CICATRIX
n. the scar of a healed wound
Bellerive 2024 Issue 24
Cover Art: Asymmetric by Zoë Schultz
Pierre Laclede Honors College
University of Missouri–St. Louis
Staff Acknowledgments
ART
Duan Bills*, Anna Connoley, Noelle Wisdom
EDITING
Irina Biedenstein, Theresa Colombini*, Maya Hutchinson, Aislinn Neubauer, Cassius Rizor, Faith Zuber
LAYOUT
Nate Hoenig, Emma Moore*, Micah Nellis
PUBLIC RELATIONS
Tanys Giles, Amelia Khan*
FACULTY ADVISOR
Audri Adams
*Denotes Committee Chair
Current and past copies of Bellerive issues are available to purchase through the Pierre Laclede Honors College. To purchase, contact Audri Adams at (314) 516-4890 or via email at adamsaud@umsl.edu.
Please note that limited copies are available for each issue, and once they have all been sold, no further copies will be produced.
All University of Missouri–St. Louis students, faculty, staff, and alumni are invited to submit original creative works that have not been previously published. Submissions are accepted from January 1 through October 1. We invite eligible individuals to submit up to 5 poems, up to 2 prose pieces (each at 4,000 words or less), 1 academic essay (up to 4,000 words or less), up to 5 digital images of photography/art, and up to 2 original music works (as audio files).
To learn more about submitting to Bellerive, email bellerivesubmit@umsystem.edu.
Submissions review is a blind process. Submitters’ names are not disclosed during review. The new issue of Bellerive is launched at a reception in Provincial House each February.
Offered every fall, the Bellerive Workshop course is open to Pierre Laclede Honors College students interested in all aspects of producing Bellerive. The class focuses on all steps of publishing: reading and selecting works to be included, copy editing, communicating with submitters, designing layout, digital image editing, and marketing and selling of the publication. Individuals in the class choose which areas of contribution best suit their interests and talents.
ii | Bellerive Issue 24
/bellerivepublication @umslbellerive @umslbellerive
Recalibrate | Poetry | Lauren Johns ............................................44
Megan’s Friend | Prose | Anna Connoley ..................................45
Lone Monkey | Art | Duan Bills ........................................................52
Safe | Poetry | Abby Foust ................................................................53
A Minor Accident | Prose | Cassandra Monono .......................54
Evidence | Art | M. Bettes .................................................................57
Citation Education | Prose | Clay Butler ...................................58
Cannibalism Capitalism | Art | Emma Moore ..........................61
A Flock of UMSL Geese | Poetry | Jersie C. ..............................62
Week Sixteen | Poetry | Mary Kate Gillespie ............................63 into the mystic | Art | Lauren Johns ............................................64
The Smell of Cold | Poetry | Anna Connoley ............................65
The Prince of Winter | Music | Julia Talbert ...........................66
ignition | Poetry | CJ Acosta ...........................................................67
Within | Art | Brittni Bader ...........................................................68
I’m not sure what it is. | Poetry | Abigail Wetteroff ................69
dew dropped petals | Art | Amelia Khan ...................................70
What Makes Monsters Monstrous Essay | Theresa Colombini .............................................................71
Scream | Art | Brittni Bader ...........................................................78
Like a drifter in the dark | Poetry | Reese Rich ........................79
The One in Which Death Visits the Hospital Prose | Kimberly Potthast ..............................................................80
Amidst Shadows: Holocaust Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe | Art | Irina Biedenstein ....................................81
As Grief Greets Me | Poetry | K.C. Terra ...................................82
Unspoken | Poetry | Fanita Irene Carrawell ..............................84
Eyes | Art | Brittni Bader .................................................................85
Letter of Plea | Poetry | María T. Balogh ...................................86
Piel con piel | Music | Déo ..............................................................87
Excellence in Writing Contest 2022-2023 ................................88
Socially Safe Subversion of Gener in Twelfth Night and Ouran High School Host Club | Essay | Abigail Keleher .....89
Art Gallery ............................................................................................97
Author Biographies ...........................................................................98
Staff Notes .........................................................................................104
Special Thanks ..................................................................................106 iv | Bellerive Issue 24
Introduction
In loving memory of Nancy Gleason.
The Bellerive tradition was born over twenty years ago under the guidance, vision, and immense dedication of Nancy Gleason. She was with the publication from its first iteration in 2000 to the seminar’s creation in 2003 and has been an integral force that has helped shape both the course and publication ever since. Tragically, the world lost Nancy in April 2023, but her contributions to Bellerive – and her legacy in Honors as a whole – remain unparalleled. It is quite simply impossible to think of Bellerive without Nancy; in every sense, Bellerive embodies her – her dedication, her drive, her talent, and perhaps most importantly, her heart. Much like the title of this issue suggests, Nancy left an imprint on Bellerive that will never be forgotten.
Bellerive has touched the lives of so many over its twenty-three-year tenure, not only the published creators, but also the talented students who tirelessly work to create this annual publication, including the issue you now hold in your hands. A huge thank you to the submitters who trust us with their creations year after year; our current staff of fourteen students who went above and beyond to create Issue 24; the Honors College’s administration; you, the reader; and finally, above all else, thank you to Nancy, for without her, Bellerive would not be here today.
As a direct result of the combined efforts of everyone involved, I am proud to announce that Bellerive is now a nationally recognized awardwinning student publication as it won second place in the print division at the National Collegiate Honors Council’s newsletter contest this past year. Congratulations to everyone who made this possible.
It is with great pleasure that I introduce Bellerive Issue 24, Cicatrix, a collection of poetry, prose, academic essay, art, photography, and music from the UMSL community. Over the course of the fall 2023 semester, the Bellerive staff had the privilege to select and reflect on the diverse array of submissions that were sent in for review. The final manuscript features forty-one different writers, artists, and musicians that fully demonstrates the many talents of UMSL’s students, alumni, staff, and faculty. Its pages are meant to inspire introspection, healing, growth, and conversation through lasting narratives that are both reflective and humorous. Its stories and images beautifully capture human experiences, their subsequent scars, and the path forward. It is our greatest hope that you connect with the assortment of creative works featured in this issue as much as we did during its creation. Enjoy!
Audri Adams Bellerive Advisor
Lauren Johns
Popsicles
Melted in the space between, what yesterday was, and what today brings, is a time capsule of assorted memories, assorted flavors, sweet and clean. The tartness of rainbow sherbet and orange creamsicle delight. They glow like beacons of a past far from my current state of mind.
As the days hurry by, sweet nostalgia melts into something new. Leaving my past favorite flavors, faded. Subdued.
In a freezer of forgotten recipes, buried in the back under the peas, there’s a time capsule for what’s dead, but also what’s living.
Cassius Rizor
A Dreamless December 20th
I squat outside in my polo shirt behind the store where no one can see me. Without thinking, I stare at the pavement. It is gray. It is unchanging. It is abrasive and cheap. There is nothing to look at. It is cold, and I cannot feel my hands.
Time passes. The sun rises late in winter. There is no sun to tell the time. It is time to go to work, I remember.
For five hours, I shelve boxes of bland and unhealthy food. I apologize to customers for not having the thing they want. They ask, specifically, where this thing I have never heard of is. Then, they apologize for dropping something, handing me shards of glass or a sopping mess. Great mouthfuls of food are taken during my fifteenminute break. Its flavor, texture, heat—it doesn’t matter to me. I need the calories, otherwise I could pass out on the concrete floor. The threat is not injury; it is the cost of treatment.
For five hours, I stand in a walk-in freezer and move things from box to shelf. Fans growl out chilled air. Nobody can approach me here. The cold makes my hands more sensitive to pain, yet less competent at everything else. There is no finishing this job. It is continuous and unrewarding with no growth, but that isn’t unusual anymore. I had been doing this same thing two years ago, but I can afford less now. An hour of my life is worth about two bags of Cheetos, according to these shelves. Then, I leave. The sun sets early in winter. There is no sun to tell the time.
I return home. My family is asleep. Yet, either way, I would be alone.
Undressing, showering, then sitting at my desk. There used to be hobbies I enjoyed, but now I can’t remember how. Nobody has messaged me over the day. There is nowhere I can afford to go. Instead, I lie in my bed. I eventually sleep.
Later, I wake up.
There is only one other clean polo. I crawl through it, strap on my boots, then leave again. Two hours early, but I have nothing else to do.
So, I walk behind the store where no one else can see me.
Brent Moss | Acrylic Paint
Galactic Glow
Tanys Giles
Things I Should Have Said
I should have said you was ugly instead of saying you was fine I should have said I was busy when you actually hit my line I should have said I couldn’t dance instead of grinding on you
To the music I didn’t know I should have said I can’t Instead of I’ll try For you
I should have said one word instead of telling you my stories I should have said you wasn’t good for me instead of telling you I would change For you I should have said I gave up instead of dusting myself off and giving you what you needed
I should have said fuck you Instead of holding my silence
And at the end I should have walked away With the little pieces I had left Instead of allowing you to demolish every piece of me And yet with all of that you still walked away
So I guess it doesn’t really matter what I should have said
Anthony T. Cameron
Randi Martin
Better Safe than Sorry
University Meadows Smoke Detectors - A Message
Better to be safe than sorry you might say?
Well I agree
Every Morning
Every Evening
I’m there to keep you safe
Even if you are never in danger
I’m there
A few false alarms is worth it in the name of safety
Hell... even a few thousand
What’s the difference??
Bacon Eggs
Even soup
Boiling Water
I only sense fire
So better to be safe than sorry
Let’s just hope if a real inferno breaks out
I’ll be ready to roar
Practice makes perfect
Real champions practice at all times of the day
2:00 am
8:00 pm
Even 6:45 am on a Saturday
Better to be safe than sorry
Welp... I smell mashed potatoes
And you must be ready at all times
Better to be safe than sorry
If my voice ever causes you strife
Don’t worry; it’s only in the name of safety I speak
The lovely admin at Meadows truly understands
So, if you try to silence me
Fines will appear
And rightfully so...
So better to be safe than sorry
Shayleigh Baker
The House Continued to Burn
My back rests against the door to my childhood bedroom while my home begins to burn. It starts out slowly. The flames rise from the couch, enveloping the living room first. The utter destruction of late-night movie sessions, playing video games when we were supposed to be asleep, sleeping on the couch because it was more pleasant than sleeping in bed sometimes. The smoke begins to travel.
It travels into the kitchen, the flames licking the legs of the table. The table where I first began to hide food, to pretend to eat. Smiling and nodding while poking a fork into a measly plate of lasagna, the plates are now becoming a part of the table. The smoke wraps around the table as it melted into the floor.
The smoke begins to walk down the hallway, a hallway where I had been reprimanded, been berated, laughed, cried. The hallway where my sister read me stories in between our bedrooms and slid notes under my door. The hallway begins to melt and become disfigured. The floor once trampled by us is now a black hole in the earth.
The heat arches up my door, and I let the flames hug me. I breathe in the smoke with relief, while I watch the flames ravage my sanctuary. The bed I laid in for days after my first break up, the same bed I was broken in. The clothes I shared with my sister are now piles of ash and broken dreams. Everywhere I was hurt, gone in a gulp of flames. The rest of the house began to fall, wrapping itself into the hole now formed in the center. I laid back and let myself fall. For me, the house was always burning, now it had burned out. But, somewhere deep in the center, a spark still shines. The briefest of light, the remainder of joy and love that was so barren there, the spark continues. And the house continues to burn.
Anna Connoley | Photography
Forest of Sun
VEGETALIS
I could use something a little more vegetal
Like chlorophyl staining my tongue
A body soft as a worm
A forest in a storm
A vine that’s twining deep inside your lung.
In dreams, my teardrops crash like rain
Into a barren field of brain
To grow new plants you’ve never seen
Flowers clever, flowers mean Lurid purple hybrid orchid
Thorns in emerald green.
I’ll bury your heart, not break it
The rot of life, black soil keeping
Your soft red flesh safe in the ground
The ground that blooms around me now— I’m calling vegetation down.
