Issuu

48.1

UTOPIA

STAFF UTOPIA

Letter from the Editor-in-Chief

When we picked the dual theme of Utopia and Dystopia for this issue, I didn’t realize how accurately it would describe my semester. I’ve caught myself shifting between the two regularly, feeling energized and full of possibility one moment, then suddenly reminded of my limits or what I can’t control the next. Nothing about the situation changes except my perspective, which makes the whole utopia/ dystopia divide feel a lot less like a divide at all. And while some might argue that one man’s utopia is another man’s dystopia, I feel they’re really one and the same. Utopia is the idealized, smoke-andmirrors version of reality, while dystopia is what you see when you peel back those layers and notice what isn’t quite working.

Concepts of utopia and dystopia bring to mind ideal and nightmarish societies, with utopia being a perfect, idealized environment, dystopia characterized more by fear and lack of control. I’ve noticed that my mindset often shifts back and forth between the two—one moment feeling inspired with grand visions of all the things I want to accomplish, then later reality sets in from the stress of endless revisions, or faulty software, reminding me of my limitations or powerlessness over a situation.

Every piece in this issue reveals its own version of those worlds, imagined or real, hopeful or horrifying. Some contributors brought us bright visions of what could be, while others dug into the cracks and complications, taking us straight into the wreckage. Together, they create a conversation about what happens when we idealize too much, or when we stop dreaming altogether.

Working on this issue reminded me that creative work doesn’t come from perfect conditions, but from the mix of stress, revisions, inspiration, mistakes, and late nights. The same chaos that makes us want to give up also makes us want to create something.

So here’s to the contributors, the artists, writers, and designers who channeled their visions (and probably their sanity) into this issue. May you step into their worlds and find both the hope and the havoc worth considering.

Jennifer Yaple Editor-in-Chief

DYSTOPIA

Amanda Sanchez Literary Editor

Ava Bartz Illustrator & Cover Design

Rolex Fenelus Design Staff

Christine Zoutendyk Design Staff

Tricia Lincoln Faculty Literary Advisor

Ayla Sharp

Design Editor, Illustrator, & Cover Design

Unattainable Utopia

As sirens use songs to draw sailors to sea

Using my glow I call travelers to me,

In golden dawns I flicker and dance

Entrapping wanderers with the hint of a chance

Meadows fill in the flowery glade

Danu yields time and life that ne’er

The cauldron runs deep, never weary nor empty.

Warm stew and cool mead brimming aplenty

Come my companions, pursue me this way

For I, the will-o’-the-wisp

I will not lead you astray.

By Christina Heater

Attainable Dystopia

O ne sip frO m the cauldrO n frO m th O se deemed tO lack wO rth

a re instead led past t ír na n Ó g tO enter the b Owels O f the earth

i n twilight eternal , my flame grOws quite dim w ithin m O unds O f the fae , O ne ’ s fate c O uld turn grim

u naware O f where this j O urney will end , we descend deeper s lOwly crawling Over decaying rOOts left unattended by the reaper

j udged s O uls n Ow stand gathered , waiting their ship d O nn guides them thrO ugh this realm , reins firm in his grip c O me my c O mpani O ns p ursue me this way f O r i am the will - O ’- the - wisp i will n Ot lead yO u astray .

By Christina Heater

Dear

muddyAsIwalkthe waterofbootstheruins.Asmy feltthesoakofmysins.ItfeltstandingcoldlikeIwas onmypeoples’tears.

For

Shadow Chains” by Jake Burton Page 1.

most kings, I have many sins towards my people that I tried to hide. Though our secrets cannot truly hide. Since its ames that burn not but dangerous as thruth light. For a king leads by his heart grows a strong and healthier life for his people. It is better than a king who treats people as pets to satisfy his desires.

I see below me. It made me think on how I should’ve given my hand rather than keeping a close pocket. could not swallow the thoughts arousing a dark painting to my soul. For assumed I was a good man yet this stranger told me a di erent tale through his silence. It was like a journey of your sins come to life. And like

me chills seeing a stranger act as a phantom. Those eyes of nothing echo screaming the voices who plead, like my heart I heard empty o erings. I could feed them, but just made them sick with famine as dine at a table made from gluttony being supported by greed and lust. As sat in thron of pride as it made me as lazy as an indoor cat. With only thoughts to come is everyone jealous that I am king. A theory that burned my peoples love into ashes of hate.

As take my sorrowful bow to the grave I made out of my lamd. Is when I could hear the stranger sing his truth. It felt hard since he spoke in the melody of rain in the mist. Though they hit a silent drum like beat.

A dove that sings hope to the people as she soars towards the heavens. Since she was loyale to them, a noble traite which betrayed my cold heart with the good of her’s.

As weep, my eyes shut in memory of my failure tht could lean on hope that shoulders my love. That was just ignorance of her memory. Unlike the conspiracy happening in my annibel was a dove.

His own words was a philosophy that took me years to understand. Those words being kingdoms are like gardens do you agree my lord. for if we treat as one then we can taste delicious apples. For only bad gardeners grow a dead forest of weeds.

As I open my eyes confused by the stranger thoughts. Though I seem back to my throne. Like I assume that it was a dream I made to express my pain. For the slumper could not move my broken heart.

As I stood feeling the weight of the empty walls I once called my home. It was a biome of liteful light now it was a shadow.

To clear my mind, seek too settle it upon the moon. For wish to borrow its light as hoping the gold by the heavens can feed my poor heart.

For I often saw the moon as a queen who stands with her people in a awless land. That shares its wealth with moral peasents and the divine nobles.

Feeling my feet feel before the sands of the oor boards. It made me feel the ashes of how am now alone. It felt so dry that even the poorest soul would not wish to try it. For its bitterness shall steal all of the riches turning into a avorless banquet.

That was the end of an arrow re by an assassin seeking to end my reign. Which do not see as the guilty party. I just pray a day will come where kings

Being a ruler of a fallen land, it moves me that just even a coin of time can be more than enough than holding non. If could be a dream to enjoy forevermore, but even dreams can become a nightmare. A nightmare even the bravest soul could handle.

ItwassomethingIsawin yourbeloved.ForicouldseeIin hiseyesdryerthananydroughtfor hesawyoumydearashisparadise. Forwhenyoupassitfromaninternal Thoughdistopicmakinghimthepoorest. ashissoulascendshegetsto reuinitewithyou.Formanyhaveideal ofaperfectworldsometimethat awlesslandjustgettingtolivewith theoneswelove.Somyfriend, Iwishyouapeacefulrest.

“King Shadow Chains” by Jake Burton Page 3.

“King Shadow Chains” by Jake Burton Page 4.

A Dark Metropolis

Gavin Hanna

ArtistStatement

The Automaton’s head is at a side profile, designed from industrial grade tec hnology. The machine scans, projecting a beam of light outwards into the night. The silicone face has technological details, such as LEDs. A cluster of light bulbs shine with a sharp light on the back of the mechanical head. Several tubes flow down from under the jaw.

The Automaton is a drawing I made when practicing the loomis method on a 5.5 inch by 8.5 inch piece of paper, exploring a design I made for a possible android concept. Graphite pencils are the medium. First, I drew circles and lines to outline the head with a 2H and H Graphite pencil, adding details and refining as I went, blocking out the shapes. With a B pencil, I added line weight to make the shapes pop as well as adding value and with a 2B pencil I added shadows in the background, which also added a grainy texture.

The memories of that night swamped and stewed in Brandon’s mind.

The memories of that night swamped and stewed in Brandon’s mind.

Sirens blaring. Lights flashing. Hovering vehicles swerving onto the dimly lit street, armored automatons stepping out. Each metal figure patrolled, taking away several unarmed people, who glanced at him. A wave of confusion hit Brandon as they were being carried away. Familiar, genuine voices shouted out to him, warning him of something, but he could not make out what specifically. Those were his coworkers, members of his team, who had quit their job years ago. The shouts became faint echoes as the automatons put both of them inside. The hover vehicle doors clicked shut.

The last automaton stepped into the vehicle, closing the door. Several hover vehicles swerved, building speed, and flew down the metal highway, vanishing into the darkness. It’s as if they didn’t realize he was even there.

A cold breeze brushed by.

Something was shining on the metal sidewalk. The street lights flickered as he reached down, picking it up. He held the thin rectangular device between his fingers. He quickly tucked it away into his coat pocket. Brandon walked down the street, his shoes clinking against the sidewalk, making his way quickly to the parking garage.

The

crackling noise of air rushing through vents brought him back to reality. Brandon sat stiffly in his plastic chair, staring at the screen with dry eyes. He sank into his chair, rubbing his forehead, beginning to ache. Despite the pain, he continued typing, putting the last few bits of information and submitting the form. Brandon glanced at the time displayed in the top right corner of his screen, which read: “5:30 pm.” His shift was officially over. Brandon stepped out from his cubicle chamber, the door behind him swiveling shut and locking with a metallic click. He walked down the hallway and out the building doors.

The crackling noise of air rushing through vents brought him back to reality. Brandon sat stiffly in his plastic chair, staring at the screen with dry eyes. He sank into his chair, rubbing his forehead, beginning to ache. Despite the pain, he continued typing, putting the last few bits of information and submitting the form. Brandon glanced at the time displayed in the top right corner of his screen, which read: “5:30 pm.” His shift was officially over. Brandon stepped out from his cubicle chamber, the door behind him swiveling shut and locking with a metallic click. He walked down the hallway and out the building doors.

