Echo 2020 by Echo Literary Magazine

echo

echo 2019 - 2020 The University of Texas at Austin

From the Editor 4

This issue of Echo has been published during unprecedented times. Our semester on campus ended prematurely, and, sadly, we are unable to celebrate the release in person. Still, I am so proud of the work that has been put into this year’s magazine and am excited to share it with you. Through challenging times, art, in any form, has the power to sustain and fulfill. This magazine is a collection of art documenting life through the eyes of talented undergraduates. I feel fortunate to present the 2020 edition of Echo Literary and Arts Magazine. It’s hard to believe that four years ago, I stumbled across this student-run publication that soon became my home at UT, as it has for many others. I was first on staff, then served as Copy Editor for two years, and have had the privilege of leading as Editor-in-Chief this year. I have seen Echo undergo immense growth, not only in staff size and submission numbers, but also in community and caliber. I’m grateful to have contributed in any way to this growth, and I’m confident that the incoming leadership team and staff will continue to push the boundaries of where this publication can go. I’m especially thankful for my fellow leadership team: Nikita for her incredible mind in design, Ingrid for her strong attention to detail and joyful presence, and Naomi for her relentless dedication to improving our magazine. The publication of this magazine was a labor of love. To the contributors, we are delighted to showcase your work and wish you the best as you continue to pursue your artistic talent. To the staff, thank you for your dedication and diligence in curating this year’s magazine. And to the readers, thank you for your support. I hope Echo is a source of inspiration and excitement for you as it has been for me. Christina Lopez Editor -in-Chief

Staff Editor-in-Chief

Christina Lopez

Head Designer

Nikita Belathur

Copy Editor

Ingrid Alberding

Social Media & Outreach Manager

Naomi Brady

Board Leaders

Sloane Smith Isaiah Zaragoza Stephanie Pickrell

Board Members Karyme Alejos

Paige Pevsner

Meredith Baranosky

Grace Robertson

Kayla Bollers

Abby Schwendel

Raul A. Dominguez

Vega Shah

Kate Drosche

Megan Shankle

Lindsey Ferris

Kelsey Smith

Rob Gomulak

Elise Smith

Jordan Hinrichs

Sydney Svagerko

Meghan Hoefling

Sarah Syamken

Divya Jagadeesh

Rose Torres

Maddie Lacy

Alexandra Whitlock

Savannah Mahan Special thanks to the Liberal Arts Honors Program

Prose

A Toast Finlay Scanlon

The Island Sloane Avery Smith

An Eviction Letter to a Tree Katherine Zhang

Vienna Oliver Gorrie

The Honeymoon Phase Eva Kahn

Red Wool Ingrid Piña

Big Brain Energy Ingrid Piña

OCD Caroline Rock

Milk Lexi Clidienst

The Fingers are the Miners of the Skin Brett Glasscock

First River Belle Walston

David Attenborough With The Lights Off Zackary Davis

Ballet Ryan Nowicki

Tombstones Dominic Beck

A Restless Night Sarah Syamken

Poetry

Two Faced Ruo

Translucence Paola Flores

Pinky Promise Ruo

Self Portrait Ruo

Decorating Time Paola Flores

Art

Photography Cannaregio cover Claudia Durand Iron Flowers Ruo

Look Up Arabelle Berman

Signs of Salvation Arabelle Berman

Axiom Caroline Woodman

Digital Inception Arabelle Berman

Shanghai Claudia Durand

While on the Edge Daniel Ramirez

Fort Stockton Claudia Durand

A Glimpse of the Past in the Present Arabelle Berman

Prose

Iron Flowers Shanxi, Jincheng Digital photograph Ruo

Prose

A Toast

Finlay Scanlon 14

Writing Contest: Winner

Peter’s act as a professional magician involved pineapples and string. He’d been working on it for months, ever since he quit his job at the plant that turns Christmas trees into mulch. I could see him waving his hands around the spiky yellow fruit in some attempt to make it disappear. But it always ended in “shit” because the little spikes around the pineapple cut up his hands. So he would come out and eat frozen burritos (without warming them in the microwave) and then watch reruns of alternating episodes of Modern Family and Say Yes to the Dress. Peter was the only one to answer my ad on Craigslist. My landlord upped the rent because “a new dance studio down the street was making it prime real estate.” So I went on the sketchy website for dented Subarus and unwanted class pets, and asked for a roommate. I described the apartment like it was: a cross between Cruella DeVil’s broken down horror house and a wax museum. The tenant before had graciously left his life’s work (wax figurines of Bollywood stars) around the broken down apartment, so if you weren’t already psychologically disturbed before you lived in it, you definitely would be after sleeping night after night with a green wax figure of Aishwarya Rai looking down at you from the ceiling fan. Peter didn’t mind the Bollywood museum. He didn’t mind taking turns holding up the rain collection barrel to the leaking ceiling. He didn’t mind using the restroom at the dance studio two blocks down in the middle of their Zumba classes because our bathroom had been “under repair” for the past two years. He needed a place to stay, and despite his constantly changing careers, he paid his rent on time and didn’t eat my leftover pizza. Peter was from Oklahoma, which he included in his email of interest about the apartment. I then pictured him in some sort of floral bonnet, singing classic show tunes from the state-named musical. But he wasn’t. He was half Jamaican from the “Chinatown” of Oklahoma City who liked to

do close-up magic and eat frozen burritos. I wouldn’t consider us friends because, despite the number of free tickets I’d given him to come see the Symphony, he’d never come to see me play. He told me that the trombone was a human impersonation of an elephant and that a professional elephant impersonator was a very strange job. Then he started pulling scarves out of his mouth. We weren’t the kind of roommates who sat all night washing down half-burnt popcorn with orange Fanta and talking about our childhoods in other cities and our mysterious day jobs with partially-made-up people. We weren’t even the roommates who talked about rent, or about the 98-year-old drag queen neighbor who kept asking me to be her manager. We weren’t the kind of roommates who talked at all. Peter left his rent money on the kitchen counter. I knew Peter had grown up rough. All his family pictures had Xs over people’s faces and Christmas was a broken affair. There were alcoholics and creepy uncles, as in every family, but when I asked him about it he said: “People have explained I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. But then I just walked over the tracks.” Todd is a food truck baker that met Peter at one of his magic shows. He was the only one there and so the meet and greet session turned into three hours of talking. Which turned into drinks and an invitation for dinner. Todd and I are not the best of friends either. He would not come to an orchestra concert unless Madonna was in it, and when he stained my favorite white dress with some kool-aid white wine cocktail, he replaced it with a white poncho made from a bed sheet with a hole cut for the neck. But he makes Peter very happy. Peter and Todd — I know I’m not your closest friend. I know we will not introduce each other to our future children. I know someday we’ll live hundreds of miles away and ask, “Who was that old roommate I lived with right after college? Steve? Sanjay?” But right now I’d like to raise a glass to making someone happy. My wedding invitation was one of courtesy, but the thing about being happy is that you can be happy purely because other people are happy, not because you’re involved in the act of their happiness. I would like to revel in strangers’ happiness and say cheers to this love story that’s not my own. You two will make terrific husbands.