Brian Vandenberg
Jurassic Skies
Birds. No terrestrial creature is more fantastical, more bizarre, more varied or more beautiful than birds. Birds, trees, gems, fish, coral, butterflies and flowers are the primary sources of color in our world. The list is short, and life on a planet without them would be drab and depressing. Color shocks, and, not surprisingly, all of these galvanize a large following of enthusiasts. None are more passionate, or as legion, than birders.
Bird watchers are commonly noted for their fanaticism and often viewed, with some amusement, as oddballs. There is an obsessive, competitive, know-it-all subspecies of this flock that is notable on closer viewing of their collective habits. Most are gentle souls who delight in a “walk-in-thewoods.” What animates them all, at the deepest level, is wonder. Birding is a treasure hunt. A speck in the sky, an almost undetectable sound in the thicket, a camouflaged rustle in the reeds, a hole on a tree—or a cactus!—that flicks with movement, suddenly transformed to a bejeweled presence when sighted through the lens of a binocular’s magnification. From mundane to miraculous by merely lifting the glasses. What could be more thrilling?!
It is a measure of the numbing effects of routine and habit that we travel our days largely unaware or uninterested in these creatures in our midst. Language, one of our most precious attributes that joins us together, also anesthetizes. This was dramatically demonstrated to me on a summer visit to a new place, when, surrounded by the novelty of the unfamiliar, I heard a raucous, rowdy, insistent call of a bird. I was able to spy it through binoculars and was stunned by its exotic beauty. From behind, it shaded from an indigo blue at its head through azure, finally ending in
almost aquamarine at the tip of its tail. The wing and tail feathers were ridged in black stripes, etched with contrasting splashes of white. A white chest and neck lead to a face with black stripes through the eyes that connected with a ring of black that circled from under the chin across the crown of the head. And, atop the head, a crest. I called to Sharon, “Come, quick, see this!” She did. She said, “It’s a blue jay.”
For that brief moment, I saw this remarkable being, free from the encumbrances of language, habit, and routine. It exposed the power of naming, which domesticates the world, providing us handles and footholds that allow a measure of perceived control, intimating understanding and thereby assuaging the anxiety, fright, and wonder of being in the world, naked, without a fig leaf.
I have had other disorienting encounters with birds. Rounding a curve in a path, I came face to face, eye to eye, with an owl. Two piercing yellow eyes peered directly at me. Unlike most birds, its eyes are not on the side of its head, but fronted like human eyes in a direct, unnerving stare. Human-like consciousness was intimated in this lockedgaze encounter, but a disconcerting difference was signaled in their alien yellow color.
Another such encounter was seeing a great blue heron in a marsh near the LA airport. This huge bird, 4 feet tall, taking flight, with its long neck leading to a pointed head with fierce war-like coloring and a crest, ending with a dagger-stabbing bill, majestically lifting off on a six-foot wingspan. Suddenly, I saw a dinosaur—a pterodactyl, in my midst. Dumbstruck, I realized that the progeny of creatures from the Jurassic age fill our skies.
Birds are everywhere. Hiding in the bush, stealthy stalking in the glade, plunging into the lake, gliding in the updrafts, bobbing in the water, scurrying across the desert, skimming the water’s surface, dodging the in-and-out ocean
wash, burrowing in the sand, hunting in the tundra, swooping and diving, darting from flower to flower, marching across ice flows, roosting in the tropical canopy.
They fill our world with their voices: mourning, crowing, peeping, chirping, quacking, squawking, drumming, hooting, whistling, warbling, cackling, cooing, screeching, “drinkyour-tea”, and larking. Life-music signaling, saying, singing their urgent desires of warning, mating, and “calls of contact”.
Birds can be found day and night, in all seasons, in all locales. Their flight underscores that we are inelegant, lumbering bottom feeders. The wide universe of their shapes, colors, and strangeness are beyond what we are capable of dreaming; they are an alien presence alerting us to this uncanny world that is our home.
Birds “brain” us, club us into the miracle of this moment. They are just outside the window, beckoning…. Go forth and birdwatch and bird-listen—without words, naked.
Chris Courtwright | Photography
Lost in Thought
St. Louis
Behold the weathered gateway to the west
The lighthouse of Western expansion
The merchant of Western greed
A Colossus on the banks of the Missouri
The dealer to the devil
Time has not been kind to you, my city
My Goliath peering meekly through rolling tributaries of fog and mist
Whisperings from the Rivers who live on to tell your tale
Awaken! from your long long slumber
How cruel a war do the years wage against you?
From the banks of the noble waters who let you press your lips against theirs and drink
To the hills and trees that let you hide and play in their hair
My city groans as its aged limbs crack into place
Tinker tinker again at the crumbling old ways
These limbs that once were young, limber their joints to the movements of memories dancing in the shadows
When you ruled the world
Brick by solemn brick
Road by solitary road
My city
Both good and evil
My city
Both fire and ice
Sits watch as the faces of love and hate consort within
the chaos of its mind
gnashing their teeth, kissing your cheek
O city of mine,
Lie still for those days are too far gone The fraying edges of your memory Are good enough for me
Maya Hutchinson
Mental Math
Growing up, I was mesmerized to learn that letters on book pages didn’t dance for everyone; instead, they stayed in their designated spots, allowing those who desired to read them to soak up the stories in which they were placed to create. I soon developed ways to avoid them altogether, learning the stories by word of mouth from the people I knew were most intelligent around me. I began to ponder whether or not I was also considered intelligent until a system of characters I much better related to was introduced—numbers. Rather than being forced to interpret letters and stories, I was shown a world of patterns with rules and a clear right and wrong. Opinions on concepts such as figurative language became irrelevant; formulas were now the appropriate way to prove oneself. I discovered a way of thinking that was much easier to comprehend. Suddenly, I became the student that peers relied on to better understand things in the same manner in which I had come to understand our reading. I started practicing these skills, adding and subtracting numbers not with paper and pencil, but the canvas of my mind. I couldn’t help but smile when my hard work was reflected on the tests I received, symbolizing my understanding with yet another number. The problem began when the calculator never stopped. By the time I entered middle school, I found that my feelings for math and reading were consistent. However, my feelings towards other life matters had changed drastically, as is expected around this time. I located the people I most connected with and created bonds I was convinced would be impossible to break. I felt as though I would find happiness in my teenage years, comforted with the unrealistic thought that my friends and I would never face a challenge that we could not defeat. It was far too easy for the universe to find a demon we did not have the weapons to slay, though. We were just twelve years old when I discovered myself staring at the girls around me, noticing how beautiful their ribs looked poking through their tight shirts. I rarely entered the public pools I had spent my previous summers attending,
scared that others would look at me in something I could not hide in. I would stare at my body before entering the shower, a tear I hadn’t noticed forming and suddenly rolling down my cheek. I made the decision to lightly hint at these things when speaking with the friend I was closest with, wondering if she, too, was imprisoned by her mind. Her response included sending me her three-hour daily workout plan and stating that extreme weight loss is accomplished by eating two thousand calories less than the daily recommended value.
In the beginning, it was no difficult task to calm my mind by stating that I remained in control of my daily activities. I allowed myself several meal choices and informed the people around me about the lie I was telling myself. It was for my health, I would say—although, slowly, believing it became impossible. The energy my body was screaming for slowly transformed into the thing I had learned to love. I could eat an egg (70), but we only have avocado oil (120/tbsp), and that only leaves me with 310 for lunch and dinner. Every day contained more math than the next. When the scale refused to show me the characters I wished to see, seventy became seventy-two and one hundred twenty became one hundred twenty-three. When the scale again refused to give me the numbers I had worked for, five hundred became four hundred. When the scale again refused, I only had one meal. When the scale again refused, I knew it was my turn. I refused to eat.
When my stomach roared, silencing the beast was as simple as chewing gum and drinking water. Nothing felt as beautiful as that sensation; the chilling water traveling slowly from my mouth, down my throat, and to my stomach. The weight finally began to shed. I would stare into the mirror and cry, this time accompanied by a smile. I paid no attention to the never-ending goosebumps invading my skin, the fact that I could not show my new body off without shivering, or the headaches that made it difficult for me to complete the equations that were required to keep the body I had worked so hard for. I was alive.
My method of staying thin remained a secret as I entered high school; unfortunately, age finally caught up to me around the middle of my freshman year. My metabolism
slowed to a dangerous halt due to my lack of eating. My body took any ounce of nutrients it ingested and instantly stored it as fat. My weight shot up to an all-time high, and I had no way of bringing it back down. Stepping on the scale became a war. I would begin to shake, gasping for air that did not seem to be entering my lungs, no matter how hard I fought. My instincts forced my body to sit on the freezing, tile floor, legs pulled up to my chest, nails digging into my shins. My head would press against my knees, the pressure against my eyes intensifying my chronic migraine. Moments later, when my body recognized that the attack was over, I would look at the clock, it somehow being two hours later than when I had entered. I often remained on the bathroom floor for the rest of the night.
I finally decided that entering a physically demanding sport was what I needed to lose weight again. So, in October of my sophomore year, I decided to join one of the only sports my school succeeded at—wrestling. I recall entering the room and hearing that we would be weighing ourselves twice every practice—once at the beginning, and once at the end. I was overjoyed to know that I would have a way of watching my weight descend every day, satisfying the calculator running through my head. As the first few weeks passed, I would lose a pound or two every practice. Then, the next few, it slowed to half a pound, and, eventually, it slowed into nothing. Thankfully, I could not find time to be upset about it before I walked into the chaos of my first tournament.
My coach led the team into the weigh-in room, nervous that their scales would be different from ours. The girls lined up from lightest to heaviest, placing me dead last. I could feel my heart beating in my ears as I walked closer and closer to the scale. I had my coach do a quick skin and nail check, took a deep breath to soak up the tears forming in my eyes, and stepped on. I stared at the number: one hundred seventy.
“What’s the verdict?” my coach asked as I stepped off. I looked him deep into his eyes for a moment, considering.
“One hundred seventy-six,” I replied, walking to the line to run with those who did not make weight.
The only other thing I can remember from that long,
exhausting day is seeing one of the most utterly beautiful girls I had ever seen. She was warming up with her team, dressed in the same green singlet the rest of them were wearing, yet, somehow, making it look like it was made specifically for her. Her long, blond hair was tightly pulled into two french braids, displaying the fact that she had come prepared to win. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, flaunting her natural beauty with absolutely no shame. Her strong, toned body was absolutely breathtaking, each curve being accentuated in all the right ways. It seemed impossible to look away from her, and I couldn’t help but wish that I was built just like her.
She walked into the one hundred seventy-four weight class line just minutes later.
The rest of the season went by in the blink of an eye, and as I stepped onto the scale for districts, I felt no fear. I stared at the number and saw simply that—a number. I walked onto the mat more aggressively than I had all season, one match after the other, feeling nothing but pride for the wrestler I had become. When the final matches concluded, I went to the bathroom with the team, taking our end-of-season selfie, not sneaking a glance into the mirror a single time. We made our way to the restaurant that we had decided on and shared memories of the season, eating until we were too full to continue. My teammates mentioned that they were relieved to be done cutting weight, and all of the sudden, I realized I was, too. I ate a final fry and erased the number that entered my mind.
Hair Holds Memories
Brittni Bader | Gouache Paint
Abigail Wetteroff
Lackadaisia
Ten-forty p.m., once again, at home in bed on a Friday, couldn’t be bothered to go out or watch a movie or read. Nothing new and nothing much.
I pace the room as restless as a blister pushing up from underneath the skin, waiting to break. Please don’t ask me how I am; it’s not bad, but it’s not very interesting either, and I’ve repeated something stock five times today already; I’ve run out.
Sway like a leaf, then double back and rephrase it to “shake like a leaf” to be unromantic and true, but how would all of these progressive people feel if they knew they’d made a woman who can't speak unless spoken to?
