time, but once you were gone, then it became harder.
“I love you, Grandpa,” I sigh as I stare at the sky.
The tears are no longer flowing as I don’t have more to shed, I wish that life could be different. I want life to be like it used to be, riding my bike in the backyard almost crashing into the woods. The dancing we did to The Beatles on top of the couch, my hair flying around as I swayed to the music that flows in my ears, you holding my hands as tight as you could not wanting to let go. To the times you still would pick me up when all the others said “you’re too big now.” You would never care and still picked me up when I wanted.
Life was crazy then, growing up, learning to be human, yet you were there for me when I needed you most.
I miss everything about you and what we did, I miss feeling at home.
A place away from home, right across the street, is gone now.
It has been destroyed and taken apart, with nothing left but wood scraps.
I hear echoes of the walls as I take steps, something I will never be used to hearing. I wanted that home to be there forever, but it is now gone.
a will-o’-the-wisp in my doll house
KAYLEE RYAN
End of the World
Looking out of the window used to serve as a means of passing the time away on a long road trip. Taking in the scenery of a new location excited me for the journey to come. Now, looking out of a window of a car invokes only a deep sadness within me and reminds me of the bleak, grim reality of the world I have become accustomed to. The thick smog combined with pouring rain and decaying nature is a sight that has filled many people nowadays with depression and hopelessness. My father and I were no exception to this effect.
It was a random Saturday in January when we left for our weekly trip. My dad and I were taking a road trip to Detroit, the nearest city with running water. This was a trip that in a post-apocalyptic world we took about once a week. We packed an empty jug as well as the bare essentials for survival: clothes, some food from our shrinking collection, and some hygiene products. The clothes we were able to salvage and find from a nearby donation center were dilapidated and discolored. My winter jacket from years prior was two sizes too small, thin, and barely kept me warm, however, I was grateful to own a jacket at all. Still, sitting in this old car with no heating left me shivering and miserable from the horrible weather outside.
I stared at the back of my father’s head, uncomfortable from the cold and unable to start any kind of conversation. I was not allowed to sit in the front, as that was my mother’s seat, and he found it disrespectful to her memory. Though I found this stupid, the notable distance between us put less pressure on the road trip in a strange way. He is able to focus just on driving while I slept in the back seat. We were coming up on the last leg of our trip when my dad missed a turn, adding on another hour or two of driving. Entering into an abandoned, bumpy road with no street lights, surrounded by a deep forest, all I could feel was anger. I scoffed.
“What is it now?” He remarked. “You’re always complaining about something.” Just as I was about to respond, we were both jolted forward. My head slammed against the car seat in front of me. He pulled the emergency brake as I gasped for air.
We both went outside to check the damage. Immediately, smog filled our lungs. The front of the car was submerged in a giant pothole that had been obscured by the dark atmosphere. Both front tires were busted, and there was only one spare. In this climate, a new tire was very hard to come by and very expensive. We were stranded.
Both distraught, exhausted, and frustrated, we decided to leave the car behind and begin walking. Hours and hours went by, then almost two days, with no town in sight. The unspoken tension only grew with time, as we grew more delirious from dehydration and starvation.
On the third day around noon, we sat down on the side of the road under a tree to break and retreat briefly from the rain. Looking around, I noticed a pair of shoes.
They were tattered, beaten, and probably housed by a family of bugs. The person who once kept them together was long gone, though they remained a unit still. Through all the turmoil and chaos of the past month, the pair managed to stay together.
When we stood back up to continue walking, he marched along significantly ahead of me at a steady enough pace that would keep me from catching up anytime soon. I gazed upon the surviving trees as we walked, amazed in their ability to resist the thick smoke and chemicals. Half of them had turned brown in decay, but any living plants were hard to come by these days. In a few years, everything would be dead. We were all stuck watching the world crumble around us as our purpose and wills to live slowly dissipated.
I looked down at my feet for the millionth time, but this time I took notice of something different. The footprints on the ground looked familiar, resembling the bottom of my shoes. The cars we had been walking past for days were actually just one car and it was our own. We were walking in circles, too delirious to realize.
“Dad!” I yelled, chasing after him. He ignored me but I finally caught up to him. “Dad, this is our car. We’ve been walking in circles!”
“You think I don’t realize that?” He stated, with a clever tone that implied I was stupid for not figuring it out sooner. “We’ve been walking in circles for days on end.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked, searching for an answer other than my own. He would rather walk in circles until we die from starvation than speak to his total disappointment of a daughter.
“Because I don’t know what to do.” His voice broke. It sounded like he was on the verge of tears. “I’m out of ideas.” I had never seen my father like this before, defeated and emotionally dejected. I didn’t know how to respond. Silence filled the air once again.
“If you had just made that turn, none of this would have happened.” I said, and the second it came out of my mouth I wanted to take it back. That was such a horrible statement to make to a grieving husband.
His expression shifted from vulnerable back to cold and unfeeling as he turned to look at me. “If your mother was still alive, I would have been able to hear you out, Lindsey.” My dad remarked with contempt in his voice. “But we all know why she’s gone.” He shot me a disapproving glare. And immediately I knew to shut up.
BENJAMIN PUENTES Searching
SAMANTHA FREDLE
Still from No Time
EMMETT
Two Legends Meet
PITYPONGO
Imaginary Friend
World Peace
CHUNK AND TRASHBOAT
Still from Duster
Dysfunction
“Who knew the end times would be so mild.”
“I mean at least nothing is on fire.”
Perhaps one day there will be alligators in the Shaker Lakes (Ohio’s oldest unnatural lakes.) Seems fitting to see a gator chomp down on a blue heron while folks keep their pomeranians from becoming the next victims.
Cleveland is destined to be a “climate haven.”
They say it like it’s a good thing like we will be exempt from the rest of the horrors but the gators will get us too once they’re big enough.
“Mild for who?”
“Not here at least.”
BEN MATALONI
Dishwasher
I hate to admit this so openly
But if there was no dishwasher I wouldn’t
Be happy, be healthy, be alive
Find myself even remotely close to a pursuit of happiness I am lucky
To have this box, that takes care of the single greatest hurdle
Any human being In the history of time For like, forever Has had to endure.
I would simply rot I wouldn’t survive it,
Wasting in the bubbling mass inside the drains
Flakes of eggshell, uncooked rice, vegetable slime
Tomato puree in its darkest form
Maggots, proteins of watered down cheese
A home fitting
For someone who fails such a simple task
As running water
Over a porcelain mug
With Miss Piggy’s face on it.
LIAM MEALEY Pillars
KE GRAY
In the Snail Garden, the Other Version
UNTAPPED IMAGINATION
Spring on Apicrot Road
[Verse 1]
There once was a girl in my dreams with these auburn eyes
Every time we’d meet, she’d place her hand in mine
Should’ve felt like a total stranger
Felt I knew her my whole life
And when we’d sing together
The world would spring to life
We always walked together down this old road
And the name, behold, was Apicrot Rd. (Apicrot Rd.)