The scanner beeped with confirmation as he entered his apartment. Brandon walked past the living room, across the kitchen, and entered his own room. He sank into his plastic-coated chair, reached into a nearby shelf, and pulled out the rectangular chip-device. He placed it into his computer. His monitor suddenly displayed several documents, high classified, from different

A Dark Metropolis

Gavin Hanna

topics. Brandon began to read each document, combing through the notes. What did they want him to see? He skimmed through the documents, each with detailed information, discussing how news channels filter information, questioning the amount of “Remedys” being manufactured for almost every ailment and why digital assistants became integrated into almost every apartment complex.

A sound suddenly came from the living room.

“Several ReVolts were found a week ago, located in the Diamond District. Recently, a new area of our metropolis has been restricted due to major architectural renovations - ”

Brandon turned off the smart tv with a press of the remote.

Ear-splitting thunder shook Brandon violently awake. He wrenched forward, beads of sweat dripping from his head. He sat stiffly up in his bed, gasping for air, breathing in heavily. He remained still. His eyes darted around, surveying the shadowy room of his apartment. The nodes casted a dim light from each of the walls. These night lights shined across the wooden oval table, cutting sharply against the shadows. His heart raced in his chest. The cube sat at the table, the dim light shining against one side, softly filtering through. LEDs, which had been slowly blinking, suddenly began to flicker at the base of the device.

ArtistStatement

“Brandon? I’ve detected a noticeable spike in your heartrate,” the synthetic voice rang out from the living room. A large cube sat at the dining room table, a string of LEDs blinking at the base. The glass cube flickered to life as the base’s micro nodes worked away, projecting a holographic image. The avatar appeared inside the cube: a horizontal line, shining with neon, sloping up and down, constantly and evenly moving. It reminded Brandon of a vintage oscillator. The apartment grew brighter as the lights switched from night to dim light mode, glowing softly against the grey metallic walls.

“Are you feeling alright?” the digital assistant spoke in a concerning way. The image flickered, warping the line with each syllable spoken. His breathing became steady as he calmed down. “I’m fine, Chartreuse. The storm is just loud, that’s all.” Brandon answered, pressing his hand against his head, feeling another headache, as he slowly got out of bed. The slider door’s window tapped rapidly with raindrops as the storm grew stronger outside.

The digital assistant paused for a moment. The dark glass windows flashed with a blinding light, flooding the room for a moment. Thunder rolled again.

The memories of that night swamped and stewed in Brandon’s mind.

“Is this about the encounter with the ReVolts?”

“What? What makes you say that?” Brandon’s face curled with frustration. He put his slippers on as he got up and made his way to the kitchen. “Events with ReVolts are highly stressful.” the voice said. “I can imagine it’s put a lot of pressure on you lately. Many have a build up of anxiety according to several studies. Perhaps you should take an ‘Enhanced Sleeping Remedy.’ It helps for sleep and stress relief. There’s a supply up in the kitchen cupboard.”

A cold breeze brushed by.

Brandon froze in place. He didn’t remember buying that type of “remedy” drug before. He slowly turned around, doing his best to act casual, trying not to reveal any signs of awareness to the device. The realization suddenly dawned on him that his digital assistant could be sending data, such as this conversation, directly to the government, collecting in that rumored network of quantum computers - if those stories he found on the chip were true.

“That’s thoughtful of you Chartreuse,” he slowly said, facing the cube. To Brandon, the neon line seemed to slither eerily like a snake. “But I think that I won’t have any more issues.”

Chartreuse processed this information. The bright curving lines buzzed with electricity, slowly drifting up like a tidal wave. The lines swirled into a diamond shape. The electric lines swirled around, stopping for a moment, and repeated.

“Very well sir,” the voice replied in a cheerful tone. “I’ve added the new time to your schedule.” Brandon filled his cup with tap water, taking a few more swigs. The cup rang as he placed it onto the countertop. He started to walk back, when Chartreuse’s vocalized speech rang out again, filtering through the device’s speakers.

“Brandon,” the synthetic voice spoke.

“Yes?” Brandon tensed up, his facial muscles slightly tightening. This time, when he looked at the cube, for a moment he felt a spark of surprise as he glanced at his reflection. He hadn’t seen how long and messy it had gotten. The line waved, rising and lowering rapidly, then squashed together into a squiggly smile. “As your digital health monitoring assistant, it’s my duty to keep you healthy. I was simply trying to help. I thought you should know that.” “Well, I appreciate it, Chartreuse,” Brandon weakly smiled in response. He walked away. The apartment lights dimmed.

A Dark Metropolis

Gavin Hanna

Brandon needed to know what was held in the restricted zones. He found a way to enter these zones through the ventilation systems. Brandon kicked the metal door cover open, entering a hallway. He felt for a lightswitch and felt something stubby, flicking the lever. Artificial light flooded down the long metal hallway of metal doors. As he walked, he looked past the clear windows. Some were scratched, broken open. Brandon’s stomach sank as reality settled in. Bizarre plant shapes grow wildly over every surface. Each of these pseudo plants clusters seemed to twist into gigantic proportions with gnarled features.

stewed in Brandon’s mind.

dim

Who Am I? by

Rolex Fenelus

taking away several unarmed people, who glanced at him. A wave of confusion hit Brandon as they were being carried away. Familiar, genuine voices shouted out to him, warning him of something, but he could not make out what specifically. Those were his coworkers, members of his team, who had quit their job years ago. The shouts became faint echoes as the automatons put both of them inside. The hover vehicle doors clicked shut.

He closed his vehicle door shut. The built-in comput beeped, picking up speed. The metropolis outside whirled, street lights becoming streaky orbs of light. Brandon’s stomach rumbled with hunger. He began to reach into his pocket, feeling a package and then stopped. Pressing a button, he lowered the vehicle’s windshield.

hover vehicles swerved, building speed, and flew down the metal highway, vanishing into the darkness. It’s as if they didn’t realize he was even there.

ArtistStatement

In a blur he sent the food pack flying through the air. He thought of the many grocery stores all over the metropolis that have shelves filled with nothing but these prepackaged foods, each with the same overly sweetened staleness. These barely had any nutritional value. These agricultural crops didn’t even have an ounce of nutritional value and yet each was collected, processed, and sold in markets. These plants were kept in facilities around the metropolis. Over time these began to develop into monstrosities. Although the government system tried to stop this, these continued to spread throughout the districts, needing to make restriction zones. The “remedy’s” were developed to try to solve the problems of the oncoming health problems. But most of these didn’t even work anymore.

I see everything, but I never speak.

A little girl spins in the sunlight, her laughter frozen inside me.

I hold love, fear, joy, and pain , moments humans forget too soon.

Time moves, but I stay still, guarding what was real.

Sometimes, I rest in the dark, waiting for another hand to lift me.

to reality. Brandon sat stiffly in his plastic chair, staring at the screen with dry eyes. He sank into his chair, rubbing his forehead, beginning to ache. Despite the pain, he continued typing, putting the last few bits of information and submitting the form. Brandon glanced at the time displayed in the top right corner of his screen, which read: “5:30 pm.” His shift was officially over. Brandon stepped out from his cubicle chamber, the door behind him swiveling shut and locking with a metallic click. He walked down the hallway and out the building doors.

Even when the world forgets me, I remember it all.

The “ReVolts” were those who discovered this was happening. Brandon and countless others had just been surviving in the chrome metropolis. The cityscape rushed past as he drove through the city, to find some means of escape, to live a better life.

A man stares out a window, lost in thought, I catch his silence.

Every face tells a story, and I keep them all. They think they use me, but I’m the one watching them.

Through me, life becomes eternal. Every frame, a whisper. Every image, a truth.

Click. A kiss. Click. A tear. Each sound of the shutter is a heartbeat I remember.

I don’t blink. I don’t sleep. I don’t lie. I only reveal what I see.

I am the camera

The room is quiet until someone picks me up.

A hand wipes the dust from my body, and I wake again.

lens opens, light spills in like the first breath of morning.

Good Times at the Laundromat

D. Harlan Wilson

Vintage laundromat with vintage décor and vintage machines all humming with vintage washloads. A lot of drunk people wearing vintage clothes dance to a looped doo-wop song that plays over and over. They dance on the floor, on chairs, on tables, on the machines themselves. Everybody’s happy and healthy and moving their limbs all around.

Music stops mid-song.

Pause.

Everybody screams. Everybody attacks one another. Somebody kills the laundromat attendant and everybody stomps on the corpse.

Chaos escalates until the music starts again.

Long pause.

Resume dancing, happiness, etc.

CURTAIN

On Autophagy

D. Harlan Wilson

After padlocking the doors, an USHER ambles down the aisle to the stage.

He transforms into a giant insect en route.

A grotesquerie of sharp limbs burst from his uniform as he convulses and screams like a torture victim. The USHER never stops moving forward—now one long stick-leg at a time.

The uniform falls off in tatters. Slick with mucous, he climbs onstage and scuttles around for awhile, enjoying his new body. Then he faces the audience.

