Lyceum Volume VIII Spring 2022

Volume VII | Fall 2021 1

Lyceum

A Literar y Science Magazine Co-presidents

Meheret Ourgessa Sierra Smith Zach Baker

Treasurer

Sumaya Ahmed

Editing & Contributing Advisors Nathan Chu (Text Head) Hailey Napier (Text Head) Gillian Doty (Visual Head)

Editing Team

Nathan Chu Meheret Ourgessa Hailey Napier Sam Bowden Gabby Rachman

Gillian Doty Derek Dean

Design Team

Ansley Grider Zach Baker

Sierra Smith Rachael Tomasko Yufan Lu Nathan Chu

Meheret Ourgessa Elise Minion

Front Cover

Sierra Smith

Back Cover

Emilia Thompson

Media Assistant Ansley Grider Yufan Lu

Volume VIII | Spring 2022 3

Editor’s Note Greetings from the Lyceum Team, Originally formed in the fall of 2018 between Sarah McPeek ‘19 and Miriam Hyman ‘21, Lyceum was conceived as a literary forum for those in the sciences. Similarly, the word lyceum comes from the Greek word, lykeion, the name given to a garden or grove where Aristotle taught. The magazine Lyceum comes from the imaginations and minds of Kenyon students devoted to both creative and scientific endeavors. This eighth issue of Lyceum marks one full year without our founders, and also, the final issue for another generation of contributors.

The magazine you are reading right now is not only the result of our editors’ and designers’ best efforts, but also a testament to Lyceum’s survival. It is true that Lyceum no longer benefits from one clear leader to frame our work and develop our thoughts, but in its place, we’ve fostered our own community and care. Like our countless emails and this very opening suggests, we are a team. Lyceum is truly a collaborative effort, not just between the sciences and arts, but between all our members as well.

A lyceum is a hall for public lectures, yes, but it is also a hall for public discussions. Within these pages you will find the comedy of campus raccoons, meditations on black holes, human trash and songbirds reviving. Science is not just the empirical, and art is not just aesthetic. Lyceum as a magazine is dedicated to reimagining those exact boundaries between STEM and the humanities. In that sense, Lyceum embodies what it means to pursue a liberal arts education, to seek new connections between disparate fields and make space beyond the tried and true.

We hope that you enjoy the following works. This semester, we have received more submissions than ever before, and we have never been more proud to present an issue.

Cheers, The Lyceum Team

Julia Holton 4

Table of Contents Editor’s Note............................................................................................................................4 Ascension by Julia Holton...........................................................................................................4 Metamorphosis by Sierra Smith.................................................................................................6 Behind the Mask by Hailey Napier and Meheret Ourgessa.......................................................8 Family Happiness by Hailey Napier........................................................................................10 Stinkbug Surrealism by Gillian Doty......................................................................................11 Midwestern Gothic by Emma Banks.......................................................................................11 Origin by Sierra Smith.............................................................................................................12 Untitled Photograph by Emma Banks.....................................................................................13 A Deafening Silence by Lara O’Callaghan..............................................................................14 Covid Birdsong by Lara O’Callaghan.....................................................................................16 Lunchpoem by Emma Banks..................................................................................................17 Skull by Emilia Thompson......................................................................................................17 Doubles by Nathan Chu.........................................................................................................18 The Looking Glass by Ayman Wadud.....................................................................................19 Jetzt by Katarina Yepez............................................................................................................21 Oceanic Pas de deux by Samantha Silk...................................................................................22 The Big Bang by Marlena Brown............................................................................................23 Treehouse by Stephanie Nyarko...............................................................................................23 What Would Happen if You Fell into a Black Hole? by Ansley Grider...................................24 One with the Universe by Halle Preneta.................................................................................27 Response to “How to Love a Black Hole” by Halle Preneta..................................................28 Dark Lighting by Ayman Wadud............................................................................................28 No One Listens to the Eclipse by Halle Preneta.....................................................................30 Intravenous by Eva Illuzzi.......................................................................................................31 Lost and Found by Eva Illuzzi.................................................................................................32 Enchanting Geminids by Emilia Thompson............................................................................33 Plastics on Fire by Meheret Ourgessa.......................................................................................36 Despite All Odds by Gabby Rachman.....................................................................................38

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Metamorphosis Sierra Smith With a slow approach and quick escape the little tadpole noses the surface of his world

The glistening portal to a great unknown is a perfect place for test driving new lungs

A rush of oxygen straight to the head before his gills take back the wheel

Inhaling water bubbles of oxygen bring his head down to the pond

The murky cradle welcomes him back and offers him reeds to rest his legs 6

Bella Stevens

Wriggling toes and tail in a close race propel his body upward and he again pierces the surface

Kicking downward, he inspects the tiny, webbed feet that escape his body exceedingly each day

His tail retreats inward followed by the gills with little time to mourn either

Stolen air becomes breath and the surface his new floor

Realizing he was underwater the young frog leaps onto the shore.

Rose Cobb 7

Behind the Mask:

The Truth about Kenyon College’s Furry Bandits

By Hailey Napier and Meheret Ourgessa We have all experienced a chance raccoon encounter on Kenyon College’s late night scene. Perhaps you saw one walking along Middle Path. It was dark and foggy. The raccoon hovered over the ground towards you until it stopped and looked deeply into your eyes. You felt ashamed and broke eye contact, and the raccoon turned the other way, leaving you touched and forever craving an understanding with these nocturnal creatures.

