Strike Magazine Notre Dame Issue 05

ISSUE 05

NOTRE DAME

Strike Notre Dame believes you should only grow up as much as you have to.

Issue 05 gives off the “f*ck it” attitude we adopt when we know exactly what we want even when it raises eyebrows. When we enter college, we’re straddling childhood and adulthood, walking a line of carefree autonomy while running from the inescapable dread of taxes and getting a “real job”. The Bad Idea Almanac will question who decides what’s allowed as we decide for ourselves what we want our adulthood to look like. Issue 05 encourages us to embrace our inner child and make some mistakes along the way.

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Origin

Steps for a Night Out | 3 College Girls

Bad Idea I Theft

Breaking Point Idenity Capital | I’m a Photo Hoarder

Bad Idea II Reckless | What’ll It Be

Climax

The Hidden Act | Zuronica

Bad Idea III Runaway | White Wedding

Cliffhanger

Another Morning | When Fear Becomes Freedom

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Ryan Bland Taylor Dellelce

STAFF

CREATIVE DIRECTOR Gracie Simoncic CREATIVE ASSISTANT Annie Brown EXTERNAL DIRECTOR Katelyn Wang HQ & EXTERNAL ASSISTANT Shannon Kelly WRITING DIRECTORS Victoria Dominesey Jane Miller BLOG DIRECTOR Maddie Arruebarrena

BEAUTY DIRECTOR Alexy Monsalve BEAUTY TEAM Paulina Dangond Emily Patterson Ana Batten

CONTENT EDITORS Elisabeth Olsen Isabelle Camilleri

FASHION DIRECTORS Matthew DiPaolo Emileigh Yan

WRITERS Felicity Wong Julia White Olivia Schmitt Avery Gahler Jaclyn Camp

FASHION DESIGNER Maria Valeria Guerrero

DESIGN DIRECTOR Anna Kulczycka GRAPHIC DESIGNERS Jada Alexandra Bautista Cece Fenton

BOOKING DIRECTOR Kaelyn-Mae Maddox STYLISTS Maya Mehigan Dami Bertin Maddy Barquet Molly Foote Josephine Siegfried Kechi Mbah Mehwish Rehman

LIST PRODUCTION DIRECTOR Megha Alluri ASSISTANT PRODUCTION DIRECTOR Andy Donovan PRODUCTION ASSISTANTS Sophie Burke Rhett Greer Caitlin Regan Grace Rademacher Avery Polking Olivia Fabry SOCIAL MEDIA DIRECTORS Julia Wilcox Josie Humbert SOCIAL MEDIA TEAM Kelly McGlinn Brian Johnny Ellie Villaruz Rita Sauceda DEVELOPMENT DIRECTOR Blair Kedwell DEVELOPMENT TEAM Maria Bueno Katie Compton Maddie Moynihan MERCHANDISE DIRECTOR Quinn Drescher MERCHANDISE TEAM Mairead Martin Olivia Ruffalo

HEAD PHOTOGRAPHERS MK McGuirk Jules Ingram PHOTOGRAPHERS Anna Arnett Leyra Rodriguez Morales Rob Corrato Olivia Guza Katherine O’Neal FINANCE DIRECTORS Molly Swartz Erin Navas MARKETING DIRECTOR Malu Montenegro MARKETING TEAM Chaney Fix Connor McKenna Lizzette Borjas Charlotte Thibault

Letter From The Editors Strike is a magazine, a creative outlet, a project that spans four months of dedication— but most of all, Strike is a community. We are a collective of individuals with unique passions, skills, and perspectives that come together to build this magazine that you now hold in your hands. What can’t be translated through these pages is the network that has been built between us all. Through the hours of concept meetings, photoshoots, and events, friendships have formed and memories have been made. These friendships and memories are among those we will forever hold closest to us after we leave Notre Dame, and they all grew from this incredible community we call Strike.

At its core, the Strike community has always been about sharing your voice while having a bit of fun. This semester, we have loved embracing the spirit of being young and spontaneous, and from it has come the Bad Idea Almanac. As you immerse yourself in this issue, we hope you reconnect with your natural-born spontaneity—bad ideas are only fun if they are acted upon.

A project of this magnitude takes the commitment of so many talented individuals, and we would be remiss if we did not express our immense gratitude. To Gracie and Katelyn, third time’s the charm. Not only have you both worked tirelessly to help produce this issue, but you have led this community with poise and purpose for the past three semesters. For all the issues of Strike Magazine Notre Dame that lie ahead, your impact will be felt on every one.

