Spring 2022 Edition

1 | Wooden Teeth

The George Washington University’s Student-Run Art & Literary Magazine

staff EDITOR-IN-CHIEF LAYOUT MANAGER HEAD OF MEDIA EVENTS DIRECTOR ZINE EDITOR

jessica bride jillian mackuse laney picon olivia curran india moore

EDITORIAL ASSISTANT camila dominguez-imbert LAYOUT ASSISTANT christina peitler MEDIA ASSISTANT advika mehra CREATIVE ASSISTANT grace miller

STAFF EDITORS sneeha bose

nadia wachira annika meldrum aurora zaytoun emily contreras grace dougherty jaylee davis zoe carver alex kicior mason moreno grace turner gabby kirk elisabeth reznikov farida galal CONTRIBUTORS caitlin davan

sarah eric emma woodhead eileen jones meghan o'neil

spring 2022 Volume 45

oguz karasu Hesitation over Ishak Pasha Palace

table of contents prose gracelyn hill olivia curran christina peitler zoe carver isabelle carney gabrielle kirk

14 18 22 26 44 56

One Thousand Rose Petals One, Two Tie My Shoe Birthday Card Pelham Dining Plan Pelican Late Flight

art josenrique villarreal 3 grace turner 8 oguz karasu 11 josenrique villarreal 15 grace turner josenrique villarreal grace turner oguz karasu josenrique villarreal jennica ogaus grace turner jennica ogaus

21 24 28 34 39 43 46 53

Untitled Ultraviolence Love at First Sight at New York

Public Library Waiting for the Storm that Never Arrived From the Bird's Eye The First Gothic Rebellion A Glance Towards Yale As If Winter Would Not Break Beneath the Branches In the Stacks Square One

cover art elisabeth reznikov Choices

poetry grace dougherty annie o'brien rachel worsham laney picon olivia curran nadia wachira ella nichols

2 4 7 9 10 12 13

india moore loren booda sneeha bose

16 20 25

jennifer van zandt h kidd india moore emily contreras ethan miller rachel worsham sneeha bose carly neilson emma page sneeha bose gianna duyck hailey lanford gracie brenner grace dougherty sneeha bose ethan miller gianna duyck sneeha bose abigail davis hailey lanford

27 29 32 33 35 36 37 38 40 42 47 48 49 50 51 52 54 55 58 59

"A Game for Your Children" Clear My Browser History On Songs Without Words Third Degree 4:47 Red Line Train Coffee Ten Questions and Two Half Truths, as Revealed by the Albuquerque Sun hide and seek Oceanus Grandmother (or, A Study in Premptive Mourning) Drift Roach Problem fever dream Queen of the Gods When The Phone Call Comes Her Wild Waves the line Beach Fairies "Blizzard, 2008" iphegenia (reprise) Made of Glass Soft Apples Riptide versus the Dreamer Memories of a Shy Child sugar or honey I Have Seen the Trees Grow Old Free from Time rat metropolis World News Rooted

grace dougherty "A Game For Your Children" Based on an Italian children’s game.

Here, put your hands in mine, and sit as still as you can.

Folded between my palmsa tiny pulse in wriggling, restless hands.

Ok, now, sing with me, even if the words elude you because you have never heard the language of my mother.

Now do as I do to you.

I brush the tan tips of my fingers on round, pale baby cheeks, and I say: “I love you”.

You fumble to reach my far away face, imitating what you saw.

You reach sticky child’s fingers and tap on my lined skin.

You cannot say it yet, so I happily say it for you: “You love me!”

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josenrique villarreal Untitled Capitol Teeth Letters 3 | Wooden

annie o'brien Clear My Browser History nail salons near me BEST nail salons near me difference between acrylics and gel average cost of a gel manicure in dc how to do a professional salon manicure at home can you use gel polish at home

Amazon: gel manicure kit what does it mean when he asks if rose gold is still cool is rose gold still cool Youtube: love, actually scene where Alan Rickman buys necklace for the hot secretary instead of Emma Thompson

how did alan rickman die?

can girls get pancreatic cancer is he cheating on me?

how to stop worrying that your long-term boyfriend is cheating on you

therapists near me is my boyfriend proposing to me?

LIST of signs that your boyfriend is proposing what does it mean when he goes to coffee with your sister and doesn't tell you and your sister won't tell you what they did is my boyfriend sleeping with my younger sister

BEST therapists near me Twitter: somebody plz tell me WHY the signs that your boyfriend is proposing and that he is cheating on you are so similar! how long do most couples date before getting married average age of proposal in the US average age that girls get married in the US average age of marriage worldwide wedding venues in dc

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Pinterest: lincoln memorial wedding photos can you get married at the capitol building if you had an internship there in college what is Congressman _____ doing today Twitter: dc girls never shut up about that one hillternship they had in college. It's me.

I'm dc girls. are hotel weddings cheesy how long in advance do you have to book a wedding at a hotel tips for planning a wedding while in grad school can you incorporate academics in your wedding without looking TOO dorky how to delegate tasks when youre a control freak BEST wedding dresses for girls with wide hips Youtube: compilation of the best and worst dresses on Say Yes To The Dress how do I know if I REALLY have wide hips?

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will my insurance pay for liposuction

do i HAVE to lose weight for my wedding

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BEST anti-allergen bakeries for wedding cake Reddit: if my husband is allergic to peanuts but i love peanut butter can we compromise and get cupcakes instead of a cake so i can achieve my dream of eating Reeses in a wedding dress?

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BEST alcohol for a wedding Open bar?

Price of a mixologist do i have to please everyone at my wedding? do i want to have a wedding

how to elope signs that you are ready to get married how to KNOW that you are ready for commitment is having a four-year lease on an apartment a valid reason for not moving in with your boyfriend when he asked do you have to like yourself to get married i love my boyfriend more than i love myself. is that bad?

what if he's a sweet guy quiz that will tell you whether or not you want to have kids how many boyfriends should you have before you get married? is it bad if you only ever sleep with one person is it bad if you only ever sleep with one person and youre a girl

therapy? in your will can you specify who has the right to clear your browser history how bad is it to say no to someone when they propose to you

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rachel worsham On Songs Without Words Why play a song that has no words?

I learned before the piano one night, What goes unsaid can still be heard.

To be certain of what silence deserves, I wander over keys black and white.

Why play a song that has no words, If the same note struck twice in turn Rings two timbres ever so slight?

What goes unsaid can still be heard, Like the promise of spring to revive our earth, Or of winter to return and bite.

Why play a song that has no words, When even verse can be so blurred?

I sit poised and a piece comes to life.

What goes unsaid can still be heard, As I color what the descant slurs, And carry this endless pursuit with delight, To play a song that has no words, So what goes unsaid can still be heard.