I too have felt this way, so I decided to collaborate with an anonymous benefactor to provide the Kenyon community with profiles of some of the most beloved raccoons that inhabit our village.

Mather Breezeway Raccoon Photo credit: Samuel Jankey The Mather Breezeway Raccoon is without a doubt Kenyon’s most famous and fashionable trash panda. Even human fans have adopted his look. Kanye West was in fact inspired by the Mather Breezeway Rraccoon when designing Julia Fox’s Paris Fashion Week makeup. Frequently photographed by his numerous admirers in the trash can by the short-side door, it appears that he tries to make an obscene amount of noise digging around so he’ll get more attention. He’s also been known to pop his head out when he hears people approaching so they can get a good look.

Gund Raccoon Photo credit: Cat Madden No experience can ever be as intense as the first time I met the Gund raccoon. I met his fiery eyes as he was silently perched on a tree near my first-year dormitory and I have never stopped thinking about him since. Images of those pearly eyeballs, cheeks you could kiss forever, and ears worth murdering for have never left my mind after that fateful night.

If I had known then that I would never see him again, I don’t know how I could have remained sane. But slowly, I have started to accept reality.

One of my friends said that they saw him yesterday and got punched though. Serves them right if you ask me. They were undeserving of his gaze.

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McIlvaine Raccoon (Simon/Simone) Photo credit: Rachel Billings Don’t let Simone fool you into thinking that she is just another overgrown garbage hamster (please don’t tell my anonymous generous benefactor that I used those three words in succession). She is the wholesomest Kenyon raccoon, oft spotted tending to other smol overgrown garbage hamsters. A Kenyon student even saw her teaching the young ones (little cute gigantic rats with heart-warming smiles) how to climb a tree. Simone sometimes reminds me of how generous my anonymous generous benefactor has been toward me. I am very grateful for my anonymous generous selfless benefactor. I understand that my anonymous generous selfless courageous benefactor respects the magnificence of raccoons and their culture. I also deeply respect raccoons and their culture. Furthermore, if my anonymous generous selfless courageous enchanting benefactor ever displays intense and very emotional moods, I also understand that these emotions are only fairly stirred by the awe these spectacular creatures inspire in my anonymous generous courageous enchanting glistening benefactor. Thank you, anonymous generous selfless bloodthirsty enchanting glistening saucyTM sexy benefactor.

Caples Raccoon Photo credit: Payton Doan The towering obelisk that is Caples provides a perfect vantage point for raccoon observation. Indeed, there is a large dead tree just outside of the building filled with holes perfectly suited for a trash panda’s house. The raccoon that lived in this dead tree was once the sole source of joy for the inhabitants of Caples. According to the account of Payton Doan, a Kenyon raccoon admirer, “at approximately 9 am every single morning, we were able to witness this small miracle…this sweet baby [furball] snuggling in for the day (its nighttime).” Doan described the Caples Raccoon as having “the most ADORABLE FACE”, adorned with “small salt and pepper ears.”

The Caples Raccoon did not respond to my multiple requests for a comment on this story, and it appears to have abandoned its residence in the dead tree. Perhaps life in the limelight was simply too much for this recluse raccoon, leaving the residents of Caples sad and lonely once again.

Bookstore Raccoons Many a Kenyon student has claimed to have seen the elusive bookstore raccoons, otherwise known as the Bwkies.

Some have glimpsed them shimmying into the gutters by Wiggins Street Coffee, pieces of pizza clutched in their hands.

Others have witnessed this pack of mammals convening to plot and share secret information by the laundry room under the bookstore. While it was previously unknown what the Bwkies are scheming about, our recent investigation has revealed that these raccoons are compelled to protect the books housed within the bookstore, and will do so at any cost.

It is inadvisable to approach the Bwkies, as their innate mob mentality may cause them to spontaneously attack any human they perceive to be a potential threat to the books. Students have reported being chased down Middle Path by packs of raccoons brandishing tiny knives in the middle of the night. These raccoons know no laws but those of the sacred texts, and feel no qualms with murder. Consider yourself warned.

So, the next time you see a raccoon slinking about on a late night stroll, remember to get on your knees and kiss the ground they walk upon, for every raccoon is deserving of this respect. You should thank my generous benefactor for enabling me to report on these spectacular creatures. I also would like to thank my generous benefactor, who is also sexy. As per our NDA, I am unable to disclose the identity of my very sexy BENEFACTOR. I should stop talking about how sexy they are, I guess. I love you, Benny.