It’s the New York of it all; it's the New Wave, post-modern post-mortem that keeps me coming back, an American ambition and art house ego that make me envy. This indefinite wanting keeps me up at night, my most treasured, most sickening hang-up.
Too much and not enough, I’ve jinxed myself into indifference again, still standing and still standing still.
Brent Moss | Acrylic Paint
The Sunset’s Warm Embrace
Anna Connoley
Hope as a Weapon
Every time you tell me it is foolish to Hope, I want to scream at you. I want to pound my understanding into your perspective: Hope is not a frail figure staring out of a tower waiting for life to happen to them—they’re a street fighter with bloody knuckles, shoving themself upwards to go one more round with the standards that everyone has tried to convince them are impossible to overcome. I want to scream at you, and at the same time, I want to hold you close because I know you are probably speaking from a place of pain, from being beaten down by life to the point that you cannot bear any more bruises.
Every time you tell me it is foolish to Hope, I want to force you to understand, that is what is wanted of you by those who do not have your best interests at heart. You are supposed to look at the state of things and feel hopeless, because that fights half of the battle for them, and if you give up, they no longer have to spend their seconds trying to convince you to.
Every time you tell me it is foolish to Hope, I want to explain to you that my Hope is intimately intertwined with my rage, and my pain, and my fear that things might in fact not get better. I want to tell you, that no, my Hope does not dampen my drive to fight for something better, but rather, strengthens it.
Every time you tell me it is foolish to Hope, I want to describe to you the profound strength and courage it takes to reach out and try again when you might fail, when you very likely will. I want to show you the immense beauty that is found in the effort, in the trying itself. I want to demonstrate for you my intense and reckless adoration of humanity, and how it is anything but a weakness, how it
gives me the ability to find meaning in life and to be moved by that meaning.
Every time you tell me it is foolish to Hope, I want to beg you to see the weapon you are casting aside without any consideration for what you are losing. I want to convey to you the chance you are relinquishing, the chance Hope gives to improve your life and the lives of others around you, others like you, others unlike you.
Every time you tell me it is foolish to Hope, I want to weep for what has been lost.
But I will not. Because it is not foolish to Hope that someday you will Hope too.
María T. Balogh
An Ordinary Seaside Morning at the End of the Pier
Santa
Marta,
Colombia
A pelican and a family of gulls hover around fishermen waiting for scraps
Fishermen slice and gut fish
A few clients gather, they ask for certain cuts compliant, fishermen also offer tips and recipes
An unleashed dog chases gulls but the domestic creature is no match to the experienced wild ones He desists when his owner calls
Vendors tout their wares tiny plastic cups of coffee fruit salads arepas massages
A couple of young men lather sunblock on each other’s bodies
No one is bothered except for one vendor who sarcastically points out they have an audience Everyone ignores her She moves on without a sale
A pale sun salutes a few clouds linger after last evening’s showers
Blue Marlin
Brent Moss | Acrylic Paint
Abigail Wetteroff
“Top Ten Common Household Items Doctors Say Are Detrimental to Your Health”
I don’t know
If reheating food in plastic containers Is killing me.
Is the steam floating up in inviting, transparent curls
From this two-day-old cashew chicken
Just an elaborate ruse, harboring a secret Credit-card’s worth of plastic particles Into my body?
Do I taste traces chemical poisons seeping Into my fried rice, or Did I just read one too many Fear-mongering internet articles About the evils of microplastics?
I don’t mean to be paranoid, but If I’m going to die young
It should at least be a fiery car wreck, An instant explosion with no pain
Like a literal blaze of glory, Or maybe brain cancer.
Well, not brain cancer, actually, But the kind of nonspecific terminal illness That turns average young women wise And tragic, gracefully withering away As I teach someone a valuable lesson On life’s impermanence.
All this death talk could be avoided
If only I could be bothered
To find a microwave-safe bowl And wash an extra dish, But I worked an 8-hour shift today, And I’m too tired for all that effort.
Jason Thomas Paro |
Indecision
Ink on Paper
Lauren Bearden-Kyser
POV: Florida Man
I open my eyes and am immediately blinded by a great bright light. I clamp them shut, but the light bleeds through my eyelids, creating black dots to dance around the red background. I feel something nudging me in the side.
“Hey, buddy, you can’t sleep here,” a deep, gravelly voice says from above. God?
The red behind my eyelids disappears as a shadow hovers over the light. I squint and see a dark shadow bending over me. I sit up and open my eyes fully to see a cop with his face melting off. How is he still standing?
“Son, where are your clothes?” The cop asks without moving his mouth. It also sounds like it’s coming behind me. This cop must be a skinwalker!
I jump up and take a step back to run away from this monster, but am met with a squishy brick wall. No, not a wall. Another fat ass skinwalker disguised as a cop! It grabs my arm. I must escape.
“Sir, are you under the influence of anything?” The skinwalker holding me asks. I let out a scream for help. Someone. Anyone. They have to save me from these skinwalkers with the melting faces. When no one comes to my aid, I immediately grab the weapon closest to me, my penis. It doesn’t take much to unholster it since the skinwalkers already stole my clothes while I was unconscious. I open fire on the skinwalker holding me, and he immediately lets go. He lets out a scream and stumbles back.
“The son of a bitch peed on me!” It yells. That means I must have its kryptonite in my urine.
I take off in a sprint across the river of cars that is
flowing rapidly. The strange river parts when I take each step, making a strange noise of honking and screeching rubber. I must be the reincarnation of Moses, but I can’t stop to test it. I have to escape the skinwalkers who are hot on my tail. I run into the forest and don’t stop until I run into my kingdom where no one can touch me. The swamp of No Tre’s Passing. It was named before I took reign, but I think it’s fitting.
I collapse down onto the tree that sits in the middle of my kingdom, breathing heavily. I’m safe now. I can’t believe I found out I have new powers! At this rate, I will be invincible! I spot my prescription of “Rustoleum” next to the orange and black sign that names my kingdom. I scramble up and grab the can in desperation. I pop open the lid and spray the nozzle up my nose while inhaling the sweet paint smell. It works right away, and the colors of my swamp kingdom become brighter, and the trees seem to melt into each other.
I am abruptly uninterrupted by one of my subjects who tries to challenge me for my spot as the King. How dare he! He runs his green scaly ass towards me with his jaws snapping open and closed. I jump onto his back as he thrashes back and forth, trying to buck me off. I punch him repeatedly in the eyes, something I have mastered. It’s hard being a ruler. Everyone wants your position. Eventually I gain access to his tail and swing him around and around by it, flinging him back into the water.
I am invincible. I am God. I am Florida Man.
M. Bettes | Photography
McPike
George Shawki
The Furniture Mover’s Lament
He was just a rookie mover and he surely shook with fright, They’d loaded him all up with desks and chairs above his height. His legs they were a-trembling and his arms were not alright, And he ain’t gonna move no more!
“Is everybody happy?” cried the driver with a shout, Our hero feebly answered “yes” though in his heart was doubt. He leaped aboard the heated truck, complained the job throughout, And he ain’t gonna move no more!
When they reached the day’s first loadup half the boxes were not packed. The other movers murmured how the customer was “cracked.”
But they could not reschedule so they packed the truck compact, And they ain’t gonna move no more!
He wrapped a couch, and then a fridge, and then three nightstands more. But he dared not to move them for his arms were feeling sore. He called for help, the crew said “no”, and looked at him with scorn, And he ain’t gonna move no more!
Then came time to move the piece that all poor movers dread, A large, expensive piano tucked away behind the shed.
The newest mover wished to leave, he feared he’d soon be dead, Well, he ain’t gonna move no more!
Despite his loud objections they placed him upon one end, And warned that on his sturdy back their lives did now depend. But their wise instructions he quite failed to comprehend, Well, he ain’t gonna move no more!
They placed it on the four-wheel and they moved across the floor, They pushed and shoved and nudged and budged that piano through the door. But alas, there was a step they knew not was in store, Well, he ain’t gonna move no more!
He stumbled once, he stumbled twice and then he did quite fall, To land right on the pavement in a monumental sprawl.
Suffice to say the piano did no longer stand up tall, Well, he ain’t gonna move no more!
The driver seized the tablet and began the shop to ring, Logistics heard his worried words and then began to sing: “Return at once back to the shop; late rookie’s body bring.” For he ain’t gonna move no more!
Gathered round the scattered mess of piano parts and bones, The crew leaned close to hear him say his final gasps and moans. His final words are said to be “I must pay off my loans!”
But he ain’t gonna move no more!
Refrain
:
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die, Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die, Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die, And he ain’t gonna move no more!
| Bellerive Issue
Amelia Khan
My Mother’s Bangles
My mother’s bangles
Collide together on her wrists
Always there, never missed
Even when unwanted
She passes with each jingle
Never unaware of her presence
As they glide up and down along
A sound to forever reminisce
The pain of removing them
Like the silence of her absence
For when she’s gone
Never to be forgotten
Chris Courtwright | Photography
Growth
Jarron White
A Poet’s Dream
To dance with letters
To swirl the imagery of life
While painting the emotions of pain
Of laughter And love
To show the shiver that quakes from within While brushing the strokes of a pen
To carve what only one can see
Just to hold that one word
That spills everything in one thought
Not for the masses
But for that one person that gets it That understands the emotions of the day.
Kevin “Antheme” Smith
The Foreign Exchange
Late night poetry
Where it isn’t easy for the eye to see
Just a pen a pad and Hennessy
A window for clarity
A feeling of transparency
There’s no similarity certainly
A foreign exchange of words between my mind and me
A strange emotion undoubtedly
This is Late night poetry
When there are thoughts on what the world of you and I could be
George Shawki
War
The Poet
Where have gone your knightly blades, Your banners writ with splendor? Who now stands for home and lands, And to the foe, death renders?
Who is this who stands for you, These heroes in brown and green? Their minds dull, their wits quick culled, Their chariots made machines.
Where are soldiers graced with gold, With shining weapons, burning? Upon foul steeds, we wreak fell deeds, And call the ruin, “freeing.”
The Historian
Ah, but sir, in truth your song, It is built upon soft sand!
Name me a war with pretty gore, A hero with bloodless hands!
Your “knightly blades” – often chipped! Their edges turned to rust! Yet turned they not, death dealing wrought, Seas of blood to slake their lust.
What cared your knights for burning homes, Ruined hearths and hapless halls?
The good men dead, fields turned red, The living left, knelt as thralls.
All this course mankind has run, No war brought only glory! Remember, skald, old lore recall, Tell true each war’s sad story.
The Poet
In song we sing of warriors old, Their lightning and their thunder, We weep for heroes, forget Neros, And make of bloodshed, wonder. 42 | Bellerive Issue
Asymmetric
Lauren Johns
Recalibrate
It’s an uphill battle, wandering this labyrinth of a world. My mind like a freight, pounding the track until it disintegrates. Critical error or system failure? It’s all the same to me, living with ASD.
Jaded and jagged, a puzzle piece misshapen for society. Broken sensors, broken identity.
Looking for a cure, to recalibrate my system. Recalibrate all of me.
Driven and restless, always confused. I keep striving for better. The best version of me. If I recalibrate, what will I lose?
Will change truly benefit me? Will I suddenly become whole? Or is my mind a gift, not broken, just different?
Anna Connoley
Megan’s Friend
Well, it’s not like she could just move. This was the least she’d ever paid for an apartment.
Megan had been warned, of course. They’d told her there was a reason all the previous tenants had moved away without even making it through their lease. But Megan had always figured there was no sort of problem-solving that worked better than ignoring the problem until it went away. So in she moved.
It started a week later, but it was small. Thumps on the walls, creaking doors in the middle of the night, cold spots. Nothing Megan couldn’t pretend wasn’t the fault of living in an old building. She rolled over in bed, turned up the music, put on a sweater, and went on with her day.
This went on for a couple days before things got worse. Cracks in the walls, flooding sinks and flickering lights. Megan called her landlord, and the latter two problems were fixed in a week or so. Problems with the wiring and the plumbing. The cracks were blamed on the old building. That’s what she gets for having a cheap ass as a landlord.