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grace turner Ultraviolence

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laney picon Third Degree I am constantly consumed by your questioning.

Why would you say that Why would you do that What are you talking about Your tone is acidic.

Its stench coats my nostrils and saturates my heart.

I am consumed by my obligation to answer; I desperately search for a thread to pull but am left with a barren soul.

No answers.

Just marks, sores, burns.

The roof of my mouth is raw from our rebuttals.

Do you pick your scabs when you’re bored too?

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olivia curran 4:47 Red Line Train There’s a fire burning under an overpass in a trash can beside the train tracks.

Graffiti phrases and forgotten trash warm themselves in its gentle glow.

There’s a fire burning on a billboard that reminds me Hell is closer than I think.

Seek salvation in street signs, 1-800-SAVED, for Armageddon is upon us.

There’s a fire burning in the sky, setting the trees up like dry kindling.

A flash of orange gives way to flickering pinks that melt into dusky purple, then fade to black.

But why do they call it dying light when it resurrects each morning?

Perhaps, as a precaution in case it doesn’t come back.

If the fire went dark in Hell below and Heaven above and right Here outside my train window, Would I remember light? Would I remember warmth?

I am afraid of the dark, so I am thankful for the fire burning today, and I pray to a god on a billboard that it will burn tomorrow.

Because without the fire burning, I fear I may forget That my blood is warm too.

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oguz karasu Love at First Sight at the New York Public Library

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nadia wachira Coffee She lugged herself to the coffee pot, With sunken eyes, cracked lips, and dull cheeks.

She’s beautiful enough for him, Even with her dark bags hiding behind feathering wisps of beaten straw.

He watches her pour the earthly tonic Into a red ceramic mug.

She crinkles her eyes and utters, “At this rate, this one-hundred-year war is gonna change to sixty.”

He smiles back, “Sixty? How about...eighty?”

She smiles back, “Seventy.”

Coffee seeps through the cracks in her lips.

“You know, it’ll be sixty if you keep drinking that coffee.”

Sunken, cracked, and dull, she smiles, “You’re funny.”

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ella nichols Ten Questions and Two Half Truths, as Revealed by the Albuquerque Sun Do you feel despondent? Are you choking?

The brown dog sits in the brown dust of the front yard, bearing his brown teeth at passersby.

When the time comes for reconciliation, will you pick up the phone?

The only bright thing in sight is the sun, chain link and cheap windows, shattered glass, blue shards in the street.

Do you know how to tell the truth anymore?

Do you even hear the phone ring?

When you get where you’ve been going for the past six months, will you know what to do? Will you turn and run? Is the ground planted firmly beneath your feet?

My gray shadow retreats to the refuge of gray walled rooms, blows gray smoke out on the front steps, escapes the heat.

Are you looking for something?

Behind crooked blinds in the bedroom, television static reigns supreme.

All afternoon at the kitchen table, its “record heatwave” and “90°.”

It’s death, and dying, and your hand on my knee.

Your car creeps down Central towards Maple.

The engine screams.

I sit in the passenger seat.

This city’s really gone to shit, hasn’t it?

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I haven’t seen a night sky that black since.

So you and me sit in the desert sagebrush of a dry night, letting tired eyes drift over row upon row of empty desert city lights and honest-

gracelyn hill One Thousand Rose Petals I’m real good at killing people, and the whole country loves me for it. I jack into VR and I am my drone, gliding on military surveillance data above the Congo canopy, an angel of death screaming at mach 3. Target acquired reverberates through my wires and I stop, hover down, disappear into the understory. I creep, silicon silent, until facial recognition tells me yes, these are the terrorists. A missile flies from my starboard wing and boom, fire and blood; the child soldiers don’t have time to scream before they explode into one thousand rose petals. Another day on the clock.

I take off my VR headset and I’m eye-level with Lieutenant Keller’s broad shoulders, who tells me that firing the missile was a waste of American tax dollars, that I’m “way out of line, Josh Collins.” I look up into his blue eyes, lean back like a big shot, and say “hey, I got the job done.” I turn away and walk down the halls of Nellis AFB, all the other drone jockeys giving me high-fives.

On the drive home, some snot-nosed college activists are blocking the way off base. A sneering, septum-pierced lesbian yells into my window, “don’t you feel anything about what you’re doing?!” I just glare at her in the moment, and I chuckle about it once I’m finally out on the highway. No, I don’t. Not a single thing.

Today, my sick desires are screaming at me louder than they have in weeks. When I see the pink package at my apartment doorstep, I give in and shove my rosary in my back pocket. A drone buzzes in my stomach as I take my box cutters to the tape and pull the contents out through the jungle of packing peanuts. It’s the dress I ordered two weeks ago, vodka-drunk, horny, and ignoring the Jesus Christ that nags me in my mind. It’s beautiful even in my man-hands, black lace and shimmering crimson sequins all over (one thousand rose petals), and I just have to try it on. At least for a few minutes. I hear my rosary go thud when I take off my slacks.

Two hours later, I’m at a bar in Vegas where all the girls call me Angelique. We sit around the table, drink cocktails, make sweeping gestures, and ignore each other’s jawlines. They all compliment my dress. I’m telling a fake story about my job as a casino waitress when a man walks to our table, ending the conversation. My heart stops when I see Lieutenant Keller’s Lake Tanganyika eyes looking straight at me. My eyes rest in the valley of skin where his wedding ring should be. He stares right through my makeup, smiles, and says, “Can I buy you a drink?”

Next thing I know we’re at the bar and he’s calling me Angelique too, listening to more of my casino stories. Now he tells me all about the high-tech startup he works for. I blush and smile. I notice the freckles all over his arms, red as his hair (one thousand rose petals). My hand brushes against his. He takes it, and as I let out a tiny gasp, he asks: “Would you like to get away from this noise, come back to my place?”

In the morning, my hands reach through the undergrowth of Keller’s bed and touch nothing but cold sheets. I take off my wig, wash the mascara off my face, and steal one of his uniforms. I take an Uber to the base. The driver listens to a radio preacher scream about the Four Horsemen. I dig my fingers into my palms.

In the Congo, my hands shake and my guts reel. The drone blows up a field hospital. When the goggles come off, Keller looks down at me. His face is blank. He clicks his tongue and says, “Good work, Josh Collins,” before marching off, the glint of his ring piercing my eyes.

In my apartment bathroom, I turn on the shower, fall inside, and vomit in the tub. For the first time since I joined the Air Force, I sob, one thousand rose petals on the tile.

