Volition - Spring 2024

POETRY & PROSE

Gwendolyn Warren

Jasmine Haskins

F.N Baylor

To be a Trout | 4

Maybe in a Past Life We Were Birds | 5

Sepia 08; house made of paper and glass | 7

Sepia 10; house infested | 10

Sepia 23; orange lit sanctuary | 11

Katty Becerra De Melo

Route 81 | 8

You gave me a plum | 17

The Houses in the Valley | 24

Brett Weaver

Samantha Coyne

Brendan Knapsack

Vincent Blackwell

Thomas Malinovsky

Apollo E. D. Koury

Her, My Empire | 13

Tribade Haruspex | 14 Wallpaper Waif | 20

Five and a Half | 28

Where the Buffalo Roamed | 25

Fallen Angel | 29 however | 32 conceptum | 34

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

Arlyss Rios

Nicole Chavez

Jason Vinluan

Chrys Sotos

Cyan Waves | Cover

Paraíso en Sepia | 3

Haven | 6

Trailblazer | 9

Crossing Paths | 26 then narcissist wept | 27

Khadija Mowafy

Observers | 12

Projecting | 31

Holly Royhab

Ithiar Bertholet del Barrio

Katarina Benson

Carter Denney

Spill | 15

What Happened | 16

Spring on the Bay | 18 - 19

Birth is a cure, existence is a prison | 21

What They (I) See | 33

Marie Guagenti

Alexandra Villanueva

Lexi Carter

Hanging by a Thread | 22 Reflection | 23

Body Positive | 30

Velvet Fever | 35

MISSION STATEMENT

Volition serves to elevate the creative capacity of the Mason community by fostering freedom of expression across diverse mediums.

Letter from the Editor

At Volition, our goal is to amplify the diverse voices of George Mason University. We believe in connection through the arts. We all have stories to tell, and we all have stories we need to hear. At Volition, our mission is to give you a platform to share your stories through art, and to find stories by your peers that speak to you. In any language, any medium, any way you choose. We are fortunate enough to be in an environment rich with culture, diversity, and stories. Our goal is to share those with you.

Every semester, our Volition family pours their love into choosing pieces from so many submissions that we feel help us achieve this goal. We spend late nights in rooms, gathered at a table, passionately fighting for our favorite pieces, and falling in love with all the art we’re so fortunate to come across. We carefully and thoughtfully choose pieces and format every edition to tell a story itself. What are we all, if not a mosaic of stories; ours and each other’s. That is what Volition is, a mosaic of storytelling.

Sharing your art is no small task. For this we are grateful to our contributors. The writers, the artists, the story tellers that make up every edition of Volition. Thank you for opening your hearts and brilliant minds. Thank you for welcoming us into them. I am personally, eternally grateful for our staff and family at Volition, without whom none of this is possible. I am in constant awe of their talent and dedication. It is an honor to be your editor. I’d like to also express my personal gratitude for our advisor Jason Hartsel, who without fail has supported me in my role as Editor with patience and kindness. On behalf of the Editorial Team and myself, we’d like to extend our gratitude to the entire staff at Student Media for their endless support.

In your hands you hold Volume 36 of Volition. It is an honor to put together this collection of stories for you. In this edition, you’ll find art with bold statements, soft stories, and profound art. We are so excited to share them with you. May they find a safe home with you, and may you find one in them. May you love it as much as we do.

Natalia Romero Executive Editor

Paraíso en Sepia | Nicole Chavez | Film Photography

To be a Trout

| Gwendolyn Warren

Oh, To be a Brook Trout To live life in A humble stream. To go from egg to fry, Fry to fish, to fish fry. Oh, to eat and be eaten, To have and then to become, To be a sustained and then sustenance To know that to be eaten is to be known, And that to eat is to know.

A Brook Trout must surely be God’s most perfect creature, Adorned in reds and oranges and greens, The light scattered by its sunset scales, Humble despite its obvious glory, A stranger to pride and shame. Oh, to be but a Brook Trout, Untethered from worldly struggles, Unbothered by any imperfections, Unconscious of unconsciousness. To simply swim and be free. Free from everything except, That which concerns a fish, Such as to go from egg to fry, Fry to fish, then try to not Go from fish to fish fry, How tragic it is to know, And to be burdened With the knowledge That I can not, Could never, Will never, Be but a Brook trout, To live life in A humble stream.

Maybe in a Past Life We Were Birds

A summer solstice, Giving breath to winter souls.