Look Up Paris, France Digital photograph Arabelle Berman

The Island

Sloane Avery Smith 18

Writing Contest: Honorable Mention

They had been sitting on the rocks at the shore, shuddering against the early December wind for what seemed like an hour when the boat came to take them to the island. The taller one, a woman whose age had long since painted her hair a dark shade of gray, slowly pushed herself up onto her knees, then to her feet. Layers upon layers of thick clothing hindered her already brittle bones. The smaller figure was on his feet before the woman could offer him her gloved hand. “Put your hood back on,” the woman said to the boy, her breath clouding around her. “Your ears are turning red.” The boy obeyed his grandmother, not saying a word. The woman stepped onto the wood slats of the boat, the water slapping against the sides and spraying the tips of her worn boots. The boy followed her onto the small boat and took up his place near the edge behind the two paddlers on either side of the boat. The paddlers watched the boy sit with his knees pulled up to his chin. They still weren’t used to the quick, eager movements of the young boy. Even when the men rubbed their hands together in search of warmth they seemed to move in slow motion. There were two more spaces for paddlers in front of the two that were there, but those positions had long been vacated. Now, the two paddlers with worn gloves were the only ones leading the boat through the icy waters. The woman stepped up to the front of the boat where a weather-stained piece of paper was nailed to an upright slat of wood, extending into the air like a miniature mast. Her name was written across the top of the paper in crooked letters by a shaky hand: Evaline Grey. She pulled the glove off her right hand and reached for the pencil stub hanging from a string. As she marked the box next to the date and scratched down the time,

the tips of her fingers began to go numb. She pulled her glove back on and made her way over to the boy. The paddlers pushed off the rocks as she lowered herself to the ground, hitting the wood with a thud. The boy looked up at her, his eyes watering from the cold and his hands tucked up under his armpits. “Here,” Evaline said and held out her hands. When the boy set his hands in hers, she immediately enveloped them and rubbed them between hers to keep them warm. While Evaline rubbed the boy’s hands, he watched the dark, still water glide by as the boat creaked forward. The boy wondered if the two men that were paddling felt bad for disrupting the calm water. He was unaware that the men had rowed these waters too many times to ponder their effect on the terrain around them. This was the second week in a row that Evaline had brought her grandson along with her to the logging camp. If she’d had a choice, she would have sent him as far away from this place as she could. The other side of the world, if that’s what it took. She remembered her daughter, Avil, in these logging camps. Avil had joined Evaline and the other workers when she turned eight years old. At that time, Evaline was still living in the logging camp with the other workers who couldn’t afford a room in the town on the mainland. Evaline had grown tired of Avil staying in their little hut in the camp every day, not doing anything to ease the burden she put on Evaline. Thinking back, Evaline knew she should have found a way to enroll her in a school in town. It didn’t matter though, because Avil left when she turned fifteen. Evaline knew her daughter had faced the consequences of Evaline’s own naivety. She’d heard that her daughter had married a man a few towns over, how she’d worked at another logging camp, had a kid. She’d heard of her death, too. “Look, she’s watching us!” The boy’s voice drew her from her thoughts. He was pointing at a deer, watching from the woods of one of the islands the boat was passing. There were many small islands along the river, traveling out to sea. The logging camp Evaline worked for had already blown through the ones along the coast. Every two or three years, they’d run out of trees on an island and move to the next one, each time looming closer and closer to the town they had called home for the past few years. Evaline tried not to think about what would happen when there were no more islands left to ruin. “Where’s she going?” The panic in the boy’s question caught her

attention. She looked up just in time to see the deer slip into the shadows of the forest. At least the deer had the instincts to lead herself away from where the boat took the workers each day. Her eyes dropped back down to her gloved hands. As the boat crept up to the temporary dock extending from the island, the boy got to his feet and reached down to help Evaline up. She dug her hand in her pocket, finding a single coin to give to one of the paddlers. She pressed the coin into the outstretched hand as she stepped off the boat. Evaline remembered when the man used to give her a slight dip of his chin when she had a coin to spare. The past few times, the man’s eyes did not move from the floor of the boat. As soon as they were on dry land, Evaline reached back and grabbed the boy’s shoulder, leading him in front of her. She walked him around the rocky beach, a hundred or so yards from the dock where the boy usually stayed. There were a few other boats arriving with workers from town. Evaline was among the few who chose not to live in the camp. Only the ones who could afford it took the boats out from the island when their day’s work was done and rode them in when the sun rose. It was terribly inconvenient. When her daughter left, Evaline made the decision to save whatever money she could spare until she could afford a room in town. She’d only been living in town for a year or two when the boy arrived at her door. Evaline looked back at one of the boats now. There were three workers stepping off, two men in their late forties and a woman that looked to be in her sixties, around Evaline’s age. The people who lived in town were always the older ones. They were also the ones with a few more layers of clothing. “Try to catch a fish for us to have with lunch, ya?” Evaline said to the boy. “I can’t ever catch anything!” the boy complained. “I’ve been trying every day.” “Maybe today will bring you luck.” Evaline rubbed her gloved hand over the boy’s ruffled brown hair. She turned back toward the treeline and took a few steps. “When are you going to let me come with you to work in the camp? I bet I could carry three logs at a time!” the boy exclaimed, picking up a rock and throwing it into the river, as if to say look at me, I’m strong. “No, I need you to catch a fish for me so we can have a good lunch,”

