The Grinnell Review Fall 2022

Copyright © 2022 Student Publications and Radio Committee (SPARC).

The Grinnell Review, Grinnell College’s semi-annual undergraduate arts and literary magazine, is a student-produced journal devoted to the publication of student writing and artwork. Creative work is solicited from the entire student body and reviewed anonymously by the corresponding Writing and Arts Committees. Students are involved in all aspects of production, including selection of works, layout, publicity, and distribution. By providing a forum for the publication of creative work, The Grinnell Review aims to bolster and contribute to the art and creative writing community on campus.

Acknowledgments: The work and ideas published in The Grinnell Review belong to the individuals to whom such works and ideas are attributed to and do not necessarily represent or express the opinions of SPARC or any other individuals associated with the publication of this journal.

© 2021 Poetry, prose, artwork and design rights return to the artists upon publication. No part of this publication may be duplicated without the permission of SPARC, contributing artists or the editors.

The typeface for the body text is Roboto and the typeface for the titles is Didot.

Cover art by Liv Hage | the sun and Untitled

All editorial and business correspondence should be addressed to:

Grinnell College c/o Grinnell Review Grinnell, IA 50112 review@grinnell.edu www.grinnellreview.com

LVIII | Fall 2022

Editor-in-ChiEf Chelsea Shang Kripa Bansal

Editor Ela Chintagunta Meghna Adhikari

W riting

Kylie (Ky) KlaSSen

the wake-up part 9 Carbon Copy 15 Wearing Pants in Arizona 29 Secondhand 36 roMan belSher

Grown Up Pup 11

ella labarre

Freshly Baked Bread 18 Love Letters 39 ChelSea Shang borrowed time 19 The Way the Cookie Crumbles 48

Sabrina Tang

West Campus 31

Morell old

I Was A Grinnell College Vampire 44

rt ZaCh Spindler-Krage

Fleeting Shadows 8 Fluorescent Dragonfly 12 Flowers at Sunset 13 Water Droplet Footprints 26

Zoey nahMMaCher-bauM mouse 10 hello 52 ChelSea Shang back of the jrc 14 mask 37 independent puppet 40

JoSephine bluMenThal

Milky Suede Hides Behind the Veil 16 She Bleeds Again 17 A New Friend 35 Flower Angels 50 Hello 51

paul hanSen

Wesley 27 Neon Soul 30 Sugar Canopy 38 City of Stars 47 liv hage wrecked 28 Untitled 42 the sun 43

Letter from the Editors

Dear reader,

The Review now nears six proper decades of life. That's a little over twice most of this student population's age, which also reminds us that approximately 20 to 600 of these volumes were probably dropped on campus during any given year. Between the thousands of paper children the Review has borne and its qualification as an extremely senior resident of the College, there's a lot it has to tell. This next 'child' is no different.

Year 58 tells us there's no limit to what inspires writing or art. Pouring out a glass of heavy emotional weight and preparing it for spillage is as powerful a process as dry-bathing in blue light until your face tickles from the guilt of the waking sun. That moment when you realized you probably should've been doing something other than penning Grinnell College fanfiction could be a regret, but we hope you don't think so. Sometimes we need a bit of mindless chaos to set our hearts to rest, and—especially when you're sitting glaze-eyed in the midst of finals season, thoughts crammed with papers and exams and those abstract symbols we call language—that wild imagination might finally achieve peace. What better place to vacation than the Great Creative Wilderness?

Thus we bring to you today the organized chaos of the next volume of The Grinnell Review. Whether you're reading for escape or to appreci ate your classmates' work (or your own work, if you're our favorite!), we're glad for the opportunity to publish one more issue of this unusually long-lived creature. We can only hope it'll keep kicking.

To SPARC—thank you for the support and money. To MITTERA—our appreciation for making it possible to bring this being and its hundreds of questionable clones into the world. To all the contributing artists and writers who have volunteered pieces of themselves into this book—we are eternally grateful for what you've shared with us all. And of course, to you, reader—we thank you for being here with us, and for another year of love, empathy, and survival.

With sincerity, Chelsea Shang '23, Kripa Bansal '24, Meghna Adhikari '24, and Ela Chintagunta '25

“Today, we're dancing for no reason. Someday, we'll disappear for no reason.”

Dancing NPCs, Pokemon Black 2 & White 2

Fleeting Shadows

Zach Spindler-Krage digital photography

the wake-up part

Ky Klassen

under the influence of   nothing but you and your   carbonated capacity that electric   shocks my mouth parts soaked  in the stickiness of watermelon  juice that oozes out mid-  bite for fingerpainting   purposes which  I forgot to and just   didn’t care to wash  off after the sprinklers   went off and the small-scale   sprinkler rainbow held a mirror  to me making me seemingly  see through and the grass  it watered made that   trumpety sound when you   blew on it if the firescape is  to avoid the smoke in a theoretical   fire it’s funny that you always smoke  on it into my mouth second hand feels   like less than nothing right now  that I spend way too much of   my invaluable time combed   in your hair while the equator   equivalence meant to be a sort of

nexus connecting one side of the earth   to the other is happening which I   meant to meaningfully   acknowledge in all   its autumnal   equinoxical fashion but was  consumed by lost-track-of-  time-kissing once fantasized  through a twelve-year old’s   puberty driven dreamscape but now  without the wake-up part

mouse

Zoey Nahmmacher-Baum needle felt

CW: Dog in emotional distress.

Grown Up Pup

Roman Belsher

I know I’m not small and cute anymore, but I’m still a puppy at heart!

I’m a puppy, just like before! Your puppy! Right?

(canines can be taught numerous tricks. they can “fetch,” a process in which the canine retrieves a thrown object. they can “play dead” by lying on the ground on command. they can “beg” by sitting on their hind legs while waving their front paws up and down.)

I know, you don’t quite know what to do with a grown dog. It’s okay, I’ll do things to show you I’m still just the same puppy as before!

(the adult canine runs quickly and grabs a stuffed rabbit. it runs back to its starting position and lets go of the toy, letting it tumble on the floor. in a playful predatory moment, the canine crouches, then releases a highpitched bark.)

(the canine uses its time at home to search for prey. it gazes out the window, waiting for its next catch.)

I’ll be okay

I’m a big puppy

Big puppy doesn’t need no one pleasecomeback pleasecomeback pleasecomeback

I can do it

Big puppy is strong i love you and i shouldnt (the canine, in an effort to conserve energy, curls itself on the ground.)

I don’t need you!

Big puppy is fine on its own. Big puppy is fine on its own.