As a caw beneath the boards of Our second story Reminds me you’re below On the first.

Feasting on early worms, As I lately bloom

Above the fresh soil From which they nurture.

Wings outstretched Beneath the covers Of our nest.

Gently nuzzling the feathers

Plucked, from the back Of my neck.

To purge The want to fly.

Entangled in my Relationship with The earth beneath my feet. Enamored with the window

Playing memories of the Times we once flew.

And winter's chill reminding me How much I miss summer.

| Jasmine Haskins

Haven | Jason Vinluan | Digital Photography

Sepia 08; house made of paper and glass

lines and shapes my brother’s and my matching smiles when we could still pretend to be each other swapping clothes and names this time I’ll play the baby and you can be the mom we crawl through fences climb on trees this house is our habitat so I spit on walls crack skulls against windows find the most secret spots to hide rocks and rusty nails – my prized treasures I see its popcorn walls and metal staircases in dreams and photographs every time it looks different

| F.N. Baylor

Route 81

Right as you pass the Strasburg exit on 81 going south.

You see them.

Three tall sturdy white crosses reaching for the sky, as they greet you on your way home. You think of what they used to mean God His Son’s Deathplace – at one point– A false idol

But before that – when you saw it around your Aunt’s neck, it meant she woke up every Sunday to go to mass. On your father's rearview mirror, it meant he warned you to not fall in love with women. And in your trembling palms, it meant that you were willing to give up everything for a chance beyond a pearly pair of gates. When it was a false idol–it meant that you no longer had to be scared of it. It meant that those who worshipped it were wrong, and you could live in paradise. You scoffed at anyone who wore it proudly, you thought them chained, as if you couldn’t feel the shackles of this new congregation making your wrists bleed. And when your Aunt stopped visiting, when you finally left the Kingdom Hall, when you swore to your father you didn’t like girls (your fingers crossed behind your back)

They stopped their torment. Driving on 81 became sweeter with the windows down, and the crosses nothing more then a sign that you are close to home.

| Katty Becerra De Melo

Trailblazer | Chrys Sotos | Digital Photography

Sepia 10; house infested

house best left to starve with beds of fleas walls of cockroaches I spend my days outside following my brother as he makes friends with the neighborhood molding in basements sucking slushies in parking lots all our clothes packed in plastic bins we see our parents in snatched weekend moments when they are too tired to hold a conversation cicada graveyard –I’m somewhere far away holding their shucked skins in my palm until someone calls my name and I’m home again

| F.N. Baylor

Sepia 23; orange lit sanctuary

I am laying at her feet, head gently pressing into her legmy mother’s hands are always cold, I hold them between mine. Here we look like one creature. I think about all the things I don’t want to forget: dancing in the kitchen, silence between sentences, sweet taste of coffee, eyes squinting through the window, basement air stale but better with a candle, blanket pulled over my head, light off, but I still feel safe. Someday all this will be given up and all that’s left will be the yellow-splattered memory.

| F.N. Baylor

Observers | Khadija Mowafy | Film Photography

Her, My Empire

A sovereign force, igniting passion’s fire Her gaze, dare a legion, storms my heart A realm of emotions, a poetic art just begun

Her laughter forever etched in the columns we stand A symphony that transcends the wonder left behind In her embrace, I find my colosseum

Her words, govern the connection Constant construction development As Caesar to Rome, she commands my soul

Each kiss, leaving me to be in this conquest In her empire, I am blessed She reigns with grace, a queen so divine

| Brett Weaver

Tribade Haruspex

Where is the Oracle of Artemis

Whose softer tone slips under Her brother's brash cacophony?

Who can tell me the secrets kept So close to skin

They only shake loose at tender touch, What did Sappho Know

Of the art of reading lips?

Of Innana

And Ninshubur?

That the lady of the underworld

Sighed for her servant,

And that Mná Macha laughed with arms wrapped round Bhanríon Medb

In her chariot,

Why is it that when I kiss my Love I see Kallisto laid on olive leaves

For the true Goddess of the Hunt?

My Love turns and smiles crooked and in her Every butch smirks the same, That we Know, we Know I can trace in the lines of her skin

Our bloodless ancestors

With her lips to my pulse, Divine Illiterate legacy

Bit lip prophecy

The Shrine at Tauros where

The Oracle of Artemis cried out

Against the Altar

Knees against stone

That she saw with eyes squeezed shut

Two hands held out of sight

The press of denim against a corduroy skirt A copper ring marriage

A nightstand hair-tie

Heat beyond Hearth

The coals of Aphrodite’s left hand, Which burn but leave no mark.

| Samantha Coyne

Spill | Holly Royhab | Digital Photography

What Happened | Ithiar Bertholet del Barrio | 35 mm Kodak 500 Film

You gave me a plum

Soft glows from the golden hanging starlights woke me up with sweet, gentle, pulsing hums. I remembered my dreams – chrysanthemums blooming towards the blue sky with all their might.

