Gauge Magazine Spring '24: RAGE

RAGERAGERAGE RAGERAGERAGE RAGERAGERAGE RAGERAGERAGE

RAGERAGERAGE

RAGERAGERAGE

S T A F F

PHOTOGRAPHERS

Kasey Armstrong

Danasia Bennett

Justin Blumberg

Anna Brody

Emma Cahill

Jimena Cieza

Lilli Drescher

Kimberly Fickerson

Amy Kamibeppu

Connor Moon

Bernadette Nelson

Cooper Rich

Ashlyn Wang

Jessica Zhang

DESIGNERS

Isabelle Galgano

Ziyan Fan

Sofia Misisco

Kimstelle Merisma

Alyssa Monterio

Connor Moon

Kaliope Tapper

READERS/EDITORS

Justin Blumberg

Eleniz Cary

Izzie Claudio

Maren Detlefs

Ella Donoghue

Sydney Flaherty

Margo Heller

Mel Jones

Leo Kagan

Ayaana Nayak

Joseph Norris

Nolan Primavera

Mac Stern

Lily Suckow Ziemer

Events team

Sally Beckett

Jennie Greco

Elise Guzman

Jania James

Amy Kamibeppu

Kaliope Tapper

Chloe Root

Copyeditors

Sally Beckett

Eleniz Cary

María Gil De León

Mel Jones

Aylin Isik

Joseph Norris

Nolan Primavera

VISUAL ARTISTS

Ziyan Fan

Olivia Flanz

Sofia Misisco

Mia Rodriguez

WRITERS

Izzie Claudio

Ella Donoghue

Sydney Flaherty

Sage Greenwood

Margo Heller

Leo Kagan

Caleigh McCrink

Ayaana Nayak

Zaryah Qareeb

Ethan Richmond

Mac Stern

Lily Suckow Ziemer

SOCIAL MEDIA & Marketing

Lilli Drescher

Isabelle Galgano

Jennie Greco

Jania James

Samantha Switall

Sophia Varley

EXEC BOARD

Erik/Gale Melendez.......................Editor-in-Chief

Kimstelle Merisma........................Editor-in-Chief

Cooper Rich............................Head of Photograhy

Mel Jones.....................................Head Copyeditor

Jennie Greco......Events Coordinator & Social Me-

dia Manager

With special thanks to Ensor — This issue couldn’t have been Possible without you.

Editor’s Letter

SPRING 2024

Usually, rage isn’t something you celebrate. But Gauge isn’t your usual magazine.

In conceptualizing this semester’s theme—and in keeping with the tradition of our publication’s fringe position—we felt that with a wave of chaos breaking out over the globe, rage was and is thick in the air, and it can’t be wasted. Rage from marginalized groups is consistently repudiated, while rage from those in positions of privilege is justified and supported. We wanted to make space for the scenes and screams that aren’t heard or seen often enough in our community to make some noise. When we look at the dynamics that cause revolutions and forward movement, rage is often the catalyst, and representation is its vehicle. But beyond being an impetus, the dimensions of emotion that coincide with rage can also create bonds through shared action and dissatisfaction capable of dismantling archaic and inhibitory systems of power. We attempt to achieve this through the praxis of subverting the default white-supremicist, patriarchal, and capitalist representation in the artistic mediascape we exist in.

In our positions as student leaders, we felt it would be unjust to turn away from the incendiary feelings the we share as a community—from the active genocides in countries including Palestine, the Congo, Tigray, to the wars in Ukraine and Sudan, to our own systemic marginalization in this country. We recognize the role white supremacy, capitalism and U.S imperialism play in so many of these issues, even the ones that plague our own campus. Gauge Magazine stands in full solidarity with the 12 Emerson students that were arrested on our campus earlier this semester. You can find our full statement on the next page.

Because this is Kimmi and Gale’s last year as editor-in-chiefs over a collective six issues, we also wanted to leave with a punch. As editors, we hope to capture and showcase the dialectical power, both devastating and strengthening, that can be harnessed through collective and individual artistic representations of rage.

In this issue, we want to highlight forms of rage that are difficult to put into language because they haven’t been acknowledged or seen as valid experiences by those in power. It’s more important than ever that these feelings be expressed and discussed. It’s our hope that Gauge continues to be a platform where muffled voices can find a place to not only speak, but scream, and be heard.

As a magazine that has prided itself on tackling the bolder issues, and with our current issue, Rage, sprouting from our collective upset at the recent socio-political climate around the genocide taking place in Gaza, Gauge’s e-board feels it is necessary to make it clear that, before anything else, we stand with the people. Gauge Magazine stands in complete solidarity with the 13 students who were arrested on Emerson’s campus on Friday, March 22. By arresting these 12 students who protested against student suppression, tuition hikes, and the ongoing genocide in Palestine, Emerson College proved to us that student suppression is more important to them than taking accountability for their wrongdoings and clearly more important than protecting their own students. The College negates its own proclaimed motto of “Expression Necessary to Evolution” when it silences and penalizes students for expressing themselves.

Specifically, Emerson SJP (Students for Justice in Palestine) and Emerson College Student Union have our full support in this fight to demand Emerson to recognize and support their students — ALL of their students. We condemn the College for how it has treated these organizations and its members and the way it continues to punish them even after hours of detainment. Gauge Magazine does not tolerate our fellow students being unrightfully silenced and arrested on their own campus and we will not stand for this suppression of our peers.

No progress is made without struggle and disruption, and white supremacy cannot be dissolved without being challenged.

FREE PALESTINE

Chapter 1:Visualized

DIRECTION Isabelle Galgano & Sofia Misisco

EDITORIAL Sydney Flaherty

PHOTOGRAPHY Isabelle Galgano

MODELS Hazel Armstrong-McEvoy & Rynn Dragomirov

[redacted]

Editorial Izzie Claudio

Visual Art Mia Rodriguez

ROCk ‘N RAGE

DIRECTION JENNIE GRECO

EDITORIAL IZZIE CLAUDIO

PHOTOGRAPHY JENNIE GRECO

MAKEUP

STYLING

MODEL

JENNIE GRECO

JENNIE GRECO

SIENA YOCUM

ROCK IS ROOTED in

Rock is rooted in rebellion.

Musicians let loose, embracing a freedom of expression that was seldom seen onstage. In 1971, Marc Bolan and his band T. Rex took the stage on Top of the Pops, the UK’s version of MTV.

Bolan had glitter smeared on his face, bright pink pants, and a sparkly silver jacket that shone under the stage lights. His guitar was his dance partner, and his long, curly hair was wild and free.

After Bolan began to usher in a new era of rock with T. Rex, David Bowie donned a sparkly jumpsuit, Roxy Music wore tight leather pants, and KISS introduced their iconic full-face makeup.

Fluidity became commonplace in the rock scene, and gender roles were pierced under spiked platform boots.

The music reflected the style—it was chaotic, all about spectacle, and fans were more than ready to thrash their heads in the mosh pit. With hair teased to the gods and unchained melodies, rock bands let their image run wild.

Picture it: smudged black eyeliner, crunchy curls caked with hairspray, and tight leather outfits. A stark contrast from the polished pop of the time, freedom reigned in the rock world.

GLASS SKIN

EDITORIAL: ZARYAH

QAREEB

PHOTOGRAPHY: ASHLYN WANG

INT. NEW YORK CLUB - NIGHT

Action! The letters stretch across the room as the lights dim around us. The camera pulls out from the crowd and slowly pans to you. Henry Moore, typical white-collar-turned-CEO of a bullshit tech company, sits at his fancy table with liquor bot- tles spread around. He disassociates, milky blue eyes wandering around as they look into the dis- tance. Across the room at a bar stool I study him and wait for his next move. Despite the smell of celebration roaming the air, grief sits on the edge of his aura. Hours go by, until finally, a drunk young man gets up from his seat. His unbut- toned suit and crooked tie flash before us as he leaps onto the stage, tapping his knife against the glass cup.

Co-worker

Attention everyone! Listen! I just want to congrat- ulate my good friend here tonight.

Henry Moore

Oh, please! You don’t have to—

Co-worker

No! I must! I’m so proud of this man and everything he does.

Henry Moore

Come on, you’re embarrassing me.