she told the boy. “I will be back in a few hours. Don’t wander too far.” “Don’t worry, I already walked around the whole island a few days ago. There’s nothing but rocks and trees,” the boy smiled up at his grandmother. That smile was such a stark contrast to the expression he wore two weeks ago when Evaline had opened her door to him standing in the hall of the building she lived in. She remembered telling him that he must have had the wrong room. “No,” the boy had said. “Dad said you would know about what... about my mom.” The boy’s voice had tapered off to a whisper. “He told me I would be working in the logging camp with you now.” At first, Evaline had been furious. She was mad at her daughter, mad at her for dying, for leaving this boy behind in this pitiful world. Then her fury moved to the boy’s father, the man she supposed must have been her daughter’s husband. Evaline had never met him, had never been given his name. She wished she had his name, then, so she could have cursed the man. He left his son to work in a logging camp. Evaline didn’t know how he could bear to do such a thing. He must have known that if he gave his son to the camp now, he’d be there for the rest of his life. But, Evaline supposed, that was what her father had done to her when she turned seven all those years ago. What she had let happen to her own daughter. After her anger subsided, she had started to think about what it was going to cost her to feed another mouth, clothe another body. Moving back to the camp was not an option, especially now that she had the boy with her. “Let the boy work,” a gruff voice called from up ahead. Evaline had been walking away from the boy, back to the path that led from the dock to the center of camp. The man that had called out to her stood on the path, glaring over Evaline’s shoulder at the boy throwing rocks into the river. It was Adrienne, one of the newer workers who lived in the camp. “You, of all people, know we could use an extra set of hands.” “His hands are no concern of yours, Adrienne,” Evaline said as she brushed past him. “That boy is going to have to take up his place in the camp sooner or later,” he called after her, struggling to keep up with her aggressive pace up the hill. “He might as well do it while you’re still here to pick the splinters from his hands.” The boy watched Adrienne follow his grandmother beyond the

treeline and towards the camp. He turned back towards the water and tossed the rock he’d been holding in his hand. The rock skipped twice over the water before sinking to the bottom. The boy considered what Adrienne had said to his grandmother about him. Adrienne must have been irritated with the boy for playing with rocks when he should have been helping the people in the logging camp. The boy agreed with that. Why should he be left by the water when his grandmother needed his help? He was tired of exploring this little island, anyway. There were only so many times he could circle the outer edge of the island before he set his sights inward. He had snuck into the center of the island where the camp was a few days back, but he was sure no one had noticed him. There wasn’t much about the boy that would make him stand out in the camp. He wore the same dark coat over gray layers as the rest of the workers. His age wasn’t an anomaly, either. The boy had seen three or four kids that looked to be between the age of eight and ten, rustling through the crowd to get to the ration line before the food ran out. When the man had confronted his grandmother, she was clear that she did not want the boy to work in the camp. But the boy remembered his grandmother, a few nights ago, talking to the old woman who lived in the room next to them. They had been sitting in the hall with their backs against the wall and the boy listened through the door. He was supposed to be in bed. “I don’t know what to do with him,” his grandmother said. “He should be working,” the neighbor said. “You know that.” “Yes.” A pause. “I do know that.” The boy had pushed away from the door and crawled into the bed. Even though she told him she didn’t want him in the camp, the boy knew his grandmother wished he would help her. She needed it. When his grandmother spoke again, the boy was not close enough to hear. “I also know that there is no way in hell that I will let him.” She looked directly at the wall in front of her. “He doesn’t deserve a life like this.” “No one does,” the neighbor said. The boy looked into the trees. Yes, today would be the day that he made his grandmother proud.

Two Faced White ink on black paper Ruo

Signs of Salvation Porto, Portugal Digital photograph Arabelle Berman

An Eviction Letter to a Tree 26

Katherine Zhang

Tenant’s Name: Mr. Western Sycamore Tenant’s Street Address: The Grove in Front of the Plaza, 48 Chapman Avenue Tenant’s city/state/zip: Cypress/CA/92845 Dear Mr. Western Sycamore, The state of California is terminating your tenancy and wants to evict you from the following property: The Grove in Front of the Plaza, 48 Chapman Avenue. Your property space is of value to us due to the potential profits of gentrification outweighing the amount of oxygen that you are currently paying for rent. The state appreciates your philanthropic efforts in giving back to the community; however, we must ask you to leave the premises now in your possession by November 30, 2019. We are aware that you are one of our many immobile tenants, which is why we will be providing your means of transportation from 48 Chapman Avenue. In order to maximize the efficiency of your removal, our staff asks that you refrain from intaking any fluids, carbon dioxide, or sunlight for 72 hours prior to the procedure. This will help ensure a swift and relatively painless removal from your property, however, we apologize in advance if you have the capacity to feel physical and emotional pain. Please dehydrate, please suffocate, please wither. Additionally, our systems indicate that you are not registered with our state organ donor system. As a result, your lifeless corpse will most likely be ground up into pulp and turned into scribble paper for drool-covered toddlers or perhaps stretched into thin sheets to be used in lavatory facilities. Consider this a wonderful way for you to be memorialized in the materialistic Anthropocene in which you exist. You are hereby also notified of your right to avoid this eviction by gaining

sentience before the date of the eviction and vocally voicing your dissent with our staff. We take consent very seriously here in the state of California and would be more than willing to hear any complaints that you have about your predicament at the toll free number 1-800-555-5555. (This number is merely provided to you out of formality due to our confidence that trees cannot make phone calls.) The owner or landlord of your property is aware of the ethical implications that come with your removal from 48 Chapman Avenue due to an increase in recent environmental awareness in the media. The state acknowledges that your removal will be contributing to the ongoing problem of deforestation; however, Tesla just released a new SUV model and people need to make money in order to buy it. The locals of 48 Chapman Avenue will greatly miss your contributions to the natural aesthetic, however, rest assured that your beauty will be replaced by a myriad of LED fixtures and concrete columns. Arrangements will be made to compensate for any current responsibilities that you now hold such as oxygen production, mitigating soil erosion, preventing desertification, and decreasing greenhouse gases. If you return to the premises after the date you are specified to vacate in the form of a sproutling, then the landlord will seek to enforce this termination through judicial procedures or chemical pesticides. This power is vested in them by the state of California and the human proclivity for chasing money and being ignorant about the impending climate crisis. We do not expect you to answer this termination notice. A failure to answer does not constitute a waiver of your right to contest the landlordâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s actions in judicial court since our current judicial systems do not have special accommodation seating for treesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;also as far as we know you are not sentient. We thank you for your compliance and apologize for your eviction.