And to all of our staff members, you are the core of what made us fall in love with Strike.

All of you have played a critical role in this magazine’s publication, and we cannot thank you enough for the hours you’ve committed and the ideas you’ve offered.

We cannot wait to see Strike flourish in the coming years, always remembering the value of this community and the importance of having some fun throughout the process.

Strike out, with love, Taylor Dellelce & Ryan Bland

External Director In the pursuit of merging my passions with career aspirations, I’m so happy to have found my ideal creative haven with Strike.

This community has been instrumental in bringing together Issue 05: The Bad Idea Almanac. Heartfelt thanks to our dedicated staff and models for transforming ideas into reality — We couldn’t have done this without you! Working on this issue has been an absolute joy, and I’m thrilled to share this edition of Strike Magazine with you.

Strike out, Katelyn Wang

Creative Director I’m so grateful to everyone on staff and our readers for making my time at CD so rewarding. It became more than an extracurricular; it’s where I met some of my closest friends and learned so much from the creative process. I’m so proud of everyone on staff as we continue to grow our craft and I’m so excited to see what’s next for Strike.

Strike out, Gracie Simoncic

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A NIGHT OUT ON THE TOWN

by Elisabeth Olsen

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IT’S

4:03 pm on a Saturday and you are still in bed. After last night’s fiasco involving five espresso martinis and a lemon drop shot, you have sworn on your childhood dog that you are never going out again. Unfortunately for your dog, Buddy, a text about an open bar downtown is all it takes to rouse you from your sheets. Thankfully your system for prepping for a night out is carefully honed and takes little brain power.

1.

Stumble over your discarded clothes and last night’s 2 AM Postmates order to your closet, flip through your dozens of lacy going out tops until you find one that matches your vibe.

2. Pair your going out top with a pair of vintage Levis and your favorite leather heeled boots.

3. Paw through your jewelry box

full of tangled dainty gold necklaces and chunky hoop earrings, selecting the perfect pieces.

4. Throw on Taylor Swift’s new-

est album, make a quick pre-game cocktail, and take your place in front of your bathroom mirror.

5. Thanks to some dry shampoo

and a quick blow dry you are able to salvage last night’s blow out it’s not perfect but it will not evoke shame when you run into your ex-boyfriend’s rumored new girl.

6. Time for makeup! By now you

have probably watched enough TikTok tutorials to have an idea of what you are doing but just in case, concealer usually comes before the blush and overdrawn eyebrows were something you should have left behind in 2016.

7. Dress in aforementioned clothing, taking extra care not to get makeup on the collar of your shirt when pulling it on.

8. Strike a pose in the mirror…

you’re no pro stylist but you still think you look pretty damn good.

9. Pull up the Uber app and plug

in the address of the bar. Is the drive less than 10 minutes? Yes. Does the Uber cost $25? Also yes.

10. Send a quick text to let your besties know you are en route. Take a quick shot of tequila. Haphazardly pull on your boots.

11. Run out the door to catch your Uber driver and forget your wallet.

Have a great night out!

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you look pretty damn good.

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three college girls on their way to a dance

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By Annie Brown “Do you think Harry’ll be there?”

“Gonna satisfy my soul!”

whole week hoping it would arrive.”

Alice pulled a stubborn roller from her hair with a yank, leaving a lackluster curl in its place. “Gosh, Kay, if you spent nearly as much time thinking about your physics assignments as you do about Harry Abbott, you would be top of the class!”

Joan, laughing at their antics, pulled out the fresh copy of Loving You that her boyfriend gave her for her most recent birthday.

“Well, you’ll be the prettiest girl in Massachusetts, and I’m just green with envy. Joan, do you have any gloss in rosy red? The coral just does nothing for my complexion.”

“It’s the physics of home economics, Alice. It’s hardly worth my time knowing how a stand-up mixer works from the inside, is it? And besides, Joan already has Professor Eastwin wrapped around her pretty little fingers!” Kay reached over the desk to pinch Joan’s hand, but she swatted her away.

“Cut it out, Kay,” Joan replied, playing with the often faulty record player on her nightstand. “I’m trying to get some Buddy on!”

“Buddy? Joan! That’s not music for getting-ready! How about some of our boy,” Alice deepened her voice.

“MISTER PRESLEY!” She and Kay leapt up from their chairs, kicking kitten heels out from their skirts in imitation of Elvis’s famous moves.