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josenrique villarreal Waiting for the Storm that Never Arrived

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i remember water rushing into my ears anointed at the kitchen sink neck twisted at a ninety degree hair wild and unruly wilder, unspooled as we prepare for monday i have just started school for the first time at age seven and i don’t know what white people are like i know that i dislike lunch time i know that the other girls wash their own hair i know that a boy named liam says: “i bet you can’t spell my name!” (which i can because i’m smart and i know how to spell) i know that navee flirts with me on the playground and i would rather swing on the swings til it’s time to go inside i don’t hate school, i love it, i’m good at it i just don’t get it mommy teaches us the pledge of allegiance because we aren’t homeschooled anymore and the teacher says we have to know it she gives us brain juice made out of fish oil and school starts so early that the sky is still dark when my siblings and i climb onto the bus one after the other after the other my great aunt who swears a lot and smokes cigarettes on her back porch braids my hair into cornrows she has three big awful cats that sharpen their nails on the sofa and i still get cat nightmares even now sometimes i always say yes to the brightest most hot pink beads i am quiet at school but i love to make noise plastic beads clacking against one another like maracas clogs too– i am seven and i love my bright pink clogs because they are loud against the dark wood floors of north end elementary on a tuesday

india moore hide and seek

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mariah tells me that arletta’s dad said she can’t talk to Black people anymore i remember things i should have forgotten by now i am constant hopeful-bitter-optimistic-resistant because before i learned to stomach my feelings i used to throw temper tantrums that made the whole house swell dreamers dream so hard because we can’t cope with how unfair everything is i dream so hard because i can’t cope with how unfair everything is i hate rules and i don’t get myself but i do there are many things i still don’t do well on my own: i wash my hair and there is no kitchen sink i bleed onto my sheets every time without exception i don’t get school but i know how to make room for my questions and my silence and my anger-curiosity-warmth sometimes i’m still seven and thirteen and nineteen all at once i feel myself searching for myself i still play hide and seek with most of my feelings find me, find me, my refrain: help me seek me

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olivia curran One, Two Tie My Shoe She tied her shoes on Sunday morning. Today, she wore her good black and white saddle shoes with hard leather soles that pinched her toes. She was self-conscious of the loud echo her small footsteps made, bouncing off the stone walls under the watchful eyes of martyrs and saints. They always sat in the third pew under Saint Sebastian; his pale flesh, pierced with arrows, glowed in the morning light. Father told her to sit up straight, then kneel, press her palms together, then touch her forehead, chest, left shoulder then right, and say “Amen.” She tried hard to sit still and remember all the Latin words, still the moment her lips inevitably stumbled she felt the weary, disapproving eyes of all the martyrs and saints looking down upon her.

She tied her shoes on Tuesday, then she tied two pairs of smaller ones because their little fingers couldn’t yet coax the snake around the tree and out of the hole or even master two floppy bunny ears. With a sigh she pushed the heels of her hands into her thighs and pushed herself up, thinking how those little shoes wouldn’t last through the end of the year with the two of them growing so fast. She considered their good Sunday shoes, which she’d already replaced once in the last six months. She thought her father would have approved of the comically tiny patent leather dress shoes. She hated that she still considered her father’s approval.

She tied her shoes on Friday, but the lace on her left shoe broke leaving her lop-sided. At uniform inspection, she crossed her left foot behind the right in a feeble attempt to hide the pathetic, frayed tail of her lace. Nervous sweat dampened her collar, and a tightness grew in her throat with each click of Mrs. Jacobson’s two-inch pumps as she moved down the line. Mrs. Jacobson was a formidable woman encased in panty-hoes and pencil skirts that strained at the seams to contain the bulge of her wide hips, whose matronly curves seemed in disagreement with her mannish height. When the towering figure stood before her, she turned around like she was trained.

Mrs. Jacobson set the wooden ruler against the back of her thigh, between the crease of her knee and the hem of her skirt, then tilted her head in approval. She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding; for another day, her purity was upheld by the modest three inches of skin exposed by her skirt, an inch more and her maidenhead was as good as lost. But Mrs. Jacobson’s eyes slid from her hem down to her smudged, school-issue loafers. Her heart dropped into her shoes, joining the source of her shame. “Laces,” Mrs. Jacobson said, handing her a yellow detention card. As the heat rose in her face, she felt the eyes of her classmates that would have darted away had she risen to meet them. But she kept her eyes down damning the broken lace.

She tied her shoes on Wednesday; they were white with non-slip soles, hospital issue. She licked her thumb and rubbed at the same brownish stain on the toe that had been there for the last three years. That first night in the ER, she had only realized her nose was bleeding when she heard the drop of blood plop on the fresh

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canvas. The young man’s body had reminded her of the martyrs and saints: pierced and bloodied. She would see these martyred bodies again, and every time she would taste the blood dripping down the back of her throat and feel the weight of the dark brown stain resting on her toes. She didn’t remember his name, but she remembered his deep brown eyes, so dark that they looked black. In their bottomless black they held so much weariness; the despair of a life predestined to fall.

She tied her shoes on Thursday, after putting her socks back on, and walked home from his house in the dark beneath the gaze of the stars. As she walked, she considered the disorder of her hair and the mascara that must be smudged under her eyes. She wasn’t allowed to wear mascara like a painted whores of Babylon did, so she snuck it in her sock and applied the goop in the third-floor bathroom. She thought about the makeup wipes at the bottom of her locker next to her Physics textbook. She’d forgotten both at school in shaky excitement for tonight. But all night her mind had been on her Physics quiz tomorrow, on the Price is Right playing down the hall in the living room, and on how he kept his socks on. She licked her thumb and began to rub at the charcoal stains under her eyes.

She tied her shoes on Monday and watched the snow fall through the glass panes of the backdoor. This cold slowed her fingers as they looped and laced while the snow fell like a blanket that quieted her and the rest of the world, absorbing their sound. Once she’d craved quiet, but now she sat in it every day and went to bed in it every night. She was so soaked in silence that her fingers pruned, and her nails turned clear. Now, she longed for the rumble of little shoes in the hallway overhead, the soft scuff of shoes with brown stains on the toe, the self-conscious squeak of uniform loafers, and the clack of clean Sunday shoes on stone floors.

She did not tie her shoes on Sunday. She had not tied her shoes for a year because her stiff, aching fingers could no longer bring the laces around the tree and out of the hole or even cross the bunny ears. Now, she wore slip on shoes with forgiving soles when she left the house, which wasn’t often. But on Sundays she wore shining, patent leather loafers. Her youngest son, the one she thought would turn out tall but leveled off at a respectable five feet, nine inches, knelt before her and slid on each shoe, taking time to tie the laces in a neat bow. Looking down at his head, it still startled her to see the silver in his hair. Once settled in their pew, beneath Saint Sebastian, she reminded him to sit up straight as she traced the familiar Latin words with her tongue.

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loren booda Oceanus For his father, Larry L. Booda Portaged within us, saline sea And algal cells, abundantly Passing through the generations Fathered plants at first, then nations.

