Uprising Fall 2023 Issue 16

ISSUE 16

Land Acknowledgement: Uprising would like to acknowledge the land on which we gather is the seized territory of the Ioway, Sauk, Meskwaki, Wahpeton and Sioux People. Indigenous lands weren’t ceded through efforts of “good faith” by the United States Government, rather they were stolen from Native and Indigenous Peoples through coercion and dishonesty.

Both the State of Iowa and the United States Government carried out acts of genocide, ethnic cleansing and forced removal as ways to acquire land. Despite centuries of theft and violence, this remains Indigenous land — it will always be Indigenous land.

Native and Indigenous People are not relics of the past. They continue to share their talents and gifts amidst a backdrop of ongoing colonialism. We celebrate you. #HonorNativeLand Sustainable Promise: Uprising promises to publish our magazine in the most sustainable manner possible.

We have switched our printing processes to a more environmentally friendly company using a recycled paper alternative. We also vow to use only secondhand or borrowed clothing for styling in our editorials.

We acknowledge that in order to ensure a future for Uprising Magazine and our Earth we must modify our processes as environmental issues increase in severity globally.

Lastly, we are committed to furthermore learning and growing as it relates to publishing our magazine in a sustainable manner.

CO-EDITORS IN CHIEF Ella Poppen & Patrick Markovich EDITORIAL DIRECTORS Quincy Griffin and Jakob Watson EDITORIAL COMMITTEE Alonni Baskerville, Cali Rampton, Cella Hanssen, Clarissa Rosenberger, Dani Sunseri, Emma Cecil-Starlin, Emma Deaton, Faith Nielsen, Grace Hamann, Helayna Julion, Jude Beekman, Justice Dyer, Lily Munnik, Mai Van, Mia Balong, Owen Hawken, Salvador Diego Jr

Ella Poppen

Patrick Markovich

PHOTOGRAPHERS Emma Deaton, Ellie Dove, Ivy Cleveland DESIGN DIRECTOR Ella Poppen DESIGNERS Abby Lusk, Ainsley Miller, Alex Cruz Ash England , Dylan Lundquist, Ella Jahner, Emma Deaton, Izabell Yoder, Kaina Geetings, Mari Schmidt Megan Woods, Ainsley Miller, Elliana Van Noort PUBLICATION DIRECTORS Archer Trip

Quincy Griffin

Jakob Watson

WRITERS Jenna Hogle, Caden Trenary, Cassie Williams, Dani Sunseri, Erin Murphy, Jude Beekman, Lauren Hanssen, Lauren Logue, Nic Trip, Owen Hawken, Patrick Markovich, Reece Whittaker, Riley McCall, Sam Zimmerman, Victor Robbins, Cella Hanssen, Archer Trip MARKETING DIRECTORS Payton Weidner & Maddie Hendricks MARKETING COMMITTEE Roxana Castro, Nora McCormick Josie McTaggart, Victoria Olson Cali Rampton, Rachel Robinson Dani Sunseri, Mai Van, Elliana Van Noort, Alexis Wurzer

Maddie Hendricks

Payton Weidner

SAY HI / LET’S CHAT! @uprisingmagazineuni @uprisingmagazineuni @uprisingmagazine @uprisingmag uprising-magazine@uni.edu jointheuprisingmagazine.com

Archer Trip

Dear Readers, For the sixteenth issue we have explored the areas of our lives that have led us to where we are now. We set out to create something that reflected the unknowable mystery of the future while connecting to the comfort we find in nostalgic memories.

We searched desperately for a theme that could combine these juxtaposing ideas seamlessly. Reverie became the word that defined our vision for this issue. Reverie is the place we tend to go when we yearn to escape from reality.

It encapsulates daydreams, fantasies, and all of those places in between our reality and the unreal.

Although we may find ourselves trying to escape reality and the challenges we face, this issue also emphasizes the significance of remaining grounded in tune with the world around us. Even though we may feel overwhelmed by the issues we face, it is still our responsibility to acknowledge these problems and work towards a better future together.

Turn the page and dream with us.

Ella Poppen She/Her Editor-in-Chief

Patrick Markovich He/They Editor-in-Chief

contents

8

Still Water in the Sink

10

Ripple Effect

16

Everyone Needs a Butch

18

On a Walk

20

How to be Your Own Gardner

22

In Limbo

26

Where is Home?

28

My Friend Claire

30

Dream Meanings

32

Brain, Heart, and Courage

36

Hide and Seek

38

phonographic memories

40

Funny Quotes

42

Bleeding/Performance Art

44

Sweet 16

50

Social Atrophy

52

Sweetest Honeys

54

Church Hurt

58

Time Paradox

60

Spilt Latte

62

Riley and Dorothy

64

Bare Wood and Weeds

66

Vintage Sewing Patterns

71

Useless Youth

72

Nature and Childhood

73

A Lone Reed

74

Rever De Toi

76

Tainted Reality

80

Our Grimm Reality

82

Yuki-Onna

83

Behind the Scenes

10

22

66

76

32

44

Still Water in the Sink

8

My mom made me wash the dishes after dinner every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday when I was a kid. She’d fill the sink with soapy water before sitting beside me to say grace. Everyone would set their plates and cups in the suds and I’d scrub them until they shone. When five plates for my five family members had been cleaned and set aside to dry, the water would always turn dark and cloudy, impossible to penetrate with just a glance. I would have to roll up my sleeve and stick my arm down, feeling at the bottom of the sink, slick with a slimy film, for spare forks and knives. My hand would disappear beneath the surface of grime, and it would feel like that piece of me just ceased to exist. With my arm submerged and hidden from the elbow down, it really seemed as if I had no arm at all–the opposite of an amputee’s phantom limb. It might be more accurate, though, to say it stopped existing in my realm of understanding. Alice had her rabbit hole, the Pevensie kids had the wardrobe, and I had my sink. On the other side of the water was a place I could hide from reality. That is where my arm was. Not here, but not nowhere, either.

Somewhere in a swirl of soap–blues and purples and the occasional strand of some kind of food residue. The longer I washed the dishes, the longer I could disappear from the duties of my daily life for a while every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. When I would finally withdraw my fingers from the water, wrinkly and pruned, I’d watch the ripples come to a rest, sending the surreal slipping away as my surroundings settled back in. Since I’ve grown and left my childhood home, passing along dishwashing to my siblings, I wonder if I’ve left a piece of myself in the sink, just below the water’s murky surface in that swirling space separate from the reality of the world. The soul of my youth stayed back in that kitchen, and when I visit my family she stares back at me from the still water in the sink.

WORDS LAUREN HANSSEN DESIGN ELLA JAHNER

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10

11

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15

Everyone Needs a Butch I’m never gonna be able to get Laney Wright off my mind.

I let the night air come through the open window of the Jeep as I sit parked outside in the driveway. Of course, I can’t leave the driveway since the Jeep doesn’t run, and I don’t even know how to drive the stick shift anyways. I can’t help but let out a frustrated sigh. Laney Wright is in more than half of my classes, which should be great! But it’s pretty clear she is in a way higher dating bracket than me.

She’s the only other out and proud lesbian and she barely glanced in my direction or registered my face.

locked car in the middle of the night.

I let Noah Kahan croon out the feelings of my complicated teenage longing. Things were supposed to be different this year. At that thought, Noah skips a lyric and goes silent. I sigh and go to smack the damn radio. As my hand comes in contact with the radio, the headlights also randomly flash.

And then…well, I feel a weight bounce into the passenger seat.

I guess offering a handshake?