“Some people like to rock!”

“Some people like to roll!”

“But movin’ and a groovin’?”

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Alice sighed. “Ahh, must be nice, Joanie, to have such a wealthy suitor to shower you with gifts of the musical variety! Tell me, have you managed to coax the question out of Frank yet? Time’s a tickin’, and your roast chicken is far too good for a man to leave a girl like you hanging!”

“Don’t be saying things like that, it’s far too soon! Besides, he can take his time, as far as I’m concerned.

I want at least six months in that hospital internship the placement office has lined up for me before I even think about marrying Frank.”

“Alice, what business do you have lamenting your lack of romantic prospects?” Kay cut in. “The last time I checked, your dance card needed an overflow page last weekend. I think Randall Gerry is going to propose on the spot when he sees you in this number.”

Alice fingered the blue flowers embroidered on the taffeta of her formal dress. “I’m so glad it came in time. I was practically following the postman around campus this

Joan handed her an oft-used stick of pink-red lipstick. Kay had been complaining about the coral gloss her mother gave her for her entire time at college, but had never bought any in the color she borrowed from Joan.

A few months later, Joan would open the half-full tube of lipstick, sloppy and smashed in half, and press it into her lips in the early morning light, along with a hint of powder and blush, before returning to her place beside her sleeping husband. In that moment, did she remember the roommate who used to steal it from her every Saturday night?

“Gloves or no gloves?” Alice held up a pair of creamy gloves to her face in the mirror. At some point, the record had changed and Ella Fitzgerald was spinning in lazy circles. Joan and Kay moved to the mirror to look at Alice’s options. Crammed in the image in the glass, they caught each other’s gazes. With suddenly watery eyes, the women paused for a moment, realizing, however

briefly, that the moment that they now shared was the last of a million once possessed and, after tonight, entirely relinquished to memory’s dark caverns.

“Gloves,” Kay said. “Definitely.”

--“Okay, Cinderella! Give us a spin!”

Grace dutifully spun around in her puffy blue minidress. Her roommates, dressed as a Queen of Hearts and a cat/lion/tiger of some variety, clapped approvingly. Olivia Rodrigo blasted in the background to such decibel levels that the girls could hardly hear themselves over the angst.

on her sneakers. “It’s our last Halloween– we’ll never have this moment again. You’ve got to remember looking your total best.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Can we get a photo before we leave?” Grace slipped the gloves on, thinking of the last time they must have been worn. Maybe a little lipstick smudge wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Marisa stopped her preparations.

“Hey, do you think Harry’ll be there?”

1. See “Young Farmers” or “Three Farmers on Their Way to A Dance,” August Sander, 1914.

Marisa put the finishing touches on her regal look with red lip stain and glitter eyeshadow. “Gracie, those gloves are unbelievable! Are they real silk?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Grace replied, feeling the fabric between her fingers. “They were my grandma’s, though, so I’m not sure I should wear them. I don’t want them to get dirty, honestly.”

“No, you have to!” Lexi slipped

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DID SHE REMEMBER T USED TO STEAL IT FRO DAY? DID SHE EVER S ER SHE WOULD EVER R KAY, WHEN SHE HAD H DER IF JOAN WHIL WOR TAL? DID JOAN EVER W LOOK AFTER SICK CHI CARING FOR HER OW INGLY LET IT ALL GO? WERE THESE THE BEST AND HUSBANWERE WE WERE THESE THE BEST

THE ROOMMATE WHO OM HER EVERY SATURSTOP TO ASK WHETHREGAIN THE BEST DAYS HER FIRST BABY, WONRKING AT THE HOSPIWISH SHE WAS HELPING ILDREN, NOT AT HOME WN? DID ALICE WILL? DID ANY OF THEM? SLEEP THE A B I E S ERE WERE WERE WERE DAYS OF THEIR LIVES?

THEFT 20

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IDENTITY Debit my face, for it is my greatest asset.

Forget my feet, they are an ever increasing expense– Too large, too thin, and always needing a fresh coat of shoes to hide their defects.

Overlook my limbs, they twist and turn, confusing the eyes and strangling the brain.

But then Center, my scrupulous spine, standing me tall– My assets in balance.

Credit my words, my only liability, my debt to society.

Collect my experiences, like lucky pennies on a rainy sidewalk.

Perceive my pennies–a president and a capitol, wrapped in lustrous bronze.

Let them jingle in your wallet, or perhaps in the bank of your brain.

Pay those pennies forward: take my identity capital, capitalize It, and run.