Atlantis is -- for those who dare -Existent in the realm of Air. The ploughman’s shirt is flecked with sweat Like sea sown from the fisher’s net; Sailing into landlocked port He never left his wat’ry fort.

But even temples fall at last Resurrecting creatures past; We weep to think the boundless wave That bore all life shall be our grave.

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grace turner From the Bird's Eye

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christina peitler Birthday Card The only person to wish me happy birthday was my google calendar.

Happy Birthday !! it said And then it told me the date the event was added–1/26/20.

Last year, on my 27th birthday.

I was surrounded by friends and laughter, then. I can still hear it now. No, wait, that’s just Ray’s laugh. His laugh is deep, and sharp and comes from the caverns in his throat. It rumbles like a tuba. The laughter I want to think about chimes like a tambourine.

My brother and his wife, Sara, and their snot-covered kid were there on my last birthday. My chest warmed when Sara told her son to shush, that she was wishing his aunt the best on her special day–that it wasn’t about him. I wanted to add it never really was about him, whether it was my birthday or not. I didn’t, though. I still had some control then.

Ray was with me at last year’s birthday too, but he’s here now. Well, he’s in the bathroom, watching something funny or watching something dirty on his phone. It’s only Ray and me this birthday. Though there really is no excuse for no one to wish me a happy birthday, they, at least, aren’t here. Ray is. He comes out of the bathroom then sinks down in the bed right beside me. As his breathing gets heavier, I watch the clock go from 11:59 to 12.

You missed my birthday, I said loud enough to startle him, then I got up and packed my stuff.

He didn’t stop me.

I now stood on my brother’s snow-covered steps. He still had his Christmas wreath hanging on the door.

The tips of the leaves were browning, wilting, dying. I try not to think too hard about them not wishing me a happy birthday. Remember how I said they had no excuse? Well, maybe I did give them one eight months ago.

And before that, Sara claimed I hit her, which I don’t think I did. But, BUT, if I had, it was only because she was meddling in my relationship. Sara said she saw Ray with a blonde at the mall. That was impossible. I was a brunette. When I tried to tell her just that, suddenly she was on the floor, screaming that I was scaring her. Then she decided to dial those three magic numbers–the ones where a fucking Christmas show comes right to your doorstep.

Sara forgave me after that…incident. It was that other thing that made them go radio silent.

Because I had nowhere else to go, I knocked, loud and proud. When my brother opened the door, he stared at me for a long moment. I get it; I was a sight with my worn-out jacket and mascara running down my windbattered cheeks.

Sara nudged him aside.

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“That fucker.” Then she led me into the living room and let me sink into their coach. Without uttering a word, I was forgiven. I could feel it in my bones. Or maybe that feeling was all the heat from the blankets thrown over my shoulders and from their son who was cuddling into my left side, and the tea in my hands.

Well, I figured I was forgiven. After all, I chugged the whole cup and I hadn’t croaked. If I was them and I was still mad, that’s how I’d let them know, poison the first thing they touch.

I looked up after spending a long time staring at the tea leaves, giving up on trying to eavesdrop on what my brother and Sara were whispering about in the kitchen. I immediately spotted an opened envelope on the coffee table. I put down the mug softly so as not to make a sound and tried not to move too quickly so the kid’s snot wouldn’t smear on my shirt.

I don’t know why, but I thought maybe that card was for me.

I know I told the judge I wouldn’t go through mail no more. Going through someone else's mail is a felony; can you believe that? Ray didn’t tell me that. I found out the same way I found out what the inside of a jail cell looked like. At the time, all I knew was that Sara had a big check coming into the mail, and Ray needed money. He needed money badly then, and I would do anything for him.

So, I swear, I thought that card was for me, which is why I opened it, which is why I read it.

It was most certainly a birthday card, but it wasn’t for me.

I put the card back in the envelope, I put it back where I found it, then I nudged the kid and said, want to take a quick trip with your aunt?

His eyes lit up; he was excited. I was too.

Then we got up and left.

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josenrique villarreal The First Gothic 24 | Capitol Letters

sneeha bose Grandmother (or, A Study in Premptive Mourning) She stands at the window, curtains drawn, the hem brushing raised heels as she balances on the balls of her feet.

I try not to stare at her ankles wrinkled, translucent skin and blue veins, that could roll and snap with the slightest mistake.

(And what a melodramatic tragedy that would be, a climax and falling action and catastrophe in one until all that is left is waiting for the curtain call.)

I see the feet peeking under the drapes, like a child playing hide-and-seek.

She laughs at nothing, and I start to count down.

When the wind pushes the curtains open, I hardly see the body attached to those feet and wonder if she’s been blown away.

But that sounds like something she would believe so I let the words float out, joining the clouds in the sky.

What a beautiful day for the ghosts in this house to fade.

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zoe carver Pelham Dining Plan The low flicker of luminescents gently cradles the reheated chicken and soggy mozzarella sticks. Something about the lighting. It seems to suck out the souls of those faces, gently peering over the grease-ridden pizza case.

Those faces.

Independence is a new taste to them, the endless options in the dining hall making them sick with giddy and giddy with sickness. When’s the last time you’ve had a vegetable? No one knows the answer. The smell in the room is low, artificial. Nothing is spiced enough to be potent, nothing but the wrong salty scent of the French fries and fried chicken and potato chips. Hands grab the calzones, the chicken tenders, the dry falafel dripping with tahini. Hearts yearn for home cooked something, anything. Mouths foam for the cannolis, lemon tarts, sugar cookies topped with large sticky globs of sickly sweet pink frosting, forgetting their yearning.

Silverware clatters onto the floor. Faces next to strange faces, trying not to be alone.

To eat anywhere but Pelham! Their souls cry. So much freedom, and still their dining plan forces them to this West Hall basement eight times a week. It is one final hand on the shoulder, one last rope tying them to childhood. In the remodeled room, home has been forgotten and left only as an aftertaste. “We’re limiting food waste” the walls scream. Those faces want to scream back.

The ceiling tiles never got put in. Have you noticed that? It’s like a slap, a string tugging them out of the forced reality of smooth tables and tan walls. Chins tilting towards the heavens can see only the bare wiring, the pipes and wires running the ovens and stoves and barely working refrigerators. Where stars should be there is only darkness, cut swiftly across with the humming fluorescents and silver bars holding them afloat. Those faces! Never has someone sitting in a crowded room looked so lonesome, never have the eye bags and cracked lips and signs of a lack of self care been so accentuated in the midafternoon glow. They keep eating, the pita wraps, the rice bowls, the turkey burger supremes, as if it’ll fill those burning holes in their esophaguses, growing larger with each passing meal. In their eyes you can see the fading glimmer, the blood in their veins slowly running out and being replaced by bad coffee and power-aid. They look the color of their food. Old and worn out and half eaten.