[Verse 2]
Bright day, sun was shinin’
Cool breeze, wind was chimin’
In real life walking down that road
That’s how it usually goes
‘Til I up and saw her standing there
Looking totally lost and unaware
Like she didn’t quite know where to go Felt I had to make my presence known
I say, “Hey, do you need some help?”
She says, “I’m feeling so bereft”
“My love just said he’s done with me” “Pulled off and left me on the street”
“This neighborhood I don’t know too well”
“Do you know how to get to Ramalelle (street)?”
I said, “I’ll lead you to your place of residence”
“With these streets, I’m a long term resident” We made a right, then made a left, then made a right and made another right
Whole time talking ‘bout life
She said that in her plight I was a bright light If only you could see the way she
looked at me
Green eyes glowing
Red hair flowing
Convo ongoing
No signs of slowing
We get to her home
Walking up the pavement
She said, “Thanks for your kind help, you must be heaven-sent”
[Verse 3]
History from there
That was three years ago
How are things now, well, I don’t really know I feel that I love her, feel things going great
But lately she’s been acting distant when we share a space
I don’t know why but I give her benefit of doubt
Maybe when she’s ready to talk she’ll spill what it’s all about
Or at least that’s what I thought when I went out to a barbie
Having fun at my best friend’s engagement party
Hours of partying but she said that she didn’t mind
She had plans anyway (out of sight, out of mind)
So color me surprised, appalled and dejected
When I get home and she’s not present
Maybe she went home, that’s where my head went
Until I looked at my phone to see an unheard voicemail message
UNTAPPED IMAGINATION
[Verse 1]
At the park I’m sitting alone
Just minding my business
When this girl sits on the same bench as me
With this lemony fragrance
Exchanging pleasantries I end up telling her my name
She says it’s nice to meet me and in kind she does the same
And well, I got there at two and now it’s near three o’ clock
So deep in conversation I dunno when it’ll stop
As she gets up to leave I just cannot believe
The way that the sun illuminates her frame
Like looking at an eclipse but I won’t go blind today
She hands me a little card and says, “Give me a call”
I stand completely in shock
Is it worth it to take that shot?
[Chorus ]
Should I give love a spin?
Just to be hurt again?
What’s the meaning and answer to it all?
When the feeling’s so real
And it draws ever near In my head I go
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I may be overthinking it
[Verse 2]
That night I’m sitting alone
Tryna handle my business
Stressing ‘bout whether or not I should call her phone
What a predicament this is
This could be the girl in my dreams
Or alternatively the death of me
Is she honest or just playing this out?
Well, there’s only one way to find out
As the phone starts to ring
My belly-flies start to sing
I’m oh-so anxious ‘bout what tonight’ll bring
She answers with a, “Hey”
Followed up by my name
Guess I’m in the rabbit hole now
And the only way up is down
[Chorus]
Should I give love a spin?
Will I be hurt again?
What’s the meaning and answer to it all?
When the feeling’s so real
And it draws ever near In my head I go
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I may be overthinking it
[Verse 3]
On the porch I’m finding my flow
What time of night is this?
Before I know it two hours have blown
This is going better than I expected
Can’t seem to let this convo go
Don’t quite have a good reason to do so
‘Cause while she’s talking I’m well immersed
Many times we would laugh in bursts
She said when she saw me on the bench
Looking cute and alone
She knew she had to make her presence known
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
One thing led to the next
Now we’re talking out of our heads
When we hung up I couldn’t shake my smile
Haven’t felt this way in quite a while
[Chorus]
Should I give love a spin?
Maybe this time I’ll win
What’s the meaning and answer to it all?
When the feeling’s so real
And it draws closer still In my head I go
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I may be overthinking it
[Verse 4]
Next day I’m walking alone
Same park to the same bench
Funny enough she’s in my zone
What a coincidence this is
Took off her shades as she walked my way
Those auburn eyes
In my mind I went, “Whoo”
She looked at me and asked, “What’cha wanna do today?”
I answered back, “I think that I wanna go out with you”
Just to see her again
A feeling I can’t explain
Took a little walk around the town
Conversation never slowing down
Could this turn to something more?
We’ve got time to learn and explore
And though I wear a weary head
I’m hanging onto every word she’s said
I feel calm and at ease
What’s the meaning and answer to it all?
This feeling is live
I’m so electrified
In my head going
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Can I make something out of this?
[Outro]
*Instrumental*
[Chorus]
Something ‘bout her with me
A Poem Approximating a Poem I Cannot Recall (Alternatively: How to Lose Your Humanity in One Easy Step!)
Lo, behold. You are here.
Perfect rays shining Through trees, fruitful And illuminated Through their sturdy Limbs and emerald Leaves.
Your temporary actions Good and pure. Every decision To offset the balance Of all deemed Damned, wicked, Vile.
You walk through Golden fields, Across ivory bridges Shadowing crystal ponds.
Everything in its place. All you would ever Need.
You see your Loved ones, Ancient ones, and Messengers of the Divine.
They tell you Everything you have Been waiting To hear. Everything You wanted to hear.
They provide Anything you Could ever Want. You carry on for Millennia. Without Pain. Without Effort. In a Paradise. One day, Among the birds’ Beautiful, Monotonous song, Underneath a Fertile, Predictable tree. In that Sublime, Tired landscape. You realize That you feel Nothing.
With no browning among the Leaves.
With no pleads For the Divine.
With no temptations Against the Vile.
With no Want nor Need.
There is Nothing.
Dyke Prayers
i, a virginal vessel for your holy heart
i bear my soul for you to witness
I am naked and devoted
Excerpt from FUN IN THE SUN
EXT. INDEPENDENCE STREET - SHAMOKIN, PENNSYLVANIA - DAY
A young, human woman, Emma, is sitting alone on a bench. She is lighting a cigarette. There are dilapidated, narrow buildings lining the background. The sky is orange, and brightly illuminated. The bench is on fire, with paper flames. Richard pops up through the other side of the bench.
RICHARD ‘DICK’ RAT
I thought I’d find you here, at the end of time.
EMMA
Oh? You’re speaking to me again? Do I have enough faith for you now?
RICHARD ‘DICK’ RAT
Haha, nah, I’m over that. Pastor said we’d be up in heaven by now, and now he’s just makin’ excuses as that
Richard points to the giant sun in the sky.
RICHARD ‘DICK’ RAT (CONT’D) Keeps gettin’ bigger.
EMMA
Well, what are your plans now?
RICHARD ‘DICK’ RAT
I thought about it. Long and hard. Thought my brain would catch on fire-
Richard pauses at the irony of this sentence.
RICHARD ‘DICK’ RAT (CONT’D)
But then I figured it would anyways! So I stopped. Richard laughs.
RICHARD ‘DICK’ RAT (CONT’D)
But, nah, all the boys went to the bar. I told ‘em: “Go inside and you’ll miss it! It’ll be awesome!” but they didn’t listen.
EMMA (jokingly)
I wonder how long we can look at it before our eyes melt.