I whip my head to see what just came, somehow, into my

“What?” I ask dumbly.

16

“The hell?!” I grunt.

A stranger only a foot away from me is about my height and build. They have meticulously kept short hair, a soft feminine face with a hard jawline, a dirty work uniform, and a smirk.

“I’m Butch, nice to finally meet you, Nic.” They say, holding out a small but strong-looking calloused hand.

I don’t know how else to respond so I drop my hand in theirs.

“Well that’s gonna be the first thing we work on,” they say, tightening their grip on my hand. “Can’t be putting a limp fish in a handshake, kid.”

‘Butch’, I guess, shrugs their shoulders and chuckles. “Well, let’s just say that your lesbian spirit guides have watched your longing and sent a guardian angel to help you out.

You’ve really been crushing on that Laney girl, haven’t you?

Ask me whatever your little lesbian heart wonders.” Butch spreads out their arms.

like this. No one teaches girls this. The boys were always the ones who were taught how to take a girl on a date, how to show honor and respect, how to protect and love like a gentleman. How to be confident, how to lead, how to follow, how to care for others.

Here was Butch, literally sent by the Queer Gods, to teach me.

I open my mouth but can’t get any words out.

“That’s alright kid, you don’t gotta say anything. I’ll drive this mission per se.” Butch says, and they glance at the manual drive on the jeep. That glance insinuates that somehow they already know I can’t even drive the damn jeep much less drive my own life.

“My job is to teach you to become the lesbian you’re meant to be. That means starting here. Tonight. Is that good with you?”

Butch led me through everything. They asked me what I liked about Laney, why I wanted to date her, how to approach her, everything.

“We have our own language and culture that no one else knows except for us lesbians. The ones that matter will hear you.”

I open my eyes that morning to see the fogged up windshield. I turn to see Butch watching the neighborhood wake up.

“Um, sure?”

“Good! First off, fill me in more about this...” They look at their hand which seems to have something smudged on it, “Laney.

“Mornin’, kid,” they grin. “You ready for the day? I’ve taught you all I know. Well, the crash course version, I guess.”

“Uh, sure,” I respond, trying but failing to keep in a yawn.

Why do you think she doesn’t like you?”

“But I’ve got more questions.”

They’re silent for half a second, blankly waiting for my answer.

Butch interrupted. “You’ve got everything you need to do this. You didn’t really even need me, I’m just the final push.”

“You know what,” Butch continues, “you don’t have to answer aloud, go ahead and just think on that. Here’s what the plan is,”

I nodded.

I stare at this entity sitting in my passenger seat. They sit so comfortably, taking up the full space, their presence solely confidence. How did my so-called “lesbian spirit guides” even know I was a lesbian? The only way I came out to my mom was asking for a “boy” haircut at thirteen.

“Don’t worry kid,” They continued, “I get what you’re thinking. It’s weird that this ‘magic’ old lesbian is sitting in your junker of a Jeep when you just want to sit and wallow about a girl crush. You can’t sit out here all night, you’ve got to do something about it!”

Butch beamed, “Alright, you’ve gotta go and so do I!” Butch started to shift in their seat.

“Wait,” I said, worried that they would be gone before I knew what to say, or how to ask.

Butch seemed to read my mind as they’d always been able to do. They leaned over and gave me a strong hug that felt like coming home.

“Thanks for everything, Butch.” I whispered.

“You know,” they started, “my name’s not actually Butch, right, kid?” They smiled proudly, “It’s Nic.”

How the hell did they know I was thinking that?

I sit with Butch throughout the night hanging to their every word. They were right, they did have a plan. I was shocked for the first hour of them rambling, but the more they talked the more I realized I needed this.

No one’s ever sat me down and talked to me about this stuff

WORDS NIC TRIP DESIGN ALEX CRUZ 17

On a walk

On a Walk A ladybug flies onto my shoulder And I promptly blow it off.

It falls under my red sneakers but I Keep moving without a pause.

The inbetween hangs smug in the air like Humidity. On sidewalks I contemplate the smallness of my hands And feet and the way I talk Next to a tall trembling tree. It shows how One must be both hard and soft.

I’ll dance in the storm of my own body; See me fly and shake and waltz.

I killed a mother and an old woman To look bigger as I walk.

WORDS JUDE BEEKMAN DESIGN DYLAN LUNDQUIST 18

19

There is a beauty in gardening. Especially from the vibrant flowers, but there is also the dirt and mold.

I have found there is a beauty in untangling the overgrown roots, as well as taking care of the rot that comes with personal growth. As someone who claims to be a “self-care king”, and strives to grow in themselves and in kindness, I have a few tips.

This is where I pull out my gardener’s apron: 20

1. My Trowel/My Journal I view personal growth in the same way of caring for my houseplants. Except that I am both the young sprout and the gardener. I realize how cloudy self-care and mindfulness can be. Yes, this is a time to relax and calm down from the outside world–but what happens when stress comes from within? This is what I call untangling the roots.

Growth comes fast when you’re in the right environment.

So when it’s time to start repotting, you have no clue what to do. First step, pull out the trowel.

Pro-tip #1: your plant needs to be repotted (or moved into a bigger pot) when its roots are sticking out of the pot and/or are too crammed around each other. Essentially, the roots of your plant may be strangling themselves from a lack of space.* Those cramped roots are how I see all the anxieties in the body and mind. Therefore, what can you do to grow? Repot. Give space. Give new room for growth.

Pro-tip #2: It does shock your plants to move them into a new pot. Imagine someone tickling your nervous system.

It’s not fun.* But obviously, it’s needed. So now it’s time to untangle the roots. First, I use my trowel, otherwise known as my journal. This is a tool that is meant to DIG. And I dig to get to the bottom of my fears and anxieties. Journaling looks different for everyone, so I suggest asking yourself questions. What’s on your mind, what’s bugging you, etc. You could also google mindfulness and personal growth journal prompts. Need help remembering all the joy in your life? Dedicate a journal to centering and highlighting joy in your every day. Your entries don’t have to be words or diary entries: they can be art collages of your week! I have found that this journal can be that new pot that allows for you to be a whole person, as well as gain new space and growth.

Here’s some prompts that might help you get started: What does growing mean to me?

Why do I want to grow?

How do I currently practice personal growth?

What can I improve?

Why do I hold myself back from self care and personal growth?

What is my purpose?

2. Propagation/Tarot I view tarot as a mindfulness tool because I believe our answers are available to us through therapy, journaling, mindfulness, etc. Tarot is only a tool to draw out fear, emotions, thoughts, etc. Therefore, I use my tarot deck as propagation stations.

Pro-tip #3: The leaves of your plants may become yellowed over-time which leads to the need to prune your plant. This allows for room for more growth. If you are trimming your plant and want to grow more from this cutting, you can do so by propagation. Grab a cup to fill with water and simply place the cutting in the cup so that it can eventually grow roots and thrive on its own.

In my experience, I view tarot as another way to journal.

I first start by recognizing there is something that needs to be changed. This is the pruning process. Next, is to interact with tarot. You could ask questions or pull random cards. I like to take in all the artwork and apply it to my own spiritual and healing journeys.

I have found that interacting with tarot can lead you to art, journal prompts, and time for self reflection. This is also a great way to connect with friends or loved ones by reading tarot together. Tarot is my propagation tool because you must sit with yourself to grow and change.

3. The Watering Can/The Art of Creating Water is the foundation of keeping anything alive. After digging, repotting, and pruning, one needs proper hydration after all of that work!