Something about the lighting…

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jennifer van zandt Drift I used to let my dog pick the turns Decide which way to travel When To stop and sniff and pick up The things about the world you miss When walking at too quick a pace.

I used to let my dog pick the turns Because I liked how whack his internal compass was How often we would find ourselves walking along a road without sidewalks, cars stirring the wind in waves.

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I used to let my dog pick the turns Because he’d choose turns I never would And somehow find a secluded forest Under a canopy of pine branches Birds singing from the sticky bark.

I used to let my dog pick the turns Because it meant I didn’t have to think, Could simply listen to the birdsong Listen to leaves crunching underfoot Listen to the faded squeals of childhood joy.

But soon my dog started picking the same turns The wonder of being in control long lost And his nose too attuned to this route.

And soon everything faded back to familiarity And soon I had to think again.

grace turner Rebellion

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h kidd Roach Problem The clamor of cockroaches traumatically inseminating in the dusty basement of my mind keeps me awake at night.

They loudly fuck, screaming, weeping, vocalizing all of the pain I shouldn’t be feeling but still do They tell me relativity is reality They tell me time is formless They tell me I can’t cheat the world And even when I take pest control measures And douse them in napalm Burning all the uproar away One or two remain And when they get strong enough they once again multiply to the pestilence I’m accustomed to

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It does not matter who I hire Buddha tells me to move past them, to regard them allow them to dissipate But my mind is not a river It’s a failed septic system that feeds into itself Spewing shit into neural pathways and acting like it’s fresh And my brain treats it anew allowing it to wreak havoc on my heart again My therapist tells me to face them, talk about them, write about them, recognize them for what they are But every time I seek them out My reflection stares back at me She tells me they’re not real But we are And for a second I see her face And I fucking study it I study it with every will I have

The dream fades I’m back with the roaches The smell of piss mold, concrete floors tacks lining the area of a once carpeted family room I’m six playing with an imagination that can’t hurt me yet I reach into a bowl of sweets to find out the Candy has rotted I taste it anyways watch my teeth rot Yellow teeth Remember her nose spotted liver Think of her eyes cloudy mind Her lips darkened lungs You fucking can’t. tightened chest Capitol Letters | 30

Can’t see her face Thought patterns Can’t feel warm turn against me Can’t feel love mate in front of me Too worried of losing I want to leave Not good at choosing There are no doors Fate sealed There are no windows Don’t hope There is no sunlight Be real The inescapable The gray is here illusion

“truth”

a bunch of roaches echoing through the hemispheres

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india moore fever dream the dash matches the mountain range gray and purple and melting in the early bit of spring wish i could tell her everything but i don’t want the time to unfold and when have i ever i want a house that feels like a little sanctuary with a window by the sink i think of saying this but i can’t quite manage to rustle her silence i get a fever pretty easy and i only cool down when someone else does the dishes and rubs my neck and asks me what i’d like to eat

most songs feel pretty easy when i sing them to myself and my own hands feel good and warm inside and outside and under the worn blankets and slow and loud but something about it feels a little nothing lately too sacred and fragile and lonesome nothing i have ever wanted has ever been grand just someone’s shoulder (and a puppy) just her hands and a book to fall asleep to a bird singing when i wake and more feeling of course more Wooden Teeth | 32 Capitol Letters

emily contreras Queen of the Gods The heady red haze that clouds her sight is invisible to the common crowd, expertly hidden under the ashy kohl mask that traces her eyes, paints her lids, connects her sloping brows above her nose.

Her fingers are claws, white knuckles cramping around the arms of her throne, nails gouging golden troughs as elbows and shoulders press, rigid, into the unyielding back of the chair.

That, too, they cannot see, blinded by the jewels dripping down from her buttery curls, artfully pinned into place beneath her diadem.

Her grand and florid choker pushes bruises into her chest, but the pain is paltry against the tautness of unshed tears coating her throat. She is still.

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Lying in wait, she is a snake, coiling tighter and tighter each time he flicks his wary eyes in her direction.

She knows he expects a hysterical rage to shatter her tense serenity, and when her minions do find the worthless woman he was with last night, the simple human animal will taste divine retribution unlike any seen on earth since the last time Hera was slighted.

But for now, she is still. She waits, continues to be a portrait of haughty ennui to the lower deities that marvel at her poise – an apple whose juicy immortal innards are hidden by thick gold skin as her husband holds court.

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oguz karasu A Glance Towards Yale

ethan miller When The Phone Call Comes When the phone call comes I won’t be there to say Goodbye for now I’ll see you soon On God’s eternal plane I won’t be close upon that day To leave the dreaded phone And say farewell and wipe your tears To watch you leave the world you’ve known It may be within my home Or the phone upon my breast I’ll hear the ring and be informed Of you who will have went to rest I see it coming far before The dreaded call is here Before the grief is given cause Before I ought to shed my tears Everyone around me In childhood I’ve loved Will pass before I join along When the phone call comes

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rachel worsham Her Wild Waves I find I am no match for her Wild waves push and pull me.

Swelling tall with her power.

Salt scourges my eyes and throat raw, My back thrust on a soft sand floor.

My breaths are desperate, Defiant at best As she throws me carelessly, Without a second thought.

Crash after violent crash, She makes an example of me.

Yet as I crawl out of her loch She sheds every trace I leave.

Pours her water into the space I held And erases footprints behind me.

Come time her waters will still, Tempting wayfarers out to sea.

Then she’ll turn and churn Deep fear of her awe filling power.

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sneeha bose the line there is a pain in your eyes that makes them burn and sting but not water and it’s born of locked rooms and incense without bars in the cage to let those wisps of smoke out so it’s just you inhaling jasmine and sandalwood through your eyes and nose and mouth while the fire escape outside bangs with the wind and the noise of whatever it is your mother does upstairs another prisoner in her grief but unlike you in your eternal misery and hopelessness and acceptance lying in a curled up ball on the floor wishing you never left her womb she rages with her voice raised and furniture that always always seems to be moving and you never know where the bed might be up there if there is a bed at all and the scraping sounds are only drowned by the vacuum at four in the morning so you can never decide whether it’s clean or a mess up there or maybe both are true and there is an order to the mess like all the pieces of broken glass belong in their corner but if there is even a shard out of bounds of an imaginary line only she can see then it’s justification for another fit but you think you understand and you think you would get it and you think you would be able to see the line if you could ever go there

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carly neilson Beach Fairies then we danced in the water like fairies not mermaids as our wings fluttered through the seas delicately floating atop waves sweet feet under bitter rocks ran freely to the shady tall trees water cooling our parched throats runny ice cream followed down fingers now our long bodies outstretch on yellow towels coconut scented sheen glitters with sweat sand still sticks between fingers and toes heads turn to gossip about neighbors golden heat overcomes our skins flying down to blue-green across the rocks relieved by water melting our joints salt softens hair as we breath in the waves

what remains the same is that we dance in the water like fairies not mermaids

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josenrique villarreal As If Winter Would Not Break

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emma page "Blizzard, 2008" “The biggest of the year,” they said. My friends

and I jumped for joy,

thankful for a break

from the complicated life

we were learning. The snow called

our names. The fluffy flakes dissolved in my little hand, not good for sledding or building snowmen, but we made it work.