How did you like that? Was it like before? In my heart I’m still just a puppy… loveme loveme loveme loveme I’m still just a puppy loveme!

Please don’t leave me… I’m still just a puppy Pay attention to me? …loveme? when did you leave? i dont even know

Zach Spindler-Krage digital photography

Fluorescent Dragonfly

Flowers at Sunset

Zach Spindler-Krage digital pphotography

back of the jrc

Chelsea Shang vine charcoal

Have you not completed your initiation into the regurgitation club?

Throw yourself into the void of reduced reused recycled reprocessed word vomit

Allow it to be absolutely absorbed through your peers’s pores

Your articulations & ahems re-entering the migration out of the multiplicity of mouth holes

Age requirements are from four to fourteen,

Though they’ve been training you since the Origin in which you originally originated in all your originality

Slogan: say daddy d a d d y yeah that’s it you’ve got it buddy d a d d y

Somewhere along reformed into no you’re wrong my dad says (insert hardily hostile political phrase from your father here)

Membership fees readjust each year, but can reach up to ten true payments totalling

To a miniscule twelve-hundred offensive statements each! Going fast!

You won’t want to miss out on this limited opportunity to turn Your spawn into politically-complacent pawns!

Milky Suede Hides Behind the Veil

Josephine Blumenthal digital art

She Bleeds Again

Josephine Blumenthal digital art

Freshly Baked Bread

Ella LaBarre

Ibaked fresh bread this morning and I thought I would tell you. May be you would ask me if it was a sourdough or whole wheat loaf or if the edges crisped up with that nice, golden brown tint. Perhaps I’d bite into it and gush about the warmth and flavor of the bread and you would beg over the phone for me to bring you some to try the next day. Then, that day after trying it you would go on and on about how heavenly this bread was and you’d talk about it with the most crooked smile on your face and it would be just perfect.

So, that night I would go home and create a little recipe for you to follow with the ingredients list in cursive handwriting and the directions written with my favorite gel pen and little doodles all over the margins just because I would very much like to see you smile again. The next morn ing I would give you the recipe and you would thank me profusely with that same smile but still laugh at my drawings because I’ve never been much of an artist. Then, that night you’d tell me you followed the recipe but it wasn’t as good as the bread that I baked. And I’d say that maybe one day, in my kitchen, we could bake another loaf of bread together. But you didn’t say any of those things. In fact, you said nothing at all. I know it was just a meager loaf of bread and it probably tastes more bland than heavenly but still,I thought you would say something. I mean, you didn’t even beg to try the loaf of the bread I baked. I offered some instead, making sure to add that it was a sourdough loaf because thirty-two days ago on a Tuesday—no, a Wednesday afternoon you mentioned you liked the sourdough bread they sold at this one grocery store that was a bit too far for your convenience and you were nagging about how they should open up a closer location and–

You politely declined.

And I know it’s just bread but at this very moment, I would like to shove this loaf of bread down your throat so that you can just tell me just how absolutely splendid of a baker I am. But I don’t.

So, there will be no recipe and my kitchen will only have me alone sprawled across the cold granite countertops blubbering about five cups of flour, a pinch of salt, and a tablespoon and a half of yeast.

This morning I am baking another loaf of bread. You are 29.7 miles away buying your own overpriced sourdough loaf at the grocery story. I know you do not care what type of bread I am baking or what temperature I preheated the oven to while kneading the dough. But, I think maybe you would care if I touched the hot pan while the bread was cooling. Or maybe I could forget the oven mitts when I take the bread out. I could watch my fingertips puffing up and turning white as they begin to peel.

But even as I stare at my throbbing hand I am not thinking about the pain. I am not running to call an ambulance to patch up my skin. I am not even screaming. All I am thinking about is what you will say.

Don’t you see, I never baked this bread because I was hungry. I baked it so that you would ask about how it tasted, so you would ask about the recipe, so that I would have something to say to you and you would have something to say back. I will be a woman stuck in this kitchen forever and I will keep baking loaves and loaves and loaves of bread until you say some thing. I will climb inside this oven and cook myself alive. But even as my skin is charring and the scent of burning flesh is filling the cold, empty kitchen I will still be waiting for you to ask about the fresh bread I baked this morning.

borrowed time

Chelsea Shang

He cast a wary glance at the hallway, where a librarian careful ly carried the “CLOSED” sign to hang outside. “Are you sure we should be doing this—?” he repeated, for what felt like the thousandth time.

“Shh. No one’ll know. Trust me.”

“But—”

“Shh.”

He pressed a finger to his lips and grinned, face half-eclipsed by the shadows. His gaze, lit molten gold in the dim candlelight, flickered in un disguised excitement, even as he turned and slipped past the corner of his bookshelf, stepping into the beyond. In just a moment he was gone, and Rinet could no longer follow him with his eyes.

It wasn’t that worrying. It really wasn’t supposed to be. Years of ac companying him in these ill-advised adventures meant he had long mas tered the art of Aulis, of predicting what he was thinking, where he would go. It was easy to imagine him, too. His lithe figure, stalking forward in an oxymoronically clumsy elegance so unlike that of the heroes he admired, an adolescent boy overproficient in sneaking around in the exact places he shouldn’t be.

But tonight there was something different. And maybe lacking object permanence wasn’t just a trait unique to infant children, because as Rinet watched him pass from light to dark to nothing, a wave of anxiety swept from his feet all the way into his head, feverish and uncomfortable.

His feet walked automatically, and though his mind knew better, his body dashed forth, desperate, feet echoing across the empty.

Familiar arms pulled him back. “Hey, stop,” a voice whispered urgently to him, and hands reached up to cover his mouth. He could feel his heart

beat against his back, steady, and all of the anxiety left him at once. “What are you doing? We gotta stay quiet—”

“Is someone here?” someone called.

“Oh, jeez,” Aulis muttered, and pulled him down to a crouch. The light came only seconds later, the telltale click of crescendoing heels alerting them to the presence of the librarian. Just as quickly as it had fled, the anxiety welcomed itself back. Worrying his lip, Rinet pressed him self further against the spines of the books, exhaling in slow, tight passes, breathing through a straw.

And then she was gone, muttering under her breath i’m too tired for this shit or something, and life regranted them their license to exist. Only another second passed before the candles were breathed out of existence and the entire room went dark. Another quiet creak, another echoing thud— and finally, the library was silent. They were alone in the darkness.

He was thankful immediately that they were so close together. He wasn’t too sure that he wouldn’t have panicked again. Aulis, on the other hand, seemed wholly content, and eased his right hand into his own. Come on, he said calmly, and guided him through the nothingness. His legs bumped even tually into something soft, and he was sat down onto a couch. A match flew into the fireplace and sparked slowly to life—before it died.

