Garden

LIBERTAS G A

R D E N 9 2 l.

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Table of Contents

Editors-in Chief Audrey Bohlin Elsah James

Cover Table of Contents

2

Greenhouse

3

Caro Ewing

Beyond the Garden to the Street

4

Denise Akdogan

Walking in Savannah 5 Tree Trunk

Courtney Lassiter Savannah Soraghan

Root Rot

Liv Norten

6

Poison Ivy 7 Untitled Artwork

Clara Oyanguren Katlyn Saldarini

His Mistake

8

Luca Lovrich

Untitled Artwork

9

Audrey Bohlin

Untitled Artwork 10 Vineyard Symposium

Josie Swain Ava McKinney

Latticework 11 in grass i am held Beam

Cate Goodin Grace Catan Adele Zhang

How cats become moths 12 Untitled artwork

Savannah Vonesh Josie Swain

Untitled artwork

13

Savannah Soraghan

A Conversation with Gabrielle Bell

14

Untitled artwork

15

Back Cover

Editorial Staff

Josie Swain

Secretaries Cate Goodin Caro Ewing Fiction Editors Savannah Vonesh (lead) Bianca Hassan

Sofia Cimballa Clara Oyanguren

Phoebe Anderson Katlyn Saldarini Poetry Editors Eliana Burgin (lead)

Colby Johnson Jaiden Truhe Belle Staley Kella Jahn Caroline Rydesky Layout Editors Cole Erickson (lead)

Emma Huff (lead) Avani Damidi Savannah Soraghan Laney Demarcay Julia Carey

ROSE

Beyond the Garden to the Street

that was invading his chest, his breath was stuffed.

The woman tossed the ashes in the By: Selin Deniz Akdogan ashtray and placed it on the table before her. There was another siHer eyes were the mesmerizing lence. The man was fidgeting while shade of brown that you could find the woman was looking at the man on a layer of foam on top of an with calmness. As if he remembered aromatic Turkish coffee. The thickly something, he suddenly asked, painted eyelashes delicately touched “Would you care for some tea? I her arched and thin eyebrows that just brewed it.” looked unfamiliar on her face, like “How long?” the woman asked. they were drawn perpetually. From “Pardon?” where he was sitting, he could clear- “The water, how long did you boil ly notice the small clusters of make it?” up gathered on some of the lashes.

The man stumbled upon his words Lips reminiscent of wild strawberfor a couple of seconds at the unexries parted slightly, revealing teeth, pected question before answering, though slightly misaligned, gleam“About five minutes.” ing white. Her hair was collected in “The water must boil for at least a messy bun with curled pieces of fifteen minutes for proper infusion,” hair cascading along the curvature she instructed, her brow furrowing of her neck. Draped in a crimson slightly. fur, or perhaps an imitation thereof, “Of course, of course.” the man she seemed tailored to withstand the murmured while nodding his head weather outside. However, it was understandingly. The woman then particularly odd to him that on such proceeded with her eyebrows a cold day, she would prefer to wear arched further. a skirt that reached only one hand “Then, after removing from heat, above her knees, and extremely thin allow it to steep for another twenty stockings that surely did nothing minutes,” she continued, her gaze against the harsh breezes. His eyes unwavering. trailed to the small tear on the left “Indeed, indeed.” he concurred. leg of her stockings, a mere inch The woman looked at the man sitabove and perhaps two inches to the ting before her. His hair was long left of her knee. enough to reach his neck, completeWith the sound of the woman clear- ly whitish gray except a few rare ing her throat unnaturally, he realblack hairs. His pallid countenance ized that he had been inspecting this was etched with lines of time, eyes woman sitting on his living room hollow and gray. His glasses were couch a little too long. His eyes sitting awkwardly on his wide nose. snapped back to her coffee-foam From his attire, and the condition of eyes that were looking at him like his house, it was blandly obvious to he was the stranger there. her that he was earning just enough “May I trouble you for an ashtray?” to look after himself. On the other she inquired, her voice sweet yet hand, while almost everything in distant, eyes cold. The man looked the house was old, they were clean at the cigarette that was between the and tidy. woman’s index and middle finger.