USHER [calmly]: Hello! Do not be alarmed by what you see this evening. None of this is happening. Nor will it happen. That said, you should plan for the worst. Always plan for the worst, because the worst will always happen. If death itself doesn’t get you, something portending death will get you, and it’ll probably hurt very badly. [Shrieks.] We can only try our best to stay ahead of the Curve. Velocity is the thing. [Flutters extremities.] Right. Apologies in advance for what I must do to myself now. But I’m not in charge. God is in charge, and he’s an elected official.

The USHER eats himself. It takes hours.

He doesn’t eat his last limb; he needs it to drag his head offstage, one desperate, jerking motion at a time.

CURTAIN

My Hidden Utopia

By Emma Rittenhouse

There’s one hidden utopia that my mind often goes to on cloudy days. A place where there are no worries, fears, and responsibilities to hold you back. A place where I can run around free, devoid of the terrors that haunt me. A place where I am reminded of who I am and what I believe in, and a place where I feel most at peace with the world around me.

In this perfect world, I am safe from all the demons that claw their way into my head. Tall grass and wildflowers surround me, flowing all in the same direction along with the wind. Their sweet smell fills my nose, giving me a sense of ease when I need it most. The grass hums and whistles like a lullaby. It’s accompanied by the chirps from crickets and the tweets from the little bluebird that flies above my head. I listen to each note of the beautiful symphony that plays around me, admiring each unique musician and its soft tune.

The soothing atmosphere makes it difficult to leave, calling you in like a warm embrace. As alluring as this place is, it comes with one warning, like everything does. This enchanting place can be used when it’s most needed, but only during those times. After it has served its purpose, you must go back to the outside world. But remember to come back soon, or it may be forgotten.

The real world is harsh and cruel, getting worse by the day. This growing terror makes it harder to visit the utopian world that lives only in my head, for I know that it is nothing more than a fantasy. Why would one spend their lives living in a fantasy world instead of the real one right in front of them? The reason is simple.

The world around us has no care for you, except to tear you down more. Its biggest goal is to crush your dreams and your spirits. Our parents tell us we can be anything, but the world tells us to not even bother. We spend our lives conforming to society’s standards, unfair judgments, and demands. We do everything we can to fit in and be liked so that we forget our utopia lives inside us. It’s slowly pushed deeper and farther away in our head, becoming harder to reach by the day. Our fears and nightmares get worse while we spend all our time trying everything we can to fix our messes and problems, all while jumbling everyone else’s problems around us.

This dystopian world becomes more and more powerful and hungry for our suffering, happy at the fact that the utopian world is now lost and forgotten. The sweet tunes and smells are gone, and the bluebird is locked within a cage, becoming nothing more than a shadow.

Finally, we break.

Locked within our rooms, we cling to our beds, tears streaming down our cheeks, wondering where we went wrong. We rack our heads, looking for any possible solution to the problems and demons that swarm our brain, eating away our last bit of sanity that we so tightly cling to. While looking through the forgotten crevices of our minds, we find something. A sound so meek and quiet that it’s almost missed, and yet it’s not. Searching faster now, we look everywhere, wondering where the mystery sound came from and why it sounded so familiar. Then, one day, behind a dusty bookshelf is a metal cage filled by a bluebird, the same bluebird that once flew in the light, soaring through the wind and never looking back or doubting us. Its once vibrant and playful blue is now a dusty, saddened grey. It sees us peering through the cage. Our hands search the cage frantically, searching for the lock to release the bird. The cage door opens, and the bird hesitates for a second, wondering if this is yet another trick. But then, the bird rushes out of the cage.

It flies out the cracked-open window, and you chase it out the door, wanting to follow its familiar, yet forgotten, path. The same path you once had walked down blindly, feeling like nothing would ever stop you. It dances and spins through the sky celebrating its release, the blue of its wings being revealed as the dust falls. It leads you to the same open field you once stood in for hours every day. The warmth of the sun shining down, telling you how much it missed you. The symphony is now performing all around you in its soft, comforting tone that you had forgotten all about.

Once again, the sweet, hidden utopia carries you back to the center of you and why you are extraordinary, especially surrounded by a dystopian world. So, on my darkest days, I visit my utopia, no matter how far away it may be.

A Nod to Sir Thomas More’s “Utopia”

Susan Odgers

“We live in the tension between what is and what is possible”

-Robin Wall Kimmerer

We were the youth of the Nixon years the Vietnam war the fall of Cambodia the Kent State massacre the Helsinki Accords the constant airline hijackings the gasoline rationing lines the decision in Roe v. Wade the invention of the barcode the discovery of “Lucy” the founding of Microsoft the first Earth Day We couldn’t wait to see the movie “Soylent Green” Did the film hold an answer to overpopulation?

2020 Covid-19

We survive through mutual aid Are you a hoarder or sharer? Kimmerer says “all flourishing is mutual” Do all lives matter?

I read to a preschooler, he tells me the book is boring.

“Where’s the trouble?” he asks.

“There’s gotta be trouble.”

Welcome to Revelations

Isabelle Borden

Welcome to Zion!

Here, there are no doctors, no hospitals, no one gets sick. (Unless they sin, they deserve it, filthy animals living in pestilence receive no pity, no mercy, they have sinned against us. We do not heal the sick. They can rot alone.)

Welcome to the new Jerulselum!

Here everything is watched by God. He knows everything you do, every act of good and every failure against Him.

(The left hand knows what the right hand does, His eyes blink and whir from the street corners and He listens through wide-eyed silent children. Fanfare marks every motion.)

Welcome to Gilead!

Here the women are modest and pure. They do not walk the streets and they are sheltered and nurtured by the men around them.

(There are no roles to fill, no choices to make, no voice to speak with. They have fallen with the first sin and must regain His love.)

Welcome to the Kingdom!

See the blessed, taking all that they deserve, sitting in their seats of power, striking down our enemies, washing their faces as they wash away sin, basking in their glory of the Lord. They hold more wealth, and do nothing but serve Him.

(Us sinners lust for what they have, to let ourselves feel pretty, wanting desperately to speak out with rage, and, just for a moment, just for a moment, to be careless, to be free.)

Welcome to Canaan!

Here, there is peace. Here, there is justice. Here, we see GOD! (Blessed are the rich, for they inherit the earth. Blessed are the warmongers, for they are the sons of God. Blessed are the righteous persecutors, for they inherit the kingdom.)

Welcome to the Paradise Once Lost! Welcome to the Heaven brought to the Earth!

(This is the alpha and the omega, this is the beginning and the end, we are the first and the last. There is nothing more. There is nothing left.)

A Chat About U t opia

L u k e S t eck

E v e r y one is ta k en c a r e of and l o v e d and h a p p y.

“ D o I s till h a v e t o g o t o w o r k?”

O nl y i f yo u w a n t t o T o s t a y b u s y , o r i f y o u g et b o r e d, I g ue s s B u t p e o p l e d on’ t l i v e t o w o r k them s e l v es t o d e a t h

And i t ’s not c a pitalis m , or com m unism i t ’s s ome b e t te r , thi r d thi n g

“ Y eah?”

“ N o mo r e w o r k w o uld b e c o ol . ”

And al s o, y o u kn o w, no mo r e w a r .

Y o u’ r e n ut s .

“ L o v e y o u . ”

Tha t ’ s cliché and dum b “ Y ou kind of suck.” L ov e y o u

like that!”

w ould b e like Oh, it c ould b e like in m o vies whe r e it signiﬁe s , lik e , “ a l a st ho p e f or humanit y ” or som e thi n g

“I w ant a cute li t tle unde r g r ound bunker g a r den, whe r e w e c an g r o w v eggies and b erries and t e a and it

What.

“ C an I ha v e a g a r den?”

And the s k y is all dark all the time and y ou c an’t g o anywhe r e b e c ause the st r e e ts a r e on ﬁ r e and junk.

“ Oka y , ﬁn e .”

No p e . Bad r o b o t s . Th e y e at p e ople or som e thi n g. And th e y r’ e g onna t r y to e at us and e v e r y one y ou l o v e

“But I like r o b o ts! C an it b e som e thi n g els e ?”

E v e r y thi n g l o oks like r o b o ts and ugl y .

The War-Torn City

By Avery Grey

hop-Whop-Whop

A rhythmic whirring filled the air. Inky black skies set ablaze with the orange tinted lights of the city below. The city held its breath as the piercing bright lights of the military helicopters circled the civilians below. On the streets, red and blue lights flashed around every corner. Men and women dressed in uniforms patrolled the streets, some laughing, some utterly still like marble statues ready to pounce at the slightest disturbance. This was the effects of a war torn city, or so we’re told.

I remember the first time I ever visited Chicago. I was freshly fourteen years old and was ecstatic at the idea of finally experiencing a spring break outside of my home state of Michigan. My mom packed my little sister and I into our old silver Honda CRV and made the six hour drive from our rural northern hometown to the urbanized city. The

only “big city” I had ever known was the couple of trips we had made to Detroit, so the idea of finally getting to see the iconic city of Chicago was so exciting to me that I wanted to scream.

We spent four days in the city that spring break. As a paranoid older sister, I was hyper-aware of the homeless individuals that found spots along State Street and Michigan Avenue. The weather-aged entrances to the subway below smelled stale as we passed them and I held my sister close whenever we passed by an alleyway that was just a little too suspicious looking. All of this to say, I fell in love with the city regardless of these “flaws.” There were hundreds of people who looked and spoke differently than me. Tulips were everywhere and the Bean was the coolest thing I had seen in my fourteen years of life. At every corner was some new coffee shop or musician playing saxophone hoping to

I fell in love with the city regardless of these “flaws”

earn a five dollar bill. It was everything my hometown was not, which is exactly what made it all the more exciting.