“Hm,” came an unsatisfied noise. Another match sailed in and fizzled out.

Again.

Again.

“... guess we’ll talk in the dark, then!” his friend said cheerfully, ignoring the fact that he’d just tried to breach possibly the biggest library safety rule ever. “A real shame to neglect all these books. But I suppose this’ll be nice in

its own way.” Fingers traveled over the back of his hand, then patted it. His touch was warm, like their first meeting. “That was fun.”

“Terrifying, you mean,” Rinet said under his breath, though he allowed himself to slump against the other in a half-placated, half-exasperated daze. It felt nice. It felt right. It felt like he deserved to use Aulis as a pillow after all the unnecessary stress he’d just been put through. “Why’d we do that again? And why—” The bell began to toll rather loudly. “Why after hours?”

“What?” Aulis said. “Something wrong with going after hours? It’s not like this is the first time you’ve accompanied me on dangerous things be fore.” He paused before a teasing smile blossomed over his face. “Unless you’re scared. ”

“I—!” he started, then deflated. “I’m … I’m not scared.”

Aulis hummed. “Then, you’re nervous.”

“Yes?” He raised an eyebrow. “Only an irrational person would think it’s normal not to be nervous here.”

“Huh. Guess I’m special, then. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be one.”

“Hey, you still came with me! And you haven’t left.”

“I suppose,” he conceded. There was something about that that made him feel a little warm inside. Apple-cider warm on a cold day—pleasant but not overwhelming. “Still, answer my question. Why now?”

“Isn’t that obvious? It’s different in the day. Too many rules!” A pause. “Besides, a guy can’t indulge in some danger from time to time? I discov ered this place and wanted to introduce you to it when no one’s around to yell at us for doing foolish things.” A wisp of softness drew across his skin, cloth rustling as he waved his hands. Even though he couldn’t see him, he could imagine his energetic gesticulating. “Unfortunately, we can’t really

see anything, which kind of ruins my plans. On the bright side, I don’t need a lamp to shed light on legends.”

“Legends?”

“Ahh, my friend, you didn’t know?” He sighed theatrically. The sound was loud this close, but in the dark, it was more soothing than anything else, to remember that they still remained with each other. “Legend says that people who spend a night here become friends for eternity. Beyond life, beyond death … beyond the concept of existence itself.” The weight against his side shifted again, making itself more comfortable.

“Huh.” Beyond everything, huh. Far-fetched as it sounded, the idea did enthrall him. “That’s amazing.”

“Right? If you’d read the book I lent you a week ago, Rin, you’d know exactly how amazing, too.” A gentle pressure tapped him on the nose, af fectionate, light.

He leaned back at that with a laugh. He was glad for the darkness now, because it helped him hide the ridiculous smile on his face a little bit more. “No, it was like a thousand pages long. I’d die,” he said instead, and felt the couch tremble before a burst of cackling laughter split the silence. It was an unrestrained sort of laugh, totally undignified and completely imageshattering. It was the exact way Aulis was when he didn’t have to maintain a facade of upper-class politeness. It was how he liked him.

“It wasn’t that long. It was only a little over nine hundred pages. Took me a couple of days.”

“Wha—” Rinet sat all the way up. “I didn’t think you were serious! And you finished it?”

Aulis blinked. “Yeah?”

“Where did you even find the time.” Rinet sighed loudly, on purpose, much to

the amusement of Aulis. “I hope you didn’t sacrifice your sleep for that.”

“What can I say. I’m a night owl.”

“Dumbass.” He had to feel around for a moment before he could prop erly flick him on the forehead. Aulis blocked him with a well-practiced mo tion anyway, but it was the principle of the matter.

“... just to be sure, though,” he said after a while. “You’re not just pulling my leg or something about that legend?” It was an incredibly cheesy story, the kind he’d chalk up to fairy tales, but he sort of wanted it to be true.

“Of course not. I brought you here because I believed in it. And I figured it’d be nice to spend some time together away from everything else.” His tone was oddly fond before it snapped back to its usual lilting flair. “Besides, I’d never lie to you, Rin.”

Rinet snorted. “Now that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Well, that’s quite rude of you,” he said, leaning closer, absent of malice.

They sat together for another few mo ments, comfortable in the silence. It was this exact kind of physical tranquility and peace that he appreciated—a moment of respite amongst a life of trying, constantly and without rest, to avoid anything that might aggravate him. And as their quiet together ness stretched on, he found himself appreciating even the darkness. It was something about the sheer lack of things. For once, he was absent of sight, except for the faint outlines of their hands before them. Absent of touch, except for Aulis’s hair tickling his cheek. Absent of hearing, except for their breathing, together, sharing air, sharing everything.

As an artist, it was common that he perceived too much, too much, too much. But it was not so anymore, and he had to admit to himself that this, right here, right now, was the closest he could get to being happy, just for himself.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Aulis said, laying to rest the thoughts, the feelings, the silence. “You were a real midget.” His voice attained that teasing tone again, in that I-shall-cause-problems-on-purpose way. “You still are, you know.”

Rinet cringed despite himself. “No, I’m not. I’m the same height as you.”

“As an artist, it was common that he perceived too much, too much, too much. But it was not so anymore, and he had to admit to himself that this, right here, right now, was the closest he could get to being happy, just for himself.”

“Nah. Unlike you, I actually know how to walk around in heeled shoes.”

“You ...!” Aulis had won. It was the logical loss and the emotional victory. Aulis’s shoulders shook in laughter.

“T-that aside!” Rinet cleared his throat. “The day we met,” and he smiled slightly. “Yeah, I re member.” His eyelids fell shut, and his shoulders relaxed, tempered soft by sentiment. “I was at the peak of Sforza. Painting. And you—you came up and kicked over my entire bucket of acrylics.”

“Sure did.”

“You could afford to sound a little sorry about it,” he chastised without anger.

“Can’t spend my whole life feeling bad about the things I did. Besides,” he said, and his lips quirked upwards. “It’s the reason we met. I can’t regret something like that.”

“I’m glad I met you, too.” It was weird, he thought, how he felt so much

more comfortable saying these things when he could not be perceived. But then again, he was his only real friend. Sometimes he worried he was too harsh even in jest—that he’d hurt him, or push him away. “Oh—I’m kind of curious, though.” Aulis hummed in a familiar go on sort of gesture. “Why were you there? It’s not every day that people go up that mountain. Espe cially with your family situation and all.”