I dreamt of flowers every other night, only this time you were there, a small plum in your hand. An offer that all but made me mum. Foolishly, I took the dark fruit and took a hungry bite.

In the morning, I thought it absurd just how silly dreams are. For you to give me a plum –well it meant you must be right by my side. But as I stare at the collecting dust at your spot at the table – I can only sigh and remember you’re back with the tide.

| Katty Becerra De Melo

Spring on the Bay | Katarina Benson | Digital Camera

Wallpaper Waif

wallpaper waif you Twist and Scuttle

Tracing fingers along the vine-tendril the flowers golden Acrid my mirrors silver secret

Edifice - Effigy

Turn around and Phage me

Take your gaze and Wander past four walls and parchment

Care to Churn from foot to Next Bite this bitter hand Lead on,

I’d Love you more if if but your eyes Roll back and my sink bowl skin

Grows white crest waves my own vines this geometric Kiss the ink

Blots off the page

| Samantha Coyne

Birth is a curse and existence is a prison | Carter Denney | Photography, Paper, Pen, and Marker

Hanging by a Thread | Marie Guagenti | Thread and Steel

Reflection | Marie Guagenti | Mirrors, wire, and wood

The Houses in the Valley

Flower Field

Honeybees bumbling & sweetness for our toast.

Gentle amber to spread and bake into pumpkin pies. We harvested them on the azure afternoons we dreamed of.

Jars filled with golden nectar and baskets brimming with sunset squash. On Sundays, you picked lilies of the valley. They grew abundantly at the base of the mountain and reminded me of the snow-covered lands I once called home. You wanted us to visit your sister, so from something you made a bouquet to grant her luck and happiness.

A sincere wish for a loved one. An act of love that never made it to its destination.

Tundra

Nike and Diana tumble outside, their barks echo in the valley. I don’t remember eating breakfast or lunch.

Any pastries I’ve been sent I don’t dare touch. Still, their strong aroma fills the space.

Empty chestnut cabinets & stringy cobwebs in corners. This Sunday, I will abandon the house I built at the base of the mountain.

I wanted fewer visitors, fewer letters, and fewer memories knocking on my door. From nothing I made a family. Yet whispers of betrayal and fear linger. Before I leave, I will plant a lily of the valley outside.

An act of love to push me towards a new destination.

| Katty Becerra De Melo

Where the Buffalo Roamed

From coast to coast, And from the east to the west. There lays a fouled ghost, Who refuses to rest.

From the lush green hills, To where the great ocean foamed. A land of many great ills, That was where the buffalo roamed.

Pushed out by two faced invaders, Over the hills and through the plains. Killed and deceived by these false crusaders, Of the lives they lived, now little remains. Out of fear and hunger they searched for new land, And it was to the west that their attention was homed, To find somewhere they could still proudly stand, That was where the buffalo roamed.

Staring at a map, one must look close,

As they inhabit nothing but a dot.

Long since forgotten are their final death throes, Now they sit and waste on that poor barren plot. Beaten, starved, hunted and confined, Becoming prisoners in the land the once called home, And time Their numbers have dwindled and declined, That is where the Buffalo Roam.

| Brendan Knapsack

Crossing Paths | Chrys Sotos | Digital Photography

then narcissist wept | Chrys Sotos | Digital Photography

Five and a Half

At the end, At the end, At the End of the Hallway

Crawling and Crawling and Crawling

What right have you to Human Shape? Make and Mock, Twist and Snap

I am a mouth

That shudders and Does not Does not bite

Little animal

Snail tasting salt

I am a Dangerous thing

Tongue Rot Tenant

How Brave are You?

Are you Afraid?

Afraid of the Dark?

Lungs, Lungs

Heaving Mother Muscle

Static Beat Heart

Miracle Miracle

Mircalla named

And in teeth remembered

Parasite

Eat and Dance

And burn burn burn

Make the world scream with you

I love you, you you Wombstone

Killmenots

Fake leaf Garnish

Let me please

Trace your canines

All the way up

How far will you let me burrow in

Until I cave-breath

Like You, Like You

| Samantha Coyne

Fallen Angel

It hurts.