During that trip, we passed by a building near the 900 Block that was part of the Loyola University campus. My Mom said to me, “Wouldn’t it be funny if you ended up going to college here?” Little did she know how much that one sentence would change my life. Fast forward to senior year of high school; it’s late November and my phone dings telling me I have gotten a new email. My family and I were in our living room watching some Hallmark movie and folding laundry. I opened my email to see that it was a message from Columbia College Chicago, the subject line reading Application Status Update. I sucked in my breath, knowing this was going to be either an acceptance or rejection letter from the school I was praying to get into. Opening that email and seeing the confetti splash across my screen and the words We are pleased to congratulate… was one of the best feelings in the world. I was finally moving to Chicago.

“Oh my gosh, is it safe for a young girl like you to live there?”

Like most in small communities, people tend to live in a bit of a bubble. So when I shared with people that Chicago was going to be where I spent the next few years of my life the reaction was always the same, “Oh my gosh, is it safe for a young girl like you to live there?” News flash, it was perfectly fine. My first year I spent in the dorms that are just one block away from Grant Park and my second year I lived in an apartment near Wrigleyville. Here’s what I learned in those two amazing years. Chicago has a lot of homeless people and you’re going to see them, but chances are, they’re not going to bother you if you don’t bother them. The Red Line is the most sketchy, but all it takes is traveling smart. When I lived in the apartment, I would take that train everyday, twice a day and the worst thing I saw was a woman trying to pee her pants. Ew. There are areas of the city that you probably don’t want to hang out in or avoid at night. Carry pepper spray. Be aware of your surroundings and never go to Lower Lower Wacker.

Free vs. Fear by Katie Sommer

I’ll be honest, I am laughing while writing these things down. Why? Because I know to someone who hasn’t spent a lot of time in the city, this seems not so great. You’re probably asking yourself “Why would I want to go to Chicago now? It seems gross.”

Here’s reality, those things I just shared that I learned while living there are maybe 5% of my actual experience, but unfortunately they are about 90% of what the country is told about.

Here’s how I would actually describe Chicago and my time there: The city at night is one of the most breath-taking things I have ever experienced. Cold air and city lights are the best combination for deep thinking. SpicySeoul has amazing kimchi and Friday night dinners there with friends is where I have had some of my best laughs. The Purple Line is one of the best ways to get a grand view of the city and the spot where I finally allowed myself to let it sink in that my cousin had just died. The Millennium Park ice rink is where I practiced ice skating with my roommate and discovered that she used to do it as a sport in high school. A friend’s apartment off of Printers Row was the meeting place for my friend group who I now consider family. The Royal Sonesta is where I accidentally met a K-pop group and later that night, saw them again at an Italian Restaurant. Upper Wacker Drive is where hundreds of women gathered to protest on National Women’s Day. Chicago is where I cried, I laughed, I screamed, and I danced. The city is where I have grown the most as a person. It is the place that will forever be where I began my own life.

Now, fast forward again to September 2025. Imagine waking up to the news that the president of the United States has just declared war on the country’s own city. The fear that coursed through my veins was spiky and hot, and it matched the anger that followed. “Worst and

most dangerous city in the world,” and “We should use some of these dangerous cities as training grounds for our military,” is how Trump described Chicago. He claimed that “Chicago is about to find out why it’s called the Department of War.”

imagine waking up to the news that the president of the untied states has just declared war on the country’s

Since those statements, ICE has been infiltrating the city, kidnapping and violently hurting its citizens. Schools like Columbia College Chicago who have ethnically diverse student demographics are losing critical funding. Elementary schools, parks, and other areas of the city are turning into places where people feel unsafe because of heavy military presence. And at night, the sky lights up with the brightness of helicopters and other military aircraft circling the skies and soaring across the city skyline.

I recently just spent the weekend with a friend in Chicago. On the drive down, I feared what I would find when I got there. Previous to the visit, I had just received an email a few days before that Columbia was warning students about ICE’s presence on campus and that if the students felt unsafe to leave their dorm, they should email their teacher and would be excused from classes. Teachers have been having to hand out cards listing students’ constitutional rights and different resources they can use if they need to get out of the city fast or feel unsafe. These students are my peers, my friends, who just want to get an education and build comfortable lives for themselves. Now, they can’t even leave their dorms for classes or Chicago is where

i cried, I laughed, i screamed, and i danced.

grocery shopping without fearing for their lives.

Upon entering the city, everything seemed fine and normal as it should be. The first day, things proceeded like any other day. It wasn’t until darkness fell that I felt that strange change fall over the city. Usually, the streets of the South Loop are filled with tourists, workers, and students milling about trying to enjoy the last few hours of the day. Restaurants would be full and people would be playing music on the corners. Trains would be speckled with folks coming and going and the parks would be bursting with laughter and teens taking Instagram photos. But that first night of being in the city, all went quiet. The parks were empty and restaurants were slow. Students stayed indoors and workers went home. Tourists were staying towards the north side of the river and music was absent from the street corners. Instead, the helicopters and police sirens were what filled the night air. Officers patrolled the sidewalks and tintedout vans drove the streets.

It wasn’t until darkness fell that I felt that strange change fall over the city.

showing out. It’s in the mass protests put on weekly where hundreds to thousands of people show up to march. It’s in standing up for your neighbors and helping them escape ICE. It’s in the teachers and staff protecting the kids in the classrooms. It’s in the legal restraining orders and implementations of ICE free zones. It’s in the lawsuits against the president and the loud statements the Illinois politicians are making in support of their people.

But, it’s also in the kind words of “Here, you’re safe with me,” and “I stand with you.” It’s in the quiet smiles and opened doors. It’s in the LQBTQ+ and Palestine flag pins and shirts that people wear in the city. It’s in the lights of the buildings reflecting blue or rainbow showing that they stand with the people.

I think what most people would assume from seeing that is that people were staying inside out of fear. That would be the common response. The president announces that Chicago is one of the most dangerous cities and makes the threat of war, of course people would be afraid. Right? Wrong. Yes, there are people, specifically those that ICE is targeting, that are afraid of what could happen should conflict arise. But Chicagoans are special. We don’t get the boot to the neck and just take it. The people of the city just understand when and where to pick the fight. It isn’t at night; it isn’t in social media retweets; the fights aren’t in little jabs or complaints. The people of Chicago pick the fight by showing up and

The fights that Chicagoans do pick are for a reason. We stand up against these threats and acts of violence because at the end of the day, Chicago is the shining example of what America was meant to be; a utopia where every culture comes together to sing and dance and share as one community. For decades, Chicago has stood as a beacon of hope where people can come and find a new life. This isn’t the first time a government threat has arisen and the people have had to fight back. Chicago never goes down without a fight, just look at the books. Chicago is the only city to not fall in the Handmaid’s Tale, and it’s not about to fall in real life either. So, despite the dystopian messages and threats surrounding the city, life moves on, people show up, and the fight doesn’t stop. Trump may call Chicago the War-Torn City, but it’s only because he started the war in the first place and remember:

Chicago doesn’t lose.

Acrostic Poem

Jennifer Reece

Dazzling dreamlike visage

Yearning youthful yellow

Splendor and sparkle

Uninviting unappealing landscapes

Toxic treacherous wastelands

Outlandish and ominous

Putrid polluted poisoned

Infernal and isolated

Abandoned abnormal

Neglected nihilistic

D aring defying deliberat e

Triumphant and transcendent

O rg an iz e d and ord e rly

Polished and Pristine

Id e a l an d In c re d i bl e

A lter and Adju st to s e e

Narc i ss i st ic Nef ar i ou s r u

Un f or g i v i n g a n d u nju s t

Tr app e d i n t r ag ic ty r an ny

O pp or tun i st ic and oppre

Par a s

Yielding to beauty yonder

Surprising sympathy from those sincere

T h r iving together treasure d

O asis of optimis m

P assion and pe r se v eranc e

Imagination and Inspiration

Arise to astonish and awe

Yin Yangs

Simon Eastman

Vengeful Gods

Brooke Bucy

The west is filled with vengeful gods

Manifest destiny driving corruption, greed

As rightful people of the land are driven out by righteous settlers

Their blood drains to oil as pipelines drive deep into what homes they have left

As pleas are ignored for mercy by bumbling politicians to appease a vengeful god

The children of Abraham dropping white phosphorus as holy plagues

Treating the Geneva Convention with no conviction

As they conquer, claim, destroy.

Children are treated like mere toys

And what of the children? Told stories of martyrs just to fill the general’s charter

Taught “righteous” fury and fiery duty when toddling to a new stage. It only grows with each passing age…. Imperialism, nationalism, all the isms…

But what about humanism?

There’s no room with a vengeful god.

Can you count the bodies?

The lives taken, shaken by the idea of western expansion. Can you calm the children whose parents return in a pine box?

The ones who never return at all?

Those faces burnt and charred by “righteous” crimes of war?

Until every wrongful death is treated with as much dignity as the west holds for land, raise your voice.

Until every story is told and every gunshot ceases, raise your voice.