RICHARD ‘DICK’ RAT
So uh, where do you think you’re gonna go after this? Upstairs or Richard points down.
RICHARD ‘DICK’ RAT (CONT’D)
Down there.
EMMA
I don’t know. It depends on how we’re graded.
RICHARD ‘DICK’ RAT
Well, I did extra credit, yesterday. I should be good.
EMMA
Haha, yeah. I’m sure you will be.
Both take a moment. The sun is rapidly illuminating and expanding.
EMMA (CONT’D)
Are you still scared?
RICHARD ‘DICK’ RAT
Hell yeah.
Richard and Emma face The Sun. He is about to fully engulf the Earth. Emma closes her eyes.
EMMA
Me too.
There is nothing but silence, darkness, and peace. FADE TO BLACK.
Friends at the Smoke Table
DALY HORTON
Flowers for Hind Rajab
I don’t believe in an afterlife, but I hope that Hind walks among the stars in the perfume of a thousand glittering flowers I hope that she plays catch with comets and laughs with the other children of war and that their bellies are always full, their skin is always dry and warm, and that their new home is more comfortable and safe than any a human could build
Magic Moment
Grandma’s Lamp
Growing up in my Big Brown House there was one rule that reigned supreme: “Don’t bounce balls near Grandma’s Lamp!!”
My Mom would plea from the other room I was in every other room, dashing and crashing about.
Dash and crash
That was my Mom’s affectionate nickname for me, who was definitely in need of reminding to not bounce balls near grandma’s lamp
That was what I was like as a kid, always running always running until I found new interesting
I held a reverence to the shiny! The Nature table
Was another name for it
Growing up when I found something beautiful outside in my Big House I would collect it
And place it in my House on the table
Grandma’s Lamp was also adorned with christmas lights from the last celebration
The stained glass ‘village’ that my Grandmother made too
Would come out of the precariously packed closet on the landing of the stairs to the second floor
From the ground floor
In my Big House
Storage
In that Big House there’s so much stored
In my new apart ment
Whenever someone comments on some of the stained glass art In apart My ment I always say “Thanks!”
“My grandmother made it”
‘Oh wow! Really?’ “Yeah” though”
“I never really liked her”
My Grandmother was always so mean to
When I would go with My Mom to visit her
In the nursing home or out for lunch wherever
It seemed as though My Grandmother was
she was bitter at the world?
fine. at My Mom?
Cruel.
All of My Life she made
Grandmother’s My Mother’s Life Sadder
I chose not to hate My Grandmother’s Life and Death I chose instead to support My Mother
I chose all of the furniture ap(IN)art My me(IN)ent Even now I collect and I place new interesting That Painting
The Vintage Lamp
The Blue Velvet Chair
The Fractalescent Crochet shawl
Even The Stained Glass Butterfly That matches the rest so well
While moving into my apartment this past summer, I discovered that a red glass ornament my grandmother made had been broken during the upheaval. I sat with the loss for a moment.
The ornament was beautiful, a star made from conjoined triangles of red glass- soldered together with lead- as were all pieces of stained glass from that time period.
I thought about how I never told my mom I was taking some of my grandma's art.
I figured that me getting some use out of them would be better than them sitting in one of the boxes filled with her things
Looking back at the shattered assemblage, I was surprised at how sad I was.
I had never much cared for my grandmother and frankly never wanted to see her towards the end of her life
I thought about what it meant to cherish the art of a person that I didn’t like
What must it take to turn someone so bitter? My heart fell as I imagined
This shift in perspective illuminated, in the glass, a new beauty.
ANNIE O’BRIEN
Woman in the Hotshop
Grammy and Pop
MADDIE CANTRELL
Growing Pains
When I was born I was put in beautiful dresses and christened in my parents church; when I went to Easter brunch my mom put my hair in tight curls that bounced when I ran down the stairs; when family and friends came for dinner I wore my favorite skirt, comfy but pretty; when I went to my elementary school graduation I wore a gentle blue cardigan embroidered with flowers. My dresses were yellow and green gingham with white lace and pink flowers on the hem, light pink with green ribbons and ruffles, blue flannel that used to be in much better shape, crisp white and stiff with armholes that were much too small, ones from my sister, ones from family, friends, ones from my grandmothers, oh she looks just precious; when I was 8 my grandmother dressed me in her clothes, pinned to fit, black and white blouses, skirts that fanned out like big top tents when I spun, clip-on earrings in gold and pearl, my hair done up with a bow and sprays of fake baby’s breath; when I ran to show my parents I danced and twirled till I fell; when I went to my first middle school dance I was nervous in my sequined dress; when I went to the next one I wore pants. When I went to a football game with my sister I wore leggings and a t-shirt; when we walked back to her car a college boy shouted at me as he drove by; when we got to the car my sister and I cussed him out. There’s a dog at the far end of my street, an old white crusty one, who barks like a madman anytime someone walks past the yard; when we hear him from our house we turn to each other, there’s Willy. When I went to my first homecoming I went to pick out a dress with my mom; I had never really enjoyed shopping, but that time was different; when I was a freshman in highschool I went to the mall with my friends in the middle of winter, the sky grey and the pavement covered in ugly slush; when I zipped up my 2 sizes-too-big coat a man whistled from his parking spot; when my friends and I got back to my house we sat huddled with blankets and whispered in our own made up language. When I went to my ex’s homecoming I wore a floral dress made for dancing and celebration, a skirt for twirling; when we walked to the school holding hands a man with a dog shouted, you ladies want to see my dog? Why don’t you come pet him?; when we didn’t respond he crossed the street behind us; when we ran up to the doors we didn’t look back to see where he was; when we danced we had our first kiss, and when we left we took a different way home. When I was driving back from a friends place late at night, a pickup truck with its brights blaring in my rearview stayed just a breath from my rear bumper; following me into a random neighborhood, matching my turns and keeping close; when I made a turn that my driver instructor would have failed me for; when I immediately turned into a driveway I didn’t recognize and shut off the car; when I watched the truck pass me by and turn farther down the street;
when I didn’t breathe until it was gone; when I continued driving it was after messaging my friends my location. When I got home I joined my father watching TV, returning to the safety of pajamas and sitting in silence on the couch; when ads blared at full volume we tuned out, hearing but not listening; when I went to work I wore jeans and shirts covered in paint, work boots nearing the end of their lifespan; when I was sweaty from stocking shelves a stranger would always have something to say. No, unfortunately we don’t accept returns of a paint brand we don’t even sell, well thank you for the compliment, no, I’m sorry I can’t just take this back, I apologize, you might have better luck asking customer service, no we don’t sell this I promise you, yes I can show you where customer service is, yes it’s right behind you, I’m sorry I couldn’t help more, no I’m not interested, you’ll have to excuse me I have to get back to stocking this shelf can after can until it’s perfect and without flaw, I apologize, have a nice day. When I left I checked the backseat and underside of my car in the empty lot before getting in; when I sat down I locked the doors behind me. When I started my freshman year of college I started wearing skirts again, bright colors and busy patterns, skirts that twirl and fan out like big top tents; when I walk the wind blows ruffles into the fabric at my ankles; when I walk I notice it’s quieter. Nobody wants to catcall an old maid.