Thank you for your compliance,

Axiom 39mm photograph Caroline Woodman

Vienna

Oliver Gorrie 30

At the train station, I was waiting for the bus and sitting on my little black suitcase thinking it over: what the hell am I going to say? I smoked my last couple of American cigarettes wondering if he was too old, if my questions would be too intrusive, if it would be too painful to remember back before the occupation, his last name being Jewish after all. Between cigarettes I kept opening my satchel, pulling out the notes I’d written on the plane to review what I was going to say. None of it could be helped. I was already here in England and my hope was that this old man might bring something fresh to my research into early twentieth-century Vienna. This whole interviewing thing wasn’t normal for me, especially since most everyone from my research are only alive in books. I spent the last two years isolated reading and writing about this convergence of culture up until I discovered Karl Abelson in one of Kafka’s journals. After searching for this new character frantically through accounts I’d already read as well as in newly published works on the topic, I found different descriptions of seemingly the same half-homeless poet. Apparently he’d announce his poetry aloud whilst in the coffeehouse which absolutely went against all the classy and gentlemanly nature of the establishment. After taking my seat on the bus, I nervously opened my satchel yet again and took out both my notebook and pen that I had all too recently just put away. It was Gustav Mahler,symphony Number Two in C minor that started to grow in volume in my head as I reread a few snippets of Abelson’s poetry that I had transcribed in my notebook.

The stringed timber stripped the walls of the opera house revealing blues and gold, Mahler’s playing puppets rousing even the chancellor to come early to behold The renowned composer may have died many years before the occupation but the city that loved him, the city that was simultaneously a

source of hope for all Jjews in Europe, would never be again what it was. I suddenly lost myself to the sentiment of my thoughts which was enough for my relinquishment of timidity. I felt revitalized in my reimagining of my mission. How could I do any justice without the vital care for the remembrance, the recording of Vienna? “You must be Orlando, come give us an embrace! How was the course of travel?” The man spoke just as you’d expect a senior waiting at the door to speak, charged with excitement. “Oh not bad at all Mr. Abelson. Thank you again for letting me come.” “Karl, it must be Karl, no need for the formalities. Come in, in, and the tea well you must, come.” A breath or maybe a sigh gave away my slowness to comfort as I followed the man inside and to the kitchen. Remarkably, he went straight to answering all the questions I hadn’t asked yet as he worked on the tea, the making of which seemed like the effort equivalent of shovelling rocks. “I was always asking for money. The writing paper was never cheap you know but I didn’t have the temperament to really birth a novel or essay anyway. But, ah my dear! it was beautiful nonetheless. Flowing like the Nile, was there ever an instant where you could not dip your ears in ah! Well in a newly birthed piano concerto being revised or chitchat of a political theorist and a poet? Ha! In Vienna back then even the conversations you had with street cats was nothing but stimulating! Yes yes, street cats! But anyway Vienna was dancing. Intellectually, simply dancing.” The speckled and crumpled man, in the last act of his life, waved his hands in geriatric gestures of vivified life that only bloomed in his ardent recollections. Of course there was an unborn tear sparkling behind the cloudy gloss of his eyes. Caught off guard that the city I have dreamt of and imagined so many times was all I read it to be, my heart began to flutter and I sipped the tea and grabbed a cookie from a tin on the counter to avoid embarrassing myself so early on. He ushered me once more to a back room that was just a greenhouse with chairs instead of plants. We sat in these faded white wicker chairs and as I was taking the last bite of my cookie he continued speaking. “Don’t get those often in America do you? Biscuits? They are rather spectacular but my! Not for my health I’m afraid. Right, well, Orlando I will tell you something in advance that will illuminate my account. Well, um, it is a new world and so well it’s not an admittance, much more of a fact. I’ve only had the splendor of a man’s touch in my life and, well, he was a man in Vienna; I never did care for women. I have considered the questions you

might ask for a few days now and I simply concluded that for me a thought of Vienna is a thought of Freidrick and so I apologize but If you’d like to hear about one you must about the other.” I agreed to his terms and let him know it made no difference to me. It seemed like a moral obligation for him to recognize his past lover, maybe out of guilt. “Very well then. I’m just trying to think, ah well, yes you want to hear about the city well think of a city of notes, many fabulous etchings in stone, of terrace rails and cable cars and succulent morsels of thought wafting around from beautiful men and women who were like performers in their articulation. Well I tried to be one: a part of the genius but of course I was more miscreant than anything. Now I see that is but another testament to the city and the friends I found there. Though my movements were less than savory at that time and I hadn’t a krone or a um a shilling to eat with, the surrounding writers cared for me. My scrap poems were taken seriously and appreciated; a seat was always saved for me in the back of the cafe with the crowd. Though I was homeless for a time, I never slept in the street. Friedrick was largely responsible for that grace. But I always brought him my empty bottles of slivovitz, oh well brandy, I used to bring the bottles for him to ornament his window ledge. Oh! I must apologize, I didn’t intend to, give us a moment... He is dead and not like I will be, no, I am afraid the Nazis are responsible for his demise. Oh my only beloved Friendrick.” Grabbing a hanky from deep in the pocket of his cardigan, he wiped his now reddening eyes and then sneezed. I sat there leaning on my knees looking at his cracks, the brokenness of his face as he looked out at his back lawn in complete nostalgic depression. I picked up his tea off the wicker table and offered it to him and said, “I’m so sorry Karl.” He snorted back to the present and took the cup and then a gulp with the words, “I am the one who survived, at the very least I can remember it all. Now where was I?” If it weren’t so tragic I may have laughed at his reanimation. “Umm well I think…” “Yes there, ah a room in one of the central hotels was where I slept. You see Vienna had the most elegant hotels but it also had some hotels that well, um doubled as brothels and I would stay there for cheap. I never spent time there except for sleep. I would wake up and wander around the city like a bum just smiling at all that there was. The eyes would jump from