9

Family Happiness

(AKA Autobiography of a Stink Bug) Hailey Napier The wind is dead leaves, hanging like broken homes from telephone wires it’s been a lifetime since I left my family the summer forgave us for traveling in barrels like women falling into the world from the side of a waterfall we held onto each other until we began to smell rotting and distended ovaries suspended from branches like a surprise inheritance I was unimaginably hungry I left my siblings I bled unharvested profits dry for months, sucking out the insides of apples and soybeans and peaches now I cling to the carcasses of my victims I feel my blended insides pushing out flying I follow the rotten smell of family

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Gillian Doty

Emma Banks 11

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Emma Banks 13

A Deafening Silence: Improved Songbird Vocal Performance During COVID-19 Shutdown Lara O’Callaghan

Though the COVID-19 pandemic has wrought drastic change with high mortality rates and wide-scale shutdowns, it has also given rise to some unexpected benefits. With reduced global human activity, the pandemic has provided a unique set of conditions to study climate change and ecosystems, especially with lower daily CO2 emissions, less transportation, and reduced noise pollution. One study took advantage of the lack of noise to examine how the absence of noise pollution impacts the birdsongs of White-crowned sparrows (Zonotrichia leucophrys) in the San Francisco Bay Area. Iris Levin, a professor of Biology and Animal Behavior at Kenyon College, was intrigued by this research; she comments, “this is such a great example of scientists taking advantage of a ‘natural experiment.’ COVID slowed down or prevented some science from moving forward [but] how great to see a research group take advantage of the circumstances and learn something new about biology and birdsong more specifically!”

In their recent paper, Elizabeth P. Derryberry and colleagues found that not only do songbirds shift their song fre-

quency to improve vocal performance and communication, but they are remarkably resilient in the face of anthropogenic interference. Previous studies have supported the idea that anthropogenic pressures, including noise pollution, can constrain animal behavior, but this experiment demonstrates that songbirds can also recover and adapt to rapidly changing soundscapes in order to improve their communication efficiency.

Songbirds employ a highly developed form of communication. In fact, only a few other taxa are able to produce such a large range of sounds with such intricate vocalizations. Songs are vital modes of communication that allow these birds to share information and attract mates. Known as the Lombard Effect, songbirds often modify acoustical features of their song, like frequency or pitch, in the presence of background noise (Dorado-Correa et al. 2018). This communication mechanism is useful because it allows signalers to communicate over background noise. However, modifying the song is not ideal for an individual or a population. Therefore, Dearryberry and colleagues predicted

Ansley Grider 14

the sparrows would adjust their acoustic calls to a lower frequency during the COVID lockdown because there was less background noise.

Noise pollution is not the first thing that comes to mind when discussing human-induced environmental change, but it can have serious consequences for surrounding regions. When the level of noise in a certain area reaches a harmful level, it is considered noise pollution. This is often due to industrial activity and traffic. Derryberry and colleagues quantified the effect of noise on birds by measuring urban birdsongs in relation to noise levels from before and during the COVID-19 Shutdown. This experiment required a contextual understanding of how much noise pollution has dropped over the past few months. They measured background noise levels in urban and rural locations of the Bay Area. As expected, urban background noise dropped considerably during the shutdown while noise levels for rural areas remained stable. They believe this is largely due to traffic levels which have reached record lows. The amount of traffic in April was equivalent to traffic levels from 1954 (Derryberry et al. 2020). In this study, the rural regions acted as a control to illustrate what we would expect to see in an unpolluted noise environment.

White-crowned sparrows are one of approximately 4,000 species that make up the Songbird (Passerine) family. White-crowned sparrows are popular within scientific literature because of their distinct song; they typically have a discernible whistling introduction, an assortment of whistles in the middle, and a clear trill (or buzz) at the end (Cornell Lab of Ornithology). This trill is what Derryberry and colleagues analyzed to better understand their optimal vocal performance as well as how the sparrows might alter their songs. Vocal performance was based on two things: trill rate and frequency bandwidth. Trill rate is the number of notes sung in a given timeframe while frequency bandwidth is the difference between the maximum and minimum trill frequency. Unfortunately, it is physiologically impossible for songbirds to maintain both a high trill rate and a wide frequency bandwidth. Thus, an individual is faced with a trade-off; they can have a high trill rate and low bandwidth or vice versa. This is analogous to choosing between endurance or sprinting. You can run at a fast pace for short distances, or run at a slower pace for longer distances, but you can’t physically maintain a sprint for a long-distance course.

The individuals with the highest vocal performance typically fall somewhere in the middle, where they have both a moderate trill rate and a moderate bandwidth.

Derryberry and colleagues established that sparrows have greater vocal performance when singing at wider bandwidths. They also found that the frequency bandwidth during the shutdown in urban areas was substantially wider than prior to the COVID shutdown (Derryberry et al.

2020). This optimal vocal performance was observed during the COVID shutdown because individuals did not have to

compete with the low-frequency urban background noise.

Moreover, with improved vocal performance and the use of wider bandwidths, signalers are able to transmit more information over longer distances. This plays a large role in elevating fitness and increasing the likelihood of survival.

This study explores questions about how anthropogenic pressures impact animals and further illustrates why humans need to mitigate harmful practices and behaviors.

On the other hand, the White-crowned sparrows in this study displayed behavior that changed substantially over a relatively short period of time. Accordingly, this study is promising because it suggests that animals and ecosystems are even more resilient than previously thought.*

Ayman Wadud

*References can be found on kenyonlyceum.wordpress.com

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Lara O’Callaghan 16

LUNCHPOEM Emma Banks

Ruby keeps telling me to look out for antlers. She tells me they are symbolic because they keep showing up in our spaces. She burns her palo santo.

