Nova_Zine_25

Liberty Wall

George Stern // Designer

I forget there are days like this,

Alexander Beets // Editor-in-Chief

when my niece leans into the learning curve of toddler-walk and lumbers down the hallway, rooting herself in the foot-fallen memories on the hardwood, taking every step we’ve made and claiming them for herself, climbing the loose and misshapen joints of my brother, hoisting herself to the sunlight. When this timid glow swims in the eyes that mirror her father’s I can only see the boys we were, soft faces not yet shaped by the wind, cradling eyes not yet sunken, growing up in the shadows of new factories

while playing on the bones of old ones, hands gripping cartilage like knurled monkey bars. I’d like to think we grew brave, learning to hollow out a carcass from the inside; learning to claw at nothingness until it was something — at least it was something. From the crest of my brother’s shoulders she cannot see the shadows that raised us and still; this light, this gentle, malleable thing rests on the bridge of her nose as if it were sleeping.

The Grass is Greener

Grace Yochem // Editor-in-Chief

Two spiders are nestled in their spindle-sewn apartments– they have cousins on campus, in webs on medians between crosswalks– glistening with morning dew. Down by the hedge here is where they live, but their eyes flit upwards to their neighbors in the boughs of the scaly, sea-anemone, evergreen skyrise two doors down.

A fire-ant hill across the way weathered the hurricane last night, but not the swift kick from a colossus. They conduct construction crews anxiously at work filling holes, or maybe frenetic rituals at a wake for their dead queen, or prayers for benevolence to something they can’t see but just desperately believe in.

Gnats flit anxiously along the mulberry bushes lined behind a darkwash-denim trash compactor, waiting for the standstill in a steady stream of trash bags that Tetris themselves into dinner. Does the smell of rot spark fireworks in their system, saccharine and blinding? Does fresh air feel like they can’t breathe?

Open/Close

Noah Atwood // Lead Designer

Heron Alexander Beets // Editor-in-Chief

At the edge of Thelma boat landing, the Great Blue Heron soaks in the sunned algae tapestry of the lake. Still. So still in the morning wind. Talons gut the wooden post, eyes forward, always forward. The fish slice through the sludge — slingshot themselves between the moss painted docks. Dorsal fins protrude like the ribs of the Heron. I can hear its hunger like a heartbeat, snapping against sinew. Its mouth agape, it tastes what I do

— the singe and sulfur of wood pulp. The factory’s breath melts on our tongues, spikes our saliva. The heron is more patient; will wait and watch — meditate on the throbbing heart of a striped bass

or what it once sounded like, a mating call, the cutting of air when wings dip into a gale, the rake of keratin against wet scale, will stand the length of its wingspan above its prey, will wait for a day that never comes

until all that’s left are talon marks, a rising tide, and algae that spreads its sludgy wings wide to take it back.

Born to Fly

Noah Atwood // Lead Designer

Somewhere Safe

Jessica Kennicott // Lead Designer

Channeling Vincent

Jessica Kennicott // Lead Designer

Using for the Rest of My Life

Andrew Walker // Content Editor

The sound of clicking handcuffs is how they hear a breaking heart, They cart me away in the back of a van, My mouth gagged so they won’t hear my pleading Silent tears fall down my face

But I will still love you, always

The sound of screeching alarms welcomes every new prisoner. Their stories are just like ours, Chemistry unmatched makes sparks fly between them. Their hearts grow together Their lips can no longer resist the magnetic pull

The sound of rattling chains is the prayer of the guards That they can keep us all apart How could they understand beauty like yours? How could the magic between us be a crime? Who would be so soulless to deny me such pleasure?

The sound of hissing machinery drones on all day around here, Hours of grueling labor have made me stronger. You should feel safe with my arms around you, You’ll believe they fight what wants to hurt us. I’ll believe they can pull us back together

Someday I’ll be free and we’ll be together

Untitled Frederick Brown // Marketing

Minutia’s Lens

George Stern // Designer

Overtime in a Thunderstorm

Grace Yochem // Editor-in-Chief

There are meetings, and pre-meeting meetings, and meeting recap emails and phone calls, hurried exchanges in front of break room coffee makers, opinions slung low across the floor to knock plans off kilter, phone calls demanding answers for problems that burst up like spring onions in dense soil, rain that slams against floor to ceiling windows as the evening draws near, shrill chirps and pings and brruop-brroups that echo in the forest of standing desks, ergonomic desk chairs and mouses and hurriedly-purchased packs of almonds when you forget lunch, a chorus of laughter when things spiral out of control, four cups of coffee drained and laid to rest in a trashcan, words splashed across documents in a pristine white landlord special, a commute in the dark and the rain, sleeping on couches and tile floors and across chairs, plans swept away in the deluge, lightning flashes across apathetic faces and hollowed minds, and a coat hanger that costs more than your entire paycheck. There are eight of them on your floor.

Recreation Myth

Alexander Beets // Editor-in-Chief

They say we’re blasphemers when we get our rocks off between beige volkswagen pleather in the church parking lot When names we’d do anything to forget are called out by lovers we never remember when we remember ourselves

We have pried our ribcages open and drawn clay from what little was left of what we found, maimed ourselves and called it devotion

Above us the crucifix — its steeple splinters under the quiet weight of the dark, but the stars are so clear.