sculptured fountain to precious clocktower and all well, all gold through some such light. I still haven’t found the words. Oh yes and the holy talk of crescendos were my favorite to eavesdrop on, so many musicians and composers never ending in their competition and conversation. All this beautiful culture painted the city and I would simply enjoy it until I invariably landed upon a seat in the coffeehouse. I did stay within the Jewish part of the town because especially after World War I, well, there were antisemites of all politics lingering in the other parts. German politics was always touched upon, with all the unrest and such. Well, yes, in the cafe I would sit and well I suppose you’d like to hear about my contemporaries if I am so vain to say such a thing. You must see I only knew a few personally but in the cafe there was often a familiar pattern of what are now considered the most influential artists and composers, architects and philosophers, the foremost writers, Kafka for god’s sake. Ha! It was real.” He was all over the place but not in a bad way. I would sift through all of it later but the love in his voice was so potent I couldn’t help but want him to continue, especially toward his experience with the greatest thinkers of the twentieth century. I took another sip after catching up with my notes and he offered another cup of maybe coffee and I refused in anticipation. “Are you ready, ok well, uh, if I am not mistaken, at the back of the coffeehouse was my table and well to my left were oftentimes Alma and Gustav who were either fueled to compose by their romance or the other way around ha! I could never decide. Now those two were lovers but both also composers though Gustav played in the opera house more frequently. You know it is funny, seeing Gustav write frantically under the grand arches of the coffeehouse, everytime I hear his well it’d be his Symphony Number Two I think of him sitting at that fine clothed little table by the window, such pensive eyes. And well the Mahlers were accompanied by the more shy, young Schoenberg; he was a composer as well and well Gustav was something of a mentor to him. Sitting with me, the tables were small you see but the rooms were great spectacles of chandelier light and the um, the moulding of the ceiling and at the base of the marble pillars were all so wealthy in detail, and the coffee almost mimicked the depth of detail and warmth, I suppose it was as such because some of the patrons were the richest families in Europe at the time. Well with me was Robert Musil who was a fellow writer; I remember a very young Elias being there sometimes but that may have been closer to the Anschluss, um his last name Italian sounding, lost must be lost. Yes and Werfel was with us but alway looking at Alma. He was a prolific writer,

I was always jealous but as it turns out he was jealous of Gustav, I caught his glances toward Alma several times ha! Yes, we were all so familiar with each other. I remember arguing a bit with Wittgenstein and I must admit his frustration at my ignorance made me laugh. He wasn’t there for long or maybe he just stayed near the entrance listening to the Vienna circle go on about their philosophy and numbers, I only ever got specks but I wasn’t interested in all that. The music and the writing were my vocational interests though I never did get to any music of my own. Everyone in the world seemed to be giants who no longer walked with legs but with thoughts and with thoughts that towered over you like staring up at Babel. And my dear friend, Egon Friedell, would bring me a coffee and come to sit accompanied by his good friend Edmund von Horvath and we’d all talk about this or that. Egon was possibly the most brilliant with his thoughts about all the antiquity and well he wrote that book on Egypt but he also wrote plays and critiques and just incredible. I lifted a pen three times a day for a minute or two but he never let the pen drop. And um, well do you have any particular questions, I mustn’t ramble with you.” “I’m just trying to catch up. You said you argued with Wittgenstien. And the Mahlers were friends of yours? It’s remarkable Karl considering, well I was humming Mahler’s Number Two on the way here. Um, well, who did you know best?” “Well, Egon and I were famous friends, he would grab one of each paper from the racks, they had every paper in Europe on those newspaper racks because you see this is where the rich were, where the bankers and the politicians came and well there were times when even Stalin, Freud, and even young Hitler were in the coffeehouse. Mmh yes well as I was saying, Egon would grab a copy of each and the ones he wouldn’t read immediately I would start to write poems in the margins, and he would interrupt to discuss the latest story or disrupt that had been reported somewhere in the world. I’d tell him what was being discussed on the street and I remember once or twice he had me read his own articles or published criticisms and I’d tell him what I thought. Friedrick would join us as well and tell us of his work which was simple, he wasn’t an intellectual by trade but would chime in as it were. An upholsterer in a family furniture store but was better read than half the coffeehouse combined; I swear he was a different breed, him. I loved how he would never yell his thoughts, he would somewhat whisper a quote of some pertinent and perfect agitation that the conversation often times needed for the sake of freshness and life, and I would sneak a hand under the cloth of

the table and squeeze his thigh in excitement at his contribution but he was as cool as the milk sitting on the table in the little white pitchers. My! He was a talent without ambition. Well I don’t know if that is fair, he just hadn’t had anything to prove and I often thought he genuinely just fancied listening to the thoughts of the house that were born from the quotes he’d provide. Well regardless, his company was always that of richness but unbashful richness that never burst, never bumped into you on the street but rather stood firmly with the allowance of perception by all, Friedrick for me was almost a personification of Vienna, you know, I don’t mean to embellish this much for a historian, but I was a poet so I suppose it’s only natural.” Karl leaned back after taking a pause and crossing his legs he looked at something far off but I suspected it was Vienna in his youth, not the damson tree in the corner of the yard. “There was a single instance that still lives in memory very strongly, I heard about communism and the idea for a new Israel before they caught on so to speak but it was this topic of class that was particularly of interest to everyone which must’ve been due to the fact that Vienna was one of the most liberal places with such class differences. Wittgenstein stole the conversation off of Egon, who had accidentally started this debate by asking when artists such as Klimt go too far. You see there was a sentiment that his paintings were too, um, well too erotic. But the final animal turned out to be liberal governance and all the socialist and fascists in the room were arguing this or that about the need of governance but to different ends and well my Friedrick stopped it all by saying, ‘Too equal as to have no individual enterprise of thought to consider liberalism or Klimt’s paintings, so unequal that one fears to speak their individual thought, these are the dangerous limits.’ Egon smiled which was rare and everyone was quiet and that being a rarer occasion, well I think it was the lawyer, Sperber, who finally said ‘Damn, what the devil does that mean.’ It seems to me that Friedrick was onto something because both limits were met, of course. Tell me, what are your thoughts?” “Karl, this is more than I expected. I guess I thought I would have to ask the perfect question to kinda get this much out of you but no, this is perfect. Uh, how does it end, if it’s not too much to ask; what was the rise of the Nazis like?” “In a word, ungodly. Of course you know the story but I guess you want my story, yes well, It was in the air before it was on the pages and of course it was slow at first and years in the making, years later than what I described above. Well, Vienna had lips and tongue after all and so all the