Show Your Lines
ANNIE O’BRIEN
ANNIE O’BRIEN
These Cherries Are My Innocence
LANE GRIGSON
Maze of Dreams
The morning. That first drop of golden light through the window. Getting to watch the sun rise and having to be quiet because no one else is awake. I have the whole day ahead of me.
A warm cup of tea. I avoid black because the caffeine gives me headaches. Floral and fruit are my favorites.
The smell of citrus.
A spot of sunlight on the ground. When I’m chilly I’ll claim it and sit in the sun and draw. I’d sit there until the sun sets and not realize I’m in the dark until my mom calls me a vampire.
The moon.
A bedtime story. I don’t remember her reading them to me, but I remember the stories. She says we’d read together and I think that’s sweet.
The quiet.
A stuffed animal. His clothes are from other dolls. Blue pants, an orange striped hoodie and a loom bracelet.
The way I would pretend to be asleep in the car so my mom would carry me up to my bedroom.
A road trip. Visiting Granny or my Aunt. I’m exhausted but excited.
The drowsy feeling of nodding off in the car. I always try to play it off as if I’m not tired.
A trip to the airport. But only after getting through the TSA.
The moments I spend explaining the stories I have in my head to my mom. She’ll try learning the names of characters and politely sit through my convoluted explanations of events that take place.
A performance we made up for our moms at the pool. “Hey neighbor!”
The breeze.
A cold glass of water.
The last thing being crossed off your list.
A day where the greens of trees and blues of the sky are really saturated.
The days we’d go to the library and I would check out a stack of books and immediately start reading them once we got in the car.
A dance break while I make dinner listening to an album I like.
The arbitrary things I claim to have a favorite of. My favorite number. My favorite color. My favorite shape. My favorite day.
A bunch of clay blueberries, especially the sound they make. I made exactly 21 for reasons unknown to myself. I couldn’t stop.
The things we have in common. It’s always a surprise but a pleasant one.
A new hyperfixation. I always warn my roommates that I’ll only be talking about this one thing for months. Video games and animated shows.
The times we arrange activities to do with one another. Our movie nights, Hobbit dinner, graveyard picnic, skating days, walks, hot chocolate, game night...
A day where I don’t have to believe in the existence of time.
The giant leaf I found in Little Italy that my friend and I share custody over and plan on printing and framing.
A dirty bottle cap.
The jokes we tell that aren’t funny to anyone but us.
A smile. I try to see if I can uncover it.
The chorus of our laughter late in the night.
A day when we’re all home in the main room quietly doing our own things while a record plays in the background.
The sound of their voices.
A photo of you. I look at it a lot.
The times we sit and talk.
The Journal of a Vampire Finder
It has been seven months and twenty-four days since I first saw the vampire. Seven months and twenty-four days since that day of work when I closed up the shop, was walking to my friend’s car in the dark, and almost got taken by this creature I now seek.
It’s been about six months since my first meeting at the occult group in the woods. Walking through the trees to the lit fire in the distance, I could feel eyes piercing through my skin. At the meeting, people brought up how there were vampires in this town. I don’t think anyone knew that it knew we were talking about them. I wonder what they would say to the fact that I’ve met one. That it’s currently hiding in the shadows of the trees created by that fire. They think they’re safe. They don’t even know the half of what happens and what I want from it.
It’s been five months and thirteen days since I found out where that thing lurks. What apartment they currently reside in. Where they take their food and suck these people dry of their blood. Since I found out where they go on their nights out. It’s “work” hours. They stay inside during the day, but once night hits, they lurk in the shadows of buildings both inside and out.
It’s been three months and three days since I talked to them. They were out in a club, probably searching for their next prey. I interrupted their stalking of the crowd to introduce myself and try and see who they really were. This day they were wearing a pair of Doc Martens, a matching corduroy jacket and pants, and a very old looking button up. Things that are not in style at this point. I wonder if they even realized that this look was out of style. I wonder if they took those pieces from their victims.
Two months and sixteen days since we decided to go out together and get to know each other officially. The smell of their dead flesh was intoxicating. Smelling vaguely of apples and beer. I didn’t know what this would turn into after, but just in case, I brought all of the supplies to possibly harm them. The night ended early for us though. Leading to nothing. I wonder if they could sense my heart rate fluctuating throughout our engagement.
One month since we made going out a daily thing. For them, it might have been a leisurely, friendly thing. But to me, it was to get to know
them better. To see their habits and flaws. I stopped taking my supplies. Though I knew what they were, I still wanted them. Every little inch of their soul would soon be together with me.
Six days since the news got out that there were bodies found in masses out in the county over. Six days since I told them I knew they were a vampire and that they were the one that killed all these people. I reached up to touch their cheek in comfort, but yet they ran away.
Days five through one were me following their every movement, seeing where they were. They knew I followed them.
It’s been twenty minutes and they finally decided to talk to me again.
“Why aren’t you running away?” they would say “I’m a thing that could kill you if I wanted to.” “But yet you haven’t,” I say back.
They come down from the tree that they were staying in, “I know you have been following me for a while. I know that it was because of my failed attempt to drink from you. I thought you were trying to kill me.”
“I think if I wanted to I would have done it by now.”
“Then what do you want from me?” they look horrified and yet something in them still gimmers for me.
“I want to be one of you. A vampire.”
On Strawberries
Strawberries are one of the most delicious fruits in existence, especially when picked and eaten straight from the vine. My favorite tradition as a kid was going strawberry picking every year. My whole family would go out on some June Saturday morning to the you-pick fields and get as many as we could. Some years were always better than others but were nevertheless delicious. One of my strongest memories from when I was a kid is devouring vibrant juicy pieces of goodness straight from the vine. Every time I have one of those really good strawberries it takes me back to that moment. I was wearing a purple tank top dress with some silly graphic on it. When my hair was still blonde, I still had my chubby toddler face, and my eyes were still icy blue. Strawberry juice was dripping down my arms and dress. I remember going home and making fresh strawberry jam with my grandma. That was the best jam. We would freeze it so we could eat it throughout the year, in years when we didn’t actually jar it. It is best eaten on toast with butter. It’s still one of my favorite snacks today, even when I can’t have my grandma’s fresh strawberry jam. “Jelly toast” as my boyfriend calls it, can be delicious any time of day. It’s great at breakfast, as a post-lunch snack, and my personal favorite, as a midnight snack. But strawberries on their own are best for brunch. Though the last time I had them was late at night. Another time I had strawberries late at night was when I was a kid. Me and my friend had a playdate turned sleepover and somehow we forgot to eat dinner, so at 11 pm after getting ready for bed we had strawberries with stevia on them. After not eating since lunch those were so wonderful. That was one of the fundamental founding moments of our friendship. Strawberries have such a distinct flavor that I am now realizing I have so many memories tied to. I always knew that flavors and smells can be heavily tied to memories, but thinking about all the times strawberries have impacted my life is really making me realize it.