“Let me bring you some water, if The ash had become long. As if he you will.” The man said. hadn’t noticed it before, he sudThe woman looked at the man with denly felt the heavy and pressuring her piercing gaze for about twenty smell of the smoke that pervaded three seconds - which he knew, the room by then. as he was counting them with his “Oh, of course. Please excuse my breath held - before saying, “Your oversight,” he promptly got up the kindness is appreciated.” couch and proceeded to the kitchen, The man practically ran to the kitch“I should have one here someen and away from her gaze. where.”

Truth be told, it has been a while The woman’s eyes were trailing on since the last communion with everything that was in her eyesight; humanity the man had. He was an portraits, art pieces, old furniture, editor in a magazine who found beautiful crockery in the glass solace in the rhythm of his duties. covered shelves that were reserved Hours would drift by under the for family gatherings. The ones that pallid glow of the television screen. were barely used.

Then, he would shift his attention He rushed back to the room with the to the window that peered out onto ashtray. Handing it to the woman, the bustling thoroughfare below.

“I am sure this will do.” he said.

Amidst flow of pedestrian traffic From the sudden rush or the smoke and the ceaseless hum of motorcars,

he would seek solace in the quiet spectacle of human existence. Yet, on this particular eve, as he gazed upon the tableau of life unfolding before him, an overwhelming sense of melancholy suddenly took hold of his mind. Amidst the throng of passersby, their faces alight with fleeting expressions of joy and camaraderie, he found himself engulfed by an indescribable and perfectly unexpected sadness that threatened to consume him whole.

He started weeping like a child, curled up into a ball on the cold floor of his living room. His fist was curled up on top of his heart, each sob reverberated through his frame, akin to a ship tossed amidst tempestuous waves. He cried for hours. Until his head was aching, his eyes were burning. Until he was capable of nothing but succumbing to sleep on the floor. The next day, he informed the magazine that he was ill and wouldn’t make it into the work for a few weeks. Aware of his old age and history of illnesses, his manager didn’t even questioned before granting him the leave. And so, he hasn’t left his apartment since the depression visited him.

Eunice was another editor working in the magazine. She was in her mid-forties, bearing neither undeniable beauty nor youth, yet exuding a charm and vitality surpassing her years. She was opinionated, stubborn and ambitious. Perhaps due to her candor that was occasionally perceived as churlishness, she was not very popular among her coworkers. Verily, her colleagues were not bastions of amiability themselves. Nevertheless, it seemed to Eunice that she was the only one who noticed this irony. That was until the man started working there.

He was well-mannered, kind and docile. Such individuals, pliant and amiable, suited her predilection for influence, their compliance not stemming from intellectual inferiority, but from a congenial disposition. It had been two years since they started working together. Not once did they converse more than two short sentences per each: “Would you mind looking over this article?”

“Sure, Ms. White, it will be done by three o’clock.”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

And they wouldn’t utter another word until the next task beckoned.

That was until Eunice noticed his absence for almost two weeks from the office. She learned about his illness from the manager. Next day,

she was at his door, uninvited, with a pot of chicken soup.

“Ms. White?” he could only murmur, taken aback by her unexpected presence.

“Chicken soup with lemon is the best cure.” she replied, her voice devoid of inflection. As the man poured a glass of water for Eunice, a sense of melancholy lingered in the recesses of his mind, akin to the subtle sting of electric currents. Yet, he resolved to shield his guest from his inner turmoil, deeming it unfitting to spoil her benevolent gesture with the burden of his sorrow.

When he returned to the living room, he saw Eunice standing before the portrait of his deceased wife.

“Your wife, I presume,” she ventured, to which the man could only offer a solemn hum. “Elegant.”

“Here is your water, Ms. White.”

Eunice looked at his stretched hand holding the glass. She walked back to the couch and grabbed her purse with a nimbleness befitting her years, a capability now foreign to the man. With a practiced gesture, she extinguished her cigarette in the ashtray before returning to face the man, her eyes carrying a hint of indifference.

“Remember to add lemon juice to the soup when you eat it.”

With the click of her heels echoing in the marble hallway, Eunice departed, leaving the man to ponder her abrupt exit. Yet, he deemed himself unworthy of probing into her motivations. “Ms. White?” he called as she passed the threshold. Eunice turned back, faced the man, with grace evident in her mannerisms.

“Yes?” “Thank you. For the soup. And for the thought.”