Across Aldershot, Bwama and Poppop’s garage

upon the slanted driveway

housed Ryan’s huge wooden sled,

and their house–

the center of my universe–

sat upon the hill

just for us.

We sledded to forget

our childish troubles

and embrace

each other’s company

that felt

different in the

snow.

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A snapshot shows Daddy and Gabe standing knee-deep next to me and the snowman that we built.

A new family member, though one who I watched on my tiptoes melt, day by day through the kitchen window, its tears giving in to the snow’s sweet softness.

I wonder if we named him.

I wonder where that photo is among the dusty scrapbooks on my mother’s shelf in the corner of her bedroom.

We used to fill those pages with meaningful memories to pass the time. Time which is especially valuable these days.

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iphigenia, tell me what it is to look death in the eye -

sneeha bose iphigenia (reprise)

because it might be simpler to be an animal led to butcher but we are too human to not know the chopping block awaits at the end. is it an endless sleep? is it peace? how long does it hurt? how can you accept knowing you will never again smell the grass after summer rain or feel the sharp sting of the winter sun in your eyes? and what of that you will never have? who have you saved yourself for? you remain untouched by softness, unkissed, unloved till the end. even your parents make amends with your rest. perhaps death will be your husband; it was the only thing you were ever promised to. iphigenia, did you ever suspect you were running out of time? i fear death in every corner, every inch of my body and what it may carry: blisters, festering sores, hemorrhage. i hyperfixate on things i can’t control. you let it be, your cancer of fate. you, iphigenia, walk to death like it’s your wedding day.

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jennica ogaus Beneath the Branches

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isabelle carney Pelican In her final will, Stephen’s mother designated that her only property--her paintings--were to be given to her two children. His mother began painting when Stephen joined an acting troupe after highschool. She was nearly forty at the time but discovered that she was quite good. Her most magnificent painting hung in Stephen’s living room-turned-bedroom, which he fashioned for his mother to make her comfortable in her final, tumultuous years. It was a large painting set in an extravagant frame. It pictured an impressive pelican sitting on the edge of a river and glaring straight at its audience. Stephen and Dee stared at the bird, their arms crossed. Stephen itched at the wool jacket he had accidentally run through the wash years ago. His skin prickled at his proximity to his sister, too. Dee had only flown out to see their mother once, in her final days when she was in too much pain and on too many drugs to form a sentence. Stephen was sure that’s how Dee preferred it.

“I talked to mom and she told me I can take this one,” Dee said.

Stephen was stunned. “Like hell you are. When did she say that to you? Unless her corpse whispered to you this afternoon I don’t believe--” “It was over the phone a few months ago,” Dee said.

“In one of your rare phone calls?” Stephen scoffed and shook his head. His wife, in her own gentle words, sometimes told him he was a coward when it came to Dee; that he was as malleable to her will as a thin sapling is to the wind. Stephen would counter that he avoided any long-lasting arguments with his sister for the sake of their mother. “You know I love this one.

You only want it because it’s valuable. Absolutely not, Dee.” “I’m sorry but it’s just not your decision. It’s what mom wanted.”

“Are you kidding me?” Stephen laughed. He turned to Dee and she took a step back, trying to avoid his long, gesturing arms. “You didn’t fucking know mom at all. I have spent every moment of the past four years taking care of her, paying for her medicine and treatment.

Despite having a private jet at your fingertips, you never came to see her. Do you know how much that hurt ma? You couldn’t even pay for those fucking trees she wanted--for trees! Two grand is throw-away money to you, but for us--” He took a breath. The three poplar trees his mother had begged for waved at him, shaking gently in the winter flurry that had suddenly swept across North Jersey. The trees were worth it--when the cancer made it too painful to walk out of the room, the trees were the only subject that inspired his mother to get out of bed and paint.

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Dee sighed and placed a frail hand on her forehead. “I would have taken care of mom if she had asked me, but she asked you. I’ve never been under the illusion that she loved us equally.

I couldn’t stand to see her as sick as she was, but she said this painting is for me. You can have everything else--I need this one.” Dee turned to the painting, moving her hand from her forehead to the golden frame. “She painted this at Van Duzen River the last time she came to visit me, what? Ten years ago? This one she did for me.”

“The ma you knew ten years ago was not the same woman as the one whose ostomy bag I had to clean every day. You don’t get to be a lousy daughter and then decide you have ownership over anything!”

Dee’s thin lips pulled back into a frown and without looking at Stephen she reached for her jacket. “I’ll send someone to pick it up tomorrow.”

Stephen heard the door slam behind him. He studied the pelican’s prying eye, then grabbed the painting off the wall and rushed it to his bedroom closet. Stephen grabbed a roll of brown paper and wrapped up his mother’s last painting--the poplar trees, plump in spring bloom--and with a Sharpie, he wrote “FOR DEE” in the center of the package.

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grace turner In the Stacks

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gianna duyck Made of Glass I did not know I was made of glass Until you took my body In your calloused hands, Cradled-my hips my waist my neck-into softness and then gripped-splintered-cracked Yellow-pink stained glass into spider webbing shards.

I did not know you were made of stone Until you cut me down to pieces with your tongue.

Reduced me to holes for you to cum in with the same mouth that took in my catching breath caressed my breasts, my ears, my nose Lingered in between my legs and kissed my forehead.

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hailey lanford Soft Apples Soft apples are the hardest to chew.

Skin that sticks to the roof of my mouth, a flavor so mild it barely sits on the tongue.

The bite, the last remnants of something tangible, slides down my fingers unsatisfyingly.

Each movement of my mouth reminds me just how much humans let things rot before noticing their goodness – feeling the shame of letting a “good apple go to waste.”

So, I chew.

I wait for peace to find me with a gnawed apple core, held by the frail stem.

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gracie brenner Riptide Versus the Dreamer Reality; it comes in Waves And The Dreamer, small and poorDoes struggle as its currents drag him To the Ocean’s Floor.

The Promise of the sunset shore Is far now, from his SightBut against the riptide of Lost Hope The Dreamer, he will fight.

The salt and seaweed fill his lungs Depriving him of airBut he, The Dreamer, treads the water In the Sea of Great Despair.

The seething swirls threaten To break him from WithinYet The Dreamer kicks and thrashes still, Against the demons and their sin.