But before you take my face at face value, face depreciation– Depleting with age, wrinkling and wilting until I’ll seem a shell of myself.

Account for the unseen, the unheard, the unwritten, and write-off what will fade.

Take my words, my art, my life, and give me credit–Leverage them against the world.

My perfectly balanced capital structure: Body, Mind, and Perception.

Sitting in a portfolio, uncertain of how they’ll be judged, yet Certain that they are as they should be– balanced– Atop the cubicle of a hopeful accountant, Ready to be held and read, Awaiting promotion.

By Julia White

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CAPITAL

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I’M A PHOTO HOARDER

Five, ten, twenty thousand. The numbers just keep climbing.

They’ll never stop. Removing even a thousand, a hundred, ten, rips away a part of my personal identity. My camera roll has become an integral part of who I am. No longer are photographs a mere snapshot of a moment in time, a physical remnant of a memory; photographs have become an extension of our identity. Posts from 2014 haunt the archives of my Instagram, but when I go to press “delete,” something holds me back.

Since I was in the fifth grade, I’ve had a cell phone. For the past 10 years, I’ve had the ability to document whatever I want, whenever I want. But do these photos really represent who I am? Who I was? What was at the heart of these moments?

Our generation has crafted two personas: the impermanent and the permanent, though the assertion of which is which, or which really matters, has blurred. We see the impermanent versions of ourselves as the everyday: the fleeting, passing moments we create with others—the parts of ourselves and our personalities that don’t live on in the digital world. The permanent, though, are the photographed versions: the moments we can look back on, relive, and share with others—the moments that we can never escape, as they have implanted themselves into the DNA of the digital age.

Is that why we hoard photos? Is that why we can’t seem to delete those Snapchat selfies with our old friends from the seventh grade?

Is that why we hesitate before deleting a screenshot of a funny text? When I look back through my camera roll, sometimes I fail to remember who I was.

I wish I could go back to a moment when I was thinner or prettier, a permanent memory (digitalization?

Materialization? idk) from

that era, but forget about my battle with depression, feelings of loneliness, and desperate need for validation during that same time: the impermanent. When I look back, I don’t want to be the girl in the photos because of her joy or presence, I want to be the character I created for the rest of the world to see.

How do we break away from the hold our digital selves have on us? How do we become satisfied with the imperfect, sometimes awkward, not always made-up, real versions of ourselves? Scratch that. How can we merge together our different personas? What will it take for us to sew our identities back together into one true self?

Go out and challenge the confines of media perfection and find your own - a perfection that might not be permanent on the internet or in your camera roll, but will have a permanent impact on those around you.

By Avery Gahler

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RECKLESS

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What’ll it Be?

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You step hesitantly into the dimly lit room where a heavy atmosphere permeates the air. The low hum of a neon sign flashing “TATTOO” mingles with a palpable sense of remorse. Though you’re still riding a mild buzz, you’re certain everyone around you is abnormally attractive. Women with dark locks showcase intricate sleeves of art across their arms. Men sport eyeliner and perch on parlor chairs, their snug jeans bearing natural rips at the knees. The tattoo artist himself embodies a character straight out of your gothic daydreams, as if plucked from your Pinterest board of dark fantasies. Everything feels perfectly aligned, as if this is precisely the spot where your transformation should take place. Everything, that is, except for your companion.

“Are you sure this place is up to code?” He asks. You swear you see his knees quivering. You hate that you might love him.

“What code?”

“Sharing needles isn’t exactly recommended these days. That’s all.”

“You two have an appointment?” The artist’s call hangs in the air like a lighthouse beam, exposing the timid minnows hiding in the door frame to the room’s seasoned sharks.

“Yes,” you lie, remembering the cigarette still smoldering steadily between your fingers. You take a contemplative drag before extinguishing it in a bid to either redeem yourself or incinerate your own lingering cowardice. You saunter confidently to where he sits, your boyfriend staggering closely behind and nearly tripping on a stray pair of Dr. Martens. Nice. A scar travels the length of the artist’s cheek, and, for this reason alone, you trust him.

Why tonight? The rationale remains elusive. You’ve always despised clichés, and getting tatted under the influence is about as cliché as it gets. Yet, as you inch your way towards the advanced age of 22, the notion begins to make a peculiar kind of sense. It’s almost as though the more profound something is to you, the stronger the motivation to approach it with an air of indifference.