The man and the woman shared a solemn silence as their eyes met.

“I hope, truly hope, that you will get well. One day, you will.” And with that, Eunice left. The man closed the door and walked towards the living room window, watching Eunice vanish into the street beyond the garden. He returned inside and grabbed his wife’s picture. His thumb caressed her cheeks, lips and eyes. She looked young and happy.

Indeed, elegant. Collapsing onto the couch, he curled into a ball, embracing the frame tightly to his chest as tears once again welled in his eyes.

The chicken soup laid cold upon the kitchen counter.

this point, It wouldn’t surprise me if I was far enough beautiful. Perfectly manicured grass faded into bushels from that little dot on the map for the weather not to of creeping phlox, blooming purple beneath my soles. I By: Courtney Lassiter matter. I lost track of time and space, stumbling into leaned down to smell the fragrant call of a red hibiscus bar after bar, and days blurred between the dark liquid sitting proudly on a shrub of dark green leaves. The I woke up hungover in a bed of moss on Sunday just beyond every bottleneck. I wouldn’t question house before me was even more magnificent, with its afternoon. My jacket still smelled of whiskey, vodka, how I’d come to find myself under sunshine instead of marble columns rising high and mighty, far beyond the and god-knows-what other concoction of other liquors demise–I’d eat. reach of those magnificent orange trees. I popped the from the night before. As I stumbled through the dirt I couldn’t remember the last time a full meal had last juicy slice of orange into my and rose bushes just before sunrise, something in me mouth and savored its bright, summery flavor. I swalhoped I wouldn’t wake up, so I could spend my time graced my lips, and my stomach growled with possibility.

I looked down and saw subtle shades of pink lowed, and as I stared into the windows of the perfect on the sweet, dewy ground forever. I’d done everything and green tickling at the ankles of my boots. Wildflowvacation home, I started to think. right to make it all go away, and yet–I awoke. ers and clovers that had sprouted up amid recent rain, What the hell was I doing here?

I opened my eyes slowly, though it was still quick perhaps?

I fumbled for the pocket of my dirt-streaked jacket– enough for a jolt of pain to shoot through my temples. only a long-forlorn ring and a crumpled ten-dollar bill Any slight movement of my bones rewarded me with a “pop” or “click” as I struggled to sit up. The indif- Bundles of hydrangea blooms surrounded the burly were there. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t buy another ference I felt despite having just passed out for god- trunks of the orange trees. I raised my arms up barely, bottle of Jack Daniel’s with that–barely two shots, if I touching a branch, and jumped a bit to yank it down. was lucky. That wasn’t the only thing wrong, though–I knows-how-long in some stranger’s backyard was Thump. knew even despite the many memories that had long immense. If you told me just a month ago, I’d be this “Fuck!” run from my intoxicated mind, there was a life and far gone into another destructive bender I would’ve even a family waiting for me hundreds of miles away. laughed at you–but, now, I can only sigh.

Drinking away my world was a pitiful attempt at Light streamed into my vision, enough for me to raise I grabbed for my pounding head as the branch flung back up into the tree.

I looked up, straining–an orange changing the mistakes I’d made. My heart ached longmy hand to the sun as a sign of forgiveness, hoping someone was listening. Above me stood some of the had fallen from up high and clunked right down onto ingly as the last aftertastes of citrus dissipated into my mouth. This cycle couldn’t go on forever. tallest trees I’d seen in my life, or at least of what I my unsuspecting scalp. A blessing in disguise, maybe. could remember up until this point. Most of my child- I reached toward the grouwnd where it lay shining–and I turned away from the house and found myself facing hood and even teendom memories had fled me from somehow– unbruised. I grabbed it, touching its scaly a small neighborhood with a road, winding further and the years of self-destruction I’d engaged in. I looked skin. As I lay basking in the rays of sun that streamed further until it disappeared into a crossroads. A glinting green street sign, Oglethorpe Avenue, shone valiantly closer amongst the green leaves and noticed something down from above, I tore into the fruit, juice flowing over my callouses. My first bite into the orange felt at the corner. Maybe it was the work of serendipity that most peculiar. like God himself had come down, looked upon me, and I found myself here in a beautiful Georgian garden; Oranges? somehow still decided to save my life. It was delicious. maybe, it was that I’d run out of alcohol. Either way— What god-forsaken backyard had oranges?