Window to the Daylilies
CHENXI
Cookbook Recipe Design
Blue Streaks
When I moved to what would eventually become my hometown of 8 years, I had seen far too many school mascots. In Elementary, I was a strong, gray eagle- A bird I attempted to draw many times for a chance to be featured on next year’s school planner, but I unfortunately never quite got down bird anatomy the way others did when they traced their own. Call it jealousy, but traced art shouldn’t have won. Who cares if we were 10 years old? It’s about artistic integrity! Art was a sham.
Leaving behind a bitter, resentful past, I went to a new school and became a yellow beaver. Being 13 at the time though, I didn’t appreciate how neat a beaver was as a mascot. I was too hung up on interpersonal relationships, discovering my identity via emo music, and Homestuck to care for something as trivial as that. Though there were a few times where a friend and I would sneak into the football stadium and get up into the nosebleeds, gossiping about our tiny friend group. While she tried to pin me down long enough to put some eyeliner on me, I would observe the game below. I saw all kinds of beasts: Bobcats, panthers, falcons (dammit, another bird), pirates, and hornets. Nasty creatures tearing apart our prey of a mascot. I was safe from those though, up in the bleachers. Hair spread over plastic seats, feeling static shock as my friend stared into my eyes for just a little too long. The beaver had built us a wall high enough to not be seen by others.
As life would have it though, I had to move away again. Leaving behind a year of confusing queer memories, I traveled to Madison, Ohio. I wasn’t sure what being here would entail, what kind of animal I could become. I used to fly high, before crashing and burning. But I had recovered and managed to build walls and dams that kept me safe. Now those experiences were gone and spent, and I came face to face with…
The Blue Streak.
What the hell was that? There was no clear answer. My first day of class, I received a planner with the letter M and a blue lightning bolt streaking through it. Okay, so our mascot is lightning. That’s pretty cool. I could rock with that. Lightning was fast, unpredictable, loud, and exciting. I was never really any of those, but no one at this school knew that. I could become that.
Walking through the halls, I notced there were a lot of trains. I’m talking pictures, both new and vintage, murals, and they even sold shirts with them at a little in-school store called the Streak Shack. It
wasn’t too strange; there was an old railroad that ran straight through the center of town, crossing every town that I’ve lived in before. This town seemed to appreciate it the most, though. In the village side, there was a historical marker up against a rundown train stop. I never read it personally, but my mom had told me it said Abraham Lincoln’s dead body was inside that building at one point. Oh, and they called the train that came in and out of Madison the Blue Streak.
Alright, so our mascot is lightning, which is named after an old train that carried a dead president. That was kind of badass. It was something historical, something interesting. I could be that, maybe.
A year within being at this school, I conjured up a friend group consisting of 4 band geeks who all liked anime. I wasn’t in band myself, nor did I really like anime, but I found common ground with these folk despite it. We were all weirdos in our own right, and that enough gave us a strong sense of solidarity. They added me to group chats, ranted about the Powerpuff Girls with me, and asked me to sleepover. I became the art friend, someone you could turn to for a silly doodle. Anna always wanted to be drawn as a wolf, Gabrielle made me draw her as a pony, Paige would say the randomest thing she could think of, and Mallory begged me for chibis. I felt like people truly thought I was… interesting?
And with that, I was invited to football games, where I could sneak up into the band section, laying across where their feet went and watch them play their instruments. I was like a worm on the ground, watching as their lungs worked over time pumping air into their little trumpets and flutes. I didn’t anticipate how overly stimulating that entire experience was, though. Over 50 kids playing instruments, all echoing off of the metal bleachers I laid against, stuffed into a big coat as my friends tried hard not to trip over me. I felt like I was going to suffocate from the moment, but as the band faded out their touchdown victory song, I heard it.
A deafening whistle overtook the entire stadium. A train?! The sheer volume made me jolt up, causing Anna to jerk her leg and butt her chin with the end of her trumpet (sorry). Peering out against the heads of all these kids, searching for the phantom train that made my head ring, I saw someone running laps around the cheer squad. I couldn’t tell who he was at first, only seeing a blur of white, blue, and pom-poms. Eventually, his sprint slowed enough that I could make out his features— or his lack thereof. I saw a man, who from head to toe, was all blue. I thought for sure I was seeing things, but the blue morph suit shimmering underneath the stadium lights reassured me he was real. He wore a giant, gold crown and a white cape with fur trim and the M with the lightning bolt embroidered. A flag behind him waved with the same symbol. Funny how they needed to have the Blue Streak label on him twice, just in case anyone couldn’t see the cape. As my hearing finally adjusted to the usual loudness of the
crowd, I heard whooping and hollering, all chanting, “Blue Streaks! Blue Streaks! Blue Streaks!” The blue man did somersaults, cartwheels, and shook his ass.
After the game, we all huddled into Anna’s dad’s girlfriend’s van. I asked, “Was that really our mascot? The blue guy?”
“Yeah. That’s the Blue Streak.” Gabrielle said.
Mallory laughed, grabbing my shoulder and shaking it around, “It’s stupid, right?”
“How come Perry gets to be Pirates, but we’re stuck with that?” Paige sighed, resting into my side. Her flute case poked me in the ribs. “I wish we could’ve been, like, a bulldog.”
The car filled with giggles, myself included. However, my smile faded quickly as I thought about the Blue Streak’s performance. How he was summoned by the sound of a whistle- A whistle inspired by a train that carried a dead man, and probably hundreds of live ones. He made a crowd stomp their feet, chant and cheer, and all while running and pulling stunts. It was random, unpredictable, loud, and-
“That was definitely memorable.” I said. My comment was met with laughter, but I didn’t mean that sarcastically. It was true. I was never going to forget that.
In my Senior year, my art teacher asked me to paint the Blue Streak symbol in the new computer lab. The principal had asked him to do it, but seeing how I had just recently won a county wide art contest, Mr. Head trusted me enough. Painting an M with a lightning bolt wasn’t really a challenge, I had become accustomed to seeing that shape for the past 4 years at that point. Plus, it’d be a little embarrassing if that was what I struggled with at 17 years old. When I finished the mural, Mr. Head asked me if I signed it.
“No?” I said, “It’s just the school logo.”
“Mac,” He gave me a knowing smile, “It’s your art.”
I didn’t really get why he insisted, but I obliged. However, as I signed my name underneath the tip of the lightning bolt, I realized I had pulled off the one thing that the Blue Streak was, is, and will be.
I was, am, and will be remembered here.
Autumn Afternoon
CAMERON KRIZMAN
The Heart’s Sword Splits Heaven
GRACIE SANDERS Inquisitor
Windfall
The wind, ever shifting and moving across the vast earth, was the first to warn him of the impending change. This world, created barely two thousand years ago, had a peculiar way of following the curving flow of time. Even to him it was odd, and there were only five others like him throughout all known dimensional realms connected to the Tree of Life.