Aulis looked at Rinet then, and remembered the sleepy droop of his eyes, the wrinkle of his eyebrows barely visible yet still so familiar that he’d long memorized the look of it. The curly black of his hair remained the most striking, however, and he couldn’t help himself as he reached out to ruffle it. It was also to distract himself, in a way, from this. In the background, the clock ticked on, and moonbeams danced from window to floor, phantombright yet omnipresent.

“Well,” he answered finally. “It’s not gonna surprise you that I snuck out. But there’s more to it, I admit.” He paused, then chose his next words as carefully as possible. “See, I actually saw you earlier that day.”

Rinet sat up, surprised. “You did?”

“Yeah.” He remembered nearly every second of that day in full. Making his bed in just the right way to look as if he were still asleep, clambering out the window, booking it for his favorite place in the world—and then being interrupted, mid-stairstep, by one of the most haphazard-looking human beings in the world. “You walked into me, and we talked! Admittedly, it was a short exchange.” He waited expectantly for a response.

“Oh,” Rinet said.

He snorted. “Yeah, just like that.”

“Don’t pick on me.”

“It wasn’t a long meeting.” He thought of the wide-eyed look the young

Rinet had worn before smoothing over his expression and apologizing po litely to him, so different from their almost playful banter in the days of now.

“But I kinda thought it was fate.” He looked away and smiled to himself, because that childhood belief was no longer just fate. “It was the first time I’d been able to sneak out and stay unfound for a while! You were the first person I was able to talk to unsupervised. So I figured I’d hunt you down and help you out later.”

“Wow. I’m honored.”

“Wow is right. You had no idea you were speaking to your future best friend.”

“Well—” Rinet said automatically, habitually, before he faltered. “No, you’re right. Jeez. Such a small thing was the reason we met, huh.” He fell silent. Aulis wondered if he was thinking about how things might have been if they hadn’t had an accident that day, because he was thinking that, too. Would they have ever gone to this place together? Would they be here now, conversing in the dark? Would they be so willing to be close with each other, to cuddle? Rinet would never say that, he knew. Too many connotations wrapped up in one word. But it was the reality, wasn’t it?

It was an odd thing, their relationship. Still, Aulis was content to simply keep it here—at this strange place between what most would call friendship and love, labelless, undefined. Because they were both most comfortable this way, and that was what mattered the most in the end.

Rinet was still staring at him; he could tell. As much as it entertained him that he liked his face so much, Aulis made a decision.

“Zoning off on me?” He cocked his head, a slight laugh in his voice. “I’m flattered.”

“Huh? Wait, no, um.” Rinet coughed, tongue-tied in his fluster. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“I mean, I guess it makes sense. But—well—” He chose his words care fully. “Not that I’m doubting you or anything. But we’ve only gone there twice since then and both times, you complained about it the whole way. And I know you can’t stand the cold.” He exhaled. “I guess what I mean to say is— that’s a lot of effort for tracking down some kid you ran over on the stairs. It’s one of the steepest ranges in Sonatina. I had trouble climbing it, even.”

Aulis fell silent for a long moment, and his body tensed. Rinet opened his eyes, concerned, trying to find his gaze. He lost himself in the dark instead.

“... Aulis?” he asked tentatively.

His head raised, and he smiled from somewhere above. It was the first time in years that Rinet couldn’t read his smile. “Well,” he said at last. “I guess if there’s any time to admit it, it’s now.” He paused, took a deep breath. “I wanted to destroy you.”

Suddenly, Rinet couldn’t hear the ticking of the clock anymore.

“You … what?” Aulis wasn’t looking at him. “What—” Emotions, too much, too violent, threatened to shatter him from within, and he struggled to keep his voice calm. Because he couldn’t. Not now. Not when he finally thought he had a—”What does that mean?”

“I’m sorry. It’s not what you think, though, I promise.” Aulis’s breath ghosted across the air, empty, gone. Rinet could not think. “And more im portantly, things did change! But it’s true. The day I approached you, I—” He still wasn’t looking at him. “My dream was and still is to become a writer. You know that.”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t really feel his body anymore.

“You know,” and Aulis pulled away slightly. “My family never approved of the kind of stories I liked to read, and up til I met you, I’d spent pretty much

my whole life with them, unable to exercise my own freedom or thought.

When I finally left that place and saw you, I—well—saw you as an opportu nity.” He rested a hand on his chin, then gave up and pulled his knees to his chest. “Lots of people say it’s hard to befriend an author, because so many of us look to life for inspiration. I wanted to find that someone for me too, I guess. To psychoanalyze. Even as a simple nine-year-old child.” He sighed. “It wasn’t so simple, though. And I’m glad it wasn’t.”

The world felt mute to him, still. Aulis’s words carried, but Rinet could only barely comprehend them, as he were speaking a foreign language. But then again, wasn’t he speaking a foreign language? Who was this? What kind of weakness had he perceived in him that day?

The whisper slipped out. “Do you still …?” He feared the answer.

“No! No, of course not.” The answer came immediately. Aulis turned to look at him, and they were so close now—but he was uncomposed, for once. That ever-present grin, the indicator Rinet had come to recognize as confidence and control, was gone—he looked nearly anguished. “I was a dumb kid. You know my family—I grew up thinking the world was mine to mess around with. That was wrong of me, I know now. More importantly,” and his voice dropped, near-silent. “I would never do that to you.”

“You brought me here.” Was he trying to convince himself?

“I did. I guess I don’t know if it’s worth anything anymore,” he said qui etly, and despite himself something in him—in them—broke. “But I brought you here because I care. Because we’re friends. Beyond this,” and he taps the couch. “Beyond Sonata,” and he gestures briefly to the ceiling. “Beyond everything. Life. Death.” He stared ahead at the lack of things—the thing that had suddenly become oppressive to Rinet again, as soon as Aulis had told him those five words. “I still want that. I—that was in the past. You under

“About what?”

stand, right?” There was a silent plea in that unseen figure.

How long, he wanted to ask. What was real? What was not? So many of their earliest memories—so many of the things he had privately treas ured, held close to his heart in his worst moments—suddenly felt profound ly tainted, marked, impossible. It was tempting to just ask him everything. To interrogate him until he found out everything. To know, to know, to know.

But even as he thought about these things, he felt exhaustion setting in further, deeper, into his bones. He looked through Aulis, and then through the darkness, and then through the void. Would knowing do him any better, now? Knowing the poison of the past, and injecting his own veins with it, because he worried about how truthful their relationship was?

Would he lose him?