politics in Germany in 1919 were our politics in language before action. I remember the nationalists in Vienna were criminals with a new justification at first. Beatings by brutes started it and of course we had all recognized that Vienna was a product of the opposite of the ideology of those bloody brown shirts. My view of it was a bit skewed, well one day I had spent the night with him at our apartment we eventually shared, it must have been the late ‘30s, and I had woken early and had roused him just enough to announce my departure and that I was off to the Café Produktenbörse. A kiss, well, yes a certain unmistakable loftiness in life when there is a kiss to start a day of talk and coffee and poems and friends but yes, that was the same day as the attack. We had memories and acute awareness of the life of the Jewish man but Vienna had been so amiable for so long, a hard thing to keep under one’s thumb. Well anyway, men engulfed the coffeehouse that day like beasts in stampede, in my youth and my poverty I had enough of whatever that essential thing is that allows you to face such stampedes but alas, it was for naught. I think it made me a prime target for those Nazis and so with a blow of something to my temple I lost balance and was in the middle of a circle of boots. Thankfully I don’t remember much but it was this that had broken my spirits and now seeing it all strewn across my life, it was this beating and the months in bed that had fissled me, had pressed all the vital juice out from within me. Ribs and head and other things all healing through the weeks and months. After the second or third prominent coffeehouse was destroyed with the bones of its patrons, the tongue and the life in Vienna was dead and so the city was dead. By the time of the Anschluss it didn’t matter, Austria was the Nazi’s long before. Oh mein Friedrick, he refused to leave. I was too scared after having seen the intent on the faces of those savage men who inhabited this city but he said it was cowardice to flee. He hadn’t been the most vocal in the coffeehouses but when the Anti-nazi socialist groups sprung up he was a new man, too involved for me to bear. He was so adamant about keeping what was so special about this city and protesting while I was fearful but not without reason I remind you. I am still unsure of myself as much as I was then but you must understand that after my injuries had healed enough to go to the coffeehouse and leave my bed well, I was lost by the Vienna that met me when I opened the door to the street. Freidrick had kept me abreast of the events and things while I was on bedrest but it was more than I could imagine. Postcards with Hitler’s empty words about unity were everywhere and the streets were silent. Mmm, oh I couldn’t, I couldn’t take a step. They were, um I uh, this is a difficult thing to say but um…”

“Karl, you don’t have to say…:” “...No no, if one can flee then one can speak, my tongue isn’t dead, it was the people, you see, oh it still doesn’t, suicide, tsss so many souls, friends. They all, yes.” He had tears moving down the different creases of his face but he looked on as if he was staring down a beast that he was finally ready to rival. I felt a portion of his agony in my abdomen and I wanted to cry with him but I let him continue. “Good grief, you see I am still weak from that beating,” he chuckled for the first time since the tea was made. “Well, it feels as though I lost everyone I knew, I even lost my faith.” “What do you mean you left your faith?” “No, I betrayed even that for fear of death. My only way out was to be baptized by an English reverend, Hugh something I think it was. You see the, uh, the border guards allowed passage to Christians.” I didn’t dare interrupt but he was saved by Hugh Grimes, the reverend for the British embassy who baptized eighteen hundred Jews in Vienna. “Friedrick refused and moreover he seemed to be finally motivated to action and so I departed on a lonesome journey toward England without him. The dance was over and the coffeehouses were either destroyed or empty, Egon had written to me in bed warning me of the disaster outside my walls. It is by my lacking and unfit temperament in publishing works that allowed me time to escape but Egon had written and published enough to be an early target you see. My friend, he leapt from his window and was still as conscientious as he was in acts of living, when I was told of his death I learned that he warned pedestrians of his landing so as not to hurt anyone. It’s just, these tears haven’t been cried since I fled all those years, well it’s close to twenty-five years ago now. I am sure there is even some holy water in these tears left over from the baptism that saved me, Ha! If the humor doesn’t save me then Orlando, nothing will. I just regret Freidrick, do you know, I would have traded all of Vienna to be with him. He was the city, I could never return without him there and this ingot in my chest is just the resolve to see him. I didn’t know it would get heavier as the years went by but it is what it is. I don’t know what to say from here. Maybe I’ve spoken too much. Eh?”

Digital Inception Paris, France Digital photograph Arabelle Berman

Poetry

POETR

Shanghai Digital photograph Claudia Durand

The Honeymoon Phase Eva Kahn

According to science the sun doesn’t set or rise, The moon doesn’t wax or wane - it’s all in our eyes. According to science, we are machines, we are ruled by our genes. We feed ourselves with proteins and vaccines. According to scientists, who simply observe, Nothing is new because energy is conserved. Feelings are chemicals and pain is just nerves. What purpose does this serve? To say the earth is curved Should nature be preserved? Do we get what we deserve?

Prediction is the power of science at large, But all it can say with conviction, free of charge, Is that death is inevitable, life insignificant, and truth So irrelevant, a mere daydream of floof. What happened to magic and mystery and awe? The inexplicable, unpredictable, irrational, that scientific law Can’t predict or control or find a good reason For why we make friends or commit to high treason. Why it’s possible to steal the heart of another, To infect their thoughts like a parasite, to smother Their ability to think straight or reason. Oh brother! Moons are not made out of honey or cheese, Labels and categories we create as we please Like Time, to live life with a little more ease, To predict when the leaves will fall down off the trees. The sun doesn’t rise and the moon doesn’t set. That’s what science will tell you - now don’t forget.

Translucence Watercolor painting Paola Flores

Red Wool Ingrid Piña

It was on a day when I woke up at 9 but laid in bed till 3 finding comfort in the lines of light peeking through my blinds when I suddenly realized my teddy bear has worn the same red wool sweater since I was a baby but now I am old– how have I neglected his needs so?

I reach for his hand but it’s slipped into his sleeve that I used to push back for him every night before I kissed his forehead and made sure God blessed him so he could go to sleep. It has been years since I kissed him last and I don’t know who I will kiss next– so why did I stop kissing him in the first place? I search online for tiny sweaters, his belly smaller than I remember, it fits the curve of my hand. I think I forgot to feed him because he used to sleep on top of my heart and his weight was enough to make the beating less loud, but today he is so small.

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve seen a real bear in real life. A man with high pants yelled for it to go away, it scrambled up a tree almost like a squirrel and I think it was hungry too. That night I was cooking soup, the kind where you just add water, so even if I gave the real bear some which I am too scared to do I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think it would fill their belly much. There were never any trees rooted in my twin bed but there are red bits of wool everywhere.

Big Brain Energy Ingrid PiĂąa

I keep thinking my mind is as big as it can be, for all the glasses of milk, the books before bed, the porn I accidentally found when I was 11 for the protrusions on my face and my chest after puberty started and never ended, for the pageboy haircut I regretted

for my travels for my trials surely my mind can now stop growing Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve thought all the thoughts Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m ready to stop thinking so much still my mind grows bigger every day.

While on the Edge Grand Canyon Digital photograph Daniel Ramirez

OCD Caroline Rock

I do line my pencils up nicely But I also wake up in the middle of the night. My dad has died, my dog has died, A man will stab me in my sleep, Or while snails ooze out of the popcorn ceiling, A fire will burn us all away. I do count my steps on the sidewalk And make sure to skip the cracks Just as I look at the scab on my leg – A worm has dug itself inside of me And that’s why my skin is so itchy. 48

I have breast cancer, Or colon cancer, And my boyfriend is a demon dressed as a man. And last week I couldn’t breathe Over a small cardboard box Filled with metal folder prongs When my roommate found me on the floor Paralyzed, Bawling. Each bite is a painful calculation, Ratios spinning in my head, Chewing just right Swallowing just right And on the weekends I would empty my closet, My drawers, My bins Spread the contents on the floor Like an archeological site Checking and checking But nothing felt right.