Then a plate floated out of the cabinet and smashed on the floor, meaning Megan actually had to do something.
“Look,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and looking around the empty kitchen. “You can do almost anything you want. But don’t break my plates. I have to pay for those.”
The lights flickered, and there was a loud groan.
“Oh, don’t give me that,” Megan said. “I’ve been a very considerate roommate. I haven’t said anything about you wrecking my lights or my plumbing. I wear a sweater around the apartment because you like it so freezing. I let you make all the noise you want, all hours of the day. But don’t break
my stuff. I have to replace it, and that costs money.”
There was another loud groan, sounding angrier.
“Yeah? Well, this is all I can afford,” Megan said, crossing her arms. “So you’re stuck with me, aren’t you?”
Another groan, almost sounding like a frustrated scream. “Tough. You’re gonna have to deal with it.”
One last groan, sounding defeated and unhappy.
“Yeah, I don’t like it either, pal. Blame late stage capitalism.”
No more plates were broken. The flickering lights and flooding sink continued, but that just meant Megan got to feel good about costing her landlord more money than they were costing her.
The ghost, it seemed, just wanted to be left alone. Megan could sympathize with that. Thankfully, the ghost also seemed able to sympathize with her inability to afford another place to live. There wasn’t much she could do about the ghost wanting to be alone, though she did try to make things easier in the only ways she could think of.
She kept the lights off as often as she could so the ghost didn’t have to flicker them. She was beginning to suspect the ghost had to deal with migraines, though she couldn’t imagine why. If she’d had to guess, she would have assumed that migraines were kind of canceled by the “not alive” thing.
She wasn’t going to intentionally flood her sink, but she did leave a pot of water out for the ghost to play with whenever she could.
It was the least she could do, really, since the ghost was letting her stay. Besides, they were going to save her a ton on AC in the summertime.
After a while it felt weird that they both lived together without Megan even knowing the ghost’s name. So, one night when she was cooking dinner and the ghost was over causing static on the TV (a favorite pastime of theirs), Megan glanced over her shoulder and called, “Hey, do you remember your name?”
The static flickered once as if in question.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of if you don’t,” Megan reassured. “I don’t how this afterlife thing works, and memories can also just kind of, you know, fade.”
The TV static flickered again.
“Hm, yeah, I guess there isn’t really an easy way for you to tell me. Okay, let’s start with something else then. Are you a boy? Girl? Other?”
The static flickered twice.
“Girl?”
The static flickered once.
“Cool. Good for you. Me too.”
The static flickered again, and it was a little louder, seeming almost excited, which was a little adorable.
“I don’t know what you want me to call you,” Megan said, turning around and continuing to cut her vegetables. “‘Ghost’ feels demeaning. Is that demeaning?”
She glanced over her shoulder just in time to see the static flicker once.
“Yeah, I figured,” she said, turning back to her vegetables. “Okay, how about I list a couple options, and you tell me which one you like best.” She finished cutting up the vegetables and scooped them from the cutting board into the salad bowl next to it, then turned around to face the TV again.
“How about sweetheart?” she asked.
The static immediately flickered several times in a way Megan could only take as refusal.
“Yeah,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “That felt wrong the second I said it. Uh, girl? Pal? Friend?”
The static flickered once on the last one.
“You want me to call you Friend?” Megan asked.
The static flickered again.
“Okay,” Megan said, a little surprised but willing to go along with it. “Friend it is.”
The static flickered again, in an almost happy manner.
“Yeah, I like you too,” Megan said, and was surprised to find she actually meant it. She definitely liked her more than she had when she moved in, at least.
That conversation felt like a switch had been flipped in some way, because after that, Friend started being almost helpful. Messages appeared on the mirror reminding her to go grocery shopping. Loud wails stopped her from leaving the house with the stove on. And there was one night she could have sworn Friend chased away someone who tried to break in, because she woke up to a loud thump in the living room, followed shortly after by the sound of someone screaming and footsteps running away.
“Wha’s goin’ on?” Megan asked, rubbing at her eyes as she walked through the kitchen towards the living room.
Friend flickered her lights on and off a couple times in a clear dismissal of “Everything’s fine, go back to bed.”
“Mmkay,” Megan said, ignoring the front door closing and locking itself as she walked back towards her bedroom.
Things like that became normal, and though Megan didn’t tend to tell other people about Friend being a ghost, she did casually mention her roommate, and how well they’d been getting along lately.
Eventually, the two of them came up with a long term plan to talk in terms of learning morse code and planning on using the TV static, but until then, the system they had worked fine.
It was before they’d finished with the morse code, however, that Megan finally decided she couldn’t deny her curiosity anymore.
“Friend, can I ask you something?” she said one night while they were watching a movie together. A romantic comedy. Friend was too much of a scaredy cat for horror, which was Megan’s preference.
Friend paused the movie, which meant a yes.
“Why do you get migraines?” Megan asked. “I figured you wouldn’t have to deal with a ton of pain, being dead and all. At least, I’m assuming they’re migraines since the lights bother you so much.”
Surprisingly, Megan doesn’t get any response. Friend tended to enjoy talking with her. Megan strongly suspected none of her other roommates had ever tried it.
“Friend?” she asked hesitantly.
She heard a sound from the kitchen, the clanging of silverware, and then one of her sharper steak knives floated over into the living room.
Megan glanced at it curiously, watching it float over towards them both. Friend stopped it hovering inches from her eye. Megan blinked at the knife for a couple seconds before it finally clicked what she meant.
“Oh,” she said quietly. “Is that how you died?”
In response, Friend sent the knife back into the kitchen, and Megan waited to hear it put away before responding.
“So you get migraines for your whole afterlife,” she said. “Man, that’s the absolute worst. I’m sorry.”
Friend flickered the TV with static a couple times.
“Still. Sorry. No wonder you want the lights off.”
Megan felt a cold spot on her shoulder for a brief second, and then it went away as the movie started up again. The silence didn’t feel awkward, though, and after a bit Megan’s blankets started floating up and down, meaning Friend was enjoying the movie again and the moment had passed.
Megan didn’t bring the incident up again, but she did make sure to keep the lights off unless she absolutely had to. It saved her a ton on electricity anyway.
Eventually, the two of them figured out the morse code, meaning they could have more complex conversations. Megan learned that Friend had lived in the apartment with her mother about twelve years ago while she’d been alive, and that someone had broken in and killed them both. Friend
hadn’t even been ten years old, which broke Megan’s heart when she heard it. Friend had never seen her mother again, as she either wasn’t a ghost or wasn’t a ghost here. Megan was apparently the first person who hadn’t freaked out at Friend’s presence, which had to have been hard for her.
But time passed, and things got better. Megan got used to having conversation in morse code, and keeping the lights off most of the time. Friend gave her a handy excuse for when she needed something fixed by her landlord and knew he wouldn’t pay for it otherwise. Megan settled into life with a ghost roommate, which wasn’t nearly as bad as she would have considered before moving in here.
It was why she was so conflicted when she finally got the raise she deserved.
On the one hand, a new apartment in a less shitty part of town sounded pretty nice. But she’d also come to really like this one, for more reasons than just the apartment itself. She also didn’t really want to leave Friend. Not only was she pleasant company and beneficial to Megan’s financial situation, she was a child, one who’d clearly had some behavioral issues when Megan first moved in.
She considered the possibility from all the angles she could think of, and in the end, came to a conclusion.
She liked this apartment. She liked screwing over her landlord. She liked Friend. And if her rent costs stayed down, she could have more money for other things, like going out to eat once in a while or buying something nice for herself.
So, when she brought up the raise to Friend, it was entirely positive news.
“And I think I’m going to buy you a deep freeze,” she said, as Friend flickered her TV in excitement. “So that way, if you want to be cold in the wintertime, I can still keep the heat up a little bit.”
Friend flickered out an excited response, and Megan smiled. “Yes, I’ll get you some new movies to watch too.”
Another excited response, and a chill enveloped Megan around the shoulders in the tell-tale way that meant Friend had leapt across the room to hug her.
Megan laughed again and wrapped her arms around the general area she imagined Friend to be, feeling even more reassured in her decision.
Overall, Megan would give having a ghost roommate five stars. She certainly wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.
Lone Monkey
Abby Foust
Safe
I was given the world to explore, But it is too large, And I am too small, And the world cannot fit inside my mind.
I was given the world to explore, Oceans upon oceans of depth, Fields upon forests of length, And all I chose was a brick house in the suburbs.
I was given the world to explore, The sun to live beneath, A lifetime of meaning, And I wonder if I threw it all away for something Safe.
Cassandra Monono
A Minor Accident
“There’s a minor accident on the right side of University Boulevard, looks like a rear-end collision at the fork from Exit 240. It caused some light traffic, but police were already stationed at the scene, so traffic should be cleared soon.”
It happened when I stopped at the yield sign. The sound interrupted my singing along to Lauren Daigle’s “You Say”. My head danced back and forth. I only realized what it was when I caught a glimpse of the driver’s airbag from my left side mirror. My head was throbbing with pain, and I placed my hand on it, terrified that a gush of blood would wet my fingers. I tried to remain calm and think reasonably, but the police siren triggered me. I started trembling like it was freezing outside. On my right, an inconsiderate driver honked continuously.
“Are you okay?” The officer’s face was twisted in worry. I suddenly felt an irrational urge to scream at her. I could feel nasty words rise from the bottom of my stomach and rest like a lump in my throat. “You’ve been in a minor car accident, ma’am. Are you able to pull over to the side for me?”
It was then that I noticed my leg frozen on the brake pad. I nodded and drove to the shoulder of the street. In my rearview mirror, I could see the horribly dented front of the driver’s car and the top of blonde hair still shrouded by the airbag. After I pulled over, I searched for my phone and found it under the passenger’s seat, screen cracked. Shoot, I knew I should have bought that phone case at Target. I dialed my mom, and her hysteria annoyed me. I wanted to yell at her too. I told her not to bother coming because I was fine. I was crying profusely, but I was fine. The police officer approached me again to get my car documents. She told me the driver admitted fault; he was not being attentive. I wasn’t
sure how to respond. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
“I see you’ve got an UMSL student sticker,” the officer said casually. “Is that where you were headed?”
I simply nodded again. She then started some kind of empathetic small talk. She told me about her two nieces who had attended UMSL a couple years ago. I wanted to be appreciative of her. I forced myself to return her smile that said, “You’ll be okay.” What I mostly wanted was to shut her up and rewind time.
When the paramedics arrived, I chose not to be taken to the hospital. Something about getting into an ambulance and being rushed to a hospital felt eerie, like a scene from Grey’s Anatomy or NCIS. Besides, I wasn’t bleeding or in need of urgent medical attention, but I needed to leave. The longer I stayed, the more I fed a bad memory, a bouquet of nightmares would be lying on my pillow by nighttime. I was told to watch out for a concussion and body pains, but I had a ten-page research paper to write and an accounting exam to study for. I didn’t have time to wait for delayed symptoms. Plus wasn’t it a minor accident? The back of my car was significantly squashed, but it was drivable. After signing all necessary documents, I took off to school. I was eager to continue my day like nothing had happened, and for the first few hours I was successful. I laughed along with my coursemates in my English class and was excited when my research was going well. I walked to my accounting class with a sense of hopeful pride; I had just survived a car accident and would survive the rest of my day. I was a fighter.
The first spasm began when the professor was mentioning the upcoming exam. It initially felt like my shoulders were being pinched by multiple invisible fingers; those fingers would eventually enter my skin and turn my neck muscles into knotted ribbons. By the time my teacher was rounding up, I couldn’t breathe without wincing. I still tried to focus on what was being said, but my teacher’s voice
began to fade. When I turned to see if I was the only one noticing the change, everyone around me had grown second heads. My own head felt like a volcano about to explode, and the lighting in the room suddenly looked like Jesus was coming again. As if I wasn’t already confused, my stomach twirled, and my mouth tasted like the pancakes I had eaten for breakfast. I then experienced that feeling writers describe when a character loses consciousness: everything went blank.