Find room for peace

Throw out the western. Vengeful. Gods.

Keiara Pettengill

Quietude

Life is so stressful

I look for joy in the little things

But sometimes I forget That you’re here with me.

…

An empty beach On Lake Superior

We wrote our initials In wet sand

A moment of peace. I look at you looking at the stars

Do you see them all?

Frigid breath Huddled close

The wind from the lake

Chilled to our bones

You turn to me

“I love you, I’m happy with you” I know what’s next.

It’s 11:11

“Did you make a wish?”

Of course I did It was always me and you.

Unrest

Life is so stressful

It’s hard to see the bigger picture I try to remember That I am not alone

A messy house

You watch a show

So much to do

Another late night

There’s dishes in the sink I look at you, With tired eyes Why didn’t you wash them?

Heated words

Across the room

Frustration taking over

Neither side being right

You turn to me

“I’m sorry, I’ll try to be better” I know what’s next.

It’s been a long day.

“Me too”

We move on. It was always me and you.

-Amanda Sanchez

…

The 0P3N1NG takes many inspirations, both creatively and philosophically, from great thinkers and artists that I personally look up to. It is not so much a concrete solution to these issues, as it is permission to imagine a future that is beyond the narrow confines of our present situation. I am truly excited by the idea that there may be a future lying in store for us, in which we are perfectly at balance with ourselves and the natural world around us.

UTO PIA THE

It has been an innumerably long, or perhaps an impossibly short, span of time. On this none truly agree and of little consequence, for the duration of linear time elapsed since the 0P3N1NG was, is, irrelevant in light of the unprecedented shift in the lived experience which suddenly overtook and enveloped the perceived phenomena of being. That is to say, nothing in history had been alike in nature to the proportion or significance of this occurrence. It is now universally understood, by virtue of an innate and intuitive knowing, that the whole of history had doubtless been foreshadowing and indeed building up to...

Im m e d i at e l y

p r e c e di n g t h e

0P3N1NG there

h a d b e e n a n

e v er g r ow i n g

t e n si o n w h i c h spread amongst

i n d i v i d u a l s

worl d ov e r.

Te n si o n t h at

w a s c au s e d by

a n u n e a si n e s s

t h at a r o s e f r o m

t h e i n c r e a s e d

p e r ce p t i o n o f t h e b o u n d a r ies s e p a r at i n g o b j e c ts o f ex i s t e n c e . e

i nt r i n sic p o l a r i t y, w i t h ou t w hi c h n o t hi n g d e n e d c a n s e n s i bl y b e

r e co g niz e d , r e a c h e d s u c h e x c r uc i at i n g l y hi g h de n i t i o n t h at n o t

a s o u l c o u ld de ny i ts op p r e s s i v e i n ue n c e . As t h e s e b o u n d a r ie s

tightened there was a rise in patholog y characterized by an adherence

t o id e o lo g ies w hi c h s e r v e d t o i s o l at e a n d ra d i c a lize t h e p o p u l at i o n . i s so cie t a l a n d g e o p o l i t i c a l t u r m o i l o n l y f u r t h er q ui c k e n e d

t h e d i s p a r a g i n g e c o l o g i c a l a n d

c li m ato lo g i c a l c r i s i s w h i c h s t e ad i l y

w o r s e n e d by t h e d ay, t h r e at e n i n g

t o b r i n g ex t i n c t i o n t o t h o s e w h o,

m o t i v at e d by s e emi n g l y in n i t e

g r ee d a n d hu b r i s, w il l f ul l y p a r t o o k in t h e de s e cr at i o n o f o ur m o t h e r

found itself in prior to the 0P3N1NG: a disorderly, unsatisfying, extremely violent predicament which was the such ignorance.

humanity found

itself in prior to the 0P3N1NG: a disorderly, unsatisf ying, extremely violent predicament which was the natural

hopelessness notwithstanding, Nature herself was tirelessly pushing forward towards its core objective: the creation and preservation of novelty into hig her states of b eing. From the big bang, to the condensation of energy and plasma which formed matter, to the emergence of biological life, then fur ther e volution into higher animals which continue

one which can only now be said have indeed far exceeding any previously speculated outcome.

Pneuma, or spirit. The latent angel embedded in the core of this most advanced primate breaks free, revealing itself as the driving force behind the once considered meaningless fluctuation that is history. Humanity becomes the cure to its own cancer.

This development is now recognized to be as dramatic a leap in ontological being as the shift from static matter to metabolic life, for it introduced the possibility of iteration beyond the means of genetic reproduction, epigenetic evolution.Through the medium of language, conscious exploration of higher realms of abstraction was possible. Indeed the descension of the Logos into a lower dimensional state, that of time, space, energy, and matter, heralded the start of history; an alchemical process beginning with a fall into physical comprehension of concepts such as evil and good, beauty and sorrow, pain and pleasure, through the mode of lived experience. This brief manifestation of the Logos, into the ontologically verifiable phenomena we term history, ultimately ends with the redemption and integration of matter through the emergence of

The 0P3N1NG was a great surprise for the rational thinking of modernity, but not altogether unexpected when taking into consideration the breadth of the various arts and humanities. Religions, which conceptualized forces of creation and destruction; Philosophy, which questioned the meaning of concepts such as justice and piety; Art, which attempted to capture the essence of felt experience; symbiotic partnerships with plant medicines, which humbly revealed the existence of realms beyond those culturally sanctioned through the use of molecules identical, or near identical to endogenous neurotransmitters; Psychoanalysis, which demonstrated the effects the hidden subconscious had on the ego of an individual; and through the development and utilization of technologies, spanning such extremes as stone farm tools to worldwide electronic connection and communication, even going as far as attempting to create an artificial simulacrum of consciousness…all these and more pointed towards the concrescence of novelty which was the 0P3N1NG.

This strange attractor drew all aspects of existence towards itself and was the inevitable conclusion to the process which had been recorded by history but in fact, stretched back to the far reaches of pre-history, and even before that if such an idea is possible.

Now having the advantage of hindsight, from which we can honestly assess our way of life prior to the 0P3N1NG, we recognize the nature by which we stubbornly clung to our narrow beliefs and ideologies not as evil; for although it had often been considered as malicious, the concept of “evil” is now understood more accurately as ignorance. Willful ignorance. We have, since the 0P3N1NG, reached a degree of understanding that without claiming to be complete has nonetheless efficiently connected every nodule of fractaline truth into a comprehensive provisional model of reality. This model is paradoxically subject to constant change without ever betraying its validity; that being the embracing of contradiction as the core of being. Everything in existence exists in the presence of its fundamental opposite. What’s more, the whole of things which exist in spite of or rather, because of things which (as of yet) do not exist. The distinctions which are made possible by the observance of such polarities are interdependent on one another, unable to be distinguished as merely individual. From this truth we maintain that our subjective experience of ontos, or being, is likewise linked to the subjective experience of all others in the net of object subjectivity that is reality. This is the single greatest change that has been in effect since the 0P3N1NG: the dissolution of the boundaries which previously categorized our perceptions of reality. The most prominent of these is the Ego.

Possession as a concept lies in the domain of the Ego, which is now understood correctly as a facet of localized conscious cognition; a tool rather than the identity of the one experiencing the phenomena. From this stance of interconnected being we have done away with the notion of ownership, thus eliminating the perceived need for the abstraction of accumulated value termed money. We, both collectively and as individuals, live in a state of serene equilibrium. We stand firm in the presence of the lived experience, as channeled through the natural sensorial matrix that is the body; and we are cradled in the infinite breadth of the imagination, which knows no bounds except those which are self imposed. Lived experience and imagination, matter and spirit, now inexorably linked. Coincidentia oppositorum; Lapis

Philosophorum. We spend our days freely traveling and working the earth, swimming in her crystal clear waters, harmoniously in sync with ourselves and the natural way of things. In turn, our nights are highlighted by wondrous flights of fancy as we explore the limitless reaches of hyperspace, fueledby the imagination and rewarded with the ecstasy of experiential knowledge. Our minds are truly 0P3N.

The Secret Beach Manifesto by Jacob Wheeler

The poem I nearly forgot to write last summer but lingers like a rich taste in my mouth.

The words describing an Act so daring, so impulsive, so rich it ought to be verboten as Stated on the courthouse scrolls.

We packed up to leave after a whole day at the secret beach— the one we withheld from the tourists even as we spy them half a mile away through shimmering Lake Michigan shoreline clustered at the beach with the paved parking lot.

We packed the watermelon rinds, the green strawberry tips, the crumbs, the chip bags, the plastic wine glasses, the residue of All Day IPA.

And there, floating in a lonely Tupperware dish waits the leftover brie cheese warm and melted. My sister Julia and I, raised by the same Bards, afflicted by the same magic

locked eyes, nodded our heads and drank the thick soup in two hearty gulps. The metamorphosed cheese warmed us To the toes.

And we realized immediately, “This is the kind of weird shit most people don’t do.” Not out of spite for good French cheese, but out of conformity, out of fear of standing out.

Floating like HC Andersen’s ugly duckling.

Nowhere in the tourist guidebook, the Instagram reel, the influencer’s playbook are you told to drink the melted brie cheese Nowhere except in the subliminal messages left when the soft waves meet the sand at the edge of dunes where creeping orange light sets off a ticking clock warning of the encroaching darkness.