I pull out my hair But only certain ones â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Hairs like black beetle legs Or like spiders stuck in string. As a little kid, Holding onto the cold bars of my bed for my life Or jailing my hands under the blankets Until my fingers creep back to my scalp again. A potato chip bag across the room Rustles inside my head The chair and desk sink into my bones Like a deep illness that I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t shake. And I have been this way all of my life. And I wish that all I needed to do to feel right Was to line up my pencils And count my steps on the sidewalk.

Fort Stockton Digital photograph Claudia Durand

Milk Lexi Clidienst

In memory of victims of sexual homicide whose stories are so often buried in a shame we refuse to examine. Many miles from las vegas or any other place where americans congregate, there are bodies underneath the thick tan flag of desert, sexual features indistinguishable, unimportant now and suffocated in sand like a million tiny baby bottles, nipples pointed upward and new. The girls underground have thick eyes, more deep than wide, and SNAP. We do not know them, but we hear the loud grieving of a bathroom full of blood, And bet where they came from. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s their heaven, we insist, so much milk! and one baby cries, far away.

The Fingers are the Miners of the Skin Brett Glasscock My body remembers your fingers digging for gold in my skin until you broke the surface until you burst the topsoil into the bedrock and touched the dirt and minerals that never had that never should see the sun and my body remembers you washing your fingers in the underground rivers until they came out clean and dripping

My body remembers your fingers around my throat your index finger touching The spot to the left your thumb, the spot to the right where my pulse hammered in Morse code for you to stop choking me To get your hand off my neck to let me breathe I just want to breathe But you are on top of me like a reverse Atlas, the sky holding the earth down And I am motionless underneath while your fingers bore mineshafts into my neck Mining my skin my neck my flesh and the arteries between them Exposing to the weight of the air the coal the carbon the diamonds that you found and left your fingerprints on Today now the mineshafts have yet to collapse they are still there and the wind sings when it blows through them and that is almost like breathing again And today now when I invite him over He puts his weight on top of me and I am underneath him underneath his hand but He feels like the weight of the clouds and not that of the air and he looks me in the eye while he rests his fingers on my neck finding the caves you left under my skin grazing the surface and rubbing the leaves of grass between his fingers and feeling the dirt fall through his hands

Please I want to say to him please move your hands I know you touch everyone like this I know you are scared of the dark and won’t venture into the mine alone I know you are not digging deeper you are not finding more inside of me to make touch the air please just don’t touch my neck, touch anywhere but my neck it is too fresh the soil is not yet settled You’re covering my exit wounds Don’t you know I breathe through them through the mineshafts can’t you feel the warm air coming out of my neck I can’t breathe with you covering them it is like I need gills so I don’t drown in the air The supports are rotting the wooden beams have been eaten by termites and still the walls stand but they are not permanent They cannot take the weight of the earth and the weight of the air and the weight of the clouds all at once I feel the beams splitting and cracking under his fingers I want to cry to him that rock is falling from the ceiling the underground rivers are flooding the mineshaft is collapsing and the earth my body is caving in with it And today now the caves have fallen in The wind no longer sings through them The coal the carbon the diamond will never again touch the sky and I now will never be able to clean your fingerprints off of them And my body still remembers your fingers mining my skin

Pinky Promise Acrylic on board Ruo

First River Belle Walston

The halo of summer hums around you, kissing your edges in light. We’re wading deeper, passing through the cloudy pool but never breaching the lilies. Drifting algae coils my arm, and I strip it to ball with the rest. When your back is turned to dry your dripping face, I stamp the algae there, on your shoulder, where the sun has settled in. Minty streaks meander through the red, following the curve of your back until they slip beneath the surface. There are soft bones that crush beneath our feet as we go. Soaked longer than we have, they don’t snap, but wedge deeper in the sand. We fledge the water and join the geese for as long as they’ll have us. It’s a good disguise: we are small, feathered, but our giggling’s what gives us away in the end. The whole flock ascends, leaving us in its shadow on the shore.

David Attenborough With The Lights Off Zackary Davis The regret is a lack of plumage, A feathered rainbow and a dance We could perform for one another Because we’re here. Because we’re here Watching suicidal walruses on my tv I have to agree it’s gotten warmer; Our heavy breathing, butterflies of carbon Floating up, cuddled with microwave popcorn Because we’re here; because we’re here For the first time I pray you pray 56

Isn’t the last. Ice melts slow in a glass, Quicker between lips, or in a palm. This human organism runs smoother than not Because we’re here, because we’re here You strike me like lightning in Death Valley. In a moment, I have no regrets, None of which involve you or the glaciers Of your arms carving canyons into me Because we’re here, because we’re here In a new world, not quite better, still ours. You make me forget all the ways I’ve learned to ask what color Our great implosion will be – we’ll deserve it Because we’re here, because we’re here Sinking a world through, below, and beyond a screen. Somethings taught me to love every atom ever shown me, Swimming like so many salmon towards a hungry and thankful grizzly Because we’re here, because we’re here

A Glimpse of the Past in the Present Florence, Italy Digital photograph Arabelle Berman

Self Portrait Oil on canvas Ruo

Ballet

Ryan Nowicki

Plié, relevé, Fall back into dégagé, Slip then straight into tendu, Bent over backwards, not a clue. Too far gone is the seeing eye, Blurry vision can’t discern a lie, Such is love and lust and all, Head over heels without a fall.

Tombstones Dominic Beck

If you don’t want the last words you speak To be the last words you say, Get a tombstone. Some tombstones tell you who’s buried. “They were a mother, a brother A father, a friend” or something. Lots of tombstones make a wish For the person who died. A good wish: “Rest in Peace”.

Some tombstones repeat After playwrights or poets. So-and-so said, “The End.” Most tombstones say something sad, “They will be missed,” Tombstone says. Tombstone was right. They are. Be careful with your words On tombstones or otherwise. You never know, people might listen. My tombstone, If I ever need one (god forbid), Will say “Smile!” People will read it, And it will be the last thing I say, Over and over again.