Taking Henry’s hand, he drags him onto the front stage. Laughter and chuckles ripple across the room in the process.

Co-worker

Let’s raise a toast to my wonderful friend, and now my boss, for reaching this milestone.

CUT TO:

We raise our champagne glasses in celebration of the evening . . . Here’s to finally getting that position you worked for, the role you dreamt about, despite not really deserving it. It’s time to throw away the title card and replace it with something more important, something with more au- thority. The clicking sound of glass kissing is the final sign that you’re finally in power. A sign that you are now one of them, in their world, and you have no idea what you’re doing in it. Oh, how I despise you for being in it. I’m not sure how you got it; I’ve been working my hands from the acrylics to the wrist for this company with noth- ing to show for it.

After the toast, we carry on with casual talk until, finally, I catch your eye. The woman who hasn’t said a word since the night started is on your mind. There’s a reason why the camera has its gaze on me, and it has every right to do so. I look from afar, watching it all go down. It starts with a drink, followed by a light conversation with the executives, and then me. It’s always me. That’s how it starts in every story. I’m your typ- ical female secretary cliché with siren eyes and a promiscuous smile. I’m the girl who is oblivious, but you, the boy, notice. It’s fun to pretend that we don’t know where this is going. Our eyes inter- locking from across the room, us turn- ing a blushing cheek every time, praying no one catches us. But finally, you come over, and that’s the movie opening. The

You throw your new work ti- tle around multiple times in our conversation. Five, to be exact. I counted. Despite how flattered I am that you’re making an effort to impress me, I can’t help but wonder why the cam- era has been on me all this time but I haven’t said a

EXT. CITY ROOFTOP - NIGHT

Take Two. We have made it to the climax, our turning point. Down below you can hear every sound in the city. Businessmen chase city cabs, college students leave pubs with fraudulent IDs, and subway trains approach. But up here it’s quiet. I look down on everything else from this view. For a moment I forget who I am and what I’m doing. For a moment, I considered that this is my narrative.

Henry Moore Is everything okay?

He stands there in his dark gray, business casual suit. How professional. Two months in and he’s starting to look like the real deal. With his hand slowly caressing my cheek, I can hear the glass breaking again. And that’s how I know I’m almost there. I nod like every perfect dream girl does. Automatically, I smile and nod until I’m reduced to nothing but a glass object you see through— voiceless like the others. But everything is perfect and in place. The story is going where I predicted and soon I’ll have a piece of his world. Placing my hand on top of his, to smooth his worries. Asking him to be gentle with me.

Crash, as the cup hits the pavement. Knocking it over the edge, he frantically cleans the mess . Without thinking, I cheerfully laugh it off and apologize as if I were the one in the wrong. It was muscle memory, how quickly I did it. Reassuring him how he can do no wrong despite always being my cause. He has it easy, no awareness of everything around him. Never needing to be aware of anything because everything is for him. So mindless he is. Meanwhile, I have no choice but to calculate his every move, be ahead of him just to be on even planes.

Henry Moore

I’m so sorry. Such a silly mistake.

He says this while dabbing a napkin against the table. Suddenly, a man with a wealthy woman on his arm walks through the door. Catching Henry’s attention, he flashes a smile as they enter his periphery.

CEO

Henry, my good friend! How’s it going? See you’re enjoying that new raise.

He turns to me.

CEO

And who might you be? A special friend of Henry?

The movement in my veins stops and silence fills my ear for a moment. Henry explains to him that I’m actually one of his workers, and the two laugh at my invisibility.

CEO

I’m surprised to see a pretty woman like yourself is even allowed to work for me.

I work up the little courage I have to try to speak, but nothing comes out. No one notices me except his wife, looking at me with concern for even trying to respond. You see, Men have this language I wish my native tongue couldn’t understand. I watch them converse. As if there is no care else in the world, they laugh. Not a fake laugh you give to put someone at ease, but a true authentic laugh that comes with privilege. I want to do that.

The moment you enter this company, they give you a raise. It only takes three years for you to go up. Meanwhile, every second I fade more into the background. A pit in my stomach begins to grow and slimes its way up to my throat. I want to speak, but it is simply not my place. I could ruin it all despite how close I am, putting all my cards on this bet.

FADE:

INT. KITCHEN - DAY

CUT! The credits begin to roll, but amidst the stillness, I remain. Maroon blood drips off the tips of my fingers and onto his face. A knife protrudes from his chest. How did we arrive at this gruesome juncture? The details blur, but in this moment, they seem inconsequential. My hand wrapped around the hilt of this mighty sword embedded in his chest, I pull with a swift, almost effortless motion. I withdraw the weapon from its fleshy sheath, the body offering no resistance. As I gaze upon the aftermath of my actions, conflicting emotions surge within me. I feel myself on the edge of begging for forgiveness as tears build up inside my eyes. I want to be forgiven for this act of violence, but I can’t help but laugh at the sight of it. This perverse sense of liberation stirs inside and all I want to do is laugh. What a plot twist this is. Adrenaline washes over me, for I realize what this means. This is now my narrative. It saddens me that I had to kill you to finally be free, but I can’t bring myself to regret it. My teeth exposed, I peacefully look at the crime scene, knowing I did it. Somewhere in the background you can hear glass shattering. I finally made it.

Why Can't I Be

Direction Writer

Visual art

Ziyan Fan

Aiden Lank

Farren Bowers

Ziyan Fan

Myself?

Labels

Aiden Lank

It’s always about categories with people. Everyone says, “So you’re bi?”

“You’re pan, right?” “Queer?”

“Straight, but like, a little zesty?”

Shut the fuck up.

Why do I need to fit a label?

I like being me.

I like figuring things out on my own and letting myself go with whatever feels right

Without having to say “I’m this” or “I’m that.”

But that’s so difficult for people to accept.

Labels feel like restrictions.

Like people telling me I can’t be my own person.

But when I say that, Everyone tells me I’m too confusing, Or that I’m trying to be different,

Or that because I’m with a girl, I’m straight, Or because I’ve been with guys, I have to be bi.

Or gay. Or pan. Or whatever.

Just as long as I pick something to call myself.

And I just want to grab them and shake them

And scream at them to shut the fuck up

And realize how stupid they sound.

Why is it so hard to understand that not everything is black and white, And not everything needs to be put into a category?

At the end of the day, people don’t care.

They only ever want to put labels on things.

Still, no matter how hard they try, I won’t be controlled by a label.

The Shit That Sticks

Farren Bowers

I pick like a bird

At the skin

I did not choose

To wear

Pick,

The skin of brick

With flesh underneath The skin

That sticks

Pick!

They call me different Pick at me

Spit at me

Names—

Pick!

Amused by their games–

Pick!

And their cishet—

Shit

It’s undeniably vulgar Unquenchable

Cruel

Vile, bile

Jealousy

Cut to the quick

Does my existence frighten you? Does my hair?

My eyes?

My Asian-American

Queer

Outsider

“China virus”-infected

Body

Full of anger

Full of loathing

Full of shit

Our cishet-normative Society despises

Disguises with well-meaningness

Calls me unnatural

But exotic

If you get too close I’ll spit

I pick up

The scissors (snip)

Hair gone, I see myself

As boyish And as fragrant

As spring

And I am so full Of love And regard for all things

Beautiful And good

Art and wonderment, That whewn I laugh It rings throughout history

Because I am never Disappearing

Not even if you pick

Away at me

Again and again

Because my culture And my queerness And my joy

That is the shit

That sticks

Lily Suckow Ziemer & Olivia Flanz

My body There’s a bulge

To my body

That won’t seem to go away

I pull my skin taut Make it look flat Like everyone else But when I can’t grip it Anymore it bounces Back There are lines On my body

Like a map of insecurities

I’d like to see them disappear Under the finger I run over them

Or maybe turn bloody

Disguised as cuts or scars No one would laugh

My stomach

My arms

My chin

My fingers

My knees

I should really just tear them off

Take them into my fist and pull

Like the guts inside a pumpkin

Every tendon that snaps Will be a relief

And my body will be bloody With skin and organs hanging out

But it will look much better Than the way it does now

POV: YOU’RE A PEOPLE PLEASER

VISUAL ART: OLIVIA FLANZ

Pitch Director: Jimena Cieza

Photographer: Jimena Cieza

Makeup

Artist: Maggie Stewart

Model: Maggie Stewart

Chapter 2:TRIVIALIZED

MODELS- Riva Vig, Layla Williams, Lily Farcy, Ryn Yi

DIRECTION & PHOTOGRAPHER:

Kasey

MAKEUP: Ryn Yi, Kaitlin Harness, Lily farcy

VISUAL & SPREAD DESIGN: Isabelle Galgano

Mad Dog

DIRECTION: LILLI DRESCHER

EDITORIAL: LILLI DRESCHER

PHOTOGRAPHY: LILLI DRESCHER

PRODUCTION ASSISTANT: CALVIN PARDEE

STYLING: LILLI DRESCHER

MAKE UP: JANIA JAMES, NICO SCHUMACHER

MODELS: JANIA JAMES, NICO SHUMACHER, AND JAIME PARDEE

BANNING DOG BREEDS.

