Strike Magazine Nashville Issue 06

Nashville issue 06

Staff List

Executive Board Anna Davidson

Editorial Editorial Director

Ashley White

Blog Director

Isabella Cabrera

Writers

Cierra Hinckson Isabel Heur Jyoti Ghandi Laverack

Abigail Wells

Business Division

Externals Director

Marketing

Sophia Yan

Laney Dark

Finance Director

Accountant Executives

Ethan Richards

Helen Yi

Mattie Hargis

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Creative Division Content Director

Beauty Director

Social Media Manager

Content Team

Beauty Team

Spotify Manager

Bryce Tatum

Anna Davidson Ani Woodward Mathilde Caindec Charlotte Edmunds

Sarah Coleman

Eliana Gallegos Tandaneya Boga

Laney Dark

Chalandra Livingston

Photography Director

Won-Jun Seok Styling Director

Kirsten Cañas Styling Team

Hope Thomas Rebekah Frey Sidney Hopkins

Photography Team

Aaron Guo Ani Woodward Rahul Koul Sophia Yan

Videography Director Casting Director

Isabel Heur

Lauren Harwood Videographer

June Heithcock

Art & Design

Graphic Design Director

Eliana Gallegos

Graphic Designers

Anna Davidson Lauren Harwood Lily Britto

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Table of Contents

Ludus

5

Mania 18 Love Sick

29

Eros 34

Falling For You 47 Pragma 58 4 / STRIKE MAGAZINE NASHVILLE / @strikemagazinenashville

Concept Lead: Anna Davidson Beauty: Eliana Gallegoes Writer: Isabel Heuer Photographer: Aaron Guo Graphics: Eliana Gallegos Models: Abigail Pielak & Lauren Winston Stylists: Hope Thomas & Kirsten Cañas

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What if this is a test to see if I fold, so she can shut us down for good.

Or maybe this was her opening move, forcing me to plot the finale.

A disaster either way, what a bitch.

Just in case, I should prepare for the best. I need to be different tonight, better than ever before. The problem is, she already knows everything in my closet. I shed fabric off my body until my floor disappears. I’m out of time, putting on outfit option 2 out of 11, adding on the accessories from 7.

“Theater is raining out…

Netflix and chill?”

This is new vocabulary, we’ve never called it that before. Maybe she wants us to be new too. Should I shave?

We’ve been friends for so long, technically we have passed third date territory. We’ve joked about hooking up before, but I don’t want to be just a hookup.

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Should I have prepared something? I could’ve played it off as a simple gift.

It’s her birthday month, plus I get her small gifts all the time.

At her apartment, I take a step in as if I haven’t been here many times before. I want to be close with her, so I head straight to the couch. She seems nervous too. She sits down and scrolls through movie options, she suggests a rom com. There’s a strain between us, it feels good. I wait for her to lay her head on me, the signal that I can let my guard down. A part of me thinks she knows what she’s doing, she knows I love her more than, and she keeps me around just to toy. The other part tells me how great we could be, our future plans matching up, our hopes and dreams. We are so compatible, even our zodiacs say so.

All I’m waiting for is for her to choose me.

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I’m sick of the hints, jokes, looks, the she loves me, the she loves me nots. I force her to listen to the sound of me holding my breath, torturing her as she tortures me. My heart is urging words to come out of my mouth. But I lay here watching this movie like I’m a body in a casket. I feel her glance over at me, I meet her eyes. We both hold still. I slowly reach for her, we are already so close. We kiss. All my confidence from earlier taunts me. I wait for her to say something, instead she puts her head on my shoulder.

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My mom is here to pick me up, another reminder that I’m a wimp . I had hours to say something.

“How was your date?”

“What? I was just with Mari.”

“So?” “So, it wasn’t a date.”

“Whatever, y’all are cute together.”

Is cute worth risking years of friendship that would quickly morph into a distant awkwardness. I’ve held these feelings in for long enough. Everyone already thinks we are more than friends, why not let the performance go?