It was the volume of his Dreams themselves And the shimmer of their graceThat lured him to the sea and left him Lost, without a trace.

Amidst the fury of the tides The Dreamer stops to thinkAre my Dreams too bold, too bright?

So massive that they’ll sink?

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The answer comes not easily Nor does it come with hasteBut slowly does The Dreamer realize That no Dream can be replaced.

Despite the surges of the waves That chip away his soulThe Dreamer knows that without Dreams, He never can be whole.

We know not much about this Dreamer, His story nor his fateBut to the battles that he faced, So many can relate.

If nothing else, he taught us To rally and to fight, For our Dreams, they do define usTry us as they might.

From him, The Dreamer, we do learn To hold on and stay true For if you chase your Dreams enough, You might just catch them, too.

grace dougherty Memories of a Shy Child My father’s tanned skin stretched over hairy knuckles.

The pads of his fingers stained with ink, and calloused from pens and brushes.

My eyes followed the path of his outstretched finger as it traced words along a page and he read aloud.

My mother’s wedding ring, elegant yet solid, I watched her nimble hands knit as I clumsily followed along.

Her hands seemed to work independently of thought as they produced hat after hat for my ever growing head.

My mother’s father’s hands were different.

Fat and short fingers, riddled with cuts and scrapes earned in his woodshop.

Scars too, received thousands of miles from home.

These hands bobbed up and down as he spoke of airplanes and parachutes and of people who had died.

My father’s mother had crooked fingers, and skin folded in delicate wrinkles.

I saw my own hands held in hers- fitting perfectly into her weathered palms.

She sang an Italian rhyming game, and then with soft finger tips she tapped my cheeks, and with my own small hands, I tapped hers.

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sneeha bose sugar or honey the sweetness of you is so distinct that neither could compare. i want that beauty of watercolor flowers, delicate and to never die because i have never been good at caring for other living things anyway. but if you ask me what i prefer, i’d tell you how sugar crystals are too coarse like a mouthful of sand or glass shredding my tongue. and honey is too sticky and prone to making my mouth swell, even as i dip it in tea and yogurt. but i did say i was never good at caring for living things - why shouldn’t that include me? honey leaves my lips bee-stung, but so do you, and i keep going in for more. between sugar, honey, you, and me, which is my biggest enemy?

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ethan miller I Have Seen the Trees Grow Old I have seen the trees grow old The bark dissent to ruin I remember the ground grew pale The weathered stones I walked in I have seen the clouds grow dark Upon a cooler day I remember careless years And days once wished away I have seen the falling snow Upon my dog's black nose I remember holding her Beneath the winters cold I have seen the neighbors age So grand besides my youth I remember early years When the flow of life was smooth I have seen the air grow thick With memories compiled I remember young days of joy Although it's been a while I have seen my fellow peers Go in and out my days I remember meeting them When we had years ahead of play I have seen my mother work And provide for her and me WoodenLetters Teeth | 52 Capitol

jennica ogaus Square One

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gianna duyck Free from Time I glide my hands across your scalp, lather through each well-worn, stiffly styled strand, soap washing away careful curation, guarded posturing.

I run my fingers behind your ears and along your hairline, take care to cover every square inch, Free from a sense of time or thought of the nipping air that hugs my back as I press to you.

And once I have rinsed away every bit of soap, and each naked strand is relieved from the labors of the day I brush to the side the couple stray pieces that fall forward obstructing your eyes.

I will with hope the honey touches kissing affection across your skin lay dormant long after I’ve gone.

So if you ever find yourself alone in old age accompanied by an empty, strange presence a passive nurse for hire her absent flow of routine cleaning may remind you of my touch-youthful, unconditional loving and warm you up completely again.

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sneeha bose rat metropolis it’s business as usual. scurrying up and down the highway of tracks, knowing before the announcements: a train is due because the air smells different, electric, the slightest vibration in the soul, the sole of the paw. (oh, yes, rats can play on words, too.) so they slip between cracks, back to their metropolis, as the infested swarm of people rush.

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Gabrielle Kirk Late Flight It’s seven PM and my grandfather will walk through our front door in five minutes. He’s a man of his time, seeped in formality and considers punctuality a trait of a good man. “If you’re not early, you’re late,” he always says, wrinkled eyes winking through unframed glasses. I used to roll my eyes whenever he drove me to my friends’ houses fifteen minutes early. We’d have to wait in the idling car, my warm fingers smudging the chilled window through my breath. Now I start waiting for him on the bottom of our staircase thirty minutes before he’s due, my knees drawn to my chest and my heels bumping up and down.

When he comes home from work, he takes five more minutes before we wander back out the door, into the clean November air. Like clockwork, he places his leather work satchel on his handmade chair by the door and smoothes down his brown work pants. Sometimes he hums a melody from the radio on the drive home, other times a frown spreads on his face like butter across bread. He walks down the hallway, into the dark kitchen and lathers his hands before washing them, counting each second with a tap of his heel. Staring out the window above the sink, he prefers to keep the light off so he can scan across the nighttime that falls onto our backyard. Trees shroud our house, packed together and watching. Almost absorbed into the stillness outside the window, he dries his hands on the hand-embroidered dish towel, folding it back neatly on the counter. I stand in the doorway, idling in the hallway light and watching his shadow drift across the tile.

If he comes home humming, he turns to me and we sing together – I play the same radio station he does on the drive home. But if he comes home with his jaw tightened, he walks past me as if I were a ghost and floats blindly into the backyard.

Once outside, we stand shoulder to shoulder and hum, his back hunched and mine stretching forwards. His withered hand reaches into the sky and plucks planes from above.

“Someone on that plane will hug their child tomorrow,” he guesses, pale hand pointing against the night, which is sprinkled with powdered sugar.

“I bet someone will get drunk on that plane and not remember the flight,” I say, wishing I could pry the plane from my grandfather’s hands and peer inside.

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Sometimes we stare into the birch forest ahead, locking eyes with the darkness crawling forward. The strands of grass between our toes are black and flattened to the dirt. Leaves crunch beneath our feet. The wind walks behind us, carrying the mumbled tune of our melody. Cold and clean, the deep night cradles us together, the passing planes like chandeliers in the sky. We experience our world together; we don’t have to speak and break the forest’s sheen of silence.

This is my grandfather’s favorite time of the day. I can tell by his wrinkled and rolled up sleeves, gooseflesh rising in the wind. I can tell by the cinnamon hand soap lingering on the veins of his hands. But tonight he is absent.

It’s six past seven and my grandfather is not home. My heels bump on the steps, and I sit, wanting the front door to creep open. He didn’t go to work today. Instead, I went to a funeral. My black dress crumples at my knees, hem bobbing with my feet and lighter than the patient night waiting outside.