I want to ask if things have more horns than we thought or if we are just watchful. She wants to know if I would accept a pig’s heart in a transplant, if I am ready for the bookend of this life. Ruby asks all the right questions.

She tells me if I cannot accept a pig heart I cannot accept a pig. She tells me I have been socialized into the grotesque. I don’t know why it is that I don’t want the pig heart, and maybe that’s the problem, it’s a question of want and not need. Ruby doesn’t ask me if I would take what I need. I don’t tell her that I wouldn’t. Ruby puts some lemon in a pot on the stove. Ruby says we could reconsider it all if we wanted it to–– what is fine and what isn’t. The steam in the pot rises hot breath. I want to tell her I am easily an animal, called home with a whistle unheard.

Emilia Thompson 17

Doubles Nathan Chu

Surely… this time. The Duplicator’s steam barrels into me, drilling into my pores. Deep within the vapor, a rectangular prism of lights shines, and slowly, I begin to make out the human shape inside.

The steam dies down and I step forward. “Hello, number 43.” The clone blinks. Behind its eyes, I can see it processing all the memories inside of its brain, trying to integrate a lifetime in just a few seconds. I’ve seen it many times now, the rapid eye movements, the blinking, even the subtle sheen of perspiration. I’m intimately familiar with it.

“Who?” It starts. I recognize the confusion, the slight imbalance of seeing your mirror image, only it’s not flipped.

It does not follow your movements. It breathes and speaks. It is another person, not you.

“Your name is number 43. You are a clone of Jason Soleri,” I answer. I know it was asking for my name. It thinks it knows who it is. But this is what it needs to know now.

“No, I’m-” “You are a clone of Jason Soleri. You think you have a PhD, you think you teach at a private university that doubles as a national think-tank, you think that you’re on the verge of a breakthrough in cloning. You are wrong.” I raise my hand towards the Duplicator. “Because that right there is a functioning Duplicator. It has already been made. By Jason Soleri,” I add.

The clone continues to stare at me. I am familiar with this too. I have played this moment back dozens of times now. Their expressions are always the same. Elation? Horror?

Wonderment? What now?

“Let me introduce you to your role for now.” I turn, keeping it in the corner of my eye. Clones can be erratic.

They have a history of turning violent. The truth is a bitter pill. “You are not Jason Soleri, but you will be living your life as if you were him. In all elements except the truth, you effectively be him.” I hand the clone a set of clothes, beige slacks, a pale blue polo, and a lab coat. They are all pressed, creases running through them. The clone will look sharp, professional, exactly like Jason Soleri.

The clone looks at me, at the clothes, and back to me.

I know it is weighing its options. If it accepts the clothes, something inside it will crumble. Taking the clothes means acknowledging my reality, it means bowing to my authority, accepting that it is the fake.

But what is there for it to lose? In everything but the truth, this clone will be Jason. It will live its life as a continuation.

“Why?” Its voice is raspy. I make a note to readjust the hydration settings, but it is nothing that a few glasses of wa18

ter and an hour won’t fix.

“Data,” I reply. “You already know this.” It should anyway. What makes a clone a clone? Consider the Bog Man thought experiment or the Ship of Theseus. What makes something or someone that particular existence? The arrangement of its atoms? But then, it thinks, and I think, and we think different things though we are identical in every other way. Does that mean the Duplicator spontaneously creates a consciousness?

These are the questions I’m interested in now. Initially, the experiment was to see if it was possible. That is the set of memories this clone has. It understands that I need to take data to test the clone’s limits.

Number 1 demonstrated both communicative faculties and the ability to entertain hypotheticals, but it died after two weeks. The cause of death was sudden organ failure. Of the kidneys to be precise.

Number 2 only lasted four days. It died of a particularly aggressive leukemia.

From that point on, research pivoted towards pushing the viable envelope for clones. The current limit is unknown because from number 12 onwards, clones started developing psychoses, or rather they lived long enough for the mental strain of living with their double to start affecting them. The first seven, numbers 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, broke down before their bodies could fail and committed suicide or were euthanized.

I think of these early numbers as 43 takes the clothes from my hands and I point it towards the small changing room in the corner. Each of the first eighteen are now nothing more than a couple dozen pages of observation notes each.

The rule after number 19 is not to get attached to them.

You lose a certain part of yourself attending their bedside in those last days of life. It is unhealthy to see your own face yellowing and withering to a husk.

There is also another reason that you should never get attached to clones 19 and later. An overcorrection to 19, an enhanced aggression that predisposes the clone to violence.

It was supposed to be a fortifying change, a bolster to the psyche and an anticipatory adjustment to the form to accommodate a more stable mental structure. It has taken a long time to temper that variable, though after 19, it is always best to be careful.

Number 43 quickly settles into its new life, or as it views it, its old life. Of course, a few days are enough to convince it that I am indeed correct. When everyone tells you that it is five years later than you think it is, and every calendar, clock, and electronic device confirms this, you cannot help but ac-

knowledge that it is in fact you who is stuck in the past. Repeat something enough times, and even the smartest, most skeptic person will crumble under the weight of hegemony.

I note how 43 reacts to this change. A clone’s willingness to adapt is the best marker for its mental viability going forward.

43 teaches class exactly like Jason Soleri, holds office hours in the same room Soleri did, has the same clipped response and examples for students.