I realized the garden I found myself in was rather It was time to go home.

Oranges would never grow in my hometown, but at

Walking In Savannah

Root Rot By: Liv Norten I drop my keys unceremoniously onto the counter with a clatter that sends ripples through the surface of a half-full plastic water bottle that has been sitting in the same spot for a week. It has recently been joined by an IKEA bowl displaying remnants from plain pasta I ate 3 days ago. They are positioned like sculptures in a modern art museum exhibit: “Grown woman who cannot fathom washing her dishes.” Materials: polyethylene and parmesan cheese. I hear my footsteps echo menacingly off the white walls and watch as the whole room seems to tremble in time with my strides. I think I must be some kind of monster. This is how a horror movie starts. The camera is currently filming the protagonists of the story, cowering just around the corner, waiting for my reveal to begin a plot that is not my own. I think about getting a gym membership.

The stairs arrive in front of me and I decide I will not climb them. I can feel the seams of my socks pressing unevenly across the tips of my toes and get the urge to vomit. The backs of my sneakers are worn away from the daily ritual of slipping in and out of them without any disturbance to the double-knotted laces. Foam pokes out of the identical holes when my heels pass over them like they have a million times. I manage to free my feet from the cotton using only the dexterity of my toes and notice that breathing is getting progressively more difficult. I have a single hand clenched on the railing for balance that is white across the knuckles. I pretend there is a doctor who is asking me to report my symptoms. There is a pimple on my hairline that throbs when I move my eyebrows up. One of my fingers has a hangnail. Keeping myself alive is almost as hard as my breathing has become. I am diagnosed with a chronic tendency to complain and hear my mother’s voice agreeing with this appraisal loudly behind my eyes. She would tell me this drama is not worth the insurance co-pay. My shoes lay discarded at the base of the stairs. I kick at them until they sit side by side.

The house is silent except for the hum of the air conditioner, dull and strangely comforting. I bet without it, the noise in my head would be audible to the neighbors. Possibly loud enough to be heard across town. I imagine my internal radio static creeping in through billowy-curtained windows and seeping into the perfectly manicured gardens of houses in tax brackets I critique through reposted Instagram infographics. My head pounds as my thoughts race. They seem to compete with each other.

My now bare feet carry me to the soft carpet that covers the floor between my couch and coffee table. There’s barely enough space to awkwardly shuffle sideways through the gap when you get up; my knees hit the floor with the same punishing weight as my keys on the counter, and I force my way to the ground. Lying flat on my stomach, I let the smooth panel of wood and the linen of the couch box me in, like wet sand into a plastic mold at the beach. And I stay there. Still. The fibers of the carpet push indents into my cheek and I thank the past version of me whose understanding of sanity meant feeling up rugs for an hour in Goodwill. Inhale. A shaky movement of air. Hold for 7 seconds, as my therapist tells me. I feel like I could fold into myself. Exhale. Eyes squeezed shut like a child. 8 more seconds. I do it again and again and again.

I bring my vision back unfocused and labored. Every bodily action requires manual operation, and it is making me exhausted. A tear slides out of my eye and into my mouth, bringing with it the faint taste of salt and frustration. The fact that there is only one is somehow the worst part. My mind isn’t even capable of sobbing out this thing inside me like a regular person. It feels like there are two tight

hands squeezed around my neck that seem to have a grasp on my tear ducts, too. I can’t even be sad correctly. I just stare forward. My sight line lands on a pile of books stacked haphazardly beneath the window. There is a thin cover of dust that has settled on the exposed covers that reflects in the light filtering through the glass. It’s clear they are more of a decoration than an intellectual pursuit these days.

Placed on top of the tower is a single pothos plant. Its place in a sequestered corner of the room makes it easy to miss, so much so that I am taken aback by my unfamiliarity with its presence. Nestled in a simple clay pot, unruly branches spill over the pages of forgotten words, some leaves pinched gently between volumes and others stretching toward the scattered patches of sun. The golden light exposes the pallor of the stems and shines on a graveyard of dead leaves on the floor. If plants have feelings, I now have to add vegetation to the list of people I disappoint.