Your whole life, you’ve been an ever-evolving canvas, a masterpiece continually shaped by the world around you. Physically, emotionally, mentally—your very being has been a reflection of the intricate dance of human connection. The symphony of interactions, violations, love, and violence has sculpted your very essence. It’s a paradox, isn’t it? You, a passive recipient of these changes, suddenly realizing your own agency in the transformation.

So, as the artist poses the question, even though you’re unsure of your response, and despite the fact that it required a night of revelry to get you there, you’re elated. Because this is your mistake. Not your boyfriend’s, not your parents’, not the onlookers, yours.

“What’ll it be?”

By: Victoria Dominesey 39

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By Felicity Wong 44

The women who walk into this salon wear cashmere and Vicuna wool with ugly Goyard bags slung over their bony shoulders. Most of them want a single process permanent color that will turn their gray strands into licorice black, mushroom brown, butter blonde, ketchup red. But today is different. A tall woman walks in with a mess of hair that sits on top of her scalp uselessly like a dust ball. She has a color appointment, so I lead her to the back room of the salon where stylists mix and slather paste into chunks of hair. I disappear, returning to my desk. The salon is small like an oven, noises bouncing off every surface and wall. The woman asks if her hair can be dyed zuronica. There’s a pause. The stylist says he’s never heard of zuronica, and the woman asks if he’s joking. It’s my favorite color, she explains, but the stylist still has no idea what zuronica is, much less how to mix the formula. She starts crying, and it comes out sounding like breathy hiccups. Several stylists walk into the room, and then the blow dryers in the rest of the salon are too loud and I stop hearing. Finally, I see her again at the desk, with her hair down this time. She looks shorter, younger. ‘I have a train to catch,’ she says to me, almost apologetically, with sticky tears glued to the apples of her cheeks. The salon door slams, and I make coffee for the next waiting client.

Everything is stagnant here, and I miss the trains.

Fast and sexy and sleek and gorgeous trains. Hopping on lines until we end up on what looks like a new continent is still my favorite game. Hopping off lines until we stand on the platform, still among the swarming thousands for a second that doesn’t last more than a flash of light until we decide to move again. They don’t do that anymore. People sit in their homes, dreaming of oceans, mountains and crowded cities until their gray hairs grow out like stalks of dandelions peering outside the grimy earth. Sometimes, they’ll go to the salon, but then they always go back home.

The stylist with curly hair lingers by the desk before she leaves the salon for the day. ‘Nutcase,’ she mutters as she moves her glasses from the bridge of her nose into her glorious hair. The mess of ringlets are light gold, delicious like ramen. She gathers her tips from where they’ve collected in the box at the desk, and I ask her what happened. ‘Couldn’t even tell you. Zuronica sounds like the name of a second-rate EDM festival. Or one of those geodes you find at the natural history museum.’ I laugh. She scrapes out the few remaining coins with her unmanicured fingers and shoves them into a large leather purse before she stomps out. When I close the salon that night, I pretend I’m a curator, locking a totally real box of zuronica rocks inside a rusting cabinet sitting sullenly in a museum basement.

I once took the train to Hong Kong, where it’s always beautiful. When I climbed to the top of one of the mountains, a large bronze Buddha statue greeted me with a palm. I yelled hello, but there was no response. My voice is usually drowned out by the buzz of eavesdropping, but there, I faced the silent Buddha, who constantly bent his neck to look down on me. His gaze prickled my skin. My hairs were erect against my soft, sweaty flesh—soldiers standing at attention. The heat was scorching, and the outline of his enormous body looked wavy, the hue of the air changing to a color I couldn’t even name. My arms started to break out in a rash from the incense wafting incessantly from the temple. I gave the Buddha one last fleeting look, hoping that maybe he would want me back.

Then, I ran down the hundred concrete stairs back to the bottom of the mountain. My grandmother is supposedly buried here, but I never found her. My arms were still itching when I boarded the next train.

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By Jaclyn Camp The twinkle of champagne glasses shattering on the linoleum floor coats my ears. Guilty laughter cascades down the silk curtains as I descend the stairs to the heat of the action. One of them, I can’t remember the name of, is playing the baby grand piano in the corner of the room. He plucks away at the keys completely clueless of my presence. I decide to speak to interrupt this torture, “I am so glad that I decided to hire musicians tonight, otherwise we might have been in trouble.” In my voice, I inflect a playful tone, so he knows that I am not truly insulting him. His back tenses over the piano, and he offers me a rehearsed smile.