I also note this. Habit formation and retention are good indicators for continued functioning. They act as landmarks for the user when they are lost, give some stability when their memory starts failing.

This pattern of observation started after number 21. Following number 19, a greater distance had to be maintained between the clones. Number 20 was given a greater degree of autonomy, and research shifted to see if clones themselves could replace the original despite the disparity in personality and health. But number 20’s behavioral patterns became too erratic and they had to be eliminated.

Number 21 was given a much shorter leash, but still direct surveillance was limited. Part of me back then was hesitant to infringe on the clone’s privacy, but after three months, number 21 had enmeshed itself so thoroughly into social groups and relationships that when its organs failed and number 22 had to be rushed out, 22 did not have a solid enough grasp of 21’s obligations. The mess caused too much suspicion. Now all the clothes I give to the clones are equipped with cameras and microphones. The clones, of course, have no idea this is the case.

Number 21’s tissue rejection and 22’s premature debut also indicated another flaw, or rather a continued flaw. Biologically, the clones were not viable. It was a humbling epiphany. I was starting from scratch, and the early patterns of physical defects, mental psychosis, and violence would continue to cycle through each other, only slowly evening out.

I have seen dozens of clones now, and I can only guess that number 43 will eventually crumble to some mental disorder that I have seen many times but am ill-equipped to treat or even approach.

But 43 surprises me. It builds few relations, but they are tight. One student in particular comes in every office hours and 43 engages with them readily. A coworker invites the clone for a night out, and 43 performs admirably for the group in an impromptu karaoke session. 43 connects with the rest of the faculty more readily than any other clone before it. Most interestingly, 43 begins dating.

The woman is Eleanor Felt, 32 years old, a teacher at a nearby high school. She enjoys arts and crafts, a strong stout, and stand up comedy. She is not the kind of person Jason Soleri would date, but then again, Jason Soleri would never date anybody. Jason Soleri and his clones are too concerned with their research and all clones, independently or collaboratively with their original, have always continued their studies.

Ayman Wadud But number 43 seems to have realized that if it is the result of a successful cloning experiment, then it does not need to concern itself with that endeavor any longer. I consider this a breakthrough, though 43 continues to diverge in its behavioral patterns from the original. It is, at the very least, encouraging because previously, clones who internalize that they are clones either become homicidal or suicidal. This is only the second deviation from that pattern.

The good weather does not hold. In November, number 43 begins to get moody. It snaps back in staff meetings, mocks its students. Eleanor begins avoiding it, making excuses for her lateness on dates, and eventually blocks 43 on all social outlets.

Number 43 is unstable.

But I am unwilling to give up on it. Number 43 was produced in February. It has lived over nine months, an exceptionally long time for a clone. Perhaps it is affected by the change in seasons, though I am unable to diagnose it with Seasonal Affective Disorder, and none of the clones have ever displayed such a tendency. It is not present in the original scan either.

I schedule an appointment with a counselor and phone number 43. It is the first real contact we have made since I sent it out of the lab in February. I try to keep our lives separate. Reminders about being a clone negatively impact clones. Number 43 has few reasons to return to the lab when I let it live in Soleri’s house and the lab is in the opposite direction of the university.

“I’ve put you down for Friday.”

19

“Why?” It was the last word it asked in the lab too.

“It will be good for you.” I wonder if I sound like its internal voice. Not in terms of pitch or timbre or resonance, but as a nagging presence. “Think of it as a routine checkup.”

“I know what’s best for me, and I’ve managed fine on my own for the past nine months thank you very much.” It sounds defensive and is holding itself tightly as it talks to me on speaker phone. I can see it sitting in the living room on the monitor.

“I still think it would be good for you to get a second opinion.”

“Well, I think it’s a waste of time and money. Where do you get off thinking you can tell me what to do?” Number 43 stands and starts pacing the room. I can hear its voice trickle away in volume as it leaves the phone behind.

I wait for it to return. It feels as if 43 is waiting to hear my voice, tinny and small from across the room. I do not waste my breath. I do not give number 43 the satisfaction. I wait ten minutes and number 43 returns. “I am you.” Surely, number 43 will understand this. We are the same, fundamentally. The same atoms, the same base memories.

“No, you are not me, and you can’t tell me what to do, and you certainly can’t spend my money that I earned with my own time on useless appointments! We are not the same!

Who has been teaching classes for the past year? Who is the one at gatherings for students, putting themselves out there?

You’re not the one who has to deal with my life!” Number 43 heaves after its outburst.

“Go to the appointment. It is already scheduled.” I hang up.

Number 43 does as it is told, though as I monitor it, I can see that therapy has little effect. Weeks pass and I continue to schedule appointments with the counselor, then a therapist, and finally a psychiatrist. I note that it never talks about the clone situation. It is an unspeakable trauma, a detail that can never be divulged except to myself, and it will never acknowledge me. Eventually, it stops attending the appointments.

I finger the self-destruct button that I fashioned for 43.

After 19, it became standard protocol to implement some form of disposal in case the clone became too unstable. Previous to 19, an internal device was never needed. Clones would either biologically fail or submit themselves to euthanasia.