Pro-tip #4: if you feel like you’re killing your plants, make sure you’re watering them the correct amount. Each plant is different, so be wary of overwatering or underwatering your plant. My rule is to water when the top inch of dirt is dry.* Being creative is a beautiful way of fostering new growth.

You get to express yourself however you want. I see creativity as that long, refreshing drink of water. For me, I find myself the most creative through my poetry. Other ways that I lean into the art of creating is through doodling, as well as crocheting, sewing, and even creating collages from magazines. While it may feel silly and “not your best”, what matters is that you are expressing yourself.

And that’s the most beautiful bloom you can grow.

Some days, being your own gardener feels overwhelming.

To dig into your fears, to untangle your roots, and to water for more personal growth. It seems unreachable or even unproductive if you can’t see any new growth. But remember, you are the sprout and the gardener. You might not notice growth, but that new leaf will unfurl, and I am positive that you will grow no matter what.

WORDS ARCHER TRIP DESIGN ELLA POPPEN

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PHOTOGRAPHY EMMA DEATON DESIGN KAINA GEETINGS

23

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25

26

27

My Frien The first time I went to counseling my therapist told me that it might help to “name the pain.” Then he told me that Claire was a stupid name for my pain. Apparently he was looking for something more along the lines of loneliness, desperation, anxiety, fear, grief, panic, rage. I was familiar with these feelings, I guess, but more so I was familiar with the fact that those feelings came around when Claire came around.

Claire was my constant companion. Claire was annoying and obnoxious and selfish and angry. Claire was an extension of myself, walking with me step for step and experiencing my life on a parallel line. As much as I hated having Claire around sometimes, I longed to be known, and nobody knew me quite like Claire. It’s human nature to desire understanding. That’s why we write. That’s why we believe in higher powers. That’s why we fabricate

28

imaginary friends that understand us without needing an explanation for our thoughts. Real friends demand answers, proof, definitions. Sometimes that’s too much to ask for.

My sister had an imaginary friend named Roy. Roy told her it was okay, even necessary, to starve herself. All the homies hate Roy. But Roy stuck around like an annoying ex that can’t take a hint. My sister fought with him everyday, and tried her best to make him disappear. No matter how hard she tried to resist him, though, she would open the door for him every time he knocked for three years. Roy knew her better than anyone else, and he used that to ruin her life. Now, I think, they’re more like an old married couple.

One that has agreed to disagree sometimes. Roy still gets brave and opens his mouth to spout some nonsense, but my sister doesn’t put up with his shit anymore.

nd Claire A friend of mine from elementary school had an imaginary friend named Carl. She saved a space for Carl at every table, made us include Carl in our American Girl Doll play dates, and cried when Carl “went off to college.” We all thought Carl was gone for good and that my friend had grown out of this childhood imagining once and for all. The funny thing is that Carl reappeared one day a few years later, seemingly out of nowhere, and life resumed (almost) exactly as it had been before the hiatus. Here are the notable changes: Carl came back from college as Carly. Carly wore dresses and winged eyeliner. This was a new look for Carly. To us, Carly had simply experienced a fashion revolution in college and changed her style. My friend and I are in our twenties now and had a discussion about Carly a few weeks ago. She told me that she had recently come out as nonbinary. She thinks that Carly was a projection of her queer identity before she had the language to describe it. It was 2009 afterall, and we were seven years old.

There’s a nature deep inside us all that needs someone to understand us, usually because we don’t fully understand ourselves in the first place. I am sometimes annoying and obnoxious and selfish and angry. But who in their right mind wants to admit that to themselves? Everybody finds themselves on occasion in a position of denial for the sake of self-preservation. So we imagine for ourselves a persona separate from our physical form to take on the burden of the parts of us that we can’t find the words to define quite yet. We grow from these relationships, imaginary or not, and find that we understand ourselves better on the other side. We let our old imaginary friends back in after everyone tells us to push them away and realize that they were here for a reason. Someday I’ll listen to my therapist and learn to articulate my pain in ways that are healthy and promote healing.

I hope my friend Claire will stick around, though. I wouldn’t be me without her.

WORDS LAUREN HANSSEN DESIGN ABBY LUSK

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what are your

DREAMS

trying to tell you?

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Throughout human history, dreams have been a source of mystery and fascination. Everybody dreams, typically multiple times a night. But what purpose do dreams actually serve? Many people believe the key to understanding the purpose of dreams is to interpret their meaning. Dreams have been interpreted by psychologists and spiritualists alike as a form of insight into the subconscious mind, as well as a possible peak into the future or the spiritual world.

I am going to explore some of the most common dream symbols and what psychologists and spiritualists have to say about them.

Taking a Test A test in a dream likely represents a challenge you are facing in your waking life where your performance is being judged. Tests often invoke feelings of stress and anxiety and may reflect your internal feelings. If in the dream you are unprepared for your test or you fail your test, it might represent a lack of confidence or a fear of failing. However, dreaming of passing an exam may indicate future success and overcoming obstacles.

Flying Flying in a dream is often associated with freedom, confidence, and control. Flying in a dream may be your subconscious reminding you that you can do anything. It can also mean that you have control over yourself or a particular situation. Flying can also symbolize spiritual growth and discovering a journey to self discovery. If you dream that you are struggling to fly, this may imply that there is something in your waking life that is holding you back. In general, flying tends to be a positive omen, predicting good luck and success to come. However, if you dream that you are flying with black wings, this could indicate that struggles are coming your way.

Being Chased In general, being chased in a dream symbolizes that there is something in your waking life that you are trying to ignore or avoid. To best understand a chase dream, it’s important to recognize what is chasing you. If you are running away from a shadow figure, this could represent your shadow self, or your own insecurities and fears. If you are being chased by an attacker, this could mean that there is something in your waking life that threatens your emotional or physical safety. If you are being chased by an authority figure, this might indicate that you feel guilty about something. Spiritually, being chased in a dream may signify that your aura is under attack by external or internal negative factors.

Naked in Public Being naked in a dream indicates that you are feeling exposed or vulnerable about a situation in your waking life.

Perhaps you are feeling insecure about something, or you are afraid of revealing a certain side of you to people. If you are feeling confident in your nude dream, it means that you have nothing to hide. You are sure of yourself and you have no problem with people seeing any side of you.

Every dream means something. Next time you have a dream that sticks with you, think about what psychological and spiritual factors are trying to get your attention. It could be something hidden in your subconscious that only comes to the surface when you sleep. Or, perhaps it is something more. Some believe that dreams are messages from our spirit guides or the universe. Whatever you believe, there’s no denying that dreams have meaning, sometimes you just have to look a little deeper to discover them.

Falling Falling in a dream can be very scary, and for good reason.

Falling in dreams might indicate that you are navigating a tricky situation in your waking life. Perhaps you are being reckless or losing control over something, and if you are not careful, you will lose control completely. It could also be a negative omen. If you dream that you are falling from a tower, this may symbolize difficult times ahead, much like the Tower Tarot Card meaning. It could also mean that you are in need of grounding yourself, and should make some time for self care and meditation.