I am very aware of all the practiced faces around me, ones perfectly polished to detect any change in my emotions. We both make our way to the others. As expected, they are huddled over the alcohol supply for tonight, sampling. When they see us, they laugh raucously over being caught. My first thought is to walk up to them and grab the bottles from their hands, screaming over their carelessness, but I know that is not possible. Instead, I laugh back. I gently take the boxes of expensive champagne from them and hide it in the closet for later. They are still laughing. Their laughs are uncontrolled and build my agitation, but I cannot react. Even if they believe they need me, I need them so much more.

----------------The band trots inside, hard shelled cases in hand, and set up at the front; they know the process at this point. Bodies crowd around the house, threatening to overflow my home at any moment. Again, my act will be tested. When they come in, men and women run up to me, eyes already laced in seduction. Usually, I give in immediately, but tonight I want to scope a bit longer to make it worthwhile. My name plays on the mouths of all the beautiful people around me, either in a call to attention or in hushed whispers. One of the staff walks up and hands me a martini glass, which I quickly finish off. Now it is time to indulge.

------------------When we are done, she shimmies her dress back over her hips and asks me to help her zip it up.

Her love-drugged eyes look so hopeful, and, in turn, a wave of guilt rolls over me. That will never be my future, as much as I wish it to be. I go to change my outfit, deciding to turn in for the night. All over my closet floor are the papers, swept away so no one could see but me. “FORECLOSURE” reads off in bold letters on every piece, no matter what color the paper is. It is inevitable. I am done. But I have glory and my identity to uphold, and that I will.

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Y A W A N U R 52

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WHIT E WEDD ING

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“I could marry you,” I said.

“You could,” she replied.

I looked at her in her chunky black combat boots, her perfectly messy blonde hair, and in that moment, I wanted nothing else but to get married. To her.

So what if we got married? I don’t like being around anyone else. I’m not yet 20, but I know that no one is ever going to get me like she does. I met her yesterday, but she likes The Smiths so I think that means she’s the one.

“Let’s do it,” I told her, “Let’s get married.”

Of course she said, “alright.” Because she’ll do anything and go anywhere at a moment’s notice, at least since I met her last night. I’m a simple guy; I don’t ask for much.

She makes me feel like anything is possible, she’s beautiful, and she loves The Smiths— the only three qualities I would ever want in a wife.

I’m not sure what her middle name is, or even her last, for that matter. But I guess she’ll just have mine after this, if that’s what she wants. We haven’t covered that topic yet.

I don’t remember all of the details of when we met, but I think she told me something about being a convict. I’ve never been one to discriminate, so it wouldn’t be a dealbreaker or anything. She probably got out early on good behavior, or maybe they let her out on a little break. I guess we could always do long distance if she has to go back.

We’re having her friend Eva marry us. She has a mohawk and a shark tattoo. She said she got her marriage license in Vegas, an activity to get her off the gambling.

She hasn’t met my family yet, but I don’t like them much anyways. She’s too fun and lively for any of them to handle; we don’t need any of them bringing down the mood. It’s our day or whatever it is they say about it.

She’s wearing a thrifted white gown that kind of makes her look like an idiot and a goddess at the same time. She smells like tangerines and cigarettes.

We’re not doing it “the right way.” We’re not even going to try. No doubt my mom, dad, and grandparents are all going to have heart attacks when they find out. I can hear my mom’s voice in my ear’s: “if you can’t stand up in front of all your friends and family and say you want to marry her, you shouldn’t be doing it.” Why not? This marriage is only going to involve the two of us. Since when do so many people have to be involved with me doing what I want?

It’s the 21st century not the 11th. Why do I have to listen to whatever medieval loser came up with the big white wedding? I love her, and I want to get married. I’m not going to do it in a church, I’m not going to tell my parents, I’m not going to have a long engagement, and I don’t think I’m doing her a disservice by not doing any of those things. I don’t care if anyone catches me or has some bullshit to say. If someone objects in court I’ll tell them to shove it, because she’s my girl, and it’s our day.

So everyone can just shut up and let us get married. Or you can keep talking, but I’m going to do it anyway. I’m standing here, watching the girl who’s last name I may never know walk down the aisle, and I have no idea if it’s the right thing to do. But she looks beautiful in her thrifted dress and she makes me feel like I can do anything, so I smile and take her hands in mine.