It is tempting to detonate. 43 has become more and more erratic. I worry for Prof. Soleri, even though the title has secured tenure. Number 43 has not crossed the event horizon, but it may soon, and I have no way of knowing when it will do irreparable damage to our reputation. In the closing weeks of the fall semester, I monitor 43 constantly. Whatever it eats, how long it sleeps, when it showers and shits. I mark it all down. Never before have I put as much detail into the exact movements of a clone.

But number 43 manages to pull through finals. At least, it pulls through administering finals. It leaves all the students’ tests piled high in the living room, but I am content.

20

For a few days, I let myself simply watch 43 pace the house.

Its vitals show an elevated blood pressure and cholesterol plus arrhythmia but nothing fatal, and expected considering its new diet.

Days after the semester ends, I allow myself to sleep more than a breath’s worth. 43 will soon complete an entire year. I will stop pestering it for the moment.

Except that’s not enough for 43.

An alarm trips off. Number 43 is entering the lab’s premises. I shake sleep to my extremities, they are heavy with it, and stumble to collect the tool I need to deal with it. My bones ache with the knowledge of what is to come. I have lived it already.

43 opens the door. It is brandishing a knife.

“You’ve come to end things?”

It growls. Anger clogs its throat. It hates me. Without me, it would have been free, it would not have to know that it is a clone, it would be Jason Soleri. It has merely come to make that fantasy a reality, to get rid of that pesky skeleton in the closet and put all this nonsense behind it. But even if that were the case, it wouldn’t be able to drop this.

“I’m sorry but killing me won’t help you.”

43 slashes the air.

“It won’t make you any more Jason Soleri than it will me.”

I can see no flicker of recognition, no sign that it has registered the meaning behind my words. They are simply noises to it now. It has lost the ability to reason.

“And beyond that, you would still continue this, all this.”

I gesture around the lab, the piles of notes, the beakers, the Duplicator. “Because it’s what I would do.”

43 lunges at me, and I wonder if I’ve locked myself in a never-ending cycle, trying to make the perfect clone, a clone that can live up to Jason Soleri’s name. Perhaps the process is flawed because I am the one in charge.

I step forward diagonally, surprising the clone. It expected me to scramble back, but I have experience on my side. I knock the knife hand’s forearm and send the weapon flying before slamming my palm into its chest. My right hand grabs the tool in my belt and I slash its neck. Not the self-destruct button, but my own knife.

Number 43 doubles over clutching at its flapping flesh.

It’s a clean cut, I’ve severed both branches of the carotid. The familiar scent of blood fills the air and I’m stabbing downward again. Frustration leeches out with 43’s life force, my own anger. In the end, we are both silent, him dead on the floor and me still straddling his chest, heaving as I pull out my knife one last time and let it clatter to the floor.

That makes twenty four. Two dozen. Failures.

I stumble to my feet.

I’m sorry, Doctor.

I couldn’t find you again.

I’ve only repeated my mistake with you.

I will try again.

I will bring you back.

Katarina Yepez 21

Oceanic Pas de deux Samantha Silk A mass of ocean grass billows In the wind of lapping ripples.

Rows of mossy green Ferns like a field of corn Leap, pirouette, and tilt Like lean dancers on a stage, Lilting to lullabies of the weaving waves above.

Elegant seaweed sways and swishes in unison As patient jellyfish float along, Both chasing the hypnotic pull Of mysterious seawater.

Spiky sea urchins cling to coral– Like the toes of a barefoot child Stubbornly grasping at the soft soil below– Their thorns nuzzling up against a homely reef.

A school of fish– small and slick– shoots past, Like silver daggers slicing gashes as they streak across the water Or a chain of ashen bullets fiercely propelled through the sea.

Each narrow fish is one brush stroke in a pointillistic painting Of birds gliding across a sunset sky smeared with vivid acrylics.

As a lone Garibaldi Damselfish approaches the argentate school, Gleaming and glimmering and innocently drifting Around the coral stage of this oceanic theater, Silver daggers and ashen bullets frantically scatter, Frantic to avoid the tangerine twinkles Of this outsider, this foreign dancer– Costumed in a shiny cape of orange sequins.

Slivers of silver bullets peek out From behind the protection of seaweed As they try to erase themselves From this oceanic painting, Leaving only the fleeting echoes

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the big bang, which sounds a lot like “Beverly Hills” Marlena Brown I am a planet on brown overlarge roller skates.

I orbit a stranger who can dance like no one I’ve ever seen.

I think I’ll get a cancer-causing soft drink after this song, or I’ll kneel on the black and spacey carpet and cut a piece to take home and stick under a microscope. now I can really see the stars! they make me want to dance. they have never tasted an electric blue soda, but look how colorful they are, how they hold one another. or maybe they are exploding.

Stephanie Nyarko 23

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Ansley Grider 26

One With the Universe Halle Preneta

I watch as the city rolls past us.

The huge water tower that looms above just gliding by, gliding away from my view.

When the plane lifts, I breathe in slowly with its movement.

Pushes and pulls I can feel deep within my chest like walking on a tightrope, balancing, always moving with the motions of gravity pushing and pulling me around.

When the clouds embrace me like an old friend, I feel one with the sky.

I feel the sun’s yellow bursting from within the blue inside my chest.