“It’s … all right, Aulis.” Rinet turned to watch him. The moonbeams were receding now, but perhaps it didn’t matter. He leaned close, observing his red hair and shadowed golden eyes and familiar dress, and remembered different memories. It was still him, right? Even if he hadn’t quite been who he’d thought in the very beginning. It was still the boy who he accompanied thousands of times to the same bookstore—the boy who taught him it was okay to chase his own happiness no matter how other people saw it—the boy who’d helped teach him big, difficult, words and shared with him books that he’d never seen before and accompanied him on nearly all of his trips outside, even if his parents would have yelled at him if they’d known.

It was still him.

“Because it’s still you,” he echoed himself, faintly. Nothing else mattered.

“It’s okay,” he repeated, stronger this time, hating how weak his own voice sounded, despite knowing what he should do. The right thing to do.

“Aulis. I—we can talk about this later. But I want to be your friend, too.

We’ve been friends for so long. Whatever happened in the beginning doesn’t matter.”

“Do you really believe that?”

His voice was small. So small. Yet still, the room was smaller.

Rinet leaned against him and closed his eyes.

Water Droplet Footprints

Zach Spindler-Krage digital photography

Wesley

Paul Hansen digital photography

Wearing Pants in Arizona

Ky Klassen

I keep waking up to new bruises on my body–something I’ve always noticed on my mom.

As a kid I’d trace their map, arm to arm, leg to leg, to follow to find and forge a way to make her love her.

No one told me that when snow melts, it’ll freeze, and I’ll fall and bang and bruise my body. I never wanted to be one with the water cycle until I saw snow and evaporated for the first time last winter.

What they don’t tell you about this certain season is that all the flavors either migrate or melt away. I was more of a vanilla person anyway though; the other option would’ve made me more reminiscent of her.

Wearing pants in Arizona, I can see the heat’s wave in the sky, 110 dousing down above her.  The mythology of my mother’s legs made no perceivable reply, no chance to love a hypothetical part of her.

My favorite color constantly changes, black and blue and green all on their way to a glossed over gray.

Without a treasured tone of her own, individuality was the one and only child that had been deprived of her.

I’m starting to wear shorts less often, it’s hard to find a pair that fits and feels the way that I want.   No one tells you your hips get wider, shorts get shorter, and you’ll look like that one photo of your mother.

The one where each time you look the glare gets bigger to cover her clothes that are smaller that I’m used to and the faces fades faster until it doesn’t even look like her, but some version of her own mom or her sister.

Left to its own antibodies, my bruising branded to a scar; though I kept my legs covered completely.

When I walk past, I’m careful to only touch and not to taste the fatal ingredient found in a daughter’s foxglove: her.

Neon Soul

Paul Hansen digital photography

West Campus

Sabrina Tang

The car screeched to a halt on the shoulder of the road, sending a spray of gravel into the air. Emily twisted around in the driver’s seat, eyes blazing with rage, gesticulating wildly at the three of us.

“Get out,” she seethed. “It’s not too far from campus. You can walk from here. That’s the last time I’m ever driving your sorry asses.”

We stared at each other. Joey opened his mouth to protest, but a warning look from Emily shut him down. I shrugged. There was nothing we could do. Finally, Steph pushed the door open, and we slid out into the crisp air.

I wasn’t worried. This wasn’t exactly unprecedented for our friend group. Though Emily was currently vowing never to speak to any of us again, twen ty-four hours and maybe a shared order of mozz sticks later, it’d be as if nothing had happened.

We did, however, have a long, cold walk back to campus before then.

Emily accelerated down the road. Once the sound of her revving engine had faded, we were left with only the rustling of corn in the wind. Joey, who had drunk a suspect amount of pumpkin spice li queur, stumbled, and I grabbed his shoulder with one hand. His baseball cap threatened to fall off of his lolling head, so I jammed it back on with the other.

shadowed suggestion of a loggia.

“One of my friends lives here in Rathje. She invited me to a horror movie night tonight in her room. Maybe we could crash,” Steph suggested.

“I’ve had enough horror for the night,” I said.

“The screaming will warm us up, though.”

We picked up the pace, anticipating the warmth within. I could hear Steph’s teeth chattering. A wave of relief surged over me as we approached the door.  “P-card?” I didn’t want to dig mine out from within my several layers of jack ets. Steph handed hers over. With my other arm struggling to keep Joey upright, I slid it over the card reader.

“A tortured amount of time later, the light coalesced into a building, waiting for us at the end of the road. I recognized the beige siding, the glass facade, the shadowed suggestion of a loggia.”

Nothing happened.

I hissed a curse into the night, scrabbling at my jacket. Before I could get my P-card out, how ever, someone opened the door for us. A student whom I didn’t recognize.

“Thanks,” I said, but before I could see their face in the light, they disappeared into the hallway.

“What the hell,” he grumbled. “I’m never playing Mario Kart with her again.”

Steph pointed. “Campus is that way, right?”

I squinted. “Maybe?”

Lacking an objection from anyone, we went in the direction Steph had pointed. Steph and I had to drag Joey between us, ignoring his mutterings about cheating at Mario Kart and being hungry. Stumbling along in the darkness, we had only the pinpoints of light from the faraway campus to guide us.

A tortured amount of time later, the light coalesced into a building, waiting for us at the end of the road. I recognized the beige siding, the glass facade, the

We heaved Joey inside, then let the door shut with a bang behind us. The familiar sight of an East Campus hallway, quiet and sterile, welcomed us. Steph led us up to the second floor and down the hall, where she knocked on one of the doors. Thirty seconds of silence passed. She knocked again.

The door swung open, and a face peered out at us. “What?”

Steph took a step back. “Where’s Nina?”

“Who’s that?”

“This is her room.”

“No, it’s not.” The person shuffled out of the room, most of their body wrapped in a fleece blanket. I spotted the ears of two bunny slippers peeking out beneath the end of it. “But what are you up to? No one ever comes down this hall and I’m lonely.”

Steph and I looked at each other. “There’s a movie night supposed to hap pen,” I said finally.

The person brightened. “A movie! Can I join?”

“Sure,” Steph said. “Let’s check the lounge.”

It was easier dragging Joey down the stairs than up. Still, we barely avoided catastrophe during our descent when one of his flailing feet stepped on our new friend’s trailing blanket. I looked through the big glass window of the first-floor lounge, expecting to see the faraway lights of the Bear or North Campus. Instead, all I saw was the moonlight reflecting off a sea of undulating corn. There was indeed a group of students clustered around the TV, who turned at our approach.