By: Jane Miller 55

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I CLFFH 58

A H

R G N E 59

by Maddie Arruebarrena

Dawn saw shades of orange and yellow behind her eyelids. Midmorning light was her least favorite. Mind fog always crept in as the sun began to rise. She reconstructed the night before: hazy air and low lighting and pool tables - the typical American bar scene. Clambering from the bed to the bathroom, she knew she was almost late. Dean would be annoyed. “Late people give lousy impressions” was his favorite trite remark.

She pulled on her work boots and began the drive past familiar green hills and ponderosa pines. The farm was faded, its paint more closely resembling aged merlot rather than fresh cherry.

The thought of merlot made her want to pull over and rest her forehead on the steering wheel. Her recent experience with all things “spirit” or “brew” had been enough to deter her from enjoying Thursday nights for a good while.

She’d hustled with the poolstick, though. Few suspected that she’d played with Dean since she was thirteen. Dawn could knock the eight ball into a corner pocket with enough backspin to make old men’s eyes go wide. She reminisced

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She begrudgingly promised to take him out for a ride before heading to complete her chores. The laundry list that Dean left for her today was shorter than usual - a small mercy. Tilling the garden was easy; cleaning the barn was a bit harder. She almost fell from the rafters with the hay she was attempting to clear. After a short coffee break, chores were complete, and Arrow was getting impatient.

on her practiced shots and pocketed cash with fondness. As her lips pulled into a small smile, she made a mental note to collect the cash from her jeans pocket before she inevitably washed her earnings again.

Her feet crunched on the gravel beside the truck as she hopped down and headed to the stables. Arrow looked excitable today, which didn’t fare well for Dawn. Her childhood horse gazed at her with anticipation as she approached.

It was nearly afternoon now, and the sun was almost at its apex. She saddled up Arrow and headed for the fields. Montana air was crispest when experienced at high speeds. She encouraged Arrow to go faster, and her energy returned as he did. Her headache became a distant memory with each breath under the bright sun, and she couldn’t help but sigh at the relief. Dawn thought that afternoon light always made her mind clear.

Maybe Thursday night wasn’t regrettable after all. She could barely hear Dean shout over the blasting wind.

“If you’re late again, I’ll -”

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WHEN FEAR BECOMES FREEDOM

K A M E K T A A M H I E T H A I H I S N O S I S ION S I O I C IS

by Olivia Schmitt

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I I C E D I G C N E I K G D IN N K I A K M K E A T M A H ATE E T H I A H I S N O I hate making decisions.

I always have. For as long as I can remember, I have agonized over nearly every choice I face. Even as a kid, when most of my life was dictated by parents and teachers, I worried over whether I should play outside or go to the library for recess, if hot lunch would taste better than a sandwich from home, and who to pick as my book report partners.

As I became older, and my choices grew more consequential, my decision-making anxiety worsened.

I found myself paralyzed in the face of selecting friends, majors, career paths. I spent a week in uncertain distress as I tried to pick a college.

The night of the deadline, I held back tears as I accepted my spot at my chosen university and my mother reminded me that such an occasion was supposed to be exciting.

Every choice is the same: I feel its weight in my chest, its importance, the myriad ways it could affect my day or my year or my entire future.

I hesitate, frozen, on the precipice of risk and doubt it presents, unable to throw myself over the edge. The uncertainty of what is to come waits below, and I refuse to jump. I cannot stop wondering–will I regret this one day?

For me, decisions–especially the important, life-altering ones–are steeped in the past and the future.

I constantly remind myself that I have worked hard, thought carefully, to reach where I am now, so I had better not slip up and jeopardize the future that relies on my choice.

Perhaps, however, I do not give sufficient consideration to that which sustains and surrounds a decision: the present.

When a decision is made, there is a glorious, golden period of time when the decider is cut off from the sequence of events to which that choice belongs. The developments

leading up to it do not matter, because they have been definitively concluded by the new direction chosen. And the future does not matter, either. The choice will have consequences, of course, but it is too early to evaluate them. In the wake of a decision, only the current moment is significant: the thrill, the liberation, the pounding of your heart.

This place is the summer after senior year of high school. It is the moment you leave your essay half-finished and call your best friend and tell her you’ll go out after all. It is the first steps as you enter your new home or new job or new life. It is more than a little terrifying. But forget the fear: it is intoxicating, it is exhilarating. You can revel in the fact that you are the arbiter of your own existence.