CITATIONS Dream Dictionary | Auntyflo.com Dream Moods A-Z Dream Dictionary Dream Analysis and Interpretation | Sleep Foundation Top 10 Most Common Dreams And Their Meanings (theodysseyonline.com) Dream Symbols | Dream Dictionary Dream about flying with black wings (Fortunate Interpretation) - Dreams`opedia (dreamsopedia.com) https://www.npr.org/2022/01/27/1076049850/throughline-the-history-of-understanding-our-dreams

WORDS CASSIE WILLIAMS DESIGN AINSLEY MILLER

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Brain, Heart, and Courage 32

PHOTOGRAPHY ELLIE DOVE DESIGN DYLAN LUNDQUIST

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PHOTOGRAPHER NAME DESIGN Dylan Lundquist 35

Hide and Seek 36

WORDS SAM ZIMMERMAN DESIGN MARI SCHMIDT

HIDE “17…18…19…20! Ready or not, here I come!” As the seeker finishes counting, I begin to catch my breath and settle into my hiding spot. I LOVE to play hide and seek, it’s a game that I’ve always been good at. The initial thrill of sprinting to find the best hiding spot fills me with overwhelming excitement. Over the years, I’ve perfected the art of keeping quiet and being invisible, the ideal qualities for a successful hider in this game. Not only am I able to put on this clever disguise, but I’m also constantly adapting and conforming to blend in with the environment.

In the distance, I hear the other players screaming and giggling. Yes! Another competitor is eliminated, raising my chances of winning. I watch the sky begin to darken as the colorful pink and orange hues of the sunset transform into a soft blue and purple night. I carefully listen to the seeker discover my remaining opponents and take them out, one by one. After a while, it seems eerily quiet. Where did everyone go? Am I really that good at hide-and-seek? There’s no way they forgot about me, right?

I continue to wait patiently, but my anxiety keeps rising.

I wonder if anyone will come to find me. Attempting to wiggle out of my hiding spot to go find the others, I can’t move. I’m stuck, frozen in this position. I can no longer hear the distant noise, only silence. I try to call for help, pleading, but no one can hear me now. I guess I’m all alone, abandoned by those I mistakenly thought I could trust. Unable to cry, I look up, dreamily floating away from my body, and get lost in the twinkling night sky.

SEEK “17…18…19…20! Ready or not, here I come!” I take in my surroundings, noting where the hiders could possibly be tucked away. Today, I’m the seeker. It’s not my favorite role, especially because I’ve always been great at hiding.

But someone has to do it, so that person might as well be me. I swiftly run to the big leafy bush underneath the back porch, then tiptoe around to discover my first victim. They scream out of surprise, and we both laugh as I prepare to find the rest of the hiders.

Making my way around the backyard, I find the individual players one by one, it’s almost too easy. When the colorful pink and orange hues of the sunset transform into a soft blue and purple night, I count the people found and calculate those remaining. Wait a minute, there’s still one person left. I tell everyone else to make their way back to the house for s’mores while I carefully look for the final competitor.

I hurriedly walk around the entire yard, hoping to find the last player before it gets too dark. Thoroughly combing through every hiding spot I can think of, I can’t find them.

When I’m almost ready to give up and organize a search party, I hear sniffling nearby. I strain to hear the noise, praying that it’s the person I’m looking for. Finally, I run quickly to the big pile of sticks and wood by the ravine, and there they are.

I reach down and pull them out of the small crevice. They’re shivering from the wet, cold ground, so I give them a warm hug. Now that they’re exposed in this vulnerable position, the player seems embarrassed, ashamed even. I thoughtfully reassure them that there’s nothing to be ashamed of, that everything will be okay.

When we return to the others and I finally see them in the light, I recognize those multicolored glitter sneakers.

That’s me. The last player is me, but younger. They have this scared look in their eyes that I’ve ignored inside of myself for so long.

In that moment, all of those pent-up emotions come flooding through. The hurt, the grief, the sorrow, the pain. It overtakes me and all I can do is cry. As we reach the others, I glance at my side and find empty space. Where did they go? I start to feel anxious, then frustrated, then sad. Was that person there all along, or were they just a bewildering hallucination?

WAIT Taking a moment by myself to breathe, I slowly exhale and close my eyes. Breathe in for four….hold for five…breathe out for six….then I repeat until my consciousness returns to my physical figure. After encountering the person that coincidentally looked like little me, it feels like there’s someone else inside me, trapped. I don’t know how to help them. I don’t know what they want from me. What am I supposed to do when everything I used to know feels like a complete lie?

In the game of hide and seek, it appears to simply be a matter of seeking and hiding, fight or flight, but no one really talks about the art of waiting. It can be the most painful and stifling part of the game, but taking the time to calm down, keep still, and stay in tune with oneself wins you the game in the end.

Even as I stare at the campfire flickering before me and I feel it start to ignite the chaos in my mind, I focus on waiting patiently. I refuse to let the fear of being discovered, coming out of hiding, and stepping into the light prevent me from seeking life’s warmth. Maybe life is a game and we’re still playing, maybe we’re not. Whether I know the truth doesn’t dismiss the reality of my own experience. All I can control at this moment is my own actions and what I choose to do next. Trapped or free, hidden or found, I’m still myself and no one can take that away from me.

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Phonographic Memories we listened to jazz

until all we could

in the kitchen. you

hear was static. now

twirled me around like

that’s all i can

i was elton john’s

hear.

tiny dancer. our socks

we’re no longer in

slid against the blue-tiled

the kitchen. my chin

floor while melodic rhythms

is in the palm of

sang through the record,

my hand, eyes wide

arms wrapped around waists.

open. lost in a

i closed my eyes,

daydream. you asked me

indulging in the moment.

once if i had

the needle of the

remembered any of it.

record player etched every

i don’t know how

groove of the polyvinyl

i could ever forget.

WORDS DANI SUNSERI DESIGN ELLA POPPEN 38

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40

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WORDS JUDE BEEKMAN DESIGN ELLA JAHNER

BLEEDING OUT

A burgundy river flows across the keys,

as my vacant eyes scan the audience pleading for a tourniquet.

The room reverberates, commending my performance;

I have gained another day.

WORDS OWEN HAWKEN DESIGN ASH ENGLAND 42

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PHOTOGRAPHY ELLIE DOVE DESIGN ELLA POPPEN

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social atrophy Looking back, it seems like making friends or even simply meeting new people was so much easier as a kid. You never worried yourself with what others would think of you, or if what you enjoyed was “normal.” Now, I find myself uncomfortable just eating in a public space. I’m not quite sure when I first began to feel the effects of social anxiety, but I can safely say that post-lockdown, a lot more people are exhibiting signs of social anxiety and depression, both of which cause detrimental effects to socialization.

After graduating high school, I was unsure of what path to take, and decided to take a gap year. While I definitely wanted to do something new at the end of that year, I’m not entirely sure that I was ready for college. During my freshman year, I was effectively a shut-in, and would only leave my room to go to class or sit in my car and decompress.

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WORDS OWEN HAWKEN DESIGN KAINA GEETINGS

Luckily for me, I’ve become more social and outgoing this semester, but I am also able to notice that the majority of people I see around campus tend to seem socially anxious as well. Most people show closed off body language, and are always buried in their phones to avoid any chance of interaction.

While initially, one may think that exhibiting these behaviors means someone does not enjoy social interaction, studies show that those with social anxiety are happier interacting with others, and experience heightened loneliness and isolation when alone (NLM 2023). Moreover, most people with social anxiety recognize that their fears are irrational, which causes even more mental anguish because they understand that they are sabotaging not only their social life, but also opportunities to progress within work and school.

The fear of judgment that comes with social anxiety has only worsened with the popularity of social media over the past two decades, and during the COVID lock downs, instances of social anxiety skyrocketed while social skills atrophied. Social media in particular has caused damage to overall mental health. Initially it seems great that we can talk to people all over the world, and share our thoughts without having to leave our homes, but this causes us to lose important social contextual factors such as body language and tone of voice. Even worse, people tend to only post the very best parts of their lives on social media, which causes others to assume their own life is depressing and uneventful. This increased comparison and misconception of reality can lead to increased anxiety, social dysmorphia, and unhealthy physical views as well.