But here at the secret beach tonight We cast off the playbook, and curse the false prophet. We think of Wendell Berry’s “Mad Farmer Liberation Front” manifesto which ends with a challenge to throw shade on conformity:

“As soon as the generals and the politicos can predict the motions of your mind, lose it. Leave it as a sign to mark the false trail, the way you didn’t go. Be like the fox who makes more tracks than necessary, some in the wrong direction. Practice resurrection.”

Maybe it’s not the generals and politicos we should fear most, but the Instagramers, the media influencers, the corporate spin doctors, the AI bots, all those who tell us not to indulge. And if Wendell Berry ever looked up from his tractor and his book, what would he tell us.

He’d tell us to drink the F-ng brie before you leave the beach.

This photo depicts the Port Huron Seaway Terminal, commonly known as the Bean Dock. Once a commercial terminal for shipping beans from Michigan’s Thumb Coast around the world, it later became a wedding venue-unsuccessfully. Apparently, people didn’t want to get married with the stunning views of Canada’s industrial complex across the river.

In years past, the training ship State of Michigan sailed nearly all of the Great Lakes. Today, its operations are mostly confined to river runs across the Detroit, St. Clair, and St. Mary’s Rivers. For a variety of reasons, a majority of the port calls were at the Bean Dock, as it became GLMA’s unofficial second home. At times, it felt like we were trapped there, missing out on much of what the Lakes really had to offer.

Second Home or New Hell by Anonymous

Photo by Caroline Schaefer-Hills

Painting by Patricia Schaefer

Artist Statement

By Patricia Schaefer

Inthese works, I have taken source material from illustrated mid-century children’s schoolbooks to explore the intersection of human experience and the shifting landscapes—both real and imagined—that shape our sense of identity and memory. The faceless figures, surreal juxtapositions, and recurring motifs of technology, nature, and innocence invite viewers to reconsider the boundaries between the familiar and the uncanny. Through the use of vibrant color, ambiguity, and symbolic interplay, my paintings challenge the viewer to reflect on what is gained and what is lost as we navigate a world where past, present, and future coexist in tension and transformation.

Meloncholista: This work contrasts innocence, nature, and childhood with the imposing, man-made and engineered world. It asks the viewer to consider the relationship—and the tension— between organic life and technological development.

Dream Whipped: My intent is to juxtapose fashion, femininity, and surreal violence or unpredictability (the explosion) to craft a narrative about identity, isolation, or transformation. The facelessness suggests anonymity—a commentary on concealed emotions and the masks people wear.

Orb and the Indian: Here, I fuse elements of myth and modernity, using contrasts and symbols to pose questions about belonging, place, and the effects of external forces—such as colonization, globalization, and environmental change.

By Tricia Lincoln

Stay alive.

For as long as you can. Keep dreaming the future survives us.

All the while, it’s the sycophant’s history we’ll fall for. There’s little mystery we couldn’t have sorted. A river muddies, then bends. Algal blooms an oxbowed tail. It’s the past we end up loving most.

The present: ruderal feverdream.

Synthetic shade of ultramarine, pyrrole red, spent-nickel cadmium.

The crow ferrying a sliver of mirror in its beak has history it remembers in ultraviolet.

Without us: chicory verges uncut, kelp forests, hectares of seagrass.

Without us: honest predation. Wolves, then elk, then aspens’ sucker roots in the sharp sand. Sturdied riverbank, return of beavers, songbird’s speckled egg in the raven’s beak.

Without us: less meandering, more softly furred tongues, bears in the lost territories.

Leaves talismans to glint like eyes. What living thing isn’t rife with hunger?

Thinks there isn’t some bargain that can still be made?

Trouble is, we are empiricists, waiting for the last line to inform the beginning. Parchment scraped beyond recognition. Layered figures in the pentimento’s outline. Every gesture between them, an act of penitence.

Our sarcophagic erasure.

Channels narrowing, fibrous willows shaping but not breaking the course.

Anemones blanketing bedrock in the deep pools.

Imagine how cool it will feel on our bodies, underearth when the rewilding begins in earnest. Bones meeting microbes. Fretwork of fungal networks moving around speaking. How free they are. From linearity. From forgiveness. And to us they say, stay long dead.

With luck there’s toadfish and some whales. With luck, free-tailed bats and crickets’ toothy wings.

If there’s life yet, can we help it? Even dead, to wish for something that will sing.

Painting by Patricia Schaefer

R EHABILITATION

by Tricia Lincoln

How willful, the new colonizing world. Shale pyramids and wetlands of waste.

Obituaries rolled in; the earth always bears more dead than living. Yet at the archive’s crossing: refugees, pioneers, successionists all.

They arrive in primary unfettered forms. Helleborine like the lernaean hydra, shieldmoss green with seed rain, ghostly fernspores.

All they need is a bed where memory and desire meet.

Ask the extremophiles about survival. The burrowers about patience. Through the corridor, bess beetles stridulating. Past the line of demarcation, the dominion of dendroids.

Purple emperors from the rot and dung. Rare invertebrates out in the ether.

No one knew to look for them.

Flush of limpet and velvet worms.

Here, pinyons and junipers drinking light.

Lichen repopulating on bare rock.

Rhizome-spread fireweed in burned forests, blooming magenta from the bottom up.

Deeper still, tardigrades.

In the air, the remaining resilient fliers: white-naped cranes on their way to the Urals.

How far back do you need this apology to go?

Our remorse now as irrelevant as our permissions.

Shadows wicking empty rooms. The eye blinking at our doors, our screens, our mirrors. We were dancing.

Laughing.

Running through the evidence like a child through the sprinkler.

Shh, you whisper. Don’t wake the past. Everything so Edenic without us.

And the future is long.

Orb and the Indian

Illustration by Patricia Schaefer

SOCIAL CONTRACT

By Ann Hosler

Social Contract

after Trevor Noah (“George Floyd and the Dominos of Racial Justice,” May 29, 2020)

There are so many people who are starving out there, there’s so many people who don’t have, there’s so many people. There are people who are destitute, there are people who, when the virus hit, they don’t have a second paycheck and are already broke – which is insane, but that’s the reality.

But still, think about how many people who don’t have, the have-nots, say, ‘You know what? I’m still gonna play by the rules even though I have nothing because I still wish for the society to work and exist.’ And then, some members of that society—namely Black American people— watch time and time again how the contract that they have signed with society is not being honored by the society that has forced them to sign it with them

the thing that people don’t understand sometimes is that we need people at the top to be the most accountable because they are the ones who are basically setting the tone and the tenor for everything that we do in society It’s the same way we tell parents to set an example for their kids, the same way we tell captains or coaches to set an example for their players, the same way you tell teachers to set an example for their students.

The reason we do that is because we understand in society that if you lead by example, there is a good chance that people will follow that example that you have set. And so, if the example law enforcement is setting is that they do not adhere to the laws, then why should the citizens of that society adhere to the laws when, in fact, the law enforcers themselves don’t?

This is an erasure poem using Trevor Noah’s video posted on May 29, 2020. The partial text used here starts at the 9:37 mark and ends around the 12:04 mark.

Who-Ville

Illustration by Sara Billingsley

p a r a d i s e

h a r m o n i o us p

t r a n qu i l p e r f e c t h a p p y

eq u i ta b l e h op e

d r e amland b l i s s

co ntent m e n t OPPRESSIVE CRUELUNJUST

f l o u rish

f r e e s u c c e s s f u l p r o s p e r o u s l o v e

l i g h t

c o m p l e t e

The Hills Are Alive

Caroline Schaefer-Hills

UTOPIA/DISTOPIA

Soliloquy of Freedom

Jacob Dodson

A man in a hell that he’s created

Should never regret his life

For his daily actions grow the factions

That cut his freedoms like a knife

For misery is a team-effort

In a society of death

To truly live, one must die alone

With the words “freedom” on one’s last breath

For misery is a team-effort

The sweetness of freedom is worth its weight in gold

But amber honey, which tastes real funny, can be bitter to a man in the cold

Dystopia, utopia, these systems are relative

But someone outside the system can clearly taste within.

Wilkolak

Kaden Bennett

Oxidized stairs hinted at the entrance. Rails followed, jutting outward; someone’s fallen through. The discolored knob is grainy to the touch, Zofia winced at its texture; even through her gloves, her skin began to crawl at its decomposing surface. They’ve never been to this section to clean, not once. Distracted by the illusion painted by the

building’s exterior, Zofia couldn’t begin to comprehend the massive structures held inside.

Once an industrial block brimming with a thick fog, these buildings haven’t been activated in decades. Yet the machinery looks intact, operable even. She clutched her flashlight tight despite the well lit entrance. Kata’s thick footsteps prompted Zofia to move without a thought. The lights above began to wave at their arrival, swaying with every thick step on the stained tile.

Tan branches bowed in every corner, doors let the darkness of each room peer through as if watching. Some rooms were sealed shut, others were curious to the electronic screams with each step all three of them took.

Morderca finally caught up with the others, bringing the last of the required chemicals. “Ready to head down?” he says, continuing past the other two.

Peering back, he nods his head to a sealed door. Kata adjusted her goggles before walking towards Zofia. “This just can’t fit right anymore, might have to apply for something else,” speaking to nobody in particular.