The memory of how much time I spent coaxing the plant to life comes back to me through the haze. I recall scrubbing a bottle that once held an overpriced iced coffee until it was crystal clear; how I placed a tiny clipping inside and watched the roots coil and elongate through the water. I had read somewhere that if you play music to plants, it helps them grow. I filled the dirt with hours of Joni Mitchell until I started dreaming in shades of green and steel guitar.

The corners of my mouth tug up against the inside of my elbow.

I take in the burnt orange pot sitting on the plastic plate I bought at Home Depot before everything got so hard again, and wonder if the plant is still alive. I moved into this apartment a year ago with the hope that the independence forced upon me by a full-time job would make me worthy of responsibility. Maybe it did for a while, but now the only thing I have to show for my heart full of good intentions is doomed to a cage of terracotta. My chest aches from pressing into the floor and a new weight settles deep inside my rib cage alongside it. I push myself up off the ground until I sit with my knees drawn tight underneath my chin, letting my cheek rest softly on the denim of my jeans. I rest there for a moment, allowing myself the transition, before finding my way to my feet and moving toward the window.

The leaves poking out of the dry soil are turning brown and stiff, but there are still little green buds growing persistently out of a few nodes. I release a shaking exhale that sends the dust swirling into the air. My mind tells me the easiest option is to lie back down on the floor again, but, instead, I find myself grabbing the plastic water bottle from the kitchen and emptying its contents onto the dirt in a small circle. I watch the liquid seep down, disappearing to find roots, and it feels like a miracle. I recycle the bottle and crack open the window, letting the fresh air ruffle the branches again as it soothes the knots in my chest. I hope I remember to water the plant again tomorrow. I want to. But for now, the dust is gone, and the water is not pooling into the plastic plate and I feel the hands on my neck loosen, just a little. I return to the stairs, and this time, I let them lead me up to my room that will not banish me to the floor. My sheets are worn from years of restless sleep, making my pillowcase soft and familiar.

I remind myself to wash my bowl and put my shoes away. I close my eyes.

Poison Ivy Clara Oyanguren

Jacob didn’t like his after-school gardening job but had to do it for his family. They needed the extra money for his brother, Eddie, to attend a better, more private school. Meanwhile, Jacob was stuck going to a crappy public school.

Listen, did he wish his family paid him that much attention? Sure, but the attention came with a price. One he was glad not pay. He would see his brother throwing up.

He could see the blank spots in his scalp.

He could see the bruises. So he goes to the Jackson’s white porched house every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to clean their garden for 25 dollars an hour.

He walks in through the side grey entrance and into the kitchen to the familiar sound of pans sizzling.

“Afternoon, Jacob,” he would hear Linda, the sweet tan-skinned woman who cooked for the family, say. He smiled at her, grateful for her kindness. “I got your usual.” She would remark, holding out a plate of PB&Js. He would then sit on the kitchen counter and eat while he watched everything run smoothly like a well-oiled machine. Linda’s chopping reminded him of his mom russing to make Eddie a quick lunch, while giving him 20 dollars. The frantic running around of the maids made him wonder when was the last time he cleaned his room.

He felt happy, warm. He didn’t know what to make of it but Linda’s sandwiches tend to have that effect on him. After eating, he gathered his tools, the weeders, pruning, and hedging spears. It was trimming duty today, so that was all he needed to bring.

His job was to keep everything symmetrical and alive.

A tall, black-spiraled gate stood before the garden, protecting it. On the other side lay all types of trees, from oak to pear trees, flowers from sunflowers to tulips, and the grass perfectly watered and kept at two and a half inches. He’s worked so much over the year that he has the layout and inventory of the garden memorized. He could walk around it blind.

He went through the motions, watering the grass and conducting a weed inspection where a few rebellious ones escaped him.

He cut each of them down, one by one.

Then he moved on to the trees, carefully inspecting each and pruning them. There was a beauty to it. A rhythm. The click of the spears and the sound of leaves falling on the floor.

The hedges were next, he had to get rid of all the twitchy old branches threatening to upset the aesthetic. He had yet to reach the most enchanting flowers he had ever seen.

“Here” He finally responded.

Red roses surrounded him, all plucky and young. Flirtatious even as they danced with the wind. Blue iris to the left with a shade of blue no sky or ocean can compare to.Tulips that looked like they came straight from Amsterdam. He revered their beauty. How they could be so confident and slick.