While most people are not ecstatic at the thought of getting direct, professional help, even a smile or compliment can help someone begin the process of breaking out of their shell. An easy step that helped get me out of my own head was practicing meditation. It is also a good practice to remind yourself that everyone else is too focused on their problems to care about or even notice your flaws. Think about it; you live with yourself 24/7. You see all the bad and all the good. Even your best friends don’t know you as well as you know yourself, and your peers only see you for a few hours a day. Most people will actually admire you more for embracing your quirks. At the end of the day, life is too short to be anyone but you. Get weird, be funky, and own it!

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WORDS RILEY MCCALL DESIGN MARI SCHMIDT ABBY LUSK 52

I saw honey twice in a sketchy college club in northern Missou-

of just a few months, but he never hung up first.

ri. The first time, it was in the heavily tipsy girl with pink heartshaped glasses who spilled part of her drink on me. She saw

I saw honey in the hairdresser-in-training who grabbed me a full

me when the sprinklings of a panic attack were sliding me into

bottle of water and insisted I didn’t pay her and asked if there

freeze mode, when my body was starting to physically reject the

was anything else she could do to help when my cramps were

idea of me being in that sort of an environment. She approached

so bad that I almost passed out in her chair and left my appoint-

me when my panicked conscience could only repeat to me how

ment halfway through.

wrong this all felt, and then she accidentally sploshed a bit of her aforementioned drink on my leg and became one of the only

I saw honey in the relatives who read the fanfictions I posted

people to compliment the outfit I had meticulously picked out

on Wattpad in middle school (written with the level of creative

and partially handsewn for that night. The second time I saw

writing skills as is average for a middle schooler) and still told me

honey, it was in the woman I barely knew from college who low-

that I was one of the best writers they ever read.

ered her voice and asked if I would like to join her as she danced (because she thought it was always a little easier to have fun at

I saw honey in the group of Bible camp counselors who acted out

a place like that when you had someone to dance with). I told

the progression of the gospel so I could sit next to my campers

her no because my mind wouldn’t let my body move, but when I

and cry as I remembered how relentlessly and unconditionally

thanked her through an Instagram DM a day later, her sympathy

loved I am.

and care wrapped its arms around me again.

Honey engulfs me every day with the sweetest, sweetest taste.

I saw honey just north of Minneapolis in the house my boyfriend and his roommates used to live in. I went there twice before

And one day, in the land where all the goodness came from in

they moved: the first while surrounded by academic stress so

the first place, the honey will find other seas of itself and in-

debilitating that I woke up feeling like a failure whenever I acci-

tertwine like it was never separated. It will be the land of the

dentally stayed asleep for seven hours at night, and the second

sweetest honeys, the land where all the pieces of goodness will

while I was trying to remember how to live again after the aca-

soak into one another and the fullness of the love of the world

demic abuse ended. My mind was almost consistently consumed

will soak into everything else. The roommates will visit the same

during that time period by the unrealistic expectations of toxic

club in northern Missouri, and they will speak to the girl with

academia, but while I was at that house, I witnessed the routine

the heart-shaped glasses and the girl who makes sure everyone

my boyfriend’s three roommates created around a 90s show that

has a friend to dance with, and their souls will feel so changed

was never marketed towards newly-graduated college boys. “7th

as the same wave of authentic support and acknowledgement

Heaven time?” one of them would ask, and then they would gath-

that flowed into me flows into them. Then later, the two girls will

er in the living room and laugh so clearly that you could hear the

commandeer a sofa in that living room just north of Minneapolis

echo perfectly throughout the whole house. They were the pure

and start 7th Heaven from the very beginning and remember just

joy of a life lived together, and they had created such an authen-

how full life can feel. The relatives who read so much of my writ-

tic bond through such an unexpected show, and it was beautiful.

ing will watch the performance of the gospel story, and they will

The laughter I heard while I was in that house so unintentionally

celebrate until dawn and then some as they remember that the

but fully reminded me that life is still good. My heart realized it

Maker of all the love in the universe has never been more acces-

deserved to heal after I witnessed their joy, and whenever I think

sible to them. My relatives will tell the performers that they put

about them now, while I’m still in college and still struggling with

on one of the best shows they’ve ever seen, even though they’ve

the same things I struggled with when I met them, I am reminded

realistically probably seen better. But their words will still be true

that a world of beauty and fulfillment and connection and peace

nonetheless, and the actors will give a kind thank you and then

has always existed outside of academic stress.

remember those words every single time they set foot on a stage again. The hairdresser-in-training will accidentally say something

I saw honey in the fourth man living in that house, the man who

too personal when she is trimming my boyfriend’s hair, and he

became my boyfriend. He picked up so many unassuming calls

will listen for as long as it takes for her to process every emotion

from me during our first months of dating, me on the other end

soaking in her head. Then the opposite will happen, and they will

ready to tell him that the soul of another person I knew had just

understand each other’s needs so well because they both know

permanently separated from their body. I told him every time I

it’s really not that hard to care about other people.

called after a new death that he could hang up if he wanted to, that I would never blame him for not being able to process this

The goodness of my life will be given to everyone, and I will re-

with me, that this was all so crazy and unexpected but I never

ceive the goodness of everyone, and love will interact like it never

wanted him to feel obligated to jump on the roller coaster too,

has before.

but he never hesitated to put the grief I couldn’t carry onto his own shoulders. Love is just being willing to carry someone else’s

The sweetest honeys will become one, and then nothing except

pain on top of your own, I once heard someone say, and that

the sweetest honeys will remain.

seems about right. I called him about eight deaths over the series

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CHURCH HURT

54

WORDS (IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE) NIC TRIP, REECE WHITAKER, CELLA HANSSEN, ERIN MURPHY, ARCHER TRIP, RILEY MCCALL DESIGN ALEX CRUZ

My Father’s House My Father’s House It slowly kills you To have to beg to your god Every night To be forced on your knees To have to get hit down Every night And then forced to sing praises For the blessings you have been given It eats away at a soul To try and get angry At the one who allowed all of this to happen And every time That anger turns to tears And hopelessness It’s terrifying To have to beg your god To stop abusing you And the worst part is I know I know that as soon as the smallest prayer is answered As soon as I can come up with the smallest blessing I’ll be right back here On my knees Singing hymns The domestic cycle of abuse Doesn’t stop in my heavenly fathers house

Lev. 18:22 The moment you called my uncle, Someone I thought of as brave, An abomination to your creator Flashed through my head When we shared that kiss.

And then, When you chopped your hair off, It came back to me again And I wondered, does that wound throb?

Do you too Get flashes Whenever you notice That you’re the abomination now?

Saints There are some saints that are hermits.

I hide myself away from the world, because I’m afraid of being different.

Does that make me a hermit too?

A saint?

I never felt welcome at church, but for some reason I find comfort in that place, like someone with an illness finding stability in the pain.

God told us to love.

So why is it that loving everyone is what makes me a sinner?

Now is the time to recover and heal what has been hurt.

Saints are among the highest regards, but I don’t want to be a hermit anymore.

I want to love. Myself, too.

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Prayer Can’t Fix Everything If Jesus loves me this I know, and the bible tells me so, why am I told by the people who helped raise me in this community say they don’t know what they would do if they had a child like THAT? The people who I thought were my community said that if they knew someone like THAT, they would pray for them because their lifestyle wasn’t correct.