The wind whispered to him through his wide, open bedroom window. Beneath the window a long chestnut stained desk had been pushed against the cream painted wall. The wind threatened to blow his tall stacks of papers, perched precariously on his desk, onto the floor and across the large room, but he had smartly thought ahead to place heavy paper weights on top of the stacks. His long chestnut hair, held in a loose braid, lifted in the soft breeze. He calmly breathed in the cool air, smiling at the memory of becoming one with the wind again. Alas, he would have to wait until later.
“Do you have any word for me?” he asked the wind kindly, a hint of a smile in his voice. He set his dip pen, for he had never liked the strange gel pens of the modern era, into his small pot of black ink beside his two most recent papers. The papers were littered with scribbled, incomprehensible notes in a language only he could understand. “Well, tell me, I’m waiting here so nicely for you.”
He laughed lightheartedly.
“It comes, it comes, early it does,” the wind whispered in his ear. Suddenly it grew into the startling howl of a coming storm. “No, no, no friend, the world is displeased, the balance upset. The magic comes not early but at once.”
He cocked his head to the side, “What do you mean?” The air fell still. Alarm grew in his chest. “What is about to happen wind? My friend, where have you gone? Please, I must know what is going to happen.” He leapt out of his chair, causing one of his tall stacks to tumble to the floor in his rush.
He wildly scanned his large bedroom for something, anything he might possibly need should the world be thrown out of balance. The earth rumbled beneath his feet, drifting out of its slumber. Sirens screamed outside of his window, rapidly passing by the home he dwelled within towards an unknown disaster. Explosions rocked the sky; noise and light nearby.
“No— oh dear,” he said to himself, falling into a half crouch, preparing to jump into action. Something must be done, and soon. The magic in the world came to life with a start. The air thickened with the overwhelming magic, reminding him why he allowed for this strange world’s magic to return slowly. Any other way would overwhelm the people who live in this realm.
He snatched his brown leather jacket off of his nearby armchair, turning as a man burst frantically into his cluttered study. The man’s light brown hair, usually combed over the side of his head, was in complete disarray. His gunmetal blue eyes wide with fear. “What is happening, Vintas?” Promus yelled breathlessly, his hand clutched the brass door handle. “There is something wrong, I know it. I can feel it in my bones.”
“What was the projected year for the magic to begin its integration?” Vintas demanded, grabbing several useful objects he could use later from around the room. A bottle of ink and pen here, a golden pocket watch there, his wallet featuring the photos of his friends from the millennia he spent in this world. “Well? I need an answer.”
“The year one thousand, nine hundred and sixty-two sir,” Promus said, choking on his words. He stepped into the room, glancing outside the window to the street. The sky was lit with red fire. “My daughter. She is at the university.”
Vintas gritted his teeth, this would be a terrible idea. He shook his head, he should take Promus and search for the cause behind the magic becoming released so early. It was too early. The year in this world, as given by the humans, was one thousand, nine hundred and thirty-five. Twenty seven years. They had twenty seven years until the magic was supposed to be released; in this time they would be able to prepare for the day to arrive. Whoever was able to release the magic would most likely be of one of the other two races first created by the gods. A demon, or one of the vast species of faerie. Could a god have freed the magic?
He quickly shoved the thought into the back corner of his mind where spiderwebs could grow around it until later on, should he need to dwell on the possibility of a god entering this discarded realm. “Please tell Mirriam to pack three bags. One for your wife, your daughter, and yourself. Once that is done, leave the city at once, head into the mountains to the cabin we built for the very purpose of protecting humanity from a flood of disastrous magic. Take as many people with you as you can. You have three hours at best, try to be there in one.” He jumped onto the desk, setting one foot on the windowsill. Deep sorrow ebbed into his being as he studied his dear friends’ startled features. Promus, already thin for his age, appeared deathly thin in the distorted light. A red glare shone in through the
window from the burning sky. “I will meet you there.” Before he could decide to change his mind, Vintas vaporized his form, his body, into a slick mist. Unlike his counterparts, he could easily change the state of his body between air and solid matter. He allowed for the wind to pull him into the sky, where he directed himself towards the nearby city. The tall buildings rose into the air, piercing the sky. Many were red with flames, the dark smoke drifted south on a wild wind. He flew around the edge of the flaming city, noting the thick lanes of cars heading into the countryside.
A two lane road branched off of the main highway circling the city, it would lead him to the university. He coasted down to the road, hovering above the trees lining the sides of the two lanes. Smoke blew into his face as a draft threatened to suck him further into the sky. Vintas grunted and landed on the dark deserted road, his body becoming solid around him. He pulled his jacket tighter around him, an unearthly chill penetrating his skin. His breath formed puffs of white in the cold air. Odd, as it was July, the hottest month of the year. The state of the world was deteriorating, if the weather could not hold how much of the magic had already been released?
How much longer could the world last with the sudden influx of magic? It will surely become unstable in a matter of days, and if they were incredibly unlucky, they had a few hours at most to prepare themselves. Vintas hoped Promus could take Miriam to the cabin in time, and pressed on, his feet hovering above the road as he floated towards the university. Sirens echoed from the city. A steady wind rustled the tree tops uneasily above him.
Several rumbling cars sped past him, their bright high beams switched on to drive back the darkness. The tall slender light poles beside the road had long since gone out as power was lost throughout the countryside. Most of the slick, passing vehicles were filled to the brim with fellow students frightfully fleeing the large university campus. He hastened his journey. The campus would have cautiously ordered their wide range of students to remain within their dorm rooms, ignorant to the true state of their dire situation. Vintas silently wished he could help the humans more, better than he could in his current position. The magic, thick in the world now, would cause humanity to crumble if they were unable to adapt to the new element thrust into their lives. It has been almost two thousand years since the magic had sunken into a grateful slumber, allowing science to return to the land in an endless cycle.
An explosion, too close for Vintas’s comfort, rocked the land, filling the dark, smoke filled sky in front of him with red-orange light. He summoned the reluctant wind closer to his side, the air swirling around his dangling legs as he lifted into the sky. The grey cement tops of the university’s three closely knit buildings broke through the
trees, silt and ash trailing absent mindedly on a soft breeze. Horror struck him, his blood running cold and numb through his body. Jane, Promus’s daughter, would most likely be dead. The entire campus was demolished, the tops of the buildings collapsed in on themselves, broken cement blocks were scattered throughout the normally bright green lawn. The green lawn, covered in a thick layer of ash, had become a lifeless yellow. A couple cars sped from the scene at a dangerous pace.
“No, Jane,” Vintas said, his heart in his throat. Tears sprung into his eyes as he remembered the little girl’s sunny smile. A sweet child, she was. He shook his head and stared up into the night sky, remembering, as the smoke pillowing up shifted on an unseen wind revealing the twinkling stars above, watching the world beneath it descend into chaos. The heat of the fire warmed his chilled cheeks, and after a long moment he forced himself to soar closer to the flaming campus. He would not be able to forgive himself should Jane had somehow survived the blast, or should others have survived but lay trapped within the burning wreckage. “I must be quick, there is much yet to accomplish.”