As of February 1, 2024, a new law was instituted in the United Kingdom. The law states that American bully dogs are banned, and that owners must either get a certificate for their dog to remain in the country or euthanize their pet. Owners can also receive a “reward” of £200 for getting their dog euthanized––contrary to an exemption certificate which is priced at £92.40 per dog, according to the BBC. Additionally, owners must get their dogs neutered, which can cost upwards of £350.

dom isn’t new. These dogs have been receiving a plethora of hate for centuries. Pit bull terriers, Japanese Tosas, Dogo Argentinos, Fila Brasileiros, and other large breeds have been detested by the media since the early 1980s. According to Sun News, “the 1980s saw an increasing number of reports of unprovoked attacks by pitbulls on humans. Between 1981 and 1991 there were 15 fatal dog attacks in England and Wales” (Nuttman 13-14). In 1991, the government decided to take a stand against these dogs by placing ban laws against pit bulls, Japanese Tosas, Dogo Argentinos, and Fila Brasileiros. As of 2024, American Bully dogs have been added to this list––and the £200 euthanization reward has been introduced.

The United Kingdom has made it almost impossible for dog owners to keep these breeds without getting a certificate or going to jail. As of December 2023, the United Kingdom also made it illegal to sell, abandon, or give away these breeds. This gives owners a fatal choice: get a pricey certificate for their pet or put their dog down.

If the dog is to be granted a certificate of ownership by the government, they must wear a muzzle at all times. Not only can muzzles be harmful to dogs, but they can perpetuate the imagery that these dogs are dangerous and must be detained. Even with a certificate, owners of these dogs are subject to questioning by police. They even risk being put under arrest for simply being seen with their dog—muzzled or not.

American bullies, pit bull terriers, Japanese Tosas, Dogo Argentinos, and Fila Brasileiros are now seen as weapons rather than pets. Laws against the dogs in the United Kingdom continuously perpetuate negative stereotypes about the breeds, painting them to be evil killers.

Though it is true that people have been killed by bully breeds, there’s more to the story than just mad dogs. Dogs that have caused the death of humans oftentimes have either been neglected or simply untrained––especially in this day and age. In the wake of the pandemic in 2020, hundreds of thousands adopted dogs out of boredom––despite not knowing how to adequately take care of them. Additionally, because bully breed dogs are simply less tolerant of humans and other animals by nature, inadequate training or neglect of these dogs often results in violence.

It is not the dogs’ fault they are violent––they cannot change the DNA they were born with. In the early 1800s, bully breed dogs were bred for the sake of fighting. According to Love-A-Bull, a pitbull education and advocacy group,

Pit Bulls were originally bred from Old English Bulldogs (these dogs are similar in appearance to today’s American Bulldog) who gained their popularity on the British Isles in a cruel bloodsport known as ‘bull baiting.’ One to two Bulldogs were set to harass a bull for hours until the animal collapsed from fatigue, injuries or both. These matches were held for the entertainment of the struggling classes; a source of relief from the tedium of hardship. (History of Pitbulls 1)

This resulted in pitbulls and other bully breeds being born with an attitude of violence. Since this time, breeders have tried to create a new pit bull—one that is more friendly and compassionate towards humans and other dogs. However, it is hard to remove the traditions and structure that bully breeds have relied on for centuries on end,

The laws do not add up. The regulations that the United Kingdom have put in place are hypocritical. They state that they stand against animal cruelty, yet pay citizens hundreds of pounds to kill their beloved pets. Rather than using government money to pay for the training of bully breeds, they are using government money to murder these animals.

If the American Bully dogs were just recently banned, it shows that these laws against large dogs haven’t been forgotten by the United Kingdom legislation. This begs the question: which dog breed will be next? Will all dogs be put at risk in the United Kingdom? All breeds of dogs, from extra-small to extra-large breeds, have bitten before––will this one day warrant their death? Where will the government draw the line?

And where will we, as humans, draw the line? How long will we let these animals die before we speak up for the pets who can’t speak up for themselves?

Works Cited

“Ban on XL Bully dogs.” GOV.UK, N.D., https://www.gov.uk/guidance/banon-xl-bully-dogs. Accessed 23 February 2024.

“Cheltenham American bully XL owner spends £1k to keep dogs.” BBC, 20 December 2023, https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-gloucestershire-67773499. Accessed 23 February 2024.

McAllister, Jeff. “The History of Pit Bulls.” Love-A-Bull, https://love-a-bull. org/resources/the-history-of-pit-bulls/. Accessed 23 February 2024.

McAllister, Jeff. “The History of Pit Bulls.” Love-A-Bull, N.D., https://love-abull.org/resources/the-history-of-pit-bulls/. Accessed 23 February 2024. Murphy, Matt, and Jennifer Clarke. “What is an American XL bully and why are they being banned?” BBC, 22 February 2024, https:// www.bbc. com/news/uk-66775985. Accessed 23 February 2024.

Nuttman, Daniel, and Chris Bradford. “Are pit bulls illegal in the UK?” The US Sun, 31 January 2024, https://www.the-sun.com/news/7281239/arepitbulls-illegal-in-the-uk/. Accessed 23 February 2024.

“XL Bully type dogs to be banned.” GOV.UK, 31 October 2023, https:// www.gov.uk/government/news/xl-bully-type-dogs-to-be-banned. Accessed 23 February 2024.

SORROW YOUR BULLET

RAGE MY GUN

Photogrpahy &

Direction,

Styling - Kimberly Fickerson

Models - Khatima Bulmer, Daphne Bryant, Marisa Negron, Madi Golden, Isabella Gemma

PETITE-RAGE

DIRECTION

PHOTOGRAPHY

STYLING

MODELS

DESIGN

Kimstelle Merisma

Danasia Bennett

Amrita Bala

Sebastian Champagne

Justina Thompson

Kimstelle Merisma

Lydia Aga

“rage is love and care under duress.” - fred moten

they say you don’t get ityou’re too young how could you possibly know what to feelyou’re too young those aren’t your problems, why do you careyou’re too young you don’t even understand anything yetyou’re too young the things that keep you at night are nothing but your imagined night terrors my love those people’s problems don’t affect you one bit my love why does your love extend so goddamn far my love you’re too young my love

well god forbid god forbid i am ever convinced the rage i feel is mine alone and god forbid i ever lose it if this kind of rage is exclusive to youth god forbid i ever grow up a war on brown babies friends die on their way home parents are outliving their queer kids yet are we too small to know too small to feel too small to change a damn thing?

however small my age however young my mind this body of mine recognizes harm and it knows love it knows disasters of powers and grievances of hate even at a distance

this body of mine feels

our aptitude to sameness is in our queerness if it’s living in color which outrages you and darkens your perspective our burning hearts will light the way

Sins of My Father

He committed all the sins his father had done before him; his heart was not fully devoted to the LORD his God, as the heart of David his forefather had been. (1 Kings 15:3)

in the confessional booth, i admit to my father that, at times, i have hated him.

he is not surprised.