And you’ll never be able to look at your choice like this again. In the future, once you’ve analyzed its effects, once you’ve realized that it was critical to your success or maybe ruined your life, your memory of it will be colored by the ensuing events. You will know whether you made the right decision. Here and now, though, right doesn’t matter. There is only you and the uncertainty you looked in the eyes and your steadfast commitment to a course of action. The actual choice itself matters far less than the fact that you held your future in your own hands and decided.

This is the beauty of the cliffhanger.

When the main character’s getaway car teeters on the precipice, her pursuers running towards her in slow motion, the outcome out of her control–stop the movie. Stop it right there. This is the birthplace of freedom. This is where life is really lived.

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“Decisions, especially the important, life altering ones, are steeped in the past and the future.

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THANK YOU ORIGIN

BREAKING POINT

Creative Director: Gracie Simoncic Creative Assistant: Annie Brown Designers: Annie Brown Stylists: Matthew DiPaolo, Emileigh Yan, Maria Valeria Guerrero, KaelynMae Maddox, Maya Mehigan, Maddy Barquet Beauty: Alexy Monsalve, Paulina Dangond, Emily Patterson, Ana Batten Photography: MK McGuirk, Jules Ingram, Olivia Guza Production: Megha Alluri, Andy Donovan, Avery Polking, Grace Rademacher, Rhett Greer Writers: Jane Miller, Victoria Dominesey, Elisabeth Olsen, Isabelle Camilleri, Annie Brown, Elisabeth Olsen Models: Connor McKenna, Bethany Radford, Gia Villegas, Nicole Ilg, Sophia Noonan

Creative Director: Gracie Simoncic Creative Assistant: Annie Brown Designers: Cece Fenton, Anna Kulckycka Stylists: Matthew DiPaolo, Emileigh Yan, Maria Valeria Guerrero, KaelynMae Maddox, Josephine Siegfried, Kechi Mbah, Mehwish Rehman Beauty: Alexy Monsalve, Paulina Dangond, Emily Patterson Photography: MK McGuirk, Jules Ingram, Anna Arnett Production: Megha Alluri, Andy Donovan, Caitlin Regan, Avery Polking, Sophie Burke Writers: Jane Miller, Victoria Dominesey, Elisabeth Olsen, Isabelle Camilleri, Avery Gahler, Julia White Models: Raseel Haddadin, Salina Haddadin

CAUGHT IN THE ACT Creative Director: Gracie Simoncic Creative Assistant: Annie Brown Designers: Taylor Dellelce Stylists: Matthew DiPaolo, Emileigh Yan, Maria Valeria Guerrero, KaelynMae Maddox, Molly Foote, Kechi Mbah, Mehwish Rehman Beauty: Alexy Monsalve, Paulina Dangond, Emily Patterson Photography: MK McGuirk, Jules Ingram, Katherine O’Neal, Leyra Rodriguez Morales Production: Megha Alluri, Andy Donovan, Avery Polking, Grace Rademacher Writers: Jane Miller, Victoria Dominesey Models: Sophie Burke, Rob Corrato CLIMAX

CLIFFHANGER

Creative Director: Gracie Simoncic Creative Assistant: Annie Brown Designers: Jada Alexandra Bautista Stylists: Matthew DiPaolo, Emileigh Yan, Maria Valeria Guerrero, KaelynMae Maddox, Josephine Siegfried, Dami Bertin, Molly Foote Beauty: Alexy Monsalve, Paulina Dangond, Emily Patterson, Ana Batten Photography: MK McGuirk, Jules Ingram, Olivia Guza Production: Megha Alluri, Andy Donovan, Sophie Burke, Avery Polking, Grace Rademacher Writers: Jane Miller, Victoria Dominesey, Elisabeth Olsen, Isabelle Camilleri, Jaclyn Camp, Felicity Wong Models: Zach Zieleniewski, Kaden Cunningham, Weston Ryder, Eamon Nussbaum, Richie Mistichelli

Creative Director: Gracie Simoncic Creative Assistant: Annie Brown Designers: Gracie Simoncic Stylists: Matthew DiPaolo, Emileigh Yan, Maria Valeria Guerrero, KaelynMae Maddox, Dami Bertin, Maddy Barquet Beauty: Alexy Monsalve, Paulina Dangond, Emily Patterson Photography: MK McGuirk, Jules Ingram, Katherine O’Neal Production: Megha Alluri, Andy Donovan, Avery Polking, Grace Rademacher, Caitlin Regan Writers: Jane Miller, Victoria Dominesey, Elisabeth Olsen, Isabelle Camilleri, Maddie Arruebarrena, Olivia Schmitt Models: Olivia Roble

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