He hovered above the center of the campus, in a slow arc he searched for movement from within the fire. The crackling of the flames filled his ears, the smoke stinging his eyes. Anyone who was near the grounds had been killed in the initial explosion, yet there was no indication as to the cause of the strange explosions.
“Friend, we must go,” the wind howled in his ears, an urgency in its neutral voice. “We must go, the earth calls to us, it calls.”
“I know,” Vintas hissed, anger flitting in his half solid chest. “Now what is going on over there?” He eagerly drifted toward the road leading into the campus’s first, largest parking lot, meant for visitors with several spaces reserved for the teachers. A cluster of half-lit figures stood in the disheveled parking lot, the cars parked closest to the topless buildings lay dejectedly on their sides, their owners never to return for them. The dark figures parted as a silent, dark semitruck pulled into the lot, its sides painted an eerie black.
The truck turned, squealing to a stop beside the shuffling group of people. A large man leapt out of the passenger side of the truck, roughly slamming the door behind him while two figures from the group began opening the back of the semi’s trailer. Fluorescent lights bloomed to life inside of the metal box, its contents masked by the thick top of the trailer. Curious, Vintas landed behind a red car close to the truck and the odd group of people. He gracefully kneeled behind the side of the car, careful to hide himself within the confines of the night shadows. The car’s metal husk radiated a dangerous warmth, but he placed his hand on the driver’s door anyway.
The car’s passenger side faced the side of the terribly parked trailer, the group of people far in front of him, yet within earshot. Twisting his hand, he called forth a tiny breeze, beckoning the faded voices closer. What were they doing at a time like this? Surely the city had declared a message for everyone to remain inside. How odd humanity was, whenever there was a life threatening danger to the population they either incited a war or warned the people to remain within the safety of their homes. To hide within their homes was to ignore the inevitable danger they wished to leave in the hands of others. To call for war was to conceal their ignorance of the matter at hand.
“What are we supposed to do?” a man yelled, loud enough for Vintas to hear without the drifting breeze. “He said anyone who was easily susceptible to the magic wouldn’t be affected until long after we took over the city.”
“The child is an anomaly, sir,” a young woman called to her friend, striding out of the inside of the trailer, a tablet kneeled on her arm as she typed onto it with a pen. “We will need to collect her for data purposes.”
“Bullshit!” the first man cried, jutting a finger towards her. Two of his friends stepped forward to bar him from attacking the petite woman. “Whatever she is, she is no anomaly. We lost four good men at her hands. Not to mention anyone who was in the University. She needs to be killed, not studied. We didn’t sign up to deal with mutant freaks.”
She opened her mouth to rebuke him when a taller, bulkier man stepped beside her. He placed his hand gently on her shoulder. He wore an authoritative charcoal grey sweater and black slacks. “People like her are expected to surface once the magic returns. We will need to gather data on them, if you tell us where she currently is I will deal with her myself.”
“Fine, your death wish,” the irritated man muttered. He pointed into the flaming wreckage of the university. “She’s in there.”
The bulkier man standing on the edge of the lighted cargo area nodded, and rolled up his sleeves, his dark curly hair bounced on his head. He strode down the rampway, the crowd parting around him. He calmly walked into the flaming university, halting at the edge of the parking lot while his followers watched in awe. Vintas narrowed his gaze, confused. This man had no magic, he would be burned alive within the possibly magic fueled flames surrounding the university. He continued watching the courageous, potentially mad, man, with growing curiosity. What did he plan to accomplish? If anyone should go after the girl hidden within the safety of the wreckage, it should be him.
Vintas nearly stood to help the man, but the wind lightly blew into his face, its silent way of warning him to watch and listen. Without his friend, the wind, he would not know when to stay put or move forward with a plan. Although he had realized the peculiar group was strange in their meeting, it was their knowledge of the magic roaring to life around them that cemented his suspicion. By revealing his presence, he could potentially be harmed, or worse, taken. If they planned to run tests on the ravaged magic user hidden within the flames, what would they do to him? No, no he must leave before it is too late.
“I’m sorry my dear, little Jane,” Vintas whispered, his voice on the verge of cracking, his heart twisting painfully. He climbed to his feet.
“Yes go, go now friend,” the wind murmured hastily, anxious for him to depart the terrible scene. “It comes, it comes fast.” The wind, having been an eerie breeze the entirety of his journey to the wreckage of the university, fell silent, the desperate cries of advancing fire trucks replaced the sweet sound of its presence.
He stood straighter, alarmed by the wind’s silence. It was never silent, never fully gone. What has happened? Where had it departed to? Vintas turned about, looking for it, knowing he could not call out for the peculiar group was still nearby. They would hear him should he call. Instead, he looked frantically around the parking lot, his fingers curled in a half fist.
“Well, maybe I won’t have to go into the flames after all,” said the relaxed man from before, his grey sweater dyed orange by the fire’s grand light. Vintas swiveled towards him, confused, yet intrigued. His heart hammered in his chest.
The wind erupted into life, screaming a single word with repeated horror, “Run!”, before falling into a roared scream. Vintas covered his ears against the sound. He must go, he must leave, he had no more time to spare to find Jane.
A dark form bursted into the parking lot, almost having sprouted from the flames themselves, and leaped onto the man. He screamed with a haughty rage. The girl hunkered over his frame, throwing her hands around his neck, her mouth moving, forming words that had no sound. Beneath her, the arrogant man gasped for breath, reaching for something in his pocket. Her words grew fiercer, her hands squeezed tighter. A loud crack rang into the crackling air. The group who surrounded the semi truck waited patiently for the girl to crawl over the man’s body and try to rush at them. Each raised a mysterious glowing blue gun, setting their sights on the child.
“Capture her,” the petite woman yelled from the safety of the storage container. “We need her alive.” She retreated into the depths of the container, a couple of tall men climbed in after her, only to return with two pairs of thick cuffs, and a giant syringe.
The girl shrieked with rage and raised her hands as an onslaught of glowing blue bullets lit the parking lot. As the bullets neared her, she pushed her hands against the smokey air. The bullets suddenly stopped, halfway from their intended destinations. She pushed against the air again, a wild, malicious grin plastered on her cheeks. The bullets rocketed back into their shooters, disabling many guns, while injuring and outright killing most of the marksmen. She laughed into the night sky, a feral look in her dark eyes.
Light descended onto her from above as a tiny copter flew into the airspace around the university. The child shrank from the bright light. A firetruck rushed into the parking lot, escorted by a police car. The parking lot became a disaster of light and sound. Far too much for her.
Vintas rushed around the safety of the red car, preparing to alight into the air. He glanced at the child, tendrils of rich blue magic flowed from the ground; around her legs to her upper torso, piercing her chest. He studied her light olive skin, brown hair, and moderate build. The cute, pastel pink summer dress she wore was tattered and burned along the bottom. It had been a favorite of hers.