By Leo Kagan

“many who expect the Lord to protect them from all hardship find themselves disappointed in Him.”

i tell him i’m not mad at God.

he pauses, and lets me echo around the booth, alone.

i tell him that i am often afraid.

that late at night, in the bathroom mirror, i see his eyes peek out from behind mine.

i tell him that at parties i force myself to attend,

i see him reflected in the bottoms of sloshing cups and in the way i eye the exit nervously.

i tell my father that i see him in the window of my girlfriend’s bedroom when i catch a glimpse of myself, angry.

he made me in his image, and yet i am no better than Adam.

i ask my father if this was His plan. was this my fate, always? are the sins of my father mine to bear too?

tears paint my cheeks, i am repentant.

my father listens to all of this, quietly. he sighs and wipes my wet nose clean.

Chapter 3:METABOLIZED

BadBoys

Direction/Photography : Connor Moon

Thomas Hughes, Sam Merkle- Models

DIRECTION Mac Stern

PHOTOGRAPHY Lilli Drescher

MODELS Khatima Bulmer Emie Liu

SUBURBIA-O’s MAC STERN’S “ATreatforTheirTroubles!”

Ingredients: Flour, Sugar, Water, Sunflower Oil, Limb, Fresh Blood, New Paint For The Shed Out Back, A Dog Names After Your Grandma, Red-40, Plutonium-239, Plutonium-240, Plutonium Isotopes Gurgling, High Frequency Corn Syrup Turned Into A Glass Window, Names And Faces You’ll Never Know Or See, You’re Dopping Your Kid Off At School And You Can’t

Nutrition Facts

175 Million servings per container

Serving Size (2.5 Gloved Hands)

Amount per serving

Calories

Enough to feel lucky %Daily Value*

Total Fat 10g You can’t find it

Saturated Fat Soaked in the walls

Trans Fat You become reduced

Cholesterol 0mg The doctors visits are paid for by the job you wanna quit

Sodium 5g Ungrateful little shit, eat your TV dinner

Total Carbohydrate 5mg You’re watching the news intently

Dietary Fiber 0g You’re watching the news intently

Sugars 0.0001g You’re watching the news intently

Protein You’re watching the news intently

Polyunsaturated Fat 4.2g This is the gruel you lick off the floor

Monounsaturated Fat 0g Padded with shoesole dirt and burnt books

Vitamin A 0% You need it

Vitamin C 0% But it’s a violence

Calcium 0% You need it

Iron 2% But you’re silenced

* Percent Daily Values are based on a ∞ calorie diet. Your daily values may be higher or lower depending on your calorie needs.

Manufactured for your convenience and complacency.

Direction & Editorial: Ella Donoghue

Model & Makeup Artist: Izzy Gemma

Photographer: Jimena Cieza

My daughter is thirteen. And I hardly remember what it was like to be thirteen. Until she walks into the room.

Enter my freshly teenage daughter: face covered in acne; body draped in awkward and ill-fitted clothing; lips pursed and eyes fixed down at the floor, filled with the anger and hatred of a thousand women who came before her. Enter then, too, all the memories I’d blocked out from some thirty years ago, from when I had nothing but this very loud, very piercing discomfort with myself and everyone around me. What do you say to a person who does not want to listen?

I want to tell her how I know. How I know that nothing tastes good anymore; the fruit I cut up for her rots in her room. No one is nice. I know the boys at school call her weird, they call her ugly, and the girls probably call her mean. Nothing is fun to her. The mall is a breeding ground for self-hatred and insufficiency. I know what the world feels like, what it looks like from those horror filled eyes, from that newly corrupted brain. I know why she slams doors, though still a voice from within me yells. Thirteen feels in between. Her innocence is gone. I cannot get it back. I cannot protect her from what she has already begun to see, but this is only the beginning. She thinks she is in between. She thinks if she prays hard enough she will wake up one day and be seventeen and the world will be bright again. She thinks that then, she will have the knowledge and experience and good friends that bring that old feeling of serenity back into her chest. Right now it is just pain. Worse, the kind of pain where no light can be seen ahead. And I cannot tell her lies.

Thank you, daughter, for reminding me of thirteen. For showing me with your slimy, unappreciative, annoyed, callous, unkind attitude that even if I am old and ugly, at least I never again will endure thirteen.

But I am plagued by my inability to help

you. I remember the perpetual anger, the screaming matches with my mother. I see myself in your eyes, how within them is a boiling fury, a fury I recall, and know how it cools. But I am reminded of that feeling when you speak, daughter. I feel it buried deep beneath my skin. Sometimes it still bubbles to the surface. I’m sorry if you ever have to see it—if you realize too soon that it doesn’t ever really go away.

Already you hate me, perhaps for how I can only watch you with knowing eyes, resenting me for how long you have to wait for the peace I have. Or maybe you know I am not even at peace some days, and you hate me for that. For knowing I am all you might become. I know you might hate me for bringing you into this world, for not preparing you, but I know that there is no preparation for womanhood. It smacks you across your soft face, and irrevocably changes you for the worse. I know how it feels, and so I cannot hate you for feeling it, even if you remind me of the worst version of me I’ve ever been. I’m sorry that you must be so familiar, already, with hell.

My mom doesn’t understand. To be fair, I don’t tell her things, but that’s because when I do, she always answers me with dreaded questions. It’s not that I don’t love her. I would do anything to make her happy—she’s my mom—but she’s also my mother. She says that I can tell her anything, but I know I can’t. She tells me what to do and gives advice I don’t want. She lectures me in the middle of my stories, even when she wants to hear them, and she yells when I slam my door shut or “talk back.” She has an obsession with my “attitude,” which is apparently very bad, and each time I get into her car she has a never-ending list of questions to ask. Wasn’t she ever thirteen?

Sometimes at school I’m popular. On the days where I wear cool clothes and a little makeup, people are nice to me, but when people know your name, they will use it. The rumors come whenever people decide they like me. Positive attention leads to negative attention. Negative attention leads to more. And then I’d rather just retreat into the shadows again. I’d rather no one saw me than for everyone to see me and judge. Yesterday, the boys threw

rots at me at lunch, and none of the girls told me that I had blood on my jeans at recess. The girls next to me were whispering and giggling in science, and my math teacher kept glancing at my chest. By the time the day is over I am sick of being myself, and all my mom wants to do is talk. I cannot tell her that my shoes are too sixth grade and I lost all my friends because she packed me tuna fish for lunch. If I look her in the eyes I’ll scream. The yearning inside of her radiates onto me. It is hot on my back as I run away to my room.

Thanks, mom, for wanting to be there for me. I see you trying to provide some comfort and stability to my life. You try, too hard sometimes, to pretend to promise me some hope. But we both know that the rage I feel is endless. Even if you smile when you address me, I see the anger that’s inside me inside of you too. It’s not your fault; you cannot lie and you cannot hide it, but you give me no hope that it’ll fade.

I don’t like being a bitch. I don’t like crying before school because you spoke to me too early in the day or because you didn’t think my outfit was nice. The way you look at me, the way you scold, it conjures up a fire; it makes my blood boil. Even on the days you are nice to me, I have this hate at the back of my throat that always claws its way out. I feel bad about it right after. I wish I wasn’t so impulsive. Sometimes I cry when I see how easy it is for me to hurt you, but still, I do.

I think there might be something about me you resent, and you cannot conceal it sometimes. I know how you love me, but I know how I hate myself, and the hateful face I see in the mirror is a face I see you make at me once in a while. I wish it wasn’t so obvious that I can’t stand the girl you birthed, because I guess that’s pretty offensive. I’m sorry, mom, but I just can’t help it.

DIRECTION: IZZIE CLAUDIO

PHOTOGRAPHY: KHATIMA BULMER

STYLING: JULIETA CRISSIEN AND KHATIMA BULMER MAKE UP: KHATIMA BULMER AND JESSICA ZHANG

MODELS: JULIETA CRISSIEN, KAITLIN HARNESS, ZOLA LOPES, AND SASHA WINETT

His new girl was named Natasha. I had found her Instagram and knew exactly what she looked like, the clothes she wore, where she was from and the sort of music she listened to. She was pretty and looked suspiciously like me. Our matching nose piercings, our mutual love for the album Figure 8. Our affinity for liking the wrong guys. But there were differences, too. Natasha smoked cigarettes. Marlboros. Natasha wore brown leather jackets and dark purple lipstick, so dark that her mouth always looked like a bruise. And worst of all, Natasha seemed like the type of girl who really meant it when she said she just wanted to hook up and nothing more.