The others have learned to always keep their ears open to Zofia, but none replied. Morderca reaches his hand out to the door, palm flush with its crevices. Screeching rotors began to bounce off the looming walls. They lean over the three of them as they begin their descent to their appointed location. Zofia and Kata patiently watch as if they’ve seen such a performance dozens of times. Suddenly, an ear-piercing silence flooded their helmets for only a fraction of a second. The steel began to groan and beg as it was contorted. Neither Zofia nor Kata knows exactly where they’re going, nor do they know who contracted them. Morderca gave partial info, only what floor and

what chemicals would be required.

Morderca’s microphone begins to sully his words before he speaks, “We’re gonna be going a bit deep, do you have your pagers on you?”

Zofia nods as her hand slips to her side, feeling for her taped-up pager.

“No, I lost it a few days ago,” says Kata. Although hidden by her dull green mask, her words painted a picture a face could never decorate.

“I put a ticket into that dark window, that’s where it’s supposed to go, right?” she says.

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Morderca, moving aside the scaling elevator door.

Floors began to rush by, accelerating, melding into one grey blur. The light above began to flicker with its haste. Dust circled around in formation, though no mind was paid to the gust.

“Exactly how far down are we going,” blurted Zofia with hesitation flooding her tone.

“About 52 floors,” rebutted a proud Kata, once again having to adjust her mask, this time throwing her entire suit off balance.

Pulleys began to sputter, churning into a glow of red as the wire rushed through. The elevator began to slow, returning the floors back from its melded sprint. Wires swayed in the elevator, almost ancient technology compared to what they’re used to. Masses of wires bundled up morph into an artery, a nest, or ribbons flowing through the breeze. The elevator came to a crawl preparing to deliver its precious cargo. Slowly, the door nestled perfectly into frame. The orange glow of the light grasped their eyes and didn’t let go.

Their masks improved their vision, yet the orange hue shot right through their visors. Statistical data came flooding into their HUD,

elevation, biometrics, and various modes sat in the corners of their eyes. They’ve been lightly trained with this technology, but their jobs taught them more than they could ask for.

Working for a larger company had its benefits, but also its downsides. Some of the higher-level cleaners have suits that can resuscitate, fuel, and even recycle the body’s functions. All while fitting under your gear of choice. Lower-level cleaners like Zofia are only given refurbished suits.

“I’ll leave the hydrawashers in the hall if you need,” said Zofia as she began walking down the symmetrical hallway.

Sliding opaque doors lined the long hall. Saluting their arrival. Withholding the reasons why they’re there to clean in the first place. While also placing a veil on this level’s importance.

“It’s already so orderly,” said Morderca, browsing his chemical mixers settings.

“Are you sure this is the right spot?” says Kata.

Whispers from the wooden floor filled each room as they began to assess their duties.

“I didn’t hear anything about wood,” Kata began to complain under her breath as she torched the tiles lining a bathroom.

“I forgot to mention it, it seems,” replies Morderca.

Even though Kata isn’t as experienced as the other two, the presence of wood on this job was alarmingly out of place. They’ve been so used to cleaning complexes, and industrial facilities. Why were they tasked with wood, of all things? Nothing about this job felt right to any of them.

Their company’s influence reached every corner of the western world. Polska was the pinnacle of prestige, they were good at their job. Polska was the West’s go-to. Did they mistakenly assign them?

Zofia especially didn’t understand why they were chosen for this; was it a test?

A chance at promotion? Or were they seen as expendable? There had been rumors floating about the lower level cleaners. Morbid ideas of cleaners being used as subjects, murders, and coverups. Accusations of cleaners using their chemicals to remove refugees. Dissolved bodies from their cleaning agents. Yet the company never brought the hammer down. Just sent another cleaning crew to take care of it. At the end of the day, that’s all they truly were. Just cleaners. These thoughts ran through Zofia’s mind like a starving animal.

Just as Zofia began to zone out of reality, Morderca grabbed her shoulder.

“We’re going farther down the hall,” Zofia slightly recoiled at being ripped from her thoughts.

Just enough for Morderca to catch the hint.

“Last two rooms are yours, here’s the agent you’ll need for the wooden flooring.” Morderca continued as they walked out into the hall. Being absorbed by the orange hue, he lightly tapped the crate of canisters next to the door. Disappearing into the hall with Kata, Morderca’s timing was always impeccable, just a few steps ahead of the others. Continuing down the narrow hall, Kata and Morderca picked up their pace.

The wooden flooring screamed in pain at every step they took. Their equipment was too heavy to carry without an enhanced suit. Morderca had no issue carrying the majority of the equipment. Kata, on the other hand, was struggling. Her suit, although refurbished, just could not keep up with Morderca.

She never inquired as to what suit he has, Kata got the idea that Morderca could just afford a newer iteration. Morderca reached the end of the hallway before Kata, and without a word said, he pressed the key card receiver with his wrist.

“Why is this even here?” questioned Kata. Apart from the elevator, the entire floor was completely ancient. Wooden panels and doors lined each

room in its perimeter. Yet there sat a door receiver meant for more modern factories. They see them all the time in other jobs, but this was far out of place.

Ignoring Kata’s question, Morderca continued on into a pitch black room. Kata followed once the lights flickered on. The bright fluorescent blue let itself into their visors. Nothing like the hallway before. They stood atop a massive room with enclosures, pillars of steel erected from the floor kept everything organized into squares.

“Where exactly are we, Morderca? This is all modern equipment.”

“Exactly, we’re here to confirm the room’s existence, clean only the company’s equipment, and get out.”

Kata began to venture further into the warehouse, it couldn’t even be called a room anymore. Although they were enclosed, there wasn’t an end to the parallel walls containing them. Lights continued to flicker on down the hypnotic warehouse.

“Let’s continue on this way, I think our next spot is over here,” Morderca raises his voice, calling for Kata. Yet, no reply rang back.

Morderca’s blood began to rush through his body. If Kata wandered too far, she may just get lost and end up somewhere she’s not supposed to be. Morderca became irritated at the thought of having to find Kata.

Pulling out his pager, he hastily enters in their group’s combination, not acknowledging that Zofia too, will receive his message.

“000” read Kata’s pager, humming every quarter second. Kata adjusted the tape holding her screen together to check for any following numbers. A deep pit filled her belly, as heavy as it could be. She knew she wandered too far, not wanting to upset the other two, she immediately turned around to scurry back.

Just as she started to jog, her facemask hooked onto the corner of a robotic arm used to fabricate PCBs. Yanking her facemask off entirely. Immediately, she began to hold her breath. But this wasn’t because of shock, her training still dripped fresh in her head. Unventilated, unkempt, and untouched, the building had an unquantifiable amount of bacteria.

Each piece of her equipment served a purpose to protect her. Losing any piece could mean the difference of infection, disease, or death. Polska didn’t want to deal with that either. Kata rushed back to grab her helmet, time was running short. What laid in front wasn’t just the swaying mask, but streaks of black strewn across the floor.

“Wha-?” she thought while reattaching her helmet back to its power connector. The HUD instantly rebooted, showing an unfamiliar warning.

“VITALS UNRECOGNIZABLE!!!”

“ALERTING SUPERVISOR”

Once these showed up, they vanished, replaced by her current vitals now. She re-adjusted her visor. Adrenaline soothed her racing mind, screaming for answers. But one thing was left untouched. What were those streaks all over the floor?

Completely ignoring the directions back to Morderca shown in a miniature compass on her HUD, she swore she saw streaks. In fact, she undoubtedly saw them trail to the door ahead. This time, the door was sealed with bolts the size of fists, silver steel untouched by nature’s attrition. Inching closer, she pulled her torch out. Reminded by her briefing, she adjusted its temperature and its pressure.

“Do I?”

She began to doubt herself, worried about the anger Morderca could unleash at her impudence.

Her fingers perfectly pinched the visor. Her eyes were already exposed to the unfiltered air, she thought she might as well double check if those streaks really were there. She slowly revealed her unfiltered vision upon the floor. The streaks looked back at her with a red intensity. Yet they were also turning black the farther away it crawled from the door.

A low white glow crept across the floor. Her torch was reaching its limit, glowing orange at its tip. The steel began to hiss and move out of the torch’s way. The heat was too much for it to withstand. Each bolt was melted until the steel beams became loose. Louder and louder hissed the steel until there was none left able to support the crossing beams. The door was finally set free. Its copper color began to thank Kata for its escape.

She pressed firmly on the door, rotors began to roar to compensate for her strength. Unveiling another dark

hallway similar to the one before. Water crept to Kata’s feet as the door reached its apex. Holes randomly lined each wooden panel. Doors were fragmented, cut, and resembled a mountain silhouette. Pulling out her flashlight, she marched down the hall peering through the first door on her right. Bodies linked together on the floor submerged in an inch of water. Flesh and clothes melded together on some, others were bloated from the water.

Different types of bodies lined each room. Some were unfamiliar scientists, civilians, they all lie in piles. All but one. A familiar insignia on the gear of a soldier, it was Polska.

Zofia was startled by the zap of her pager. She was just wondering what the others were doing; finishing up her last room before moving on to find them.

“000” Read her green LCD.

The code sent Zofia into a panic, they’ve never needed to use it until now. Where were they? Can I make it fast enough? Zofia’s heart began to snare with her steps. Making it to the end of the hallway, she pulled her pager out one last time, just to be sure it wasn’t a mis-input.