Oh Jane, what has happened to you my sweet girl?
I Woke Up This Morning
I woke up this morning
I opened my eyes and snoozed my alarms
6:40 I woke up this morning
I walked to work and clocked in late, again
7:05 I woke up this morning
I worked till lunch and hung around the house
12:40 I woke up this morning
I went to see them, let’s share cigarettes
1:30 I woke up this morning
I swear I had my eyes open all day
3:30 I woke up this morning
I took a nap, it didn’t feel like it
4:40 I think I woke up this morning
What do I do now that I’ve been awake?
I
MAKAYLA CHAMBERS
Just Slay
MAKAYLA CHAMBERS
Boom Croc
VIVIAN WATTLE Coral Life Cycle
Sacred Geometry Butterfly Cage
MIKI LYNN WALKER
Lilly Oldham on the Importance of Patient Education
VIVIAN WATTLE
A Search for Clarity
I had the pleasure of sitting down with Lilly Oldham, a senior from the Life Sciences Illustration department, to talk about all things BFA. Her research on ependymoma culminates in an extensive written and visual resource for patients. While navigating the density of medical literature, she has been producing a clear, accessible, and approachable body of work. In turn it emphasizes the important role of a scientific illustrator. In our conversation we covered her inspirations, research, challenges, and hopes for her project after graduation.
0Vivian Wattle: I was introduced to your topic of research through your midyear, but I was wondering if you could go into it further? I know it comes from a personal connection.
ILilly Oldham: Ultimately I decided that I wanted to create resources for ependymoma. It’s a rare brain and spine cancer usually seen in pediatric patients, but it affects people of all ages. I was looking back on my own experiences of my sister having this disease, not really being given any resources, and being really confused and wanting to know more but being told not to look in certain places. I figured I could take the things I’ve learned here at CIA to create what I wish I had. I think, going through the health care system and seeing some of its flaws on the patient education side has led me to my project.
0
“I figured I could take the things I’ve learned here at CIA to create what I wish I had.”
VW: DId that impact your research process in terms of what you were looking for?
ILO: I think for me, I was in a little bit of a different position than some of my other classmates because I did come in with some knowledge of my topic. I’ve been in those meetings with the doctors and I’ve talked to the oncologists and the surgeons. So that
did help me a little bit, but I was only familiar with one specific kind of this cancer. All the research, reaching out to Facebook pages, talking to parents and other patients to hear their experiences, learning from people that lived through similar events, and asking what they wanted has been really eye opening.
0
VW: Yeah, because you got a lot of responses to your survey.
ILO: I got about 113 from going to Facebook pages and reaching out to organizations to send this out there. And yeah, it was over 100 responses of people feeling very passionately, being very candid and open about their experiences and their struggles. It’s really sad but also very helpful in a lot of ways. It’s been crazy.
0
VW: It definitely reassures you that there is an audience. People want this information.
I
: Absolutely. And even if they don’t realize that they want it, it’s because they don’t know that it exists. So you bring it up and it really changes people’s perspectives.
0
VW: What was your dream for this project or, where is it going to live? What do you want it to do?
ILO: I’m working with an organization called CERN. It’s the Collaborative Ependymoma
Research Network. It’s a national organization under the National Brain Tumor Society, and they provide resources and connect people all over the country to other people and doctors specializing in ependymoma. So once I’m done, this is going to go to their organization and on their website. It’s going to be easily accessible to anybody with a computer or a phone. I’m also working with some people from Saint Jude, and potentially now Duke brain tumor center as well. Duke is where my sister’s treated, so they have some really incredible doctors there. But the hope is getting it into different hospitals in book form. I’m going to see if I can get it transcribed so people that have trouble reading can just listen to it.
0VW: Could you speak more on translating medical text to lay terms, any challenges or worries about losing terminology?
I“I wish there was more awareness for medical and scientific illustration…that lack of understanding of it means there’s a lot of things missing for patient education.”
LO: I was lucky enough to be connected to some people through the Pediatric Brain Tumor Foundation and they were so generous. They gave me
their glossary for a lot of the terms that they use in their resources, and it’s kind of funny, even looking through that there were things where I knew if I showed them to my mom or my sister, who have no medical background, that they wouldn’t really understand what they meant, even if it was a definition in a glossary. So I took that and tweaked them a little bit into my own words, and used different readability calculators and scales like Flesch-Kincaid. I think the one thing that I learned with that is, to some extent, you have to introduce terms that are going to be tricky for people. There’s no other way to do it. They need to know these things, so to put it in the simplest terms possible can be really tricky, but it’s worth the struggle if it means that they can understand.
0VW: Has all of this work and research for your BFA sparked any interest for future projects?
ILO: Yes, specifically, the pediatric world. My family is connected to a lot of different nonprofit organizations and research foundations, and the general consensus is that there is a very severe lack of visual resources, and resources.
Check out Lilly’s work! Website: lcoldham.myportfolio.com/ Instagram: @lilly_sciart
An Ode to These Beautiful Things
/ (byoo-tuh-fel) /
adjective
1. having beauty; possessing qualities that give great pleasure or satisfaction to see, hear, think about, etc.; delighting the senses or mind: 2. excellent of its kind: 3. wonderful; very pleasing or satisfying.
noun the beautiful 1. the concept of beauty.
2. (used with a plural verb) beautiful things or people collectively: 3. the ideal of beauty: interjection
1. wonderful; fantastic: 2. extraordinary; incredible: used ironically:
The warm, golden, sun on my skin. A reminder that I am here.
That I am alive. That I am present in this moment.
A walk through the woods on a spring afternoon. Cool air damp with the previous day’s rain. Trees quietly singing in harmony with the wind and the sky.
That effervescent feeling that this is life at its purest.
Those nights staying up till early morning with the ones I love most; Laughing our lungs and cheeks sore.
Those odd and intricate scents unlocking a blurry memory, now made clear.
Taking in a deep breath of air when overwhelmed. A split second of serenity found hiding within a mundane, thoughtless action, taking on new meaning with pressure applied.
r=p
An early morning sunrise. Purples, blues, yellows, oranges, and pinks creeping their way across a navy-tinted sky.
Shedding the evening’s skin, making way for new growth.
The interaction between a large body of water and the evening sunset.
The glimmering reflections of warm light off of liquid glass as evening stars start to flicker in the distance.
The birth of a new thought; a new idea.
The way it takes hold of my mind and waltzes with the impossible. Offering itself as a testament to my own ability to create—to think, to learn, to question.
The awareness that every person who is or ever was has felt this feeling.
A thought, an idea that took hold of their very being and made it more than what it was before.
A metamorphosis: The immaterial becoming reality.
CASPER CALDER
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KAYLEY SMITH
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TYLER MORRISSEY
Still from Castle Siege
AUGUST THOMPSON
Outlier Action Figure Box
RAYN COLBOURNE
Capsule Pod Coffee Brewer
ROBIN SUTHERLAND
Abysmal Lord: Disciples of the Inferno Album Redesign