The stars’ white dots speckled on black and blue nights like a splatter painting or like the polka dots on my dog’s black and white fur, its softness I haven’t touched in what feels like years.

I feel like the oxygen molecules hovering within the air.

Like this plane could crumble and I would still be able to survive as I join my sibling molecules.

Everyone else surviving off our energetic motion.

Our little party sustaining whole species, whole life forms we haven’t even discovered yet.

Whole planets we haven’t even found yet, each of them having their own little molecule parties.

The laughs so hard we lose our breath.

The eyes glowing in wonder like the stars in the sky.

The dancing like planets orbiting around axes.

These are the parties that sustain our lives.

That keep our souls glowing.

Our feet moving, one in front of the other.

That keep us living.

I watch as the clouds roll past us as the plane guides me home and breathe.

I am one with the sky, finally ready for the party, the event of the century, my life to begin.

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Response to “How to Love a Black Hole” from Lyceum Fall 2021, Volume VII Halle Preneta

Why do you think people say they are “in love”?

Because when they are “in love” they have been thrown into it.

Surrounded by it like being inside the darkest darkroom.

Blackness taking over all of your sight.

Love is the f irst thing you think about when you wake up and the last thing you think about when you fall asleep.

It is always there, always buzzing in the back of your head.

Always written in the stars that stare down at you with narrow eyes, trying to tell you that you deserve better.

It is the ozone layer slowly breaking apart with every sacrif ice you make to get that one person to recognize you.

It is whole and encompassing and swallowing and yet we love it.

Yet, we f ind ourselves in it all the time.

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Loving like this is loving a black hole.

Loving a black hole is being f illed with all of the light in the world.

Loving a black hole is being sucked into its aura and not caring about who, what, when, why, or how.

Loving a black hole is being exploded into a supernova, a star’s death holding so much beauty within itself.

Loving a black hole is f inding the beauty within every single thing on this planet.

It is a black cat’s fur against the whitest snow.

It is her hair like a winter night’s sky.

It is laughing with friends at dinner to the point where we lose our breaths.

Loving a black hole is being honest with yourself.

Loving a black hole is hard.

There is no controlling love just as there is no controlling black holes or star’s death or planet’s destruction.

The only thing we can do is learn how to live alongside the universe we have built for ourselves.

So you ask “how do you love a black hole?”

The simplest answer is with every single part of you you could possibly offer so that when it f inally takes you, sucks you up into its darkness, it takes all of you with it.

Ayman Wadud 29

No One Listens to the Eclipse Trigger Warning: Mentions of intrusive thoughts and physical sickness/gore

Halle Preneta Talking to me is like talking to an eclipse that wasn’t supposed to happen leaving everyone both mildly confused and scared yet awed all at the same time.

The trail of wonder I strive to leave behind in this world a bleeding trail of red.

My intestines laying as a buzzing heap on the ground that you walk past without question.

I carry my hurt around with me like a purse.

Take it everywhere I go.

Don’t think twice about leaving it at home; feeling tethered to it like a ball to a chain.

I carry my hurt around with me like an IV bag.

Have it hooked into my arm.

The only thing I am living off of yet am tired of surviving on.

I just want be released from the tethers that are tying me here.

The ropes around my ankles that seem to get tighter and tighter with each passing day.

The day my professor says I’m “suddenly sick” because of a deadline is the day I remember that people will not always believe me when I say that my hurt is what is keeping me tied to this Earth.

I don’t tell her my sickness has been happening for the past three weeks I don’t tell her that I’m tired of the walls of the bathroom stall yet still find myself trapped inside them.

I don’t tell her that I genuinely wanted to get the assignment in on time but everytime I sat down to do it, my brain would go blank and all words would escape me and I would find myself somewhere else because my brain has stopped loading this reality into existence.

My hurt is why I am late.

My hurt is why I make excuses to stay in bed.

My hurt is why I am somehow still alive yet dead.

My hurt is why I am an eclipse.

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A sun blocked by a moon, leaving me to only see eyes.

I try to tell you to see me for why I am truly here but you only look.

You only look and then turn away.

No one listens to the eclipse.

Only stop and stare at her marvelous beauty and wonder and then leave.

Go about their day.

They do not see that she is hurting too.

They do not see that she is silenced by the same people who raised her up high.

They do not see that she whispers stories to herself in hopes that someone will one day hear them and come save her.

They do not see that she is trying her best to live just like you are.

No one listens to the eclipse.

Only stares, wonders about her marvelous beauty, and leaves her silenced inside her own darkness.

Eva Illuzzi 31

Eva Illuzzi 32

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Plastics on Fire Meheret Ourgessa

When I was growing up in Addis Ababa (the capital of Ethiopia), on the twelfth day of every third month (or Hidar as it’s called) of the Ethiopian year, my whole neighborhood would be covered in a thin fog. But this fog wasn’t made of tiny suspended water droplets. Burning piles of mixed household waste would be strewn across the corners of every other block, giving rise to black and heavy gray plumes of smoke.

On those days, the smell of burnt plastic was unavoidable in much of the city. In the mornings, all the plumes would combine until it would seem that one had woken up to a lightly misty morning.