“Oh sweetie,” She said, heartbroken, taking his hands. “Come on, we’ll take care of it.”

He noticed something unfamiliar leaping behind the flowers. Something green.. A four leave clover, perhaps? He thought.

No, it’s something much bigger and thicker. The green-colored leaves looked so warm and bright. The surface looked glossy. He needed to touch it; feel it. The curiosity got the better of him. The mysterious plant was fluffy and comforting.

Well, comforting for a minute, until he felt a strange sensation in his arms. He couldn’t stop stretching at them. Red spots appeared all over his hand. He was sure his skin was burning. He wanted to scream, to chop his arm off with one of his tools.

He could feel her eyes on him, inspecting him.

They walked past the garden and over to the kitchen.

Jacob sat down as Linda ran trying to find things. He could see her getting cold water with baking soda on it and claritin from a small medical cabinet. Finally, she wet some pieces of cloth and started delicately rubbing them on his body.

Slowly, he didn’t want to chop off his arm anymore. Granted, the red was still there, a reminder of the pain.

“Here. Is that better hun?” She asked caringly.

“Yeah. Thank you” He didn’t know whether the medicine made him feel better or if Linda’s motherly touch did.

He inspected the plant, seeing the compound leaves with three leaflets.

Poison Ivy. Huh, beautiful but bites… like his parents, then…

He kept scratching and scratching. There was a metallic sensation on his hands.

“Jacob, honey?”

He heard someone say. He looked around, he can’t see anything.

Linda.

He wanted to run away; he didn’t want her to see him.

The footsteps getting closer.

“Honey, where are you?” The voice got clearer.

Katlyn Saldarini

His Mistake Luca Lovrich

The first was made. Then the second. Then the third.

Peering over a golden gate of dandelions, the first man saw glimpses of the Tigris. The water rushed. So did he. Stomping, he moved through the high grass, past the luscious trees and flowing meadows until his knees hit the ground. The canary chirped. The grass rattled. Following his knees his hands flew down as support, scooping the water with each finger, searching for the answer to his never ending thirst.

The second man stood tall. Courageously, he walked with a strut like that of a peacock. His feathers sprawled across his back while the Euphrates hit his toes, the water washing away the speckles of dirt on his bare feet. His sticking glare pierced through his own eyelids. The canary flew away.

Hurt and afraid. The third man trudged through the harsh terrain. His head bowed. His stomach empty. More so than anything, the feeling inside his gut was one not only of longing but one too warm for his own good. He looked through the luscious fields of trees only having his focus disrupted by a more tranquil sound of water gifting life to the reason. A canary flew by him. How lucky to see a bird of such measure on this day.

“Life” he thought. “How beautiful.”

Having taken his sips from the Tigris, the first man moved on through the fields. He took a note out of his pocket, grasping it with his muddy fingers. While he couldn’t read the note, he knew what it said. He wished it wasn’t true. A hunger brewed in the first man’s stomach and once more kneeled down on an offshoot of the Tigris and cleaned his has. The mud came of seemingly washing away all his past endeavors. “Food” he thought. “I need food.”

Doubt is not a concept the second man understood. The note he received, which he let blow away in the wind long ago, warned him about this, but a combination of naivety and overconfidence led the second man to disregard the warning.

The Euphrates was no match for the second man. He leaped passed the rushing water. The garden parted. The trees were alive. The flowers had bloomed. Suddenly they were scared.

The third man’s eyes drifted, following the path of the canary.

It flew left and right. His eyes moved left and right. He attempted to scoop the fresh water spouting from the two rivers, but his clean hands shook as he reached in. He was careful.

He knew the limits of the garden he was in. Weak. Scared. He followed the path of the canary across the river valleys taking rest in between each step. Despite his pain, he saw beauty.

Blossoms. Birds. Bees. Billowing in the sunlight. Basking in the wind. He pondered how such beauty can contrast such pain.

The hunger in the first man’s stomach called out for anything he could find. He looked up. To his delight he saw the rows of trees filled with every fruit he desired. He raised his hands, grasping at the plumps fruits seemingly just provided to him.

Carefully he removed the tree’s offspring looking at the glossy bulbous fruit. A thought crossed his mind. The note. Suddenly he remembered.