“Where’d you find these guys, Cameron?” One of them, who was lounging on a beanbag chair, addressed our companion.

“They found me,” Cameron responded, heaving a sigh at the screen. “Cars 2? I’m so sick of that movie. I’ve memorized it.”

“We don’t have any other movies, unless one of the newbies brought one with them.”

Steph, Joey, Cameron, and I sat down on the floor as the students moved to make room for us. Steph was scanning their faces, brow furrowed. A glance at her face told me that her friend was not among the group.

“So, what’re your names?” a smiling girl turned and asked us.

We introduced ourselves to a friendly murmur from the group.

“And class years?”

“I’m a fourth year—” I began, but was cut off by a “No, the actual year.”

“Umm, 2023.”

This was greeted by a general ruckus of amazement. (“That’s so young.” “Look at these babies.”)

Steph cut in. “Is this, like, a club? Are we intruding?” She grabbed my hand and made as if to stand.

The person sitting on the beanbag reached for the remote in their lap to turn off the TV. “No, you’re not intruding. Don’t worry. Let me ask: How did you get here?”

We told the group our harrowing experience of fending for ourselves in the dark following a game night gone sour.

“That’s almost what happened to me,” Cameron said. “I was walking home from a late-night study session and got lost.”

Others chimed in. “I was in a HSSC room when it said, ‘This room will auto matically shut down in 60 seconds’, and I didn’t leave fast enough.”

“The power went off when I was doing my laundry in the basement.”

“My buddies dared me to climb up the crane, and I fell off at the top.”

Steph and I looked at each other, then at Joey, who had now recovered enough to sit up without wobbling. I asked the question that was going through all of our heads. “Where exactly are we?”

Cameron smiled. “Welcome to West Campus.”

“Have you just been…stuck here?” Steph asked. There were nods of as sent around the room.

“We’ve tried to go outside, but there’s nothing but corn in every direction.”

“There’s no classes, no clubs, nothing.”

“We have barely anything to eat. I dream about Dhall desserts every night.”

“You mentioned the crane,” I said in horror. “We haven’t had a crane on campus for more than four years now.”

“That’s really a shame,” Crane Guy said. “You should get another one.” “How do we leave?” I said.

“Wait, no classes means no homework. That sounds pretty good,” Steph said.

“Steph, I am not missing my last season ever of collegiate athletics.”

She sighed, dragging a hand across her face. “And if I miss rehearsal tomorrow, I’ll never hear the end of it. Can we leave?”

Cameron checked their watch. “If you’re quick. You gotta go now, to make it out before dawn.” They stood up. “I’ll show you out.”

Steph and I looked at each other, hardly believing it. We both reached down to grab Joey, only to find he wasn’t there.

Steph swore. “He was just here!” Joey, normally a docile drunk, could

usually be counted on not to move too far. We looked at each other in panic.

“Byethanksforeverythinghopeyougetout,” I said, grabbed Steph, and sprinted down the hall. The massive swarm of bees crawling up my esophagus stilled briefly when I spotted Joey through the kitchen window. Steph yanked the door open. The room was a complete mess. Wrappers and detritus of all kinds littered the floor, and the sink was piled with dirty dishes. A stack of ramen pack ages in the corner went from floor to ceiling. Joey sat on the counter, slurping a quart of ice cream with his bare hands.

“What the fuck, Joey!” Joey shrugged. “I was hungry. Sorry.”

Loath to touch his disgustingly sticky hands, I grabbed his elbow and yanked him along. Steph followed suit, and we chased Cameron down the hall. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the place was in bad shape. The lights flickered, obscuring my view of the carpet, which was covered in a myriad of stains. Black Sharpie covered the walls in various forms, from a tic-tac-toe game to a sonnet to some horribly anatomically correct drawings. Cameron flung open the door, revealing stairs spiraling down into omi nous darkness. We took them two at a time.

“I can walk by myself,” said Joey, “jeez!”

“That would’ve been nice, like, an hour ago,” Steph said, loosening her grip but not letting go.

The basement was one long hallway whose walls pressed in on us like the Dhall line on potsticker night. As we hurtled through the darkness, following the slapping sounds of bunny slippers on concrete, a clattering sound of metal clashing filled the air.

“What is that?” I yelled.

“The laundry machines,” Cameron bellowed. “We think.”

The hallway finally drew to an end as we approached a single metal door, faintly illuminated by an EXIT sign above it. We staggered to a stop. Cam eron reached beneath their blanket, rummaging frantically. After the two longest

seconds of my life, they produced a thick sheaf of paper.

“My final paper,” they explained. “Can you give this to Professor Nielsen, and tell her I’m sorry I wasn’t able to finish my MAP?”

I nodded, snatched it, and stuffed it into my jacket as Cameron took off back down the hall. Steph was already wrestling with the door. I grabbed the handle, and we both heaved. It inched open, revealing the deep blue of a sky just before sunrise.

Like diving headfirst into cold water, I threw myself through the door, the crisp air now rejuvenating instead of chilling. I felt a sudden yank on the hand that was hold ing Joey’s elbow.

“Guys? Wait up! Hey, wait for me!” I heard him squawk. Try as I might, I couldn’t pull him any further. My fingers slipped, and Steph and I plummeted to earth.

The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back on Mac Field, all the wind knocked out of me, one of Steph’s elbows digging into my side. Brilliant orange bled over the horizon, suffusing everything in the gold of dawn. A well-loved baseball cap floated down from above, landing gently on my chest.

A New Friend

Josephine Blumenthal

Secondhand Ky Klassen

I like to say I thrift for the environment, But really those previously loved clothes  Are the only version of that I’ve felt in a while.

With a warm sensation sewed into every seam,  No one minds how frayed the ends are  If they have a red tag telling you  they’re half the price they used to be.

But when I’m actively falling apart Looking like I could be a half off of me, No one takes me to the donation center

To turn into someone’s new old grandma’s sweater. They tell me I look the best I ever have

When I’m the least alive-looking I’ve ever been, Seams ripped with ribs all showing.

Then they’ll sell me to little girls at the mall  And call me vintage.

Chelsea Shang

ink on paper & digital

Sugar Canopy

Paul Hansen | digital photography

Love Letters

Ella LaBarre

All of my love letters are read as suicide notes. I guess this makes sense because every time I’ve loved someone it– you–they made me feel like I was dying. When I told you that I needed to stop crying about how you didn’t love me back, I didn’t mean it as an accusa tion or a threat. Did you miss the part where I told you that I smile every time I get to see you, even if it was just a passing glance? Or did you just know that I wouldn’t be seeing you anymore– wouldn’t be smiling anymore so you didn’t want to bring it up.