I wanted to shatter things at first, before I even knew about Natasha. Paul pulled the rug out from under me when he broke it off. He did it as easy as breathing: said “It’s not you, it’s me, I need to focus on school, myself, my music.” The way he spoke like he was reading from a checklist turned my stomach. The way he smiled sheepishly, like it was a bad joke. I wanted to throw a tantrum. I wanted to rip his stupid band posters right off his walls, to take his guitar and smash it until it

was a pile of splinters and strings. But I just folded my arms and left, silently, holding back angry sobs on the walk back to my dorm room.

Two weeks later I saw him with Natasha in the park. They weren’t holding hands, but it was obvious to any onlooker that they were together. The way he was doubled over laughing at some inane joke she must have made, her small smirk. An important feature of Natasha: she did not smile. She smirked.

“They ’re totally fucking,” Sydney said. We were sitting on a bench, trying to immerse ourselves in novels. It wasn’t working. The weather was too nice for February and every single person we had ever met was out for a walk. “Who is that girl anyways?”

“I don’t know,” I said, watching her over the top of my sunglasses. They’d slid down onto the tip of my nose and I waited to adjust them, feeling very much like a character in a noir novel. His new dame. What a swell gal. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“Is she even in college? She looks young.” Natasha leaned up against the fence of the park’s softball field and unpacked a ciga-

rette from a carton stashed in her messenger bag. Paul lit it, dutifully. I would learn later that night, scrolling through LinkedIn profiles and obituaries of her distantly related, that Natasha’s youth was only a facade. Like a vampire. In truth, she was twenty-one––three years older than Sydney and I, two years older than Paul. Old enough for cheap alcohol and cotton-candy flavored vapes. Old enough to be graduating one spring away, to be a shift lead at an indie coffee shop, to rent an apartment free from the boxy confines of on-campus housing. To capture Paul’s attention in a way that I had never been able to.

I started seeing Natasha everywhere, like buying a new car and beginning to spot the same make and model on every street corner. She was in the dining hall, eating a salad and poring over a paperback. Browsing the shelves at my favorite book store. Sipping a latte in the library, leaving lipstick marks on the lid’s eggshell whiteness. Always alone. Always impervious to my gaze. But I felt like she shared some responsibility––after all, both of us had independently decided to show up at the same place, at the same time, over and over. At some point, it had to be fate.

The first time she approached me, I was inhaling a cigarette on a street corner. I’d taken up smoking––Newports.

“I feel like I see you everywhere,” she said. Her voice was lighter than I’d imagined. I expected it to be deep, raspy from all the nicotine. But there was a tinny quality to it, as if she spoke pitched-up through a rotary phone. “I’m Natasha, by the way.”

I should have said “I know,” because I did know. I didn’t just happen to be standing outside of her building at seven in the evening by chance. Instead I just took another hit and replied: “I’m Joanne.”

“Joanne,” she said, testing the name out in her mouth. “You mind if I––?”

“Not at all,” I said, and handed over the cigarette. I wondered if she had any inkling who I was. If Paul had ever mentioned me.

“We’re always in the library at the same time,” she said in beween drags. “You’re a freshman?” I nodded. “English major.”

She smiled. I noticed how yellowed her teeth were, a chink

in otherwise impenetrable cool-girl armor. “I’m a junior. Philosophy.”

After a few moments, she passed the cigarette back to me. I didn’t need to turn to know she had silently slipped back inside. Maybe Paul was waiting up in her apartment, one of his band t-shirts on the floor, scrolling haphazardly through Instagram. Maybe she’d unlock the door and kiss him and tell him that she’d run into one of his little friends outside. Traipsing through the night, I felt more and more like the protagonist of Mr. Brightside.

Sydney was in the dorm room when I returned. “Where were you?” she asked, looking up from her piles of STEM major homework. “It’s movie night.”

“Out for a walk,” I said. After that, Natasha started greeting me whenever we ran into each other. She’d never wave, only granted me a smirk and a nod as acknowledgement to my presence. But it was important––it meant we were connected now. Even if she didn’t understand that it was in more ways than one.

The next time we spoke, I was waiting for a job interview. She was tying up her apron behind the counter and asked, “Hey, Joanne,

, right? Can I get you anything?”

“Oh, no thank you,” I said.

“But do you know where the manager is?”

“I think she’s doing paperwork in the back. She’ll be out in a sec,” Natasha said, and turned back to steam some skim milk for a latte.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” I lied. She looked different in this context, her hair tied back in a big knot. A notable absence of lipstick. Professionalism. “I’m interviewing to be a barista.”

“Really?” she said, as she lined cups with ice and syrup, ahead of the game for each order. Casually, so that you could tell she’d done the same action a thousand times before. “Well, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

My first day on the job, I tied up my own apron behind the counter. Natasha showed me all the different combinations you could make with espresso and milk: latte,

flat white, cappuccino, macchiato. She held onto my wrist as I steamed cool milk into a frothy blur, showing me the perfectly-timed moment to pull the pitcher away.

“When you steam it properly, it should look like paint,” she said. I swirled the frothy liquid around in the pitcher. It looked more like a sourdough starter than anything slick or docile. Angry and alive.

“I think I screwed up,” I said. She shrugged, took the pitcher from me, and dumped the milk down the drain.

realize that right away. Paul was nowhere to be seen in the photo––it was Natasha, sitting in his sweater, playing his guitar. On the floor of his dorm room.

It was easy to forget that they were together. Sometimes I wondered whether or not they actually were still together. Natasha never mentioned a partner, let alone a boyfriend, let alone Paul. The times I’d spotted the two of them together were few, far between, and from far away. But here was irreparable proof for all of Paul’s friends and relatives to see. It was like a neon sign that said COMMITMENT on the storefront of his stupid life. It was everything I’d asked from him that he’d never given to me.

“Try again, then.”

On my break, hiding in the back room with an iced matcha, I tapped at my phone haphazardly.

Pictures of people from high school getting engaged, girls I knew from one or two classes posing in their bathroom mirrors, songs that my friends were listening to. Then I stopped, frozen. It was a picture from Paul’s account, but I didn’t

When I got back from my break, I steamed pitcher after pitcher of oat milk until it looked acrylic. Natasha watched appreciatively in between transactions. I wanted to toss the liquid in her face, like acid. To leave a mark.

A week or two later, as I became more and more adept with an espresso machine, she started offering me rides back to the dorm in her beat-up black punch buggy. I vastly preferred her company to that of the drifters that took the bus. She

didn’t seem to mind that she was a supervisor and that I was a lowly barista, that she was nearing adulthood while I was still barely legal. Talking while she ignored street signs and traffic lights, Natasha and I discovered we had just so much in common––we liked the same indie music, watched the same shows, both had embarrassing emo phases in high school. But that didn’t stop me from feeling the giant chasm of disparity between us. While I spent my nights doing homework or chatting inanely with Sydney, she spent her nights in bed next to Paul. Sometimes, watching her speak, I wondered if it was ever hard for him to get her lipstick off of his face. Would he even know how to find makeup remover in a CVS? Would he try to scrub it off in the shower?

“We should get dinner sometime,” I said. We’d just closed out a shift and Natasha was flipping the turn signal to spin onto my road. “I feel like our conversations are always cut so short.”

“We should,” she said, whipping the car around the corner. Natasha was a horrible, impulsive driver. Pedestrians feared her. “Actually, my… the guy I’m kinda seeing is gonna be out of town this weekend. You should

come over and we can do a movie marathon or something.”

“That sounds perfect,” I said, as the car rolled to the stop and I willed myself

not to reach over and jerk the wheel, to send us careening into the nearest mailbox. “Text me your address. I’ll bring snacks.”

I did not bring snacks. I brought a bottle of wine I’d stolen while the liquor store owner was looking the other way, concealed in a plastic Target bag. She buzzed me in and greeted me at the door of her apartment with a smile. “Hey! I’m so glad we’re doing this. I really needed a girls’ night.” We ordered Chinese food and poured out glasses of the wine and flopped down onto her shabby brown couch. It was a comfort to know that Natasha’s apartment was smaller and far less grand than I’d pictured it. Something about her status over me had led me to think she was flourishing rent-free off of mommy and daddy’s money, but I saw now that she was a supervisor at the cafe for a reason. Most things looked worn or secondhand.