They make comments that cut deep because why would the thought that I might be like THAT even cross their minds?

That their comments don’t have the potential to be a double-edged knife.

Why does it hurt so? Maybe I need to pray more.

The 15-year-old didn’t know the reality of herself. In her world, she was too focused on the love and joy she felt inside her bubble. She believed and felt it to be true with all her being.

It was the 16-year-old who didn’t want to be that “Jesus freak” anymore, so she hid her wonderful world from her outside life. She suddenly didn’t want that to be what people thought of her. Little did she know that connotation would stay with her for years to come.

The 17-year-old girl really needed that bubble that was camp. Facing the defeat of a pandemic, she let go of the dangling rope she was holding onto and just kept falling.

The 18-year-old caught on to a branch one last time. She wanted to give it one last chance, but she took going home

early as a sign. She exchanged diving into the word for falling out of it all.

Maybe now the bubble that was summer camp, her favorite place on earth, is tinted with the sad reality that the college counselor is no longer the same camper she used to be, though her peers whom she loves may still be those same people.

Some grow in the word and some grow out.

Going home now means knowing Mom doesn’t want to accept the reality of a lack of faith when before it was so bold and obvious. If only she knew what her daughter’s new beliefs really were.

Going home now means heading back to school on Sunday morning to avoid a service.

Going home now means becoming a Christmas and Easter attendee rather than a regular at 8 a.m.

Going home now means seeing myself as I was 4 years past, through my younger brother.

Religion can be lonely even when your faith is strong.

Religion can be damaging when your faith turns weak.

What now feels right, you were once told is wrong.

Sometimes the answer isn’t always clear.

Before you know it, prayer can’t fix everything.

Burried With Him having been buried with him in baptism in which you were also raised with him through your faith who raised him from the dead Colossians 2:12 so where is John the Baptist? where are the youth pastors soaked in white or my father coming to pull me out of the water? for all that I can see is the dirt that I was left in. buried by gravediggers. apparently God removed his son but who is coming for me?

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Let us then baptize the forgotten followers here in the small kiddie pool one of plastic, not river stone one settled in the dying grass of suburbia Because God never dug me out even when he claimed I would be raised through my works I had a lot of faith But faith isn’t air in the suffocation of the grave Yet today I will stand in the water cold from the rusted hose the sun warms my wet trunks and I will dig them up The followers that were baptized in his name I will wash away the dirt of those holy graves as my father failed to do before me and let them walk free onto the earth

Hearsay in Jesus’ Name I did not send the prophets, yet they ran; I did not speak to them, yet they prophesied. Jeremiah 23:21 My Jesus is weeping.

My Jesus is weeping because my Jesus knows that screaming at gay people has never made gay people feel loved by Him & my Jesus never sends someone away from church because they aren’t a virgin or because their parents are divorced or because they have tattoos & my Jesus has never berated people on Facebook because of the candidate they voted for & my Jesus cares about young mothers just as much as He cares about the babies forming in them & my Jesus never intended for women to be the only ones raising children & my Jesus made sure it was a woman who discovered and preached about the most significant event in the Bible & my Jesus loves all the diversity He created & my Jesus delights in public schools with the same intensity that he delights in private schools & my Jesus knows there are significantly more horrors waiting for children on the internet than there are waiting for them in banned books & my Jesus knows that pollution and ignorance and greed is destroying His Creation & my Jesus so deeply appreciates the endless hours farmers spend growing food for the world & my Jesus did not create introverts as a less-worthy version of extroverts & my Jesus has always cared more about health and well-being than a number on a scale & my Jesus has nev-

er celebrated sleep deprivation like it’s an accomplishment & my Jesus created Ibuprofen and birth control and medications for mental illnesses as gifts & my Jesus is bursting with pride at the therapists who give so much of their love and energy to their patients & my Jesus is cheering on the people who have the courage to be vulnerable in therapy & my Jesus throws a party in Heaven every time someone restarts their sobriety journey & my Jesus has never seen a lost cause & my Jesus has never let someone experience pain just because He thought it was funny & my Jesus has never forced religion down anyone’s throat & my Jesus does not run a cult & my Jesus never wanted the heart of Christianity to be a list of kill-joy rules & my Jesus is not a fun hater & my Jesus never said that turning the other cheek meant letting someone abuse you & my Jesus has never for a second supported abuse or rape or murder or racism or sexism or bigotry or manipulation or business scams or hate speech or coercion or grooming or ableism or toxic positivity or infidelity & my Jesus did not spend His last day on Earth washing feet and absorbing every single evil and wicked thing of the world because He just really wants to screw over His creations that He so desperately loves.

My Jesus weeps with the people who have been hurt in His name, and when He is done, He starts destroying the image that has been made of Him. 57

T I M E PA R A D OX

2023 smile cali!

aw! h ee Y

Christmas time with Anna!

2002

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you’re a cutie pie emma!

Miss Mia

HEY THERE!

hey there owen!

lily’s first day of scho ol

PHOTOGRAPHY EMMA DEATON DESIGN KAINA GEETINGS

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spilt latte

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As a kid growing up, I always viewed coffee as a sign of maturity. The old adage of “Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee!” or seeing my parents prepare coffee first thing in the morning.

It seems consistent that most children want to be seen as adults for the deluded fantasy of freedom. It should be no surprise then, that I wanted to drink coffee as a child purely to be seen as more adult. It began with my mom letting me taste sips of coffee out of her big travel mug. When I was finally old enough, I was allowed to order my own drinks at coffee shops. This eventually grew into routinely drinking coffee or caffeine after weekly music practices.

After the novelty and excitement of being allowed to taste sips of my parents’ coffee wore off, I began to interpret it as a sign of lost innocence. I was starting to see coffee as a drug rather than a treat, using caffeine to focus more, study longer, and sleep less.

This all seems to communicate the overload of responsibilities and expectations we were given while being thrust into the limbo of high school. I found myself using caffeine to “balance” school, work, and what little of a social life I could scrap together in between. During this unhealthy dependency on caffeine, I now realize that my mental health was also slowly deteriorating, and considered taking a break.

After many years of heavy use and a very necessary caffeine break, I think I can confidently say that I have a healthy relationship with coffee. While caffeine used to be a substance that I would use to make it through the day, the coffee-making process is now a ritual that allows me to be mindful and enjoy a moment of silence before I begin my day. My passion for coffee has also allowed me to meet new friends, mentors, and just generally cool people with shared interests. During my gap year between high school and college, I frequented an Iowa City coffee shop and befriended the owners and baristas, which was one of the few things that kept me sane.

I started to immerse myself with the science of coffee, and all of the factors from growing and processing to roasting and serving. I’ve even started to form a community for myself and others centered around this passion by starting a coffee club on campus! In forming this organization, I hope to help others find close and lasting relationships, as well as to spread community and sustainability within the space of coffee. Throughout the ups and downs on this unpredictable roller coaster called life, coffee has been one of the few constants. It has helped me keep my head above water more times than I can count, and will remain a core passion for the rest of my life.

WORDS OWEN HAWKEN DESIGN KAINA GEETINGS

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Riley and Dorothy C HARAC T ERS

S E T T ING

Dorothy: She is petite, but she is sturdy; her body will not fail her until eighty years in the future when she is 101. But now she is only in her 20s, and her smile radiates from within her. She will one day be the great-grandmother of Riley, but now, both of them are the same age at the same time.