I didn’t even have to tell you that every time you walk past me without saying hi it makes me want to walk into an open pit of fire and burn off the parts of me that didn’t warrant a greeting. Leaving out the part where I almost drove my car off the road because you didn’t show up in the place we usually see each other was intentional. The list I have of the words I associate with you was scattered among the letters but I never explicitly said they were our words, even though I hoped you would notice.

I didn’t tell you that you made me want to die because you didn’t, you couldn’t. Other people are not the perpetrators of my suffering even if they are the cause. But still, amongst all the mentions of how happy you made me, you singled out the one time I said that you made me cry.

Maybe you suspected it was more than crying, that maybe loving someone was the equivalent to wishing you were dead if you were without them. You weren’t wrong. Because loving someone for me has always ended with me upside down on a tightrope barely clinging on, even though it was me who wanted to walk the line to begin with. It has torn me apart not just because I am broken but be cause they are all too. All my love turns to obsession and obses sion turns to danger and danger turns to fear. You were the one that hurt me this time, and believe me you hurt, but the pattern is what scares me. The pattern of my turbulent loss, of adding another person to the list of people I have to avoid in hallways, an other series of nights screaming on the floor with bloody palms. All my love letters are read as suicide notes, and I am beginning to fear that this is what love is for me. That the closest I’ll ever get to love is wanting to die because of it. And I know love is supposed to make you want to live, that love letters shouldn’t be so painfully misread, but I cannot bring myself to believe that what I feel isn’t love because I would live a thousand lives if it meant I got to live them with you. But I didn’t even get one.

CW: This piece contains mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation.

Untitled

the sun

Liv Hage pen & ink

I Was a GrInnell ColleGe VampIre

Morell Old

Iwas struck and killed while crossing 8th Avenue from Noyce to the JRC. It was a campus safety van that did it, which was so funny I wasn’t even mad at them for it.

Apparently I was dead by the time the ambulance got there. All I can re member is being glad I wouldn’t have to take my chemistry exam that Friday. π

Now it is dark outside, the moon is big and white and round, and I am walking back towards campus from Casey’s. The one on 6th Avenue by Dari Barn—I like the pizza there better than at the one on the west side of town, or the one on West Street, or even the one down by I-80, though that one’s much too far to walk to.

There’s a drunk girl stumbling up High Street. As I get closer I realize she must be a first year—she looks like a baby.

What year was I? I realize now that I can’t remember.

Anyway, she’s wearing a cute miniskirt and a tank top, and I am very aware of the way inebriation has brought the warm blood close to the surface of her skin.

I don’t drink blood. I promise.

I do, however, eat Casey’s pizza like a monster. I always order a large Meat Galore—pepperoni, beef, ham, and sausage—all for myself. One slice at a time, I peel the cheese and toppings off and roll them into a greasy, rubbery ball in my hand. Then I lick up the red sauce off the crust until it’s clean and damp with my saliva. Then I eat the ball of cheese and meat, and then finally the plain bread, before moving onto the next slice, until all twelve are gone.

As I said—like a monster.

The first year stands on the curb, hesitant to cross the street. After a few moments I reach her and pause. “Do you want me to walk you home?” I say.

“Do you go here?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I go where I please, mostly. A big semi truck thunders past us, a ghost in the darkness.

“Then sure.” She steps off the curb, stumbles, and grabs my arm.

I help her cross the street. I am always very careful crossing the street. As soon as she steps onto the grass on the other side she shivers. “You’re freezing.”

“Sorry.” I shove my hands into the pocket of my hoodie. “Where do you live?” “Norris. I bet that’s way out of your way.”

I shrug. “It’s no trouble. I was just out walking.” We start north.

“My roommate was with me but she went home with some guy,” she complains.

“How inconsiderate.”

“I’d be more pissed if I didn’t do the same thing to her last week. But she was less drunk than I am right now.”

8th Avenue is deserted, but I still look both ways before crossing. Once that danger is over with it is only a sense of completionism that makes me continue.

“Anyway,” she says. “What’s your major?”

I can say anything. I will never see her again. “Gender studies,” I say. She snorts. “What are you going to do with that after you graduate?”

“I’ll figure something out,” I say. “What are you majoring in?”

“I have no idea.”

“So you might be a gender studies major.”

“Absolutely not.”

At the door of Norris she spends long enough digging in her purse for her P-card that I swipe mine and hold the door open for her.

“Thanks,” she says. “Will you come up with me? I live on the fourth floor so I totally get it if not but I don’t trust myself to work my key.”

“Alright,” I say. She gestures me up the stairs in front of her.

Most parts of death do not bother me, but I don’t like the way my legs are still cold even after three flights of stairs. It unsettles me. Even a robot would generate heat by exertion.

She has found her P-card by now and works the key into her door lock, but whines as she jiggles it. “It’s stuck. Can you do it?”

I turn the key in the lock, knowing that I cannot enter, and the door swings open. I can’t go anywhere unless I’m invited. Maybe that’s part of why I like Casey’s so much. It’s always welcoming, always so warm and bright.

She sighs in relief.

“Drink water,” I advise as I stand aside for her to get into her room.

“I will,” she says. “Thank you for not harassing me.”

In the bright light of the hallway, I smile with my lips tightly closed over my teeth. “Anytime.”

She closes the door, and I slip back downstairs, out of Norris, and into the night. Having come this far already I round the building, stopping on the sidewalk looking out at 10th Avenue.

You see, I do know one cool magic trick. Look: there I am, standing on the sidewalk. A campus safety van lumbers along the street, going west, and for a moment it is in front of me, and I am hidden behind it. And then, when it passes, I am gone.

City of Stars

Paul Hansen | digital photography

The Way the Cookie Crumbles Chelsea

with personal apologies to John Locke, E.D. Hirsch, & Paulo Freire beyond the grave

It’s a pleasant day at the Grill—or so you hope, at least, after the end of your 2-hour nighttime seminar. Tired and yearning for the familiarity of that one very comfortable set of armchairs you’ve come to love, you head to the counter with a well-practiced order playing on your lips. Then you sit, and your body folds easily into the cushion. You close your eyes. It’s going to be fine once you get yourself one of those divine big cookies, you tell yourself. It always is.

Except when you do open your eyes, you don’t see the empty seats that you’ve come to expect. What you do find are three impressively anachronisticlooking men, each intermittently unhinging their mouths and causing gratuitous amounts of noise pollution. To be a little more fair, one of them appears to at least be trying to control his anger. The other two, however, have definitely erupt ed into a full-scale verbal brawl.