There was surely a bouquet of nightmares on my bed that night. The next few months would overflow with x-rays and CT scans, insurance calls, physical therapy appointments, assignment extensions, day dreams, restless nights, ibuprofen pills and muscle relaxers. I would also finally buy that phone case. But the accident was a minor one; that's what everyone said. I came out alive, so I should be fine, right? I should be fine.
Evidence
M. Bettes | Photography
Clay Butler
Citation Education
Citation, quite frankly, is a lot like sex. Complicated, regrettable, and constantly being graded by a third party. Additionally, much like true Christian sex, the only pure form of citation is MLA. Remember, a good rule of thumb is that the people who use God’s loophole are the same degenerates who use APA… Psychologists.1
This cheat sheet is designed to help those less-endowed individuals through the world of citation. Although we shall only discuss citations, these principles are guaranteed to improve your sex life as well.
A BRIEF HISTORY OF MLA-STYLE CITATIONS
Truly a tale as old as time, the Modern Language Association (MLA) created the first handbook all the way back in 1977. Pre-1977, the US was a dark and uneducated place. Little is known about what life was like during this curmudgeonous period. While many “scientific” research papers were created, the writers, unfortunately, used the APA style. Without proper MLA citation, these papers are nothing more than empty scribbles of madmen and should be regarded as such.
SINGLE-AUTHOR BOOK CITATION
Firstly, we will learn to write a basic citation for a singleauthor book. Seemingly simple, a surprisingly large amount of books are penned by a lone writer.2 Learn this technique well, and it shall pay you back tenfold. The basic form is as follows:
Last Name, First Name. Title of Book. City of Publication, Publisher, Publication Date.
Example: Fuddrucker, Imma. Eating Hot Dogs Doesn’t Have to Be Scary…or Arousing. Anywhere But Saint Louis City, Out of Inc., 2020.
1 Everyone in class should point at the only psychology major in the room to shame them.1.2
1.2 There is always one.
2 Proof that writing is a sexless occupation.
“But-but, how do I cite multiple books from the same author?” I hear you jabbering. The answer is quite simple: all we have to do is cite the first book, as previously discussed, while we replace the author’s name with three hyphens, followed by a period for the second book.
Fuddrucker, Imma. Eating Hot Dogs Doesn’t Have to Be Scary…or Arousing. Anywhere But Saint Louis, Out of Inc., 2020.
---. I Will Pee YOUR Pants, and That’s a Promise. Definitely Saint Louis, Found More Inc., 2023.
HOW TO CITE MOVIES
Now, we all know books are a dead medium. They’re expensive, ugly, and account for 87% of paper cuts.3 So, like the rest of the world, movies are where you get most of your information. Luckily, MLA has a way to cite movies so you can put your knowledge of School of Rock to good use come your next academic paper. Also, if you say film/cinema instead of movies, consider kindly fucking off. You can’t redeem the fact that you watched movies instead of reading academic papers—own up to it and stop being a poser.
MLA has made it very easy to cite movies, similar to book citing. The formula to do so is as follows:
Movie Title, Directed by Full Name, The Movie Studio/Distributor, Release Year.
Example:
The New Marvel Movie: The Marveling. Directed by Dick Butkus, Disney Fuckers Inc., 1312.
Now I know what you must be thinking; “How do I cite multiple movies by the same director?” The great MLA overlords haven’t worked that enigma out yet, but the best advice is to ask an APA user and do the opposite. Remember, say nay on APA!
3 The other 13% is from APA style advocates—those bastards.
INTERNET ARTICLES
Finally, we got to my favorite type of citation, online articles. It should be noted that “online articles” is a catchall term that includes tweets, memes, and other modern media. Hopefully, I’ll be able to make it through this without bursting with excitement. MLA citation really rustles my jimmies, if you know what I mean. Here’s the skinny on the citation format:
Last Name, First Name. “Article Name.” Web Magazine Name, Publisher Name, Publication Date, URL, Date accessed.
Example: I.C., Weiner. “Why I’m Really Gonna Do It This Time.” Regrettable Moments, 16 Aug. 2319, www.crisishotline.gov/funny/sad/ dont_tell_your_parents. Accessed 32 May 2001.
By now, you should have mastered the basics of MLA. Congratulations! You’ll only have to relearn the system every 1 – 2 times in a nondescript time frame. Don’t worry— if you’re ever confused, just plug your references into a citation generator and get semi-decent results! Half credit is guaranteed.
Emma Moore | Digital Collage
Cannibalism Capitalism
Jersie C.
A Flock of UMSL Geese
Geese, with their sneaky moves and raucous quack, Making college students take a step back, With their air of entitlement so absurd, Behaving like they’re the campus lord.
Their feathers glistening, heads held high, As if they own the entire sky, Who do they think they are, forsooth, Geese acting like they're the kings of the booth.
With wings outstretched, they strut around, Acting like they wear the campus crown, Hissing, squawking, creating a scene, As if they’re starring in a wildlife drama scene.
Unsuspecting students, beware, Geese lurking with a menacing glare, Claiming their territory with their ego inflated, As if the campus was theirs, unabated.
But despite their arrogant display, There’s something about them that’s cliché, Adding “character” to every day, Or so they claim, in a pompous way.
Their honks can pierce eardrums with a shrill tone, Disrupting the peace with a sound of their own, They think they’re mighty, bold, and grand, Defending their “turf” across the land.
But let’s face it; they’re just geese after all, Causing chaos with their antics so small, Annoying, entitled, and full of pride, As if the campus is their amusement ride.
So, geese, with your devious ways and squawk, College students won't be your easy walk, We’ll navigate around your territory, And laugh at your entitled story.
Mary Kate Gillespie
Week Sixteen
As the semester comes to close
My sanity very quickly goes
At any second my brains could blow
On the wall and on the ceiling
A physical embodiment of my feelings
Too bad I don’t have that good of luck
I’m in the trenches and I am stuck
I’ve finally given my very last fuck
About assignments and C’s and ChatGPT
Oh shit, I was wrong, it’s a D
Drowning in research on a topic I hate
AI detection, a terrible fate
All I think of is that sweet date
May thirteenth, twenty twenty-three
On that glorious day, I’ll finally be free
Free from the terror of provincial house toilets
Free from the Oak Hall smoke alarm noises
Free from my mediocre life choices
Back to my small-town roots and childhood room
God, why did I want to leave school so soon?
Lauren Johns | Photography
into the mystic
Anna Connoley
The Smell of Cold
Do you know the smell of rain? Now make it cold Your nose stings awake As you try and draw it all in Before the chill makes it numb
The winter dragon mist in the air Caused by your breaths Creates a wind for ones ahead To you it feels just like peppermint Down to the slight burn in your mouth
As you breathe deeply in you decide That this icicle petrichor Must be prophesying of snow Is there any other way the image Could come so briskly and firmly to mind?
This scent meeting you as you step outside Means you were wrong
You must turn back around Knowing that you’ll need more Than a jacket to keep you warm today
Julia Talbert
The Prince of Winter
CJ Acosta
ignition
a flame doesn’t question its ability to burn it doesn’t doubt its warmth it doesn’t worry if other flames burn bigger or brighter it burns warms and shines as big and bright as it can because that is what it was meant to do.
Brittni
Bader | Charcoal, Gen Pen, and Colored Pencil
Within
Abigail Wetteroff
I’m not sure what it is.
Maybe it’s the audacity to be prickly and warm, A cactus in the sun. I can’t help but think There’s something sweet about that.
Restrained little half-smiles pull me in, oh, Now all I want is to be the one who makes you beam Unapologetically, all day long.
Tell me your story. Tell me how you see cities and hear music and cope with the state of the universe, then tell me what you think of me.
Tell me everything, anything, I just want to hear which words you pick.
I write about ideas, not people, Tail-chasing to know the unknowable And weaving pleasant stories along the way, Waxing poetic on the sides of ditches as a pastime.
Well, we all have our hobbies, but let it be known that Daydreaming never hurt anybody—until it does.
I’m ruin, I’m rapture, I’m ecstatic. I can’t be any other way.
Wind it up, set it free, and go.
Theresa Colombini
What Makes Monsters Monstrous
We walk by strangers every day who come from all types of backgrounds: kind, foreign, psychopathic. When talking about Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, one writer says that he deplores people’s “inability to consider the possibility that monsters are always among us, that they are mostly manmade, and that artists have almost always been the first to warn us of them” (Weingarter 14). While monsters are usually simply a ferocious creature imagined as part of childhood fantasy, through dystopian literature, various artists warn us of monsters that could be brought to reality, which—although different in character or time period—have distinct similarities that can be noticed across the various books. We will examine H. G. Wells’ The Island of Doctor Moreau, Aldous Huxley’s A Brave New World, and Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange to see how the authors express their own type of monsters. These monsters all possess human-like qualities and go against societal norms, while having difficulties with technology. Using these parallels, it can also be determined that monsters cannot be labeled as universally good or bad.
To begin with, it is essential to obtain a grasp on what the authors describe as their so-called monsters. The vivisected monsters of The Island of Dr. Moreau were “monsters manufactured by transferring a slip from the tail of an ordinary rat to its snout and allowing it to heal in that position […] bestial monsters, mere grotesque travesties of men” (222, 229). Dr. Moreau created monsters from various animals, seeking to fashion them into humanesque forms. He introduces monsters as having human-like qualities albeit more animal made. In A Brave New World, Huxley introduces Linda, who had been conditioned in a modern world but left behind as a monster in the old world with savages. She was a
“monster of flaccid and distorted senility” (202). Although she was human, she was considered a monster by all who encountered her. In A Clockwork Orange, Burgess’ main character, Alex, is portrayed as the hero and the villian. When he tries to return to his parents after prison, he gets called “a young monster who has been like no real son at all” (89). While he is human, his actions towards everyone in his life have led others to think of him as a monster.
The first similarity that all of these monsters have is human-like qualities. For Dr. Moreau’s creatures, while physically maintaining the appearance of animals, they were taught to act like humans. In chapter twelve, when one such creature encounters a human, he says, “It is a man. He must learn the Law” (213). When the man is confused, the group of creatures continue on to recite the Law, “Not to go on allFours; that is the Law. Are we not Men? Not to suck up Drink; that is the Law. Are we not Men?” (213). They continue their litany of prohibitions of how they ought to act so as to be more human-like. Linda in Brave New World was actually a human, despite being quite foreign to what the other people were used to. She scandalizes the perfectly-conditioned humans with her appearance; Huxley describes her appearance and another human’s, Lenina’s, reaction to her. Lenina, who was used to the conveniences of her world, was in shock and almost made sick at the sight of Linda. “So fat. And all the lines in her face, the flabbiness, the wrinkles. And the sagging cheeks, with those purplish blotches. And the red veins on her nose, the bloodshot eyes” (119). When Linda was brought to the new world, she was a disturbing sight compared to the others around her: “bloated, sagging, and among those firm youthful bodies, those undistorted faces, a strange and terrifying monster of middle-agedness…” (150). As for Alex in A Clockwork Orange, he is completely human and accepted among the other people with his appearance; in fact, he and his droogs were “dressed in the height of
fashion” (3). In all three of these examples, the various monsters all have some sort of human quality in how they act or look.
Writer Stephen Asma when analyzing monsters presents to his audience a particular point about them having humanlike qualities. From those, such as a headless horseman, who have a combination of normal (human) and abnormal (headless) qualities, our brains reg ister a cognitive glitch, which sparks fear. Asma asks us if this is particularly frightening because it is an anomaly, or if it is because heads are essential to human life. He follows this up with, “And therefore, is the headless monster a multiple piece of ‘category jamming’—both morphologically incoherent and also transgressing the categories of animate and inanimate?” (948). This morphological incoherence – the confusion caused by the form of the creature – can be compared to the animals in The Island of Dr Moreau, who, by their actions and appearances, lead observers to a cognitive glitch to what exactly they are. Althoug h they look like animals, some of them can speak and act with what seems to be intellect, although they are governed by the prohibitions set forth by the Law. For the people from the new world in Brave New World, they also witness this cognitive glitch in the form of Linda. Although she is a human, she does not match their standards and what they have been conditioned to recognize as one of them. Alex from A Clockwork Orange is perhaps the most confusing to other humans, though more for the reasoning behind his actions than for his body. Altogether, Moreau’s animals, Linda, and Alex all have human-like qualities that do not quite match up with what the other humans in their society are used to.