At seven past seven, I stand up and trail my hand into the kitchen, past the sink, knocking down the hand towel, and wander out the backdoor. Moonlight shines abundantly above, falling onto each white shred of birch bark in the forest before me. The wind blows and the planes sail above and the dirt is hard.

The passengers on the plane hug their children and drink wine while I stand, waiting in our birch forest alone.

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abigail davis World News 1.

Spring daffodils bloom Like warm sunshine, new life is Kissing bluer skies 2.

Burning sidewalk cracks Underfoot, still the hardy Wildflower grows 3.

Planes fly overhead Songbirds searching for a nest Holding bombs like eggs 4.

Give sunflower seeds To invaders, let beauty Erupt from their death 5.

Pocket the truthful Words, carry them as if they Are weapons to wield

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hailey lanford Rooted My mother’s garden, momentous morning glories, is no longer green.

Rise with thick stems, bloom the sun peeks through clouds.

Sleepy fingertips.

Rotted at the root, resilient like the soft fingers that nurse them.

Against frost warnings, the possibility of neglect, my mother.

Watching the morning glory grow one final time.

The rot is too strong.

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contributor biographies Loren Booda earned a GWU BS and GMU MS in physics and idles with quantumdream.net.

Sneeha Bose (she/her) is a master's student from New York City in the American Studies department at GW. She loves finding a good murder mystery, eating hot chips, and hugging her squishmallow.

Gracie Brenner is a freshman currently pursuing a double major in Political Science and French. Writing has been a huge passion of hers ever since she can remember, and she is sincerely grateful to be able to share that passion with such a lovely audience.

Isabelle Carney is a senior studying History and Political Science with a minor in Sustainability. She is immensely grateful to have been able to explore her love of writing this last school year through her research, poetry, and creative writing.

Zoe Carver is a current freshman at GW, studying International Affairs and Peace Studies with a minor in Creative Writing. She had also been published in the Interlochen Review, October Hill Magazine, and Lowercase Zine and is on the editing staff for Captiol Letters. Originally from Portland, OR, she enjoys cantelope and eccentric surrealist films.

Emily Contreras is a junior from New Jersey majoring in English and Creative Writing at GWU. Her hobbies include reading, writing, and making too many Spotify playlists.

Olivia Curran is a junior from Johns Creek, Georgia studying English and Criminal Justice. She seeks inspiration for her writing from Southern Gothic authors and inspiration for her baking from Southern Grandmothers.

Abigail Davis is a sophomore studying International Affairs and Geography from Tolland, Connecticut. When she is not writing, she can be found reading, baking, or hanging out with friends.

Grace Dougherty is a sophomore Political Science major at GW. Her passion for writing comes from her late grandmother, whose love of literature was infectious.

Gianna Boothman Duyck is a senior from Rhode Island studying psych and creative writing. Outside of class and work, she loves to invent new recipes and paint to poetry.

Oguz Karasu is a master student in GW Applied Economics program, and he continues his PhD studies on Space Economics in Istanbul University. He was born and raised in Istanbul. He loves playing with words while he walks.

H Kidd is a philosopher, poet, filmmaker, and narrator who only knows that he knows nothing.

Gabrielle Kirk is a sophomore studying Creative Writing and English. She thinks that orange cats are the best and that frozen mango is the highest delicacy that the world can offer.

Hailey Lanford is a senior in the English Department at GWU, majoring in English and minoring in Linguistics from Washington, DC. She is in pursuit of a career in publishing and is an avid reader and writer, focusing on poetry and nonfiction. She also loves to bake and find new local coffee shops in the area.

Ethan Miller is a freshman from Beverly, Massachusetts studying economics, political science, and English. He enjoys hiking, writing, and travel.

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India Moore is a rising senior studying psychology, public health, and creative writing. She is a daydreamer, a tea drinker, an enneagram fiend, and a Lizzy McAlpine enthusiast. She was born in Georgia and calls North Carolina home.

Carly Neilson is a junior from the Florida Keys studying english, creative writing and journalism. She's an aspiring librarian who loves organizing her bookshelf instead of doing homework and reading recipes only to never cook them.

Ella Nichols is a junior from New Mexico, majoring in environmental science, with minors in chemistry and fine arts.

She enjoys writing, just a bit, on the side.

Annie O'Brien is a freshmen at GW from Philadelphia studying English and History. When she is not writing, she enjoys watching reality television and and exploring D.C. Jennica Ogaus is from Boston, MA. She is a senior majoring in English. She enjoys taking pictures out in nature, is a devoted arts advocate, and hopes to one day be a National Geographic photojournalist.

Emma Page is a graduating Journalism major who works for the GW English Department and is currently the Experience Director for TEDxFoggyBottom on campus. She is a lover of all things storytelling and music-related.

Christina Peitler grew up on an island, a considerably long one off the coast of New York. Now she is a senior at GW majoring in History with a minor in Creative Writing.

Laney Picon is a senior majoring in IA and contemporary cultures. She enjoys notes app rants, eating soup dumplings, and making music with her friends.

Elisabeth Reznikov is a freshman from Vienna, Virginia, double-majoring in International Affairs and Russian with a minor in Spanish. She is currently volunteering as a research assistant for United Help Ukraine, a non-profit organization working to help those affected by the Russia-Ukraine conflict, including refugees, civilians on the ground, and military personnel. In addition, she is currently working on a research project regarding the ethics of medical practices that were implemented in Germany under the Nazi regime.

Grace Turner is a graduating senior studying International Affairs. She's moved around a lot and has always used her camera to capture new environments. She's looking forward to seeing all the adventures post-grad will bring!

Jennifer Van Zandt is a freshman from Massachusetts who is majoring in chemistry and minoring in creative writing.

She has a passion for curating her Spotify playlists, Dunkin' iced coffee, and both writing and reading stories.

Josenrique Villarreal is a visual anthropologist whose work explores the relationship between the human psyche and space. He explores the intersection between memory and identity as we move through and communicate with our external environment. Born and raised in the borderland region of El Paso, TX, the visual arts yield ways of understanding the complexities of binational identity.

Nadia Wachira is a freshman from Lancaster, PA, studying history and education. As an aspiring screenwriter, her passion lies in creating stories that demonstrate the complexity of human beings.

Rachel Worsham is a junior studying Political Science and was born and raised in Long Island. She loves to play guitar and piano louder than she should, her cats, and mornings.

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submit Capitol

Letters is an annual publication and is

open to all members of The George Washington University community. Undergraduate and graduate students, faculty, alumni, and staff are encouraged to submit their poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and art.

For more information or to submit, please contact: gwcapitolletters@gmail.com You may submit five literary works and five pieces of arwork each semester.

Note: Capitol Letters was formerly known as Wooden Teeth.

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