You give a quick scan of the room, hoping that maybe someone will help you kick them out of the Grill and by extension give you back your seat—they are being pretty disruptive, after all. Much to your chagrin, however, no one so much as gives them a glance. You are beyond stunned. How is it that no one in the Grill seems to notice this but you? This can’t possibly be a figment of your imagination. You barely have one.

“ —inconceivable,” one of the men says loudly, breaking through your thoughts as he slams a hand down and stands. Even though you’re greatly an noyed, it’s hard to ignore how impressive his beard is. “You do not realize how flawed your plan is! Your ‘general curriculum’ fails to account for the inequality of the teacher-student dynamic—you don’t even know it, but you are clearly com placent with the oppression of your students—”

Shang

“Complacent?” another man echoes angrily, standing up as well. “Oppres sion?” He is the youngest and most lively-looking one of the lot, although that’s not saying much considering each is at least in their 70s. “There already exist many different methods of teaching, Freire, and it is not the way educators educate that is the problem! It is the content of our curricula that must be changed to be more holistic—the literacy of the future generations depend on this—”

“Blah, literacy,” Freire spits. “Literacy is important, yes, but if your esteemed educators have all bought into the banking model, literacy is of no matter! De positing information into your students as if their only function is to act as an echo chamber...you are risking their critical consciousness! Your focus on—” He makes a face. “—literacy—is dehumanizing them! I expect you are happy, Hirsch, that you are creating a generation of passive, lifeless, unproductive citizens—”

The other man, Hirsch, looks like he’s struggling to keep his composure. Thankfully, the last of the bunch, the only one who had given any kind of attempt at controlling his anger, intervenes instead. “Do refrain from these personal at tacks, good sir!” he declares. His fashion, you note, is impressively out of date. “We are all gentlemen—do not forget our virtues and good sense. I would like to believe that none of us are of ill breeding.”

Freire rounds on him. “You again! Locke, was it?” Locke? You squint at the man again. “You and your ill-breeding nonsense, trying to deceive our students into becoming demure little sheep—you may as well confess that you are content in maintaining the status quo!”

Locke looks outraged. “An absurd accusation! I am not encouraging that our students halt in the process of critical thinking! I merely believe that any

rational gentleman with true good breeding should, by all means possible, avoid giving others cause to feel uneasy in their presence—students included.” He folds his arms across his chest, scowling. “I withdraw my statement. You abso lutely are of ill-breeding, sir.”

Freire growls before he sits back down and cracks his knuckles. Dread and awe pool in your gut. By now, you’ve realized that it is the John Locke. You are so shell-shocked you almost fail to register that your number’s been called. You do, though, and take a bite out of your cookie, hoping it’ll shock your brain back into reality or something. Unfortunately, nothing happens.

Locke takes a deep breath. “Now, gentlemen, let us resume this dialogue in a less inflammatory style. I propose a traditional vote. All in favor of an educa tion of good-breeding, so that our students harbor the necessary virtues and wisdom?” He raises his hand.

Freire and Hirsch stare at him together in silence. Locke lowers his hand.

“You cannot seriously want an education of ill-breeding, can you?”

“Of course not,” Hirsch grumbles. “I simply believe that it would be better to expose our children to a wide variety of subjects first. Increased literacy comes not through improved style or language but through increasing an individual’s fa miliarity with the subject, and I theorize that utilizing a general curriculum would greatly assist with boosting our students’ ability to comprehend what they read.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Freire stands up and catastrophe breaks loose again.

“I cannot agree with this!” Freire announces. “It is simply preposterous to believe that anything less than a problem-posing method would solve the prob

lems of the educational system. I refuse to acknowledge all other opinions. Only lesser men would fail to understand that an active exchange of knowledge be tween teacher and pupil is the ideal way to learn.” He turns around, propping open the back door of the Grill. You cringe at the burst of cold air. “I believe our discussion is at an end.”

The other two scowl, then stride out from opposite directions. One of them pushes past you, and a small weight leaves your hand.

A second later, all of them are gone. A student employee calls out an order; a haggard-looking peer stumbles over to accept their coffee. As if nothing hap pened.

You blink. Well, all right. You suppose that if no one else is going to ac knowledge that three long-dead men had just invaded the Grill and opened free forum on unresolved educational debates, you won’t either. Stranger things have happened on this campus. Besides, you’ve got more important things to do, like try not to cry about the readings you still have to do.

Sinking back into your armchair, you prop open your laptop, eyes glazing over as you digest insurmountable masses of information about the Three King doms. At some point, the words start to blend together, like a particularly ho mogenous yogurtless Grill smoothie.

Small comfort that you’ve at least got food from the Grill to tide you over. Absentmindedly, you take a bite out of your cookie—

… … they stole your goddamn cookie.

Flower Angels

Josephine Blumenthal digital

Josephine Blumenthal charcoal pastels

Zoey Nahmmacher-Baum

hand-cut paper

Contributors

Roman Belsher '24 is an Economics major. As a disability advocate, he seeks to put overmedicalized experiences into a context that encourages empathy.

Josephine Blumenthal '23 is a Studio Art major who loves to make spontaneous art with any medium. They love to bathe in the sun, play sports, and chill with their loved ones.

Liv Hage '25 is a second year but also a first year. Currently wanted for her crimes against pasta.

Paul Hansen '23 is a Political Science major from Columbus, Ohio. He enjoys photographing the authentic and beautiful moments that often go by unrecognized.

Kylie Klassen (Ky) '25 is planning to major in English with a concentration in Peace and Conflict Studies. In her free time she enjoys complaining about things she has complete control over.

Ella LaBarre '26 is a first year at Grinnell College. She intends to graduate in 2026 with an English major. Outside of academics, she is involved with the S&B Student Newspaper Publication and Grinnell Singers.

Zoey Nahmmacher-Baum '24 is an Editor-in-Chief of Press, and feels a bit like she's trespassing on the enemy's territory. Nevertheless, she's happy to be here.

Morell Old '23 is a Classics and Biology major. They enjoy both safety and monsters.

Chelsea Shang '23 is not really ready for the future, but you do only live once, and they spent that life really, really liking art.

Zach Spindler-Krage '25 is a student from Rochester, Minnesota. His love for hiking allows him the opportunity to capture intimate moments in nature.

Sabrina Tang '23 is a Biochemistry and French major with a Neuroscience concentration. Their favorite residence halls are Kershaw and Rawson. They believe there is a giant Larvitar lurking underneath campus waiting to devour the JRC.