The endless rows of plants bursting at the seams with delectable fruits stood right before the second man. He yanked at each plant. Tugging. Pulling. The shrieking plants unwillingly provided for him. They had no choice. In the mind of the second man the once parted garden seemed ever so fruitful again.

Squirrels scurried away. Birds crowed. Every living thing in

sight braced for the greedy eye of man to turn its way. Fortunately, his piercing gaze had only one target. An apple.

The third man was grateful. He found a fallen pear nestled in between a rose bush and a fig tree. Careful not to poke himself (and injure himself more) he grasps the pear and takes a bite.

For a quick moment his ailments are erased. He felt the bliss.

He wants that feeling again.

The men took the fruit from the trees.

The first man learns about calvary. The third learns about eternity. The second learns nothing.

The note weighed down the first man’s pocket like a boulder resting on a wooden bridge. He knew what was right. Soon, he’d know what was wrong. The man approached another tree.

He didn’t know why. He felt a force around him, pulling at his knees. The note. He was pulled closer and closer until the tree was within hands reach. “How could I do such a thing” he thought to himself. The first man knew his only instruction was not to touch the tree that he was drawn to in the garden.

The note told him to. “But why,” the man questioned. To this question, he had no answer.

The apple glimmered brighter than the sun reflecting off each blade of grass lying beneath the feet of the second man. He wasn’t drawn to it, but he had an urge strong enough to compel the fairest forces to do the evilest things brewing inside of him.

The note. By this time the note that the second man crumpled and discarded was only in the back of his mind. “Why was I warned,” he thought. The second man’s naiveté took over his mind. He saw the apple. He ate it.

The feeling of bliss lasted only a for a quick moment. Soon enough the third man’s ailments flooded his body. Again. He needed to feel the feeling again. He had heard the rumors of the special tree in the garden. He also had heard about the consequences of taking a branch from it. Bliss. Pain. Bliss. The man needed bliss. He craved life. He wanted to hear the bird’s chirp. He wanted to hear the wind sing through the blades of grass beneath him. His desire overwhelmed him. Enough pain.

Enough suffering. The man was now determined to continue feeling the bliss he once felt as he charged over the special tree. He stood under the branch contemplating which emotion to choose from. Desire won. A snap followed. The branch fell.

The three men made their choice. For a second all everything was normal. The birds still chirped. The wind still danced through the blades of grass.

A canary flew from a tree.

The man left the tree. He trudged away feeling weaker in weaker. He began to crawl. A tear fell down his face. The canary fell to the ground.

As the man took one final look at the tree, he saw the garden he once admired. The trees were now wilted. Every fruit that once flourished found a new home on the ground next to the dried up bushed and on top of the endless view of dirt.

The man realized what it meant to make a mistake.

OETRY

Josie Swain

Vineyard Symposium By: Ava McKinney Upon entry, my eyes could not separate stone and flower — A coercion of the spirit, hope like the reason I needed wine, The victory of according plans I sigh on from a mild hurry.

Grouped thus, I wait with her, and the others unnamed.

Grape Commander walks on dismay and pride With the Miracle of the Grape on his side, His vineyard, each martyr vine a victory Against his epic war with clima change-a and the bank Only the rain-a, he proclaims over us, backlight, stern-sight, The Commander mumbles half-words and nature, A mysticism only performed where flowers grow from stone — My wine, no tasting good yet — it will, we pray, it will.

I catch Commander’s speech and twist it around my memories.

She, with a face to the same light, puts meaning over land’s arch, So we craft His life for us, use it for us, impose it all As our great vineyard awakening, the one before the wine.

Commander uncorks and names begin to form.

Grouped thus, long table, last supper — Another speech, and our wasted monologues playing sumptuous, Ours knowing that yes, this is the wine, but finally we’re alive.

A tour, is a tour, is a tour, right until The grape is a miracle, the ground hallowed hill.

It’s a lost celebration, the mist of the light — A red drink, a real laugh, a maybe, I might.

Butterflies are just moths who grew up without the internet their antenna never grew fuzzy with endless threads they remember to shave, never questioned why they stayed so sleek

How cats become moths By: Savannah Vonesh Moths are just butterflies who stay up a little later whose eyes turned into little black holes gobbling up the slightest crumb of that air filled cake we call light, ever expanding once light turned blue

Moths, and butterflies, are just cats, with pillars for legs, who forgot how to meow and stopped licking at their paws.