Even if I knew then what I knew now about what burning plastics entailed, I don’t think my preteen brain would have been able to resist the temptation to set whatever was in sight on fire. Growing up, I was always trying to not set every small piece of paper or plastic strewn around the house on fire once we had a candle or some kind of furnace going.

The smell would often make me wince, but the way the plastic succumbed to heat and took on various twisted shapes before it completely disappeared was something to marvel at.

Witnessing the complete destruction of these small pieces of trash was just too satisfying. But nothing I would burn was ever getting completely destroyed. It was only years later, of course, that I would come to understand where all that solid burning mass was going.

Where was it all going? Well, when plastics are burned

in controlled environments such as incinerators (which have sufficient air availability and are run at temperatures around or higher than 1000 °C), they can be mostly converted into CO2 and water, with small traces of other chemicals. In fact, controlled plastic incineration has been used in many developed regions of the world as a method of plastic disposal with energy recovery (the steam generated from incineration can be used to turn turbines that can generate electricity).

And although there are lots of concerns and controversies surrounding controlled incineration of plastics as a method of plastic waste disposal, unregulated burning of plastics can have much more devastating public health and environmental consequences.

During open, unregulated burnings of plastics, where high temperatures and sufficient air availability are rarely achieved, plastics can release various hazardous materials into the atmosphere including dioxins, toxic metals (such as lead, chromium, cadmium, and others), and polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons (also known as PAHs). Once inhaled, these toxic chemicals can create a host of health problems. Dioxins, for example, can disrupt the immune, hormonal, nervous, and reproductive systems in humans. Similarly, PAHs can cause immunological, developmental, and reproductive impairments. And, of course, many of these chemicals are carcinogenic.

A picture of the morning of Hidar 12 2014 (Ethiopian Calendar) from the second floor of my house. Our neighbors were just starting to burn their trash.

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An example of a polychlorinated dibenzodioxin (left) and a polychlorinated dibenzofuran (right). Both of these compounds are considered dioxins. While many dioxins are not considered harmful to the human body, a number of them can disrupt various functions of the body and cause different types of cancers.

Openly burning plastics also releases particulate matter into the atmosphere. Particulate matter has long been associated with various cardiovascular and respiratory health issues such as heart attacks, cardiac arrhythmias, asthma attacks, and bronchitis. A type of particulate matter called PM2.5 (referring to all particulate matter that are smaller than about 1/10,000 of an inch) has even been estimated to cause 4.2 million deaths worldwide annually. And while fossil fuel combustion is the main source of particulate matter, it has been estimated that the open burning of municipal solid waste, a significant amount of which is usually made up of plastics, accounts for 29% of all PM2.5 pollution globally.

The consequences of openly burning plastics are not limited to the health problems that released aerosols can cause once inhaled by humans or animals either. Once released into the atmosphere, these toxic aerosols can also be deposited in soils, sediments, and surface waters, remaining in the environment for a long time after. In addition to the damage they can cause to organisms inhabiting these environments, the deposited toxic chemicals can also make their way into crop plants and livestock, further widening their potential as public health hazards. More than 90% of the dioxins that make their way into human bodies, for example, are taken up from contaminated foods such as eggs, meat, and dairy products.

With all the public health and environmental issues the toxic chemicals released can cause, it is even more worrying that unregulated burning of plastics is a much bigger problem in developing countries. The lack of waste collection, transportation, and disposal services coupled with an increasing reliance on plastics in these countries has intensified the mismanagement of the plastic waste produced.

In Addis Ababa, the custom of burning household waste every year (or Hidar Sitaten as it is locally referred to) dates back to the second wave of the Spanish flu which hit Ethiopia about a century ago. The practice started off as a way to combat an ongoing pandemic and ward off future pandem-

ics. But at least part of the reason Hidar Sitaten has persisted so long is the city’s underdeveloped municipal system which continues to involve hand-pulled carts, street-side dumping locations, and often very infrequent and unpredictable trash pickups for a lot of households.

Around the world, many other developing countries are in a similarly dire situation. For example, in 2016, out of the total amount of plastic waste generated (242 megatons), 70.2 megatons (or ~29%) were burned without regulation.

Waste incineration activities in China, India, Brazil, Indonesia, and Mexico combined accounted for 52% of that year’s unregulated plastic waste burning. On the other hand, waste incineration activities in the USA and Europe only accounted for 3.9% of the global unregulated plastic waste burning.

As the developing countries around the world continue to generate more and more plastic waste (in part due to plastic production companies in developed countries shifting their targets for their products), the mismanagement of this waste will likely become a larger problem with further reaching consequences.

With much focus going to the growing amounts of plastics in the ocean, we may not be paying enough attention to the other ways plastics pollute our environment. In many parts of the world, there is a misconception that unregulated open burning can permanently eliminate plastic waste.

In fact, this is probably another big reason why the practice of Hidar Sitaten has persisted for so long in my home city.

Many households I am familiar with really think that it is the best way to completely get rid of their plastic waste. And I’ll even admit that the part of me that would like to see every combustible piece of garbage burn still lives on. But as tempting as it may be to think setting these pieces of trash on fire completely destroys them in a (very) satisfying and simple way, that is very far from the case. In reality, we are only trading one form of plastic pollution for another, arguably worse one.

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Despite All Odds

Gabby Rachman

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