“I wish I had an apartment,” I admitted. She just laughed.

“You’re a freshman. You’ve got the rest of your life to live in apartments. Enjoy the dining hall food while you can.”

“I guess you have a point.” I bit my lip.

“What are we gonna watch?”

She flipped through a few options on Netflix. We settled on a stupid, cheesy horror movie and talked shit about all of the characters. It felt strangely domestic.

“Oh god, don’t go in there!” Natasha yelled as the protagonist pried open a shady looking basement door. She grabbed onto my shoulder, her nails perfectly painted a dark red. I felt mildly tipsy. “Horror movies stress me out so much.”

“Me too,” I said absently. Her phone vibrated and, reading the message, she paused the TV.

“I’ll be right back. Gotta go down and get the food.” She hummed a song I didn’t recognize, grabbed her keys, and exited. I took another sip of my wine. It did not taste good.

Natasha’s bathroom was like an

ordinary bathroom, but it seemed special to me because it was hers. She used rose scented shampoo and bar soap for body wash. Under her sink cabinet I found everything I expected to––pads, tampons, cleaning supplies. Behind the mirror was her makeup. All drugstore brands. I carefully picked up a lipstick and read the bottom label. Cabernet. Another read Vampire Bite. I heard the lock on the door turn and shoved Vampire Bite into my pocket.

We ate the Chinese food and finished the movie. Natasha poured herself a third glass of wine, then a fourth.

“I’m so glad I met you, Joanne,” she said. “We’re like soul sisters.” She stretched out long on the couch, resting her legs over my lap, the bottom of her sweater pulling up and exposing her bare stomach.

“You’re drunk,” I said. “We barely know each other.”

“No, don’t say that…” She rubbed at her eyes. I could tell the room was spinning for her. “You remind me of myself. We could be… doppelgangers.” She was beautiful. Momentarily, I considered voicing it––reaching for her hand, tucking her hair behind her ear––until I realized who else was telling her the exact same thing.

“You need to go to bed,” I said, grabbing her wrist. “Come on, I’ll walk

with you.” She slowly sat up and I slung her arm around my shoulder.

Gradually we made our way through the bedroom door, Natasha blabbing on about how we were meant to meet. Her bedroom looked like every young woman’s bedroom I had ever seen on Pinterest: floral sheets, fake ivy on the walls, indie artist posters. The moonlight shining in through a singular window sliced the room in half with a glinting blade.

I helped her into her bed. She continued drunkenly rambling, but softly. Thinking of leaving, I began to pull the covers up over her shoulders. But then I spotted it.

Tangled in her gray blanket was a familiar black band tee. I stood there for a moment, feeling like my head had been suddenly occupied with radio static. Like the light from outside had been unplugged and the room was bathed in swaths of red instead. I tried to breathe through it. Leaving a t-shirt behind. What a joke. Then, after a moment, synapses connected. It became very clear to me what I was going to do.

Turning away from her, I took the lipstick out of my pocket. Applying without precision, I wondered if Paul would recognize the shape of my lips. Hoped.

I turned back to see that her eyes

had fluttered shut. “Night,” she murmured.

Leaning down, I pressed a single kiss to her cheek. Vampire Bite. She smiled then, for the first time. Dreamily. “Goodnight, Natasha.” She was out cold. Her breath was heavy and intense. I took a single photo, gathered my things, and left the apartment. The picture couldn’t have been more perfect. The crescent of the lipstick grinned on her face like a waxing moon. As I navigated through the rainy night, I wrapped one arm around myself as I dialed a familiar number with the other.

“Emily?” Paul’s voice was sleepy. “Yeah, it’s me,” I said, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. “Natasha’s cheating on you.”

FESTER

By Ethan Richmond

February 12, 1892

Anger is a tumor.

I have observed its putrid rot spread, consume the otherwise healthy host, eat away, until all that remains is the disease. I have seen it every day. My father was one of the infected—an utterly hopeless case by the time of my birth. He was too far gone, the sickness unrelenting. Each day I hoped he would return home cured; each night my hopes were dashed. The malignance had already claimed him. Its death sentence was not far ahead.

It is viral—that I’ve gathered. The better part of my life has been dedicated to questioning its source—physical contact with someone already contaminated? Verbal? An airborne malady?—I have been unable to determine. Perhaps it is all of the above, and more I cannot think to name. In my darkest moments, I fear that everyone has been infected.

I would claim that the disease has chosen to avoid me, and Lord knows I have tried to shield myself—but I fret that, while I was not alert, the beast sunk its claws into me. I have felt its symptoms—clenching fists, gnashing teeth, a quickened pulse. But those are minor when I remember its final sign of arrival. A featureless figure in the distance, rushing towards you, whispering. The closer it gets, the more your mind warps. You think what you should never think. You want to do what you had sworn you never would. The closer it gets, the more willing you are to accept it. A complete and utter loss of control.

I have seen it before. I do not wish to see it again.

February 16, 1892

I write this with heavy breath and a shaking quill. I narrowly avoided infection at the marketplace today—I barely escaped with my mind intact.

I require specific materials for my work. One such material—the very parchment that I record these entries upon. I am running low as of late, so I ventured out into the infected world to acquire it.

A journey out is perilous enough. Surroundings seemingly designed to bait you into giving into illness. Long ago, I recognized the uncouthness of others as the spectre’s temptation, and have attempted to move forward unaffected by their petty slights.

I weathered many such words on the way to the marketplace. I see now they were each attempts to chip at my armor, to weaken me for my upcoming test. Upon reaching the parchment stand I sought, I instantly saw no parchment whatsoever. A slight flush befell me. A reaction of curdled disappointment I thought myself strong enough to suppress.

The spectre’s presence. Ignoring it as best I could, I made an inquiry to the merchant about parchment. His response was . . . dismissive. I was almost infected then. I wished to scream words most foul at him.

I recognized the sickness creeping into me. I swallowed my words, forced my hands to stay by my side—banished the spectre. I retreated to my abode quickly.

This incident alarms me immensely. To risk contamination over such a minor inconvenience? My immunity is clearly not as strong as I thought.

February 20, 1892

The final sentence of my previous entry has proven more true than I feared. The past four days since I wrote last have been fraught with similar instances.

Two days following my disturbing encounter at the market, I braced myself and attempted to go back. The very moment I stepped out the door, a harsh rain fell. My umbrella had been stolen a matter of months ago (see entry November 4, 1891, perhaps one of my greatest successes in avoiding angry thoughts—oh, how I long for that ability now!), making me unable to continue the journey. The unfairness of it shook me—I wanted to shake my fists up at the heavens themselves. There it was. Attempting to weasel its way into me once more.

But, last night . . . last night I believe that it came closer than ever before. I worry that, perhaps, I may not have been strong enough to fully ward the spirit off.

I had finally been able to acquire my parchmen—with little incident, I might add. I had reached my home once more. The night was a dark curtain—even the moon was not present to illuminate the scene of life. I wanted nothing more than to return to my quarters and rest.

I reached into my pocket for my key. It was not there. I frantically searched each pocket, but it was nowhere to be found. Gone. Lost. Perhaps in my own home, or God forbid—on these awful streets I can barely bring myself to walk.

Dread possessed me. It weakened me. For this time, when the spectre made its dire proposals, I did not hesitate to listen. It was not as if I lost consciousness— my senses were merely limited. All I remember is quick breath in my chest and a feeling of pain on my brow. When I regained my sight, I saw the doorknob of my home in my hands. In my moment of weakness, I had ripped it from its place.

I fell to my knees, trying my best to regain composure, to rid myself of these symptoms, to be anything at all but this. Anything but an infected man. The kind of man ruled not by reason or logic, but by cruel instinct. The kind of man who would

beat his child just to expel a little of his own horridness. I cannot be that man. I will never be that man.

The spectre has grown too powerful outside. It would stand to reason that the disease would be more prominent in populated areas—outsiders lack the knowledge of the malady and the ability to combat it that I possess. But there is some flaw in my defenses I have failed to detect. I am weaker than ever. It is of the utmost importance that I isolate myself for the foreseeable future.

March 11, 1892

For the first moments of my attempt at reclusivity, it appeared I had managed to confound the disease. It could not find me—did not have an opportunity to look. It seemed final victory over this contagion was at hand. I was, for the briefest of moments, lacking fear.