There are bones in my back and they hurt. I reach behind my head and pull the bone protruding from my shoulder blades. Father, it hurts.

I pull the wing from my back and my joint gets smoothed over like a mistake made in clay.

His final grace.

I remove the other wing. My cries echo through the trees and disappear into the dark stomach of the forest. I am naked, I am alone, and I am so very small. I have only ever been smaller than my father. Before the trees, mountains, and humans were merely ants to me. Why should they be anything more?

Cowering in my pain I hear a twig snap. I whip my head around and see two figures in the dark. My heart beats rapidly. My breaths become shallow. I grab a nearby rock. What am I doing? What is this feeling? Fear.

What’s the line again? Oh, yeah. “Be not aff-” Bang!

Once again I get pushed down by a mighty force. This is not my brother's sword, elegant and bright. This is crude, angry, loud, and merciless. It’s like my father.

I look down at the new hole in me. Do all humans have that? A joke. I couldn’t help to make a joke. I try to chuckle, but blood pours out of my mouth like the flood. I look back up at my father and siblings. I am going to miss them.

Bathed in blood I finally rest.

| Vincent Blackwell

Body Positive | Alexandra Villanueva | Photoshop

Projecting | Khadija Mowafy | Digital Photography

however

However long I change my body for and however much my bones may warp, they will never believe that I am anything other than what they see on their living room walls. Nonetheless, I have been this ugly, grasping thing for nineteen years and like a radioactive speck of soil I hope the ugliness has not yet reached its half-life, growing against my ribs like mold. Despite all the evidence contrary, I am a man.

| Thomas Malinovsky

What They (I) See | Carter Denney | Charcoal, Receipts, and Line Paper

conceptum

If I am in love with a concept, it is the concept of glowing hearts around a hearth, the bond familial and yet formed of our own volition.

it’s that secretive convention beneath the highways overpasses shielding us from the sight: It’s the feeling of that bond between us five as inseparable from false blood as it is from the raindrops that fail to reach us.

Maybe, instead, you don’t exist, some beauty of an abstract mind. Ever fall in love with a mindset?

It’s those colors, so expansive, around the person they inhabit or rather, it’s the person who expands into thick fog that’s more a feeling than a painting.

Float in the ebb and flow of your own library, see how the threads of your own making tie together in inexorable woven tapestries that tell tales of these creations of yours to the creations themselves.

Call me a narcissist, but I am in love with the self:

I am in love with even the fracture-lines, and the way our inner world has become so wryly built, the grAy more powerful than the grEy

because our mindset envelopes ourself, too.

I see the journey we have taken and I turn to my Past, my love-- this simple younger product of that half-baked religion of mine, the one i laud more rarely than i do criticize in the disapproving way-- and even where I wish to tell her how wrong she’s always been, I cannot deny the urge to hug her just as tightly.

Call me so niche, but I am in love with that healing:

with the gentle feeling of raindrops in a non-heavy rainstorm with rain now normal given the summer’s warm formation.

I jack up the speaker-sounds of a song so heavenly slow, and in tow with myself, i breathe and make myself present.

It’s this moment that resurrects me when I’m already shaking from that ghost the one that tries to warn me it isn’t over, and i exhale and exhale until such anxiety is sighed out of me.

Oh, I am in love not with a whom but with these whats and so many, so so many more.

Velvet Fever | Lexi Carter | Double Exposure Photography

Model

Nolwenn Favre

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For more information on how to apply, visit volition.gmu.edu

STAFF

Executive Editor

Natalia Romero

Prose & Poetry

Prose & Poetry Editor

Erin Zellner

Faculty Advisor

Jason Hartsel

Art & Photography

Art & Photography Editor

Sydnee Jiggetts

Graphic Design

Graphic Design Chair

Anna Simakova

Public Relations

Public Relations Chair

Sariya Scribner

Erin Zellner

Steven Thompson

Semira Benyam

Olivia Dantzler

Kai Sharpless

Gabrielle Hoover

Danielle Hill

Grace Wood

Emma George

Serenity Bassett

James Carlisle

Francis Aparicio-Soto

Nawaal Nackerdien

Trisha Dahal

Ninita Chandrasing

Shea Carrol

Student Media

Professional Staff

Amani Jefferson A Student Media Publication

Kathryn Mangus, Director

David S. Carroll, Associate Director

Jonathan Baumstark, Office Assistant

studentmedia.gmu.edu