If that seems impossible, it’s because it is. Riley swears the creativity in her genes came from Dorothy, and Dorothy does not disagree. Dorothy’s artform of choice is quilting.

She has made so many quilts in her lifetime that the walls of an entire house still wouldn’t have enough room to display them all. Riley once attempted to make a quilt for Dorothy when she was young, and though it could barely be considered a quilt, Dorothy hung it by her bed and there it remained for the rest of her life. Dorothy is a young woman right now though, a woman on the brink of such a full life, and she has already discovered the itch in her hands to create that will never go away.

It is 2023, a time where Riley and Dorothy should not be able to exist together but do anyway. They are inside a typical dorm room with various art supplies strewn in every corner. This is the college Dorothy went to for her teaching degree, and this is the college Riley goes to now. The name has changed, but it is still the same. A desk sits in the corner with notebooks, mugs of writing supplies, and Dorothy’s cup of coffee on top. (Dorothy takes her coffee black and is probably still taking it black during her coffee dates with Jesus.) Riley sits at the desk holding a white sweatshirt with an embroidery hoop secured around the middle; a design of purple, gold, and white flowers is starting to spell out UNI. A large purple and gold quilt is suspended waist-high by four wooden posts in the middle of the room, taking up a large amount of space. A wooden chair sits next to the quilt, and Dorothy is sitting in it. A needle and thread is held in her hand, sliding in and out of the fabric as she forms every stitch. Her work will not always be appreciated as much as it deserves to be, but this does not stop her from creating. Riley and Dorothy sew at their own pace, but occasionally their movements will sync up, and as the needle goes in and out, you could almost swear you were looking at the same person.

Riley: She is a creator, but her desk is so short that she has to be conscious of her slouch whenever she’s working on her projects. She mainly works in crochet and embroidery, but she would not be surprised if quilting starts calling to her soon. Riley often forgets how much she has in common with Dorothy, but it’s only a matter of time before someone points out another one of Riley’s mannerisms that belonged to Dorothy first. Riley sometimes likes to think that there are whispers of Dorothy’s soul still running up and down the restless veins of her hands, and she would not be surprised if there really are.

Riley

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WORDS RILEY MCCALL DESIGN KAINA GEETINGS

Dorothy

Riley and Dorothy are sitting in silence as they both stitch on their respective projects.

Dorothy: (suddenly) Are you sure the quilt isn’t taking up too much space?

Riley: You don’t need to worry about it at all. Take as much space as you need.

Dorothy: Well thank you. How is your embroidery?

Riley: It’s actually going really well, I’m crossing my fingers that it’ll still look cute once I get the whole thing done.

Dorothy: Oh I’m sure it will look wonderful. Your stitches are so small and uniform–that’s very good.

Riley: I really appreciate that, you’re so kind. Is the quilting going well?

Dorothy: Dorothy smiles. Yes, and I think the colors are lovely. I think it’ll turn out looking nice.

Riley: Riley smiles. I just think it’s so cool that we went to the same college and now we’re making matching projects.

Dorothy: It is wonderful. I’m proud of you, you know. Here you are, studying books and writing stories and you’re still creating things too. It’s wonderful.

Riley: And I think it’s wonderful that you love to create. I don’t think I would have any of this creativity if you didn’t have it first. And I always forget to say it, but I’m proud of you too.

Riley and Dorothy both smile again, sewing a few more stitches as they absorb the contentment washing over them. Riley has needed to hear this. Dorothy has needed to hear this too. This is a special sort of feeling for Riley, the one of knowing who you are and where you came from and why your hands have always felt so comfortable wrapped around hooks and needles and threads and yarns.

But what should be said between them cannot be said in such a short time. The complexities of their relationship cannot fit into such a short script. But they both know what they need to feel, and when they meet each other again one day, they will be able to feel it. (Five minutes pass.)

Dorothy: Would you mind handing me the scissors?

Riley: Of course. Riley places the scissors in Dorothy’s gentle hands.

Another five minutes pass.

Riley: Can I have the scissors back for just a second?

Dorothy: Yes, here they are. Dorothy returns the scissors back into the hands that resemble hers so uncannily.

This pattern repeats itself multiple times. They have never worked in the same space like this before, but it feels right. They are a bit different from the world around them, but they are okay with that. They appreciate the things other people don’t always appreciate and they see beauty in places where they probably weren’t supposed to see beauty, and they love that about themselves. Their connection is different from the ones they have with others because their connection is one of legacy. When Dorothy eventually leaves, Riley will carry on what she can of her. She will wish she had been more astonished by Dorothy’s work more often, but she will have the rest of her life to resolve that. Here, though, a young Dorothy has met the woman who will keep her legacy alive, and Riley has met the young woman whose legacy she is so blessed to take care of. They will never see each other like this again, but this will be enough.

Without having to say anything, eventually they start leaving the scissors between them, in reach of both their hands. This is beauty. This is creation.

END

63

BARE WOOD AND WEEDS

64

I grasp my blade in hand, crafted from wood. We’re training in the field, training to fight some imagined threat.

It could come at any moment so we must be prepared.

The field, filled with brown-green grass and dandelions, lies next to my house—red siding like a big barn. We fight many battles here. The imagined threat is usually goblins or some other monster. They usually come when we train.

Before we fight each other, we’re testing the sharpness of our blades by cutting down the dandelions. I swing swiftly trying to chop the heads off of them perfectly. A few times I’m mesmerized by how clean the cut is. My friend uses their staff to create a whirlwind to chase the seed pods into the wind, unknowingly planting more weeds in the field.

“Patrick, did you hear that?” My friend asks mid-clash of our two blades.

“Are we under attack?” I ask and we launch together towards my backyard with our weapons in hand ready to team up this time to fight our enemies.

I still don’t really know why we always played with swords, or elemental powers, or some other destructive magic. When boys play pretend, they always fight. Maybe that’s why it was strange. My best friend was a girl, or I thought they were at the time. It turns out they weren’t.

They were just themselves—that’s how I would explain it to my mom.

We grip our swords and start another battle after we defeat the threat. Our characters have different powers. I’m a swordsman, with a katana and they’re a dragon mage, with a staff used for magic and as a blunt weapon. We clash, wood against wood—bark breaks from the branches as they collide. Things break apart to reveal what’s underneath. They are a dragon, with a human form of course.

I am an elf or an orc or something. I always have a more grounded character. I have a different kind of imagination than them.

That was always the distinction, their creativity was always something I envied. Their ability to draw mesmerized me. When I showed them my drawings they were never impressed, probably because they weren’t good. They are an artist. I am a writer. That’s the difference between us I guess.

The field is still there, haunted maybe, watching always.

The dandelions multiplied by the hotter summers and the wind blowing the seeds across the Iowan suburbs. No one’s there to cut them down now. Maybe, we could come back to this place one day and chop them down. Testing the sharpness of our imagined blades once again. Maybe, there’s a version of us still there together, playing, and sparing, and laughing for eternity—beyond the constraints of rational thought. Beyond judgment and time and space and everything else that threatens us now.

WORDS PATRICK MARKOVICH DESIGN ELLIANA VAN NOORT 65

66

PHOTOGRAPHY EMMA DEATON DESIGN ELLA JAHNER 67

68

69

70

USELESS YOUTH Useless Youth Images of his useless youth are everywhere.

Images of his useless youth aretheir everywhere.

His family home creaks under weight.

His family home creaks under their weight.

Glimpses of church recitals, Christmas mornings; Glimpses recitals, Christmas mornings; swaddledofinchurch pink flower decals and frilled lace skirts. swaddled in pink flower decals and frilled lace skirts.