Only motherflies can be orange And black And white, (because of all their exes).

Pillarious cats like to scoot on their bellies and drink oat, almond, and oak milk till, inspired from dodging of chicken beaks, (for lounging leaf cats are diplomatic chicken delicacies, of course) they meet as a caucus hairy bodies rolling around as chirps and trills and leaf munching sounds decide their plan

Josie Swain

87% of the time, the cat caucus choose transformation. The other 13% sounds something like “squish”, and is still a transformation just of a different name. 87% of the time, the tickling mass separates out - odds over here, evens over there, and they all wrap their tails Here, they just sit and liquify. The amorphous butterflies around their noses, shoulders, stomach, feet, listen to green noise and aphid sounds. stick their concrete toes into a leaf, and trill their last Deliquesced moths just think - probably too much. pur as the fur becomes a tenuous blanket.

They probably put in their headphones.

They wonder why they had to come from eggs, just to be larger eggs again.

When the air begins to smell like gardenias, blankets burst and out pop the creatures, extra limbs, looming eyes, curling whisker nose.

Butterflies try to drink the sun, moths try to drink the lake.

The silly creatures don’t realize it’s the same thing

A Conversation with Gabrielle Bell Gabrielle Bell is an esteemed cartoonist and author of five graphic novels. Her autobiographical comics are loosely based on her life, touching on philosophical topics in a dark and humorous way. She will be visiting Davidson The week of March 18th. The Libertas staff had the wonderful opportunity to talk to Bell via Zoom, in anticipation of her visit to campus. We thought our reader’s might enjoy learning more about Bell and her work, and we’ve included a few snippets of the interview below.

Image credit: Wikipedia

I’m doing these comics about lucid dreaming and dream yoga, where you become aware you’that you’re dreaming and you do exercises in the dream to learn about yourself and expand spiritually.

What are you working on right now?

What’s your medium?

I use a fountain pen...But I use my own carbon based ink that won’t smear. It’s a whole process using a dropper. And I use it for my whole process. I usually do a sketch of the comic and then I redraw with a lightbox.

Do you normally plan out comics in advance?

I generally let them take me where I want to go.

Which is difficult because sometimes it doesn’t go anywhere. It’s like being in a dark room groping around for a doorknob. It’s a very organic process. It’s very mysterious how the creative process happens.

I heard the food is really good! I’m also excited about performing a slideshow for students. It’s going to be a whole theatrical event. I’m excited for the whole adventure of it!

What excites you most about visiting the week of March 18th

Dear Reader, Spring at Davidson has always been my favorite part of the year. The weather gets warm, and campus begins to bloom. The promise of sunny spaces drives us out of our dorms onto the lawns, and blankets and hammocks begin dotting every green space. We convince our professors to have class in the sculpture garden alongside the daffodils. We soak in the roar of the lawnmowers, Davidson’s own personal army. Forgive my flowery language, but the Davidson garden, both metaphoric and literal, really begins to bloom after spring break. In this issue, the staff wanted to capture the feeling of a blooming garden, the art form of planning, planting, waiting, and watering. We hope you enjoy the Garden issue of Libertas.

With the change of seasons also comes change for Libertas. We are currently planting the seeds for our new staff in the fall, and I am so excited to announce that Audrey Bohlin will be joining as our new Editor in Chief. She has always been an enthusiastic and dedicated member of our staff, and I can’t wait to see the magazine thrive in her hands.

This issue of the magazine will be Max’s last as EIC, and I want to take a moment to thank him for everything he has done for Libertas. Max and I took on Libertas almost two years ago, with hardly any idea of how running a magazine worked. With his passion for the magazine, he turned our vision into a campus wide community of editors, writers, artists, designers, and readers. He made the magazine a reality–running meetings, recruiting staff members, and making sure every edition was published and distributed on time. Without Max’s hard work, Libertas would not be the magazine it is today.

And lastly, dear readers, thank you. We couldn’t do it without you. So go sit in a garden (or don’t if you have allergies) and enjoy this edition of Libertas Literary Magazine.

Elsah James, Editor-in-Chief

Josie Swain

SATREBIL