A Restless Night Sarah Syamken

In Chengdu, the cicadas sound with verve In my bed, a changing corpse stirs with nerve Three painful nights passing without rest in sight Three thousand insects roar alive outside. In Chengdu, the rain cries to come inside In my room, sheets cover a damp demise Two exhausting hours praying for peace Two thousand drops stab for their own relief.

Biographies

Decorating Time 2D Digital Painting Paola Flores

Dominic Beck requests the non-smoking section when given the option. His hairline is receding, but he wears it long to conceal this fact. The secret is out. Dominic owns a white suit, a 100-year-old book, and his brother lets him borrow the car sometimes. He resents genies, mayonnaise, and Thomas Jefferson. If you wish to purchase gifts from the registry, contact him at dominicbeck00@gmail.com. Arabelle Berman is a Senior BFA Design student at the University of Texas. She has been a photographer since she was 12 years old and now uses photography as a tool for observational research. She loves how photography allows us to understand individuals’ unique ways of seeing. She hopes to continue documenting the nuances that our world offers and to influence others to want to document and share these too.

Lexi Clidienst is a writer and Humanities student at the University of Texas at Austin. May Sarton says of writing, “it is all a matter of getting to the center of the beam,” and this principle of self-awareness has guided her creative writing (Journal of Solitude, p. 54). She writes in order to grapple with individual lives, injustice, and womanhood. She also has a cat named Primrose who is a witch! Zackary Davis is a junior majoring in History, English, and American Studies. He plans on pursuing a graduate degree in American Studies after graduating from UT. The poets who have influenced him most are Hannah Sanghee Park, Billy Collins, and Langston Hughes. The time he doesn’t spend on road trips, he spends wishing he were. Claudia Durand is an interdisciplinary designer, artist, and maker. Graduating in three years with a BFA in Design and minor in Art History from UT, she will pursue an MFA in 2021. She is a collector and purveyor of little-known facts, can’t get enough context, and loves to tell stories that must be told. Relishes learning through doing, through materiality, and being as happy as a pig in mud while doing so. Can usually be found up to her elbows in paper pulp, thoroughly stained in letterpress ink, crafting javascript gizmos, or squinting in the darkroom. You can find more at claudiadurand.com.

Paola Flores is an all around art enthusiast with a passion for illustration, animation, painting, crocheting, violin playing, movie watching, musicals and even juggling. She loves listening to music while walking around campus and enjoys exploring new places to study/hang out in Austin. Rainy days and fall leaves inspire her and the smell of fresh coffee lightens her mood. If you hand her a pen she will draw on just about anything without realizing. Brett Glasscock is a second year Rhetoric and Writing and Anthropology student. His interests include: the worst horror movies known to man, postmodern literature that makes absolutely no sense, and anything queer. Wherever there is Diet Dr. Pepper, he is bound to be found. Oliver Gorrie is a bit of a messy fella who writes when he can. On such special occasions he takes himself oh so seriously but when he isn’t writing he can never find a reason to be even the slightest bit serious. Gorrie runs around doing a lot of different things from day to day and often times all this running culminates in coffee stained clothing but of all these very important things, spending time with people is his most treasured thing. Afterall, he says, what else is there? Eva Kahn is a first-year part-time out-of-state undeclared-major undergraduate at UT. If she chances upon some free time, she’ll spend it exploiting the sun for endorphins and vitamin D. She is always in need of new shoes because she walks everywhere and dances too much. If you run into her, she will probably be lost, so do her a favor and help her figure out where she’s going, will you? Ingrid Piña wrote her first poem in the 6th grade: “If Life Was A Pencil” featured consistent misuse of the English past subjunctive. Today, her writing is much the same as it were. She herself is still a lover of dance, sugar, day-dreaming and night-dreaming. Ryan Nowicki is a life-long night sky enthusiast who, on their days off, comes down to Earth to study astronomy at the University of Texas at Austin. When they aren’t looking at the stars, they enjoy reading, drawing, and writing, as well as playing the piano. Ryan hopes to one day publish their own book before they have to return to managing space traffic on Pluto.

Daniel Ramirez is currently a freshman at the University of Texas pursuing a Kinesiology degree in hopes of landing a job as a traveling physical therapist assistant. Daniel grew a love for photography sophomore year in high school and has been nationally recognized for his photographs. While in Austin, he hopes to continue photography and pursue his goal of helping people recover physically and emotionally while traveling the country and hopefully the world. Caroline Rock is an interaction designer and writer with a soft spot in her heart for publications big and small. She studied design and Japanese (and a couple other things) during her undergrad. This summer, she will plan her dream apartment, hopefully write some more, and take better care of herself. If you see her at the bowling alley, don’t bother her. She’s trying to break a hundred.

Finlay Scanlon is a guacamole enthusiast, environmentalist in progress, and a junior IRG major. She is a big fan of New Girl and Sex Education on Netflix, as well as playing lots of musical instruments at a mediocre level. She has lots of ideas for movies and musicals, but doesn’t finish most of them. She is excited to graduate but has no idea what to do with her degree so if anyone has any ideas, please dm her. Sloane Smith is a sophomore English Honors and Creative Writing student at the University of Texas at Austin. She loves stories of all kinds, whether she is devouring, creating, or amplifying them. She plans on pursuing opportunities in the publishing industry while (hopefully) making a decision about Law School. In an ideal world, she would escape to a cottage in the English countryside while she writes her stories. She loves traveling, movie nights with friends, and exploring new parts of Austin. Sarah Syamken is a freshman IRG and Spanish double major. She’s a New Braunfels native who loves traveling just as much as floating the Guadalupe River. She hopes to go into the public sector or law after graduation. When she’s not procrastinating an assignment or writing for fun, she enjoys snacking on chocolate-covered pretzels, practicing her bad dance moves in the mirror, and spending time with awesome, inspiring people.

Belle Walston baked three loaves of pumpkin bread until she got it right. She is the size of a sparrow and lives beneath a mushroom cap. She hopes that, whenever you have time, you drop by to share a meal. Caroline Woodman is a sophomore international relations student at the University of Texas. She has a passion for travel, polo, French, and Halal Brosâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; chicken with rice dish. After graduating in 2022, she hopes to attend law school and travel the world. She enjoys playing around with a camera, with nostalgic landscapes and everyday patterns being among her favorite subjects to capture. Ruofan Zhang loves to sleep and if spotted from afar always looks confused and sleepy. She loves boba, ice cream of all flavors, whipped cream cake and is wonderfully lactose intolrent. Please call her Ruo if you ever spot her somewhere or risk mispronouncing her name into meat and rice.