This perceived success was brief. I can feel myself becoming weaker. My constitution is lacking. I can only risk going out to find sustenance during unpopulated hours—many nights, I am unable to escape the building without seeing a circumstance wherein I may risk infection.

I think the sickness has somehow made its way into my own home. I had taken every possible precaution—I boarded my windows, covered each crack wherein filthy, angry air could seep through—but this was not enough.

The spectre lives with me now. It lurks around each corner, calmly waiting for me to give in. Its suggestions sound more and more appealing each passing day. It waits patiently. It knows there is only a matter of time before I give in. Before I am no longer myself. Before I am just another beast fuelled by spite. Like my father before me.

I have tried my best to stay immune. I have tried my best to quarantine myself from this sickness. All my life, I have avoided it. I relied on sheer will. I made myself into steel. There was no sign of weakness, no opening for infection to overtake me.

My will was not enough. Perhaps no amount of concentrated avoidance is. The sickness is coming for me now. The figure will approach, and I will open my arms. I will accept its wicked proposals. The tumor will form. The rot will spread.

We Are The Devouring Mouth

Photography - Ela Moss

Model/Direction/Editorial - Sage Greenwood

1. Take a breath in too fast it explodes out of the lungs, soundless save the ribcage breaking open, the diaphragm, the intestines spilling out. This is the consequence I didn’t ask for, never wanted.

2. Take a breath, slow now. Try to hold it in the chest, but the chest holds nothing, just blood that leaks.

3. Lay on the kitchen's hardwood floor. Chest heaving, red crusting in the grain. Whistling rings through, otherwise silence.

I Shake Apart on Hardwood Floors eyes break first blood vessels crack through cheeks teeth roots open to the air

red in my mouth, on my skin, in my hands teeth in my lap. There’s an open mouth a scream, like a whisper, that resonates at the right frequency to shatter a broken mold— the body— falls to the ground.

Rabid

Direction

Sally Beckett

Sally Beckett

Ziyan Fan

Rage: Middle English (also in the sense “madness”): from Old French rage (noun), rager (verb), from a variant of Latin rabies

:the root of rage, physically, etymologically. A word born from sickness, from carnal fits of longing— born of isolation.

A through line holds three meanings together, delicately: rage, sickness, desire— each an infectious agent, desperate to escape the body that contains it. It begs us to open our frothing mouths, begs us for release, to sink into a new host.

Desire; maybe it's love?

Either way, it needs to be spread— It has to exist outside of ourselves.

Love without a host is enough to make you sick.

On its own, love festers— becomes contaminated, and turns into vitriol. That’s all it is: a primal paroxysm, tearing through the body and up to the brain: until it kills me.

Before You Were Born,

Direction

Writwer

Born, After You Die

Joseph Norris

Joseph Norris

Ziyan Fan

Visual Art

Some say his screams still echo in the timber, that when the all-consuming silence drops down on the forest, when the squirrels and frogs and even the chickadees are silent, you can hear his screams from far off, distantly, if you listen hard enough.

What is there to say about him then?

He was not particularly special.

His is an old tale, and oft repeated. Repeated so many times over by so many men it throws this world into sorrow, but here it is.

Let’s say his name was William, or John; you get the idea. A white man, descended from some of the first of that savage breed to land on this side of the Atlantic. At the time of this story, he reached what he thought would be the middle of his life, when everything began to settle into its firm, fixed, gangrenous place, like rotten leaves finding the riverbed. He had married twice, driving away his first wife because she didn’t want to save him from himself and his unwillingness to admit how broken and split off from his fellow travelers he truly was. His second wife was willing to settle for mediocrity.

His three children, two girls and a boy, were average, well-liked, and wellloved in their time, maybe one of them went to an Ivy League school, and maybe they became a lawyer, just like good old dad, and made their money evicting old men and single mothers from apartments not worth half their monthly rent.

William had retired. He made a lot of money. After all, he had been a lawyer for Shell. Or maybe he was a technician for Exxon. Or an executive at

Chevron. It doesn’t matter. He used to console himself, believing that he’d led a life worth living, done work worth doing, good work. After all, it had paid him and had fed his fat, bottomless stomach, and his fat, thoughtless children. What did he have to complain about?

What does give this tale some particularity is where it happened. It is repeated across the Earth, in forests, and mountains, and bayous, deserts and jungles. But the place of William’s tale was the Adirondacks, those mountains that were once even higher than the Himalayas, sky-breakers. They’re that old, so old that wind and rain have worn them down to what to other mountains would be mere foothills, but what they’ve lost in reach, they’ve gained in wisdom, in memory, in anger.

The lake where he hunted, where his father had taken him hunting, and his father before him had gone hunting with his father before him, is nameless. It’s barely a lake, really more of a pond. Eighty feet deep. A quarter mile across. If you were smart, and stopped to look at the knotted roots of spruce, at the lattices of white pine, at the polypore shelving out from rotting logs, at the way the wind over the water folds time and space, you could circumvent the small lake in two hours, maybe three. But men like William? For them, it’s an hour-long trip, certainly no more than ninety minutes and even then, only if they're tracking a deer, or a hog. He'd been up there before. Many times. Times beyond counting. So many times before that he did not need a map to know where to pull over on the side of the road, even though there was no sign or even a break in the foliage. Yes, there was

a trail through the ferns and tall conifers, but even at a man’s foot in width, it was gratuitous. He knew the way.

For what wasn’t known to him? He had gone to a prestigious university, studied law in a prestigious program, and worked for a huge company that made millions of dollars each passing hour. But more important than that, he was the big white man with a long, powerful gun. What had he to learn, or heed? He had never heeded much, never paid any mind to much of anything, least of all to the stories whispered across burning, brokenoff branches, stories of people who hike up into the trees past nightfall, hear a faint whistling, and follow it off the trail never to be heard from again; stories of hunting parties trapped in winter forced to devour each other alive; stories of lonesome, angry men, found months later, after the thaw, when finally they can be reached, in their solitary cabin with feverish, nonsensical words scribbled all over the walls, their own heart in their right hand, a bloody bowie knife in the other; stories behind the meaning of the gazes of deer.

So he went out there—William— thoughtless of the coming night. He had hoped to reach this nameless lake earlier, but he had been held up, and now, just as he was settling in on the forested shore, the sun was setting and the sky opened up—the color of a bloody, scabbed gash.

He waited for a deer. Preferably stag, but he’d take a doe, or even a mature fawn.

Night fell. The stars were dim and there was no moon. Even the loons were silent. But this meant nothing to him. He had been there for a few hours, still, brooding over the lack of deer, and

pondering over the fact that, no matter how much he accumulated in this life, he still felt there was one thing he had never attained or understood. But this was much farther beneath his consciousness. If he had been aware of it, there would be no tale to tell.

Then—a deer. Across the lake. He saw its eyes flash in the moonlight— never mind there was none—and looking down the scope of his rifle (an expensive instrument, equipped with night vision) he saw it was a handsome stag, a proud stag, his antlers emerging from his skull like two huge, twisted hands. He already had a round in the chamber. He cocked his rifle, took a deep breath, aimed just above the shoulder where he’d always done, where he and generations of men alike had been taught to shoot and pull the trigger.

The shot did not echo.

Instead the air was filled with a guttural howling, a noise of bent tongues. He had missed his mark and struck the buck’s spine. The creature was paralyzed from the shoulder back, dragging itself along in agony with its two front legs. He could only see its antlers above the foliage, and occasionally he saw the head through an opening in the bushes. But he wouldn’t be able to shoot the deer without wrecking the rack, and he always took trophies of his kills, so there was no point anymore. He cursed under his breath at the time wasted and headed back to his truck. He knew the way even in darkness this total and unmoving, with no other sound but the echoes of the stag’s animal anguish. Even then, he could make his way.

Or he thought he could.

A few minutes passed. He should’ve

made it to the road by now.

He looked up to see if he could get direction from the moon, the stars, but the canopies covered the sky in jagged shadows. He never remembered the overstory being this dense here.

But no; he knew the way.

He kept walking.

Somewhere off the path a twig snapped. He stopped. He looked around, but in the dark he couldn’t see what saw him. What was following him. And he couldn’t hear it either. He couldn’t hear anything, except the stag, howling. He was sure it was nothing, he told himself over and over again, but there was panic rising in the repetition.