Secondly, all three of these examples involve some strong personal encounter with technology or development in science. For The Island of Dr. Moreau, the animals have been scientifically engineered so as to change their species. In
Science Fiction and the Abolition of Man, Mark Boone and Kevin Neece describe The Island of Dr. Moreau as, “Our devotion to knowledge ignores ethical limits so we can explore seemingly limitless curiosities” (Chapter 2). This quote seems to carry on to the Brave New World and A Clockwork Orange as well. The people in the new world have been conditioned so as to have limited free will and their judgment is based on what is expected of them. It is expected for them to have sex frequently, but they are required to use contraceptives so as not to produce children. Instead, the children are manufactured in a factory, where they are also conditioned as babies to hate what society wants them to. In A Clockwork Orange, Alex undergoes a rigorous brainwashing process to rid him of his cruel actions. Ludovico’s Technique, the newest technology of the day, allows the scientists to change how Alex thinks about decisions in a way that suits what their goal is (making him not want to leave prison only to commit more crimes).
As Boone and Neece say, “The allure and lure of technological prowess slithers through our lives until we awake… coiled by our inventions, bitten by our intentions, and poisoned by our limitations” (Chapter 2). While technological advances can do amazing things like help cure people or integrate more communication in the world, the inventions must be made cautiously, keeping in mind the intention behind the action and what humans should keep themselves limited to. If not, as we can learn from Huxley, Burgess, and Wells, they can be taken too far in the creation of monsters. Shannon Conley focuses on the technology aspect of the monster in her article “An Age of Frankenstein: Monstrous Motifs, Imaginative Capacities, and Assisted Reproductive Technologies.” She begins by discussing the older technology form of galvanism that was used to spur on stories of monsters based on dead bodies, from which the story Frankenstein was written. She moves on to discuss test tube
babies and how this technology correlates to Aldous Huxley’s A Brave New World. Conley tells the story of a cartoon in which the monster was the baby that came from the test tube that overpowered the scientist that had created it. Science can be good up to a certain extent at which point it takes over human control. She says Frankenstein and A Brave New World “provide visions of what is not desirable and can play an important role… for creatively grappling with present and future socio-technical contracts” (256).
However, while bad events happen in each of these stories, the readers are compelled to question if monsters are as bad as they are made to seem like. They may not look or act how society wants them to or fight against the technology of the age, but these are not necessarily bad things. Sibylle Erle and Helen Hendry focus on the monster from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein as their main example in “Monsters: Interdisciplinary Explorations in Monstrosity.” However, from this one example, they produce this summary: Monsters are strong, resilient, creative and sly creatures. Through their playful and invigorating energy they can be seen to disrupt and unsettle. They still cater to the appetite for horror, but they also encourage us to feel empathy. The encounter with a monster can enable us to stop, wonder and change our attitudes towards technology, our body and each other. (1)
Whether vivisected animals, a fat older lady, or an immoral boy who is facing character development, the readers are called upon to stop and look at their own lives and how they can relate. The glory of being part of humanity is that even though we are part of the same species, each of us have a unique attitude towards life that does not always fit with how society has tried to condition us thus far. Shelbi Janicki in her article “Our Monsters, Ourselves: Desire, Death, and Deviance in Gothic Narratives and How They Inform an Inquiry of Currere” believes that authors and readers can identify with monsters, saying, “Monsters are a way to ‘deviate’ from
societal norms, to critique dominant attitudes and perspectives, and to create new modes of being or becoming” (5). The monsters are not creatures to be ashamed of because of their great adversity to humanity, but they take on “the desirous impulses of the authors” (14).
Through examining the beast folk from The Island of Dr. Moreau, Linda from Brave New World, and Alex from A Clockwork Orange, there are parallels between the monsters such as human-like qualities, going against societal norms, and strong personal involvement with technology that help shape the various monsters. Given these correlations, the authors call upon the readers to reflect on their own lives and their attitudes towards society to see if they have become monstrous in their lifestyle.
Works Cited
Asma, Stephen T. “Monsters on the Brain: An Evolutionary Epistemology of Horror.” Social Research, vol. 81, no. 4, Winter 2014, pp. 941–968. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/
login.aspx?direct=true&db=pbh&AN=102354688.
Boone, Mark J., and Neece, Kevin C. Science Fiction and The Abolition of Man: Finding C. S. Lewis in Sci-Fi Film and Television. Pickwick Publications, 2017.
EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/ login.aspx?direct=true&db=nlebk&AN=1457062.
Burgess, Anthony. A Clockwork Orange. New York, W. W. Norton & Company, 2011.
Conley, Shannon N. “An Age of Frankenstein: Monstrous Motifs, Imaginative Capacities, and Assisted Reproductive Technologies.” Science Fiction Studies, vol. 45, no. 2, July 2018, pp. 244–259. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/
login.aspx?direct=true&db=lfh&AN=130381152.
Erle, Sibylle, and Helen Hendry. “Monsters: Interdisciplinary Explorations in Monstrosity.” Palgrave Communications, vol. 6, no. 1, Mar. 2020, pp. 1–7. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/ login.aspx?direct=true&db=edb&AN=142409390.
Huxley, Aldous. Brave New World. New York, Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 2006.
Janicki, Shelby. “Our Monsters, Ourselves: Desire, Death, and Deviance in Gothic Narratives and How They Inform an Inquiry of Currere.” JCT: Journal of Curriculum Theorizing, vol. 34, no. 5, Oct. 2019, pp. 4–17. EBSCOhostsearch.ebscohost.com/ login.aspx?direct=true&db=eue&AN=140056732.
Weingartner, Charles. “Mutterings: Monsters.” The English Journal, vol. 65, no. 3, National Council of Teachers of English, 1976, pp. 14–16, https://doi.org/10.2307/814827.
Wells, H. G. The Island of Dr. Moreau. Boston, Houghton Mifflin Company, 2003.
Brittni Bader
Scream
Reese Rich
Like a drifter in the dark
In my free time I become a drifter, And when I wander those old halls to see what lies at the end, I hear voices in the distance, Speaking listless words.
But yet, The halls feel so empty, And I float through them like a lost apparition As I run my finger along the dusty windowsill; Not even bugs could make this their home.
How cruel,
That this place is ugly in desolation, Yet beautiful in tranquility, And by basking within it, I only disturb its slumber.
So, like the ghost I am, I leave the peace: Without a trace.
Kimberly Potthast
The One in Which Death Visits the Hospital
She was Tibetan, first of all, with a swastika bracelet and a clear plastic backpack filled with books written by the 14th Dalai Lama. She was hot, too: a tan to die for, a long black bob, and pure gold eyes, from sclera to iris to pupil. We didn’t know how we knew she was Death. It’s entirely possible we made the wrong assumption. Either way, we watched as she made her way to the third floor, hoping she was coming for anyone but us. Her steps were unhurried but not deliberate; Death has all the time in the world but always seems to make random, unfair choices. She stumbled a few times but finally arrived at the nurse’s station and spoke to one of them in a totally unaccented voice, the country and region unfamiliar and unplaceable. “Hey, Claire, I’m here to cover your shift. Go home, get some sleep. Tell the kids I said hi!”
The nurse was short and curvy, and she didn’t always have the gentlest voice but she always had the gentlest hands. We liked her for that. Her pale skin showed the dark circles under her eyes, stemming from being on call since 8:00 p.m. yesterday. When Death made the offer, Claire shrugged and clocked out. Death stowed away her backpack, scrubbed up, and started doing the rounds. For the rest of the day, none of us suffered from so much as a cough. Nobody died in our hospital at all.
Irina Biedenstein | Photography
Amidst Shadows: Holocaust
Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe Berlin, Germany
K.C. Terra
As Grief Greets Me
Dedicated to my late grandmother. I love you, Nani.
In the depths where sorrow dwells, A heavy shroud upon me fell, A poignant ache, a weight profound, Grief’s somber song, its mournful sound.
Within my heart, a tempest brews, A storm of tears, emotions fuse, The void is vast, the pain runs deep, Grief’s bitter taste, it does not sleep.
Aching echoes of what once was, Now silenced by fate's callous laws, Memories dance, both sweet and cruel, Grief’s piercing touch, a solemn duel.
Like ebbing tides upon the shore, Grief's waves crash, forevermore, In endless cycles, they surge and break, A ceaseless ache, an endless wake.
How it rends, this sorrow's might, Engulfing shadows, devouring light, Yet amidst the darkness, we hold on tight, Grief’s lonely path, we dare to fight.
For in its grasp, I find my strength, In tears shed, I gather myself at length, Through shared embraces, tender and kind, Grief’s heavy burden, I come to unwind.
And as I navigate this solemn sea, I find solace in unity, For in the heartache, I am not alone, Grief’s bitter harvest, we all have sown.
Though time may pass, wounds slowly mend, Grief's jagged edges, we learn to tend, With every tear shed, healing takes flight, Transforming anguish into wisdom’s light.
So let us honor what once was dear, In memories cherished, hold them near, For though grief's presence may never cease, Love’s eternal flame brings inner peace.
In the tapestry of life's grand design, Grief's threads entwined, forever mine, May we find solace, hope, and relief, As we journey through the realms of grief.
Fanita Irene Carrawell
Unspoken
I should have known where we were headed, me, you, them. I should have known from the start. When you left us on Clearance and Pope that beautiful spring day. They looked for you with wonder and tear-filled eyes. I knew where you were as most of the time I did. Still we searched for you in the dark trails you left behind in your shadows.
Why, why, why? I can not ask enough or even how?
Mothers normally have a bond so close that no one or no thing can break it. But yours, broken from the beginning. I could not understand then, and time still leaves me baffled.
I cried rivers for your appearance, because when I felt your presence, it was like Christmas. Not that I ever had one where our family sat around the tree exchanging gifts.
Still sometimes I would imagine, I’d imagine what some children were blessed to feel within an arm’s reach.
Yet, I sat alone, trying to lead the lonely, until I could no longer lead this pack of cubs. Cubs that were never mine to begin with. They were yours, you knew, yet you betrayed us. Each time a new betrayal. We can ask, but your answers will never satisfy. And, how can they begin to satisfy a child’s thirst for a mother’s love?
María T. Balogh
Letter of Plea
Dear St. Louis County: Could you please stop using me as an excuse? If you choose to segregate your children by color creed, social status customs, high school why must I carry the burden of that artificial separation?
The sun brightens both sides of my path The moon shines equally gorgeous to my North and to my South I feel broken in half when your children speak of me I am your wounded waist that bleeds through cracked veins because I am often neglected in portions randomly selected depending on who is responsible for my care
Sitting in your middle I should serve as a union rather than a division
Sincerely, Delmar
Piel con piel
Excellence in Writing 2022-2023
Congratulations to the winners of the Excellence in Writing Contest!
Thank you to all who submitted. There were several great essays in the running, and everyone should be proud of their work. Our official contest winners are...