He sees the way her pulse quickens, He sees waybrush her pulse quickens, the fearthe of the ripping through her hair; the fear of the brush ripping through hair; wrenching at her scalp with its many her teeth. wrenching at her scalp with its many teeth.

Her head will burn for years afterward.

Her head will burn for years afterward.

In images, he feels her discomfort. can sense it likeher a thing gone mad, InHe images, he feels discomfort. and rattles of her cage.

He can senseatitthe likebars a thing gone mad, She tempers his rage with grim acceptance, and rattles at the bars of her cage. knowing he’llhis settle She tempers rageeventually. with grim acceptance,

knowing he’ll settle eventually.

He has no fury anymore.

Not even whenanymore. winter wind slices at his bared neck, He has no fury andeven turnswhen his ears cherry red.

Not winter wind slices at his bared neck, He swaddles himself in laurel and turns his ears cherry red. leaves now, and the achehimself of his loss is tamed.

He swaddles in laurel leaves now, and the ache of his loss is tamed.

The memory of her turns bittersweet, andmemory he recalls church recitals; The ofthose her turns bittersweet, those frilled skirts, the chilly breeze on his legs, and he recalls those church recitals; the brush gnawing him to pieces, those frilled skirts, the chilly breeze on his legs, and he moves forward, ever grateful to her the brush gnawing him to pieces, for enduring what they both could not. and he moves forward, ever grateful to her for enduring what they both could not.

WORDS VICTOR ROBBINS DESIGN MARI SCHMIDT

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Nature We crave it Nature We make it it bright lights Those who We live crave near the it heights CraveWe themake natural Those Children who live flock near the bright lights to the green Crave the natural heights Their minds Children to the green Fullflock of rose vines Their minds Nature Full of grew rose vines We older Nature Grew colder We grew older Now Grew Wecolder watch Now As nature We watch Withers and quivers As nature And Withers Humans slitherand likequivers greedy winners And

WORDS WORDS CADENTRENERY TRENARY CADEN DESIGN DESIGN KAINAGEETINGS GEETINGS KAINA 72

Humans slither like greedy winners That That once once childhood childhood innocence innocence Now Now gone gone Replaced Replaced with with mindlessness mindlessness The The bright bright lights lights Dim our imaginative Dim our imaginative heights heights As As we we grow grow We We row row Away Away from from mother mother nature nature Toward the urban nature Toward the urban nature We We no no longer longer crave crave itit We We will will define define itit To To suit suit our our needs needs To make many new To make many new ways ways To To define define Nature Nature

A Lone Reed I sit with my brothers And my eldest sister And we speak On all the ways our parents failed And we all agree they failed My eldest sister’s relationship with our mother is complicated.

They are estranged except on holidays and through text.

They became best friends the moment my sister reached 18 How lonely to lose a mother at 18 To gain a friend My relationship with my mother is complicated Complicated in the fact that there is none We don’t speak. We don’t meet for holidays.

I have not smelled my mother in a year and a half How lonely to lose a mother at 19 Our relationship is complicatedly simple. There is not a relationship My eldest sister says she would get a tattoo After seeing my own half sleeve And jokingly sighing exasperatedly ‘When mom dies I’ll get a lone reed” We laugh It’s an ode to a rom-com we all used to watch together We laugh But I go home and I cry As much as I hate what my mother has done I don’t hate my mother With just a few changes in fate I very well could have been her A lone reed How lonely to cry for your estranged mother’s childhood at 20 How strong my mother’s children are To leave her But also cry for her pain

WORDS NIC TRIP DESIGN EMMA DEATON

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Rêver De Toi

(To Dream of You)

We laid on a blanket in the middle of the night, tucked into a corner of a field. There was the distant sound of drums and laughter from a nearby backyard. I snuck out to see you. The air nipped at our arms and white pine needles brushed our hair as they fell.

“I can’t believe they would spy on me like that, you know?” You said.

I nodded in agreement, looking at the tree line.

Black blobs dimly lit by failing street lights danced behind tree trunks. They made me anxious so I kept my eyes on them.

“Of course they got the story wrong too, it’s so typical of them.” You kept talking about it, anger clinging to your words.

I swatted at the last swarms of gnats for the season.

The black blobs seemed to dance closer, the drums seemed to dim. Your face was harder to make out in the darkness, the street lamps were too exhausted to capture you.

“Maybe we should go home.” I suggested.

You looked at me perplexed, we had planned to stay out here for at least another hour. Still, you lifted your body and gathered our things. You gingerly wrapped them in our blanket and grabbed my hand.

We walked back to your home. You turned on your TV and told me you loved me.

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I blinked and the room was crowded. People sat where they could. Some were cuddling on your bed.

Right. My daydream wasn’t reality. We were watching The Last Unicorn because I said we should. I was on the floor and you sat on the bed. Next to the rest of them. I felt a bubble sink into my stomach and pop. I could’ve cried but I didn’t. It would be difficult to explain to everyone there that I was in the process of trying to rewrite my memories. Because that’s not how that went. It was never how it went. How we are in my daydreams felt so real, you seemed tangible. That’s why I loved it so much.

I stared at the screen, getting myself back into the position I was in. I felt prepared to recreate the story of that night with some additions. There it was again, we were on the blanket.

“I can’t believe they would spy on me like that, you know?” You said.

“Yeah, it’s ridiculous. I’m glad they’re gone now.” I replied with a smile.

You grabbed my hand and kissed it but it didn’t feel right anymore. I felt myself shake my head.

“This isn’t right. You’re with them, not me. I shouldn’t be thinking of this.” I told you, almost as if you were to blame for it.

I blinked and watched the movie, dancing in my mind with the thought of you and me. If only it wasn’t some glittering facade.

WORDS REECE WHITTAKER DESIGN MEGAN WOODS

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PHOTOGRAPHY IVY CLEVELAND DESIGN ELLA JAHNER

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Our Grimm Reality Once upon a time... anyone anywhere knows that line.

The knightly prince comes riding in on his white horse in dazzling armor to save his damsel in distress. While it’s hard to pinpoint the first fairy tale ever recorded, we know one thing for sure. The prince, much like in today’s society, rarely bothered to save her.

The original Sleeping Beauty was one of the more intriguing stories. We all know the Disney version, where the princess pricks her finger on a spinning wheel and has to be saved by true love’s kiss. Good thing she already met him! In the original story this first part remains true. When Briar Rose turns sixteen, she pricks her finger and falls into a deep sleep. Unfortunately, the king in the original story has… other plans. After seeing the beautiful princess the king decides that he wants to spend the night with her.

She becomes pregnant and gives birth to twins. When she gives birth one of the children bites her finger, drawing out the spindle. Thus she awakens. When the king’s queen finds out, she sends her cook to kill the children then serve them to the King as punishment. The one happy point to the story is that the cook couldn’t kill the children.

So what are we supposed to learn? Well, we could learn our lessons from Mr. Walt himself, taking the bad and ugly in the world and making it something beautiful.

I personally think that’s too easy. I think that we should do what the Grimm brothers did. We should look at the world for what it really is, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

As much as we all would like a Prince Charming, we don’t always get one. It’s important to understand that while the movies are great, they are just movies. At the end of the day you have to take care of yourself and your loved ones, be strong and know that while your story may have a bad beginning, you can make the ending whatever you want.

WORDS JENNA HOGLE DESIGN DYLAN LUNDQUIST 80

The British Library

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WORDS LAUREN HANSSEN DESIGN EMMA DEATON

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