He kept walking.

And he kept walking.

The trees cleared; there was a road; and there, parked on the side, was his truck.

Before he knew it, he was running. There was something behind him, he was sure of it.

He reached the truck and slammed the door behind him, throwing his rifle carelessly in the passenger seat. As he caught his breath, he looked around. Nothing. He laughed at himself.

It was time to get back home. He started the truck, pulled out into the road, and began his drive. For many miles, nothing happened. The road was empty, nothing but the yellow lines down the middle, the night impenetrable on either side of his high beams. He was worried he would fall asleep.

But he was kept awake by another worry. He hadn’t seen a car since he’d left the lake, and that was—what? An hour ago? No, more like thirty minutes.

Even then, he should’ve turned off the backroads onto the main road. But there hadn’t been any turns in all this time.

He told himself he was tired, that the woods up here were so deep that they all looked the same, and that you couldn’t tell if you’d been driving through them for five minutes or an hour anyway. The turn was coming up soon, he was sure.

Instead, he found something else.

In his high beams there was something covering the road—a flow of water? A long puddle? He put his foot on the brake, gradually slowed to a stop.

No. It was blood. Streaked across the road.

Something had been dragged across.

It was probably an animal.

Or maybe there had been an accident. Maybe someone was hurt. He had lived his whole life under the illusion that he never hurt anybody; that his work had been good work, work worth doing; that he was a good guy. So, grabbing the rifle, he got out of the car.

“Hello?!” he called.

There was a muffled groan off the side of the road.

“Are you hurt?!”

The groan sounded again, but it was wetter this time. A cough.

“I’ll be right there!” He went back into his truck to call someone, but of course there was no reception here. And his phone was almost dead. That was strange. He always made sure to have a full charge before setting out to hunt. He would have to use the night vision in the scope instead.

He turned back to face the direction the blood had been spattered in.

He raised the rifle and ventured off the road. For a while he saw nothing but thin trees rise all around him, the blackness of the blood streaked across the dirt and pine needles, heard nothing but the snap of twigs underfoot and the agony of whatever was dying. And then he heard something else.

A muffled tapping, a rustling. Barely stronger than wind through leaves. That must be what it was—never mind there was no wind. He pressed on.

Then he came to a grassy clearing. The groans, the howls, the gurgling were clear here, cutting right through the air. Two white dots shone in the night vision. He lowered his rifle.

It was the stag, laying in the middle of the field, suffering. Blood gurgled from its mouth, but he couldn’t see the wound that would’ve caused all the blood. This made no sense. He had to have driven miles and miles away from the hunting spot, and this deer only had use of its two legs. He must’ve gotten turned around somewhere and not have realized it. Since the damn thing was right there, he figured he'd end its misery.

He walked over to it and exploded its head with a single round. That shot echoed, for a moment. And then the echo faded into something else.

It was the rustling, that rhythmic tapping. A whispering.

He couldn’t pin down where the sound was coming from. It was too dark to see anything. He couldn’t even tell if the body of the buck lay, crumpled and bloody, at his feet. He raised the scope of the rifle and peered through it.

All around him, deer. Stags.

Walking in a circle. It had to be a whole herd of them, more. Maybe fifty, maybe a hundred, maybe five hundred. All he could see through the scope were the bodies of deer, antlers, and the whitegreen of their eyes in his scope. He swallowed. He slowly lowered the scope.

Their eyes glowed in the moonlight—except there was none. They stopped in their circular march and stood, looking at him. Then, slowly, as if bowing to something behind or above him, the deer lowered their heads, so the points of their antlers faced him.

He took one step back, and they converged upon him. He screamed for a while, and then he whimpered, and then was silent.

Dissonance

The first time she can remember being angry was when her younger brother had pushed her off her swing. He wanted it and she was in the way. She fell face first into the grass, not having time to put her hands down to catch herself. Her knee collapsed into a rock in the dirt. She screamed until her throat split in two, until it was red and raw and coarse. Acidic tears fell from her eyes. Her mother had pulled her inside and yelled at her for the way that she acted, told her that we have to learn how to share. Her mother told her that she was responsible for him and that he did not know better yet. It was her responsibility to teach. Since then, when Laura would feel her blood boil, she would clench her nails into her palms, set her jaw straight, and find some quiet corner to sit in. If she couldn’t handle the corner, then she would go into her

room or the bathroom and open her mouth in a silent scream. She would sit there, mouth open, eyes closed, fists clenched for as long as she needed to be human again, and then she would stand, fix her hair, and leave.

She thought of this as she sat there, at the dinner party, sitting next to her husband as she listened to the forks and knives scratch the ceramic surface of the plates. Her dress was too tight around her waist and her hair was annoyingly crunchy from the hairspray she had doused it in.

Every once in a while her husband would tell a story that involved her and would motion with his hand toward her figure, but no eyes followed the movement. She watched them as they lingered on her husband, watching his every move, holding on to his every word.

She sat up straighter and carefully constructed her face to seem as pleasant as possible in spite of the familiar feeling within her wrists. The hot, bubbling sensation was sending shivers down her spine as she tried to ignore it.

“Isn’t that right Laura?” her husband asked. Not sure what the conversation was about, she decided to agree.

The men laughed uproariously and she felt the trap close around her ankle. He took her throat between his teeth, bit down, then watched as his friends rejoiced at the blood that spilled from the teeth marks. She watched them take feast upon her body like some prize that was won, like an animal that was poached. She watched him as he laughed with them, as he laughed at her, and thought about plunging her fork into his hand as he grabbed her wrist. A silencing gesture, one meant to calm the storm.

The conversation continued without her.

BENEATH THE SURFACE

Visual Art Mia Rodriguez

Design Ziyan Fan

AnAtomy of a thought

Photography, Direction, Styling - Justin Blumberg

Editorial- “Gnawing” by Max Stern Models - Hugo Anoh, Ella Kelley Set Design - Kaliopee Tapper

You’re a dog gnawing.

Grasping at particles with nail-filed teeth that the emotional owner induced in mania. The quality of your action reduced to flashy frames

A bubbling pit in you

The anatomy of a thought reduced to a preserve. Girding around internal organs like a virus licking

Your reflection knows everything. Dumb dog. Stupid creature. The washed-out replacement vanishes into muddled typesets under your tongue. Outside forks clink on ceramic plates sloshing around tartars and mushroom risottos

with light garnishes and heavy tabs. Your family is waiting for you but you’re searching for something in the bathroom mirror. Something acrid festers Words flaking to ash on body hearth bone fragment, that border built by memory you are shielding yourself from the rest of you. hiding from potential since birth. but there are voiceless cracks in your armor, And there is a child inside of you who can’t find the words.

Who sifts through mud pies for remnants of what killed them.

Who failed to mask in spite of efforts

Who failed to mask in spite of efforts.

Who found words once but only scattered at the beginning of the racetrack, fast feet out of sight ahead, alone and tasked with piecing it back together.

Who was attacked by boyhood like a truck to a deer in the night. Who crawled into themselves until anything above the muscle was a hollow shell. Seedless mulch. Who scratched at their skin to evade their body. Who exists now, in isolation, as a reminder.

The digging ensues. No nails though. Knubs clawing. The furrowing flame inside crumples and expands with a murmur, a slight wheeze and sigh ‘cause a heart is a paper organ, a thing you fuck up when you’re young, when you leave it unattended for the wolves and such

Light streaks orbit like mother shields dancing, echoes of first thoughts compounded to a single biblical begging, Pleading to be saved from the silence, you dig.

Nails shoveling into flesh, scooping out meaty treasures and answers to the puzzle

Feeling the ablaze organ in your chest. Getting closer to it as the blood gushes and the ridges deepen.

Fiery lines—paved tracks—, fingernail gullies from collarbone downward

Beating again, boulder rolling, Where did it all go? You dig harder, scraping for answers until light dribbles, God’s red nectar peeking and even then you persist,

But nothing with words escapes you, because nothing with words is contained within you.

Your flesh maroons in splotches. Your snout is wet with snot. The sink water runs. Your eyes bloodshot. You’re a dog gnawing.

GAUGE MAGAZINE