1000-level winner: Irina Biedenstein
“Striving for Perfection in Every Age: The Analects and The Book of the Courtier”
Written for Honors 1200: Cultural Tradtions I
Taught by Dr. Ann Torrusio in Fall 2022
2000-level winner: Abby Foust
“Citizen Initiatives and Popular Referenda”
Written for Honors 2060: Legal Environment of Business
Taught by Betsy Grimm-Howell in Spring 2023
*3000-level winner: Abigail Keleher
“Socially Safe Subversion of Gender in Twelfth Night and Ouran High School Host Club”
Written for Honors 3010: Courtesy, Courtly Love, and Adventure
Taught by Kurt Schreyer in Fall 2022
*Denotes featured contest winner
Abigail Keleher
Socially Safe Subversion of Gender in Twelfth Night and Ouran High School Host Club
Any list of the greatest names in comedy in the last few centuries must have William Shakespeare at the top. One of Shakespeare’s most famous plays, Twelfth Night, is a prime example of his ability to point out the things about society that just don’t make sense in a way that avoids making outright accusations. In the play, a shipwrecked gentlewoman named Viola dresses as a man in order to find work. She falls in love with her employer, Duke Orsino, while Olivia, the woman her employer is unsuccessfully wooing, falls in love with Viola’s masculine presentation, Cesario. By the end of the final act, the superficiality of gender roles has been suggested without traditional audiences even having to consciously acknowledge it to enjoy the performance. The play makes masterful use of comedy as social commentary, so it’s no surprise that other works have since employed similar techniques. A surprising example is the 2006 anime, Ouran High School Host Club, which contains a remarkable number of parallels to Twelfth Night. The protagonist of the anime, Haruhi Fujioka, is another female who dresses androgynously for convenience’s sake. On one of her first days at a prestigious high school, Haruhi stumbles into the domain of the Ouran High School Host Club, a group of boys who entertains the school’s young women in an unused music classroom for pay, and accidentally breaks a vase worth a significant sum. Now indebted to the Host Club, who initially believe she’s a male, Haruhi has no choice but to don their dapper uniform and go to work charming the ladies, with the goal of winning the club 1000 customers in order to pay off her debt. Aware of her
identity from the first episode, the members of the club work to hide Haruhi’s femininity from the rest of the school so that she can continue to bring in business in her masculine disguise. The criticisms of gender-specific expectations present in Twelfth Night are communicated using very similar comedic moves, and are possibly made even more explicit, in Ouran High School Host Club. By couching gender nonconformity within situations that allow audiences to attribute it to ridiculous and unrealistic requirements to perform, a technique blueprinted by Shakespeare in Twelfth Night, Ouran High School Host Club displays the power of comedy to push the boundaries of gender in a socially acceptable and innocuous way.
One of the primary aspects of Twelfth Night reflected in Ouran High School Host Club is the fact that Viola only dresses as a man for the sake of employment and security, details which banish audience’s fears that the character is taking on an alternative gender identity due to pure desire to subvert gender norms. Shipwrecked in a strange land at the beginning of the play, Viola is suddenly on her own. As a woman in Shakespeare’s era, she’s not safe alone, she has no social credibility, and she’s unable to work independently. But Viola is resourceful. After realizing she might be of some help to a duke she hears about, Viola decides to seek employment under him. This prompts her to tell the captain of the sunken ship, “Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him; / It may be worth my pains. For I can sing / And speak to him in many sorts of music / That will allow me very worth his service” (1.2.56-59). Despite the fact that Viola has the skill set needed to work under the duke, she’s required to go undercover as a man in order to use it. By making sure the audience is aware of Viola’s plight and very limited options, the text encourages their sympathy and maybe even their admiration for her shrewdness, rather than defensiveness or suspicion of her motives.
In spirit of need akin to the one displayed by Viola, Haruhi Fujioka dresses in frumpy, androgynous clothing solely because she doesn’t care to spend money on anything fancier or more feminine. As she tells Tamaki Suoh, the male lead and president of the Host Club, her hair is short and boyish because “The day before the entrance ceremonies, I had some gum stuck in my hair from a kid in the neighborhood.” She cut it all off because it was “such a pain to get out” (Episode 2, 7:29). While Haruhi isn’t in as tragic a plight financially as Viola, her assumption of a boyish appearance at the beginning of the show is motivated by practicality. When Haruhi leans into her androgynousness by joining the Host Club, she does so only because the vase she broke was so impossible for her to repay that her only choice was to work off the debt. Haruhi’s circumstances reassure the audience that her crossdressing is only a means to an end, reflecting Shakespeare’s placating portrayal of Viola’s circumstances at the beginning of Twelfth Night. By clearly displaying from the beginning the pragmatic motivations of the protagonists’ seemingly anti-feminine choices, both Twelfth Night and Ouran High School Host Club put traditionally-minded audience members at ease, allowing them to enjoy the characters’ antics and exploration of gender without any moral quandary. While both Twelfth Night and Ouran High School Host Club suggest the superficiality of gender through the main characters’ manipulation of it, Ouran High School Host Club applies Shakespeare’s comedic principles to an explicit discussion of gender, allowing the protagonist to openly state that gender doesn’t really matter to her. While Haruhi dresses androgynously and wears her hair short for convenience’s sake, she also goes as far as to express that outward gender expression is simply not important to her. In the first episode, Haruhi expresses that she believes
gender is fundamentally irrelevant to a person’s character. “It doesn’t matter either way, does it? Men, women, appearances, and such?” she asks the boys who run the Host Club. She also asks, “What’s important as a person is what’s on the inside, right?” (Episode 1, 11:15). In Japan, where the schoolgirl is considered the feminine ideal, this dismissive attitude towards gender would be shocking, pushing viewers of the anime to consider how much stock they put in traits that may not be relevant to the character of a person. While Haruhi only crossdresses as a member of the Host Club in order to rectify her financial situation, acting like a man not only doesn’t challenge her values, but it also doesn’t stymie her pursuit of her personal desires. Throughout the series, she’s oblivious to the advances of all men who show interest (some of whom are aware of her sex and some of whom are not) and doesn’t show an interest in traditionally feminine pastimes. Traditionally masculine desires don’t seem to motivate her, either. In Episode Ten, Haruhi’s inner monologue as she walks home with groceries reveals that she’s very content spending her Sunday going to the grocery store and taking care of the household chores (Episode 10, 5:12). This behavior, which could potentially be read as a feminization of Haruhi, is instead attributed by her father to her independent character, although it might serve as a counterbalance to her masculine performance for viewers who would prefer to think of her as fundamentally feminine. Because of Haruhi’s independence and lack of interest in nonessential things, she doesn’t experience any conflict between her identity and her need to act as a male. Arguably, Haruhi’s criticism of surface-level gender expectations is the much more explicit expression of the potential reading of Twelfth Night, in which Viola’s willingness to dress as a man indicates an awareness that, at least at the level of social maneuvering, gender is made up merely of
appearance and behavior.
However, in contrast to Haruhi’s nonchalant attitude toward gender, Viola experiences personal conflict due to her need to pretend to be a man. Aside from her constant difficulties in staving off Olivia, Viola’s inability to express the gender in line with her birth sex stands firmly in the way of her strong (if inexplicable) feelings for Duke Orsino. In the first act, when Viola first entered Orsino’s employ, Orsino gives her the assignment to woo Olivia for him. She has no choice but to accept: “I’ll do my best / To woo your lady.” To herself and to the audience, however, she expresses lovesick frustration, saying, “Yet a barful strife! / Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife” (1.4.40-42).
Because Viola is crossdressing, subverting her society’s expectations of gender, she can’t get the thing she wants the most. Whereas Haruhi isn’t motivated by gendered desires, Viola retains the thoughts and desires traditionally assigned to a woman. In establishing her interest in the male lead from the first act, Shakespeare provides the audience with a fundamental incongruity between Viola’s sex and her gender expression, conceding that a woman behaving and being perceived in an unfeminine way is not the ideal situation and was only sustained in the text due to comic necessity. So Ouran High School Host Club’s open criticism of gender, despite the fact that it’s tempered through the use of Shakespeare’s comedic framework, challenges modern audiences more strongly than Twelfth Night has done over the years.
At the end of both works, the restoration of the women’s femininity through outward transformations and heterosexual relationships allows them to meet cultural expectations in the complete and uncomplicated way that only comedy can get away with, confining any conflict the audience might have felt to the unrealistic turmoil of the story. The ending of Twelfth Night carefully balances
fulfillment of social expectations and a message about the superficiality of gender expression by implying that, while Orsino isn’t attracted to Viola until he realizes her sex, her gender expression comes second to her character in his eyes. In the last scene of the play, when Orsino finally realizes Viola’s identity, he takes her hand and says, “Cesario, come – / For so you shall be while you are a man, / But when in other habits you are seen, Orsino’s mistress and his fancy’s queen” (5.1.78-81). Orsino states that Viola will be his mistress when she again has the appearance of a woman, establishing the socially acceptable heteronormativity of the pairing and the femininity of Viola as a character. However, he takes her hand and leads her away still in her masculine guise, never having seen her as a woman, but confident because he knows that she’s the one he wants. In order to be satisfied with the heteronormativity of the outcome of the play, audiences must acknowledge that, until Orsino was told that Viola was a woman, he had no clue that she was anything but a biological male. In other words, Viola met all the social expectations of a male perfectly, allowing readers to draw the conclusion that the performance of the role in Orsino’s household that she could only secure by pretending to be a male actually does not depend on biological sex at all. Despite that fact, all that was required for her to seem romantically ideal to Orsino was the awareness that she was biologically female. Her excellent performance in a traditionally masculine role was not due to an inherent masculinity, or else Orsino would not have decided to woo her. Therefore, by accepting the happy, boy-and-girl-finally-get-together ending of the comedy, audiences must also accept that our perceptions of gender are based on factors that have nothing to do with the biological sex of a person. From there, some viewers might conclude that perhaps as Haruhi puts it, “What’s important
as a person is what’s on the inside,” rather than something as external as their gender.
Standing its ground on the question of the deeper relevance of gender expression even more firmly than Twelfth Night, the Ouran High School Host Club manga, which extends far beyond the ending of the anime, begins its final volume with Tamaki, the male lead, receiving Haruhi’s confession of love while she still has the appearance of a boy. Haruhi takes on a more feminine appearance at different points throughout the anime, a notable example being Episode Sixteen, in which she goes out on a date with a different character. However, in a striking reflection of Twelfth Night’s final scene, when Haruhi expresses her feelings for the male lead, and he enthusiastically accepts them, she is presenting a masculine or androgynous appearance. Because Haruhi identifies as a female, and Tamaki is aware of this, her romantic relationship with him is heterosexual despite her indifference to gender. In other words, it reaffirms traditional Japanese social expectations, and it conforms to the tried and true universal comedic trope of all the men and women ending up together in the end, signaling that all is now right. In Japan, as in Shakespeare’s era of English culture, social roles are fundamentally linked to gender, meaning that opportunities for social interaction and behavioral preferences are restricted by biological sex. However, because Haruhi does have the appearance of a male and is not particularly feminine in her behavior, viewers who want to accept a sexually conforming interpretation must be willing to separate socially dictated gender expression from biological sex, acknowledging the superficiality of clothing, personal interests, hairstyles, manner of speaking, etc. In this couching of gender role deviance within sexual normativity, the ending of Ouran High School Host Club draws heavily, if not consciously,
from the ending of Twelfth Night.
Ouran High School Host Club concludes on a triumphant note for the argument for the irrelevance of gender to the fulfillment of social roles using comedic techniques of which Shakespeare is the master. By playing with characters’ perceptions of gender within a socially accepted framework of gender values, as Shakespeare does in Twelfth Night, Ouran High School Host Club leverages traditional audiences’ expectation that heterosexual romantic pairings indicate that all has ended well to pry a bit of reliance on gender normativity out of their hands. Ouran High School Host Club’s utilization of Shakespeare’s method of poking subtle holes in social constructs provides an explanation as to why anime that play with social conceptualizations of gender see such success in as traditionalistic a culture as Japan. The genre of comedy allows creators to show new angles of society to itself without challenging established culture by ostensibly ceding the point to tradition in the end–but not without making a few innocent observations first. As the parallels between a Shakespearean comedy and a romcom anime prove, comedic cultural commentary transcends era and nationality, making it a powerful tool for social change.
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Author Biographies
CJ Acosta is an alum of UMSL and works at a fashion company in Clayton, Missouri. Once an outlet, writing is now a passion for him. He hopes to publish a novel someday.