Assumptions began to rattle her security. Did they miss something? Were they meeting with another team?

Slowly walking across the catwalk, Zofia observed an endless warehouse full of robotic mechanisms. Tents held secrets, and the steel pillars kept what felt like a room wanting to swallow them at bay.

She hurried down the grate stairs, slamming her boots onto the concrete below. Partly to make her presence known. She didn’t know what was around, and if the other two were close. Her mind kept telling her to keep quiet, despite the pager’s call. This would all be solved by yelling out for her cohort. But, her throat wouldn’t allow a single note through. Her HUD told her the direction of the other two. It was across what seemed to be a sewer canal. But the water was crystal clear. An array of steel served as her bridge as she crossed the canal.

Continuing forward past industrial arms frozen in time, she saw what seems to be a steel door, water slowly inching out of its entrance. Her HUD pointed her in this direction, but why are they so far away? Zofia began to question her HUD’s legitimacy, and their assignment all together.

Creeping closer to the door, her boots wavered

the water’s flow. At the end of the hall, it was complete and still darkness. Yet the water rippled, bouncing in all directions. Her HUD also hinted that they were at the end of the hall.

Flipping a switch on the door frame’s exterior, the hallway floor became a mirror and two figures were near the end of the hall, just outside an elevator shaft. Zofia began to jog through the water. Her suit sloshed past with an abnormal quickness if it wasn’t for her augments. These suits were made to keep them alive, after all. Yelling for the other two, she continued to run.

“Hey! I saw the pager! What’s going on?”

No reply back, the two figures melded into a homogeneous shape, details became sharp, Zofia’s heart began to pound on its cage.

A deep snap echoed throughout the hall, Zofia was pushing her suit’s limits. She didn’t know if the snap was the creaking building, or her suit.

It didn’t matter, though. As she got closer and closer, the once melded figure was clear, Zofia’s blood began to boil.

Kata was struggling to hold off Morderca as he grasped her head. Cries from Kata were piercing their ears, inching closer to death. Kata reached out to Zofia, her arm extended slowly. There was no more attempt to combat Morderca. Another loud crack bounced off the ceiling, the walls, the water-covered floor.

Morderca’s suit was covered in a blotch of thick red liquid. Zofia watched as Kata’s head cratered from the pressure. A mix of red-hued matter dripped off the walls. Blood gurgled out of Kata’s lifeless body, still kneeling. Her limbs went dead.

Morderca turned to Zofia in a defiant manner. Zofia’s mind couldn’t handle the sight before her. She bolted towards Morderca as he searched their pockets. A black metallic shape began to show itself. Zofia was closing the distance quickly. The elevator shaft watched as the two readied themselves.

Electric screams raged as Zofia pounced to grab Morderca’s neck, picking him up. Deafening cracks repeated as Morderca was tackled to the edge of the shaft.

Zofia couldn’t feel the pain just yet, but she was going to die. Clenching Morderca’s neck, Zofia used her remaining strength to shove Morderca into the elevator shaft. Falling over, Zofia watched as Morderca made attempts to scream, yet his neck was crushed. Nothing came out except grunts as his body hit one side of the shaft, bouncing him to and fro.

His head was caught in the same wires that brought them down. Arched wires caught his jaw as he fell. They decided to keep a piece of him as he disappeared into the nothingness below.

Zofia’s body became cold, her suit was screaming at her, trying to keep her alive. She lies in the water half-submerged, she’s flooded with a feeling of complete calm. Only the dripping water provided noise. She glances into a propped-open door. The contents hinted at her fate.

DELICATE BALANCE

Sculpture: Modules (matches, LED lights, corrugated cardboard, twine)

Nichole Friis

This piece portrays a map of the Earth, both land and sea, illustrated by wooden matches of two sizes. The matches represent the delicate balance between humans and the destruction happening to the earth, and the anticipation that things can go awry at any time. String lights have also been used to show the brightest areas on Earth at night – the most populated regions. The corrugated cardboard was primarily used to hold the matches in place, but was cut down into quarter-inch strips from protein shake boxes – one thing that I consume on a daily basis, and a reminder to be aware of my contribution and/or actions towards the wastefulness our species produces.

The fact that this piece literally has an accelerant creates a tension that we almost all feel, consciously or subconsciously, knowing that fire causes destruction, but so do we humans. In addition, with all of the seemingly imminent destruction happening in the political sense, it almost feels like I won’t need to light any matches – that they will spontaneously combust just from such negative actions happening. The consequences are terrifying to think about, just as the consequences of the destruction a fire can cause.

A Road Trip to Chinatown, Chicago

by Rolex Fenelus

As a photographer and someone who loves exploring different cultures, languages, and foods, I am always open to visiting new places. Last summer, I was looking for somewhere meaningful to go, a place that could inspire me visually and emotionally. I wanted somewhere rich with culture, color, and life.

I spent several days thinking about possible destinations. Then, all of a sudden, Chinatown in Chicago came to my mind. Just the idea of it filled me with excitement. I imagined bright signs, delicious food, new languages, and people living their daily lives surrounded by traditions from across the world.

After doing my research about the neighborhood, its history, its famous restaurants, and its landmarks, I decided I did not want to wait any longer. Two days later, I prepared my car for a long road trip from Traverse City to Chicago. I checked my camera bag, packed some snacks, and filled up my tank. The moment I got on the road, I already knew this would be a memorable trip.

From Traverse City, the trip took me onto US-131 South, then eventually to I-94 West, the freeway that leads straight into the Chicago area. It was a hot summer day, the kind of heat that sits on your skin like a warm blanket. I rolled the window down to let the air flow through the car, even though it was warm, and I turned up my music. The sun was bright, the sky was clear, and the rhythm of the road kept me company. Every mile felt like a step closer to a world I had never fully experienced before.

Driving into Chicago is an experience on its own. For those who have driven there before, you might know exactly what I mean. No matter what time of day it is, morning, afternoon, or night, you will almost always get stuck in traffic. Cars slow down, brake lights glow red, and everyone seems to be heading somewhere important. But that day, the traffic did not bother me at all. My excitement was stronger than any inconvenience. I was ready to explore something new, and nothing could take away my good mood.

the kind you take before discovering something new, something unknown. I felt almost like an explorer arriving at a place no one else had ever seen before, even though millions of people have visited Chinatown. That moment was personal and meaningful to me. When I finally arrived and parked my car, I stepped out and immediately felt the atmosphere change around me. I could sense the influence of Chinese culture in the air. The first thing that caught my eye was the traditional Chinese gate, standing tall and beautifully decorated with bright red pillars and green-tiled roofs. It felt like an entrance into another world.

As I got closer to the city, my GPS voice, my “Google lady”, suddenlysaid, “Turn right to Chinatown in ten miles.” Hearing those words felt like a spark inside me. I took a deep breath,

The streets were filled with movement. People walked in groups, families explored the shops, and the sound of conversations floated around me. Many people were speaking Mandarin or Cantonese. Hearing those languages made the place feel even more authentic, and it reminded me of how big and diverse the world truly is. The architecture was stunning. Many buildings had curved roof lines, red lanterns hanging outside, and elegant designs that reflected Chinese traditions. The signs on the shops were written in Chinese characters,

often paired with English translations. As someone who loves typography and visual design, I found myself admiring the shapes of the characters and the way the signs were styled. They were bold, colorful, and expressive, adding life to the streets.

Then there was the smell, one of my favorite parts of Chinatown. The deep, warm aroma of noodles, rice dishes, and fresh dumplings filled the air. I could smell spices, soy sauce, and something slightly sweet drifting from the bakeries. It made me even more excited to try the food.

While walking around, I took many photos and videos. Every corner had something interesting: people shopping for fresh produce, children running ahead of their parents, cooks working behind restaurant windows, and bright decorations hanging above the streets. I wanted to capture all of it through my lens, every color, every movement, every expression.

Eventually, I stopped at a restaurant to eat. I ordered a plate of beef dumplings, and they were delicious, soft on the outside, full of flavor on the inside.

I tried using chopsticks, something I had practiced before many times but never truly mastered. This time, one of the staff members kindly showed me the proper way to hold and position them. It was a small moment, but it made me feel welcomed. I appreciated how patient and friendly they were.

I will never forget when they greeted me by saying “Nín hao”, which translates to “hello.” Hearing it in an authentic setting made me appreciate the language even more. It reminded me of how powerful human connection can be, even between people who come from completely different backgrounds.

The entire experience felt like traveling to China without leaving the United States. I enjoyed the culture, the energy, the people, and the food. Chinatown gave me a small window into a much larger world, one full of traditions, history, and beauty. Walking there made me realize how

important it is to explore places that are different from what we are used to. These experiences help us learn, grow, and understand more about the world we live in.

After spending hours exploring, photographing, eating, and observing, I left Chinatown with a full stomach, a full camera card, and a full heart. The trip reminded me why I love photography and culture so much. It brought me inspiration, peace, and appreciation for diversity.

If you are ever in the Chicago area, I highly recommend stopping by Chinatown. You will not regret it. It is a place full of life, rich history, and unforgettable experiences. I went there seeking inspiration, and I left with much more. This visit became one of my favorite memories of the summer, and I hope one day to return with my camera again to capture even more of its beauty.