Brittni Bader is finishing up her Bachelor of Fine Arts at the University of Missouri-St. Louis. Here her work has continued to expand in different practices, specifically printmaking and 3D work. Most of her artwork continues to be influenced by her past and present experiences which convey many personal stories and messages.
Shayleigh Baker is a junior majoring in elementary education with an emphasis in special education. Shayleigh hopes to become an elementary special education teacher upon graduation and potentially pursue a master’s degree at UMSL. She enjoys writing, dancing, and sleeping in her free time. She is an active member of Zeta Tau Alpha on campus.
María T. Balogh is a multilingual, bicultural poet, fiction writer, performing Caribbean folkloric dancer, and educator. She has a book of poetry in Spanish, and a collection of poetry and fiction in English. Her fiction and poetry have been published in several different journals from the USA and South America. She has been all over and done just about everything, including building rural aqueducts while in the Peace Corps. She now teaches Spanish, specializing in Latin American literature and culture, and creative writing at the University of Missouri— St. Louis.
Lauren Bearden-Kyser is a nursing major at UMSL and draws on Dan’s comedy writing class to get inspiration for these stories.
M. Bettes was born and raised in the Alton area in Illinois. She is a small business owner, wife, and junior at UMSL. She learned photography in high school and has loved it ever since. She started UMSL last year as a transfer student and is currently pursuing a degree in graphic design.
Irina Biedenstein is an Army Veteran in the Honors College. She is a sophomore seeking a Bachelor’s in Business Administration.
Duan Bills is a senior in the graphic design program and a student in the Honors College. He is a creative mind who has a strong passion for design, animation, and all things art. His goal is to make the world a more vibrant place with his art and to inspire others to do the same.
Clay Butler is, quite frankly, surmised in one word— laughable. Nevertheless, he hopes to one day be the guy with the funniest tie in the office.
Jersie C. is a passionate junior in the Honors College, specializing in education and driven by a deep love for writing. It is her goal to inspire students through her creativity and passion for words as she strives to become a teacher of writing in the future.
Anthony T. Cameron is an aspiring certified public accountant in his junior year. He has many other interests, but his primary focus is being the first person on his father’s side to earn a Bachelor’s degree. He is looking forward to growing his career and diving deeper into his skill sets. He’s interested in partnering with individuals who are serious about their profession and providing excellent service to their customers or consumers.
Fanita Irene Carrawell is an alum of UMSL. She received a Bachelor’s degree in Spanish in December 2011. She is also a certified medical assistant and community health worker. She has an 8-year-old daughter named Mya. She likes to write poetry and songs in her free time; sing; and karaoke.
Theresa Colombini is a senior studying international relations and marketing who loves photography, learning about other cultures, exploring old places and churches, and handlettering for her side business.
Anna Connoley is doing their best to figure themself out, and it is proving to be significantly more difficult than they’d like. But one thing she does know is she holds her ability to be creative in high regard and doesn’t ever plan on stopping, whatever form it ends up taking. They hope you enjoy what they’ve presented in this book.
Chris Courtwright is a marketing major and an Honors College student. He hopes to one day work for a big company marketing team like Redbull.
Déo is a nursing student at UMSL. He plans to finish his final four semesters. He is new to creating music, and he wants to create Bachata style beats.
Abby Foust is many things, but tall is not one of them. She is, however, a junior, an accounting major, an UMSL student, an aspiring court jester, a fencer, and a writer (in that order).
Tanys Giles is a psychology major minoring in child advocacy studies, and an Honors College student. She hopes to one day become a clinical social worker working with underprivileged children who have experienced some form of trauma. She loves to read, dance, and play with her cats.
Mary Kate Gillespie is a nursing major and Honors College student pursuing a career in women’s health.
Maya Hutchinson is a freshman in the Honors College. She enjoys crafting, reading, and being a dog mom.
Lauren Johns has a BFA in graphic design and is currently pursuing a Digital Marketing and Social Media certificate. She enjoys running half marathons on a whim, and she loves to sing while attempting to play instruments. On campus, she’s hosting radio shows and writing articles for The Current. She works for an event planning company but hopes to find a job in her field soon.
Abigail Keleher is in the last year of her English degree at UMSL and is currently working as a freelance writer and editor. She wants to shout out her husband, Jason, who is the bomb dot com.
Amelia Khan is a senior psychology major, English minor, and Honors College student who looks forward to being an UMSL alum. This is her second year being a part of the Bellerive team and has served on both the editing and public relations committees. She enjoys reading mysteries, writing poetry, and photographing her outdoor adventures. She hopes to one day become a child therapist and publish poetry in her free time.
NZ Maaloo is studying economics and English at UMSL. When she’s not studying, she publishes a monthly fashion magazine called Muze, devoted to telling stories through style in collaboration with local artists and creatives.
Randi Martin is currently a sophmore at UMSL. She is a primary education student and looking forward to starting her teaching career. She enjoys hanging out with her family and friends in her spare time.
Cassandra Monono is an accounting major and senior student in the Honors College. When she’s not working on homework, she writes about religion and what she calls “the complexities of immigrant life”. She also loves reading, singing, and traveling to her beloved country Cameroon. She’s been dreaming of publishing a book since she was seven.
Emma Moore is a senior in the Honors College, graphic designer, and illustrator who dreams of creating meaningful design. She transferred to UMSL after receiving her associate’s degree from St. Charles Community College. In her spare time, Emma likes to play video games and jam out to her favorite tunes.
Brent Moss is a freshman in the Honors College from the Bahamas. He loves to represent African American women and his culture in his artwork. Brent plans to balance both business and art in his future. Art is an important part of his life, and he hopes to continue to do great things with his artwork.
Jason Thomas Paro is a current UMSL student who is majoring in fine art with an emphasis in education. He recently graduated from St. Charles Community College and is in his first semester at UMSL. He enjoys writing, drawing, painting, music, music theory, and games. Jason hopes to continue making art for the rest of his life and be an art professor at an accredited university.
Kimberly Potthast is a graduate student in the Master of Fine Arts program. She is the current Natural Bridge managing editor for Boulevard magazine, plans to continue being active in publishing after graduation, and would like to thank you for reading her work.
Reese Rich is a chemistry major and music minor in the Honors College. If he is not at rehearsal or in the lab, he is doodling within the margins and on the backs of his notes and sheet music. He hopes to someday work in material chemistry while still enjoying and creating art.
Cassius Rizor writes on occasion as a hobby. One day he hopes to move to a foreign country, learn foreign languages, and meet foreign people. Until then, he is studying literature and language at UMSL.
Zoë Schultz is an art education major who hopes to teach future generations the impact art can have on one’s life.
George Shawki is an senior English and history major and Honors College student seeking a PhD in English. He is fascinated by storytelling, and the manner in which different cultures and peoples tell and have told tales across the world. He is particularly fond of alliterative verse. His favorite book is the Silmarillion.
Kevin “Antheme” Smith is a senior majoring in Business Administration and brings his personal dealings in the turmoil of relationships to life through writings and music.
Julia Talbert is a junior biology major in the Honors College with an interest in genetics, and she works in Dr. Zolman’s lab. She hopes to get her PhD at WashU in genetics and work in a research or hospital setting.
K.C. Terra is a junior biochemistry/biotechnology major with an emphasis in pre-dental at UMSL. She strives to one day be a successful dentist, but when she wants to wind down, she picks up a pen and paper to let out her feelings. She finds writing to be a healthy coping mechanism for the stressors in her life, and she hopes to touch the hearts of readers who can relate to her pieces.
Brian Vandenberg is a retired UMSL professor in the Department of Psychological Sciences.
Abigail Wetteroff is a senior working towards a BA in English. After graduation, she hopes to find gainful employment and write often. Her great loves include music, film, and television. All else is in flux.
Jarron White is an UMSL alum and English grad, starting his master’s program next year in Seattle. He hopes to publish and continue publishing books and creating poems after his first published book Midnight Mirage. He loves to powerlift and train at UMSL’s recreation center and is always pleased to share his passion for writing and creative art.
Noelle Wisdom is a senior in the Honors College, an artist, and a traveler. She is a woman of many passions, including photography, drawing, painting, traveling, dancing, reading, kayaking, and so much more! Noelle is completing her Bachelor’s in Psychology.
Staff Notes
ART
Are you kidding me? Less than a week before the end of the semester, and you want us to write art committee notes? Do you think any of our brains are able to put two thoughts together to come up with coherent notes at this point in the semester? We’re the art committee for a reason; ask the editing committee if you want anything well-written.
-Duan, a super senior who is just kinda hangin’ out, Committee Chair
-Anna Connoley, so glad the third time I’m taking this class is the last one
-Noelle Wisdom, another super senior who has been in school for too long
EDITING
Official Statement (What we are paid to say - though we are not paid - it’s called “volunteering”):
Despite everything not being unanimous in this issue of Bellerive or even within the Editing Committee, we worked hard to edit everything the majority decided to publish. We reviewed everything individually, commented on Google Docs, negotiated edits in two groups, and then discussed those edits with the authors.
Unofficially (What we wish we could say):
It was not always a peaceful negotiation, or even a negotiation at all — but we eventually got through it. (Key word “eventually.”) We argued for ten minutes whether the sentence would work better with a comma, a semicolon, or a period. We discussed (not so calmly) the difference between the words “welp” and “whelp.” There was also a conversation about whether the author meant to put “intimating” or “imitating.” The comments overran the pages with back-and-forth conversations, swapping of definitions, and many, many, many highlighted sections. (Let’s just be thankful we met over Zoom instead of in person — grammar textbooks would have been thrown.)
LAYOUT
“After getting kink-shamed out of Litmag, ENM found Bellerive, a partner more welcoming of their poly lifestyle. The ENM poly trio seems to be seeking GGG lit anthology for power-exchange fun. You must love poetry, art, fiction, music, and the occasional academic essay to even be considered to be a part of their group. Emma is a giver, Micah loves to receive, and Nate's a power bottom.”
-Dan Gerth’s observations about the Layout Committee
PUBLIC RELATIONS
This year, the PR Committee came back stronger than ever with a two-woman team, bringing Bellerive’s number of submissions up higher than they ever have been before. Amelia and Tanys poured their hearts and dedication into advertising this upcoming issue, holding down the fort with colors, ads, and creativity to increase viewership. From creating posts to constructing banner templates and producing bookmarks throughout the semester, we’re more than thankful that Canva and ChatGPT exist…. That’s it. That’s all. Merci et fin. :)
Fourth Row (L to R): Tanys Giles, Cassius Rizor, Duan Bills, Micah Nellis
Third Row (L to R):
Audri Adams, Theresa Colombini, Emma Moore, Nate Hoenig
Second Row (L to R): Faith Zuber, Aislinn Neubauer, Irina Biedenstein
First Row (L to R): Maya Hutchinson, Anna Connoley, Noelle Wisdom, Amelia Khan
Special Thanks
To our alumni:
Though you have moved on from UMSL, you remain a valued part of Bellerive. You’ve been published by us, and sometimes you’ve also been Bellerive staff members. You complete the cycle of writers at all stages of development. You inspire with your continued pursuit of creative endeavors and your willingness to share your creative works.
To our readers:
Your purchase of this volume signifies an investment in the future of Bellerive and supports the Honors College’s goal of promoting excellence in the arts. We hope you enjoyed this issue and continue to be a patron of ours. We can’t operate without the continued support of readers like you, and we hope that you will enjoy Bellerive for years to come.
To our future submitters:
We look forward to and welcome your creative works. If you’d like to submit your previously unpublished poetry, prose, academic essays, art, and music to the upcoming issue of Bellerive, you can find our submission form through this link: bit.ly/3PKvHf2. Our submission window is from January 1 through October 1.
To our current and future contributers:
We can’t thank you enough for your financial support of Bellerive. Your helping hand literally publishes our book. If you’d like to be a part of benefitting Bellerive, please visit bit.ly/givebellerive, and select “The Bellerive Fund.”
Thank you!