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A Concept Lead: Bryce Tatum Writer: Ashley White Graphics: Lily Britto Stylist: Sidney Hopkins Beauty: Sarah Coleman & Tandaneya Boga Photographer: Ani Woodard Models: Lena Wu & Daylan Fischer 18 / STRIKE MAGAZINE NASHVILLE / @strikemagazinenashville

i

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Ma Chérie,

The first thing I noticed about you was your smile. The apples of your cheeks turning pink, your lipgloss matching the hue. A bright row of perfectly straight teeth. Even the creases around your mouth and the faint dimple that tries to hide can’t hide from me. I don’t fully understand how I managed to talk to you, let alone ask for your name and number, but you let me in. You saw me and my flaws and you continued to talk to me. When I first walked to the register, I didn’t think I would see someone like you there. But you were, and I guess I said the right things. You want to see me again, I know it. I still can’t get that smile out of my head.

You suggested we go to dinner and then take a stroll around the park. A much better idea than my suggestion of the movies. You should have seen the way I was smiling at my phone when we set the plans. Giggling like a small child, giddy with nerves and excitement. It felt like I had butterflies for the first time again. I wonder if you were planning out what you wanted to wear like I was. Skirt or pants, black or gray, white or red. I imagine that we were in sync; checking the buzz from our phones, playing back to the moment when we decided to take our relationship to the next level, wondering what to do next. It was in four days. I had four days to do whatever I wanted until I saw you again, but all I wanted to do was see you.

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I felt like I was going to have a heart attack.

I could see your car through the restaurant’s window, waiting for you to open the door and step out, showing the public what was interested in me. A deep breath and shot of vodka were necessary before you walked in. Inhale. Exhale. I can’t put into words how monumental that night was. You looked amazing.

We looked amazing together. The food was delicious, both of our forks scraping the bottom of the plates trying to look for that last bite. The pistachio ice cream you chose was better than my chocolate and perfectly set the mood for our walk. I kissed your cheek goodbye as you stepped back into your car, a green Volkswagen Beetle that fit your personality perfectly. I remember you telling me to let you know when I was back home, safe.

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I timed out how long it would take me to get back, unlock my front door, say hello to the cat, and after those twenty minutes I sent you a “home safe :)”. Your smile when you received my text was nothing short of perfect. There was no way that I wouldn’t make sure you got back safe, too. Your care for me is the same as I feel for you. When you changed into your pajamas I knew I could go home. Safe, tucked in your bed, scrolling through TikToks to pass the time. You still haven’t responded to my text. Did I do something wrong?

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Thirty delivered messages. Eleven missed calls. Seven Facetime requests. No responses. I wish you would give me a reason as to why you won’t respond. I know I did everything right. I brought the flowers, I didn’t ask for anything out of line, I made you my highest priority. It’s been six days since our first date and you still haven’t thought of anything to say?

I don’t know if it’s the fact that I was moving too quickly or if you’re just like all the other prospects I’ve attempted, but I was sure of one thing; I thought we were the real deal. So like everyone else I’ve talked to, I wanted to see if things could be corrected.

Monday I went to your work, but you weren’t there, so I waited until close and you never turned up. Tuesday I called, asking if I could see the shift schedule and see if the company was hiring. They weren’t and they refused to disclose any information. Wednesday I grabbed a coffee at 7 and came back for another at 4. You weren’t there. Are you hiding from me? I told myself that if you weren’t there on Thursday I would give up, but I had a good feeling about you. I didn’t want to give up just yet. I sent you my final, eleventh text since our date to see if anything had changed. I wanted to see if you’d become tired enough to finally respond, exhausted by my other attempts at seeing you. “Hey, you okay?

Haven’t heard from you much.” Only silence.

On Friday things changed, as we both already know. I ordered my coffee and sat in the corner reading for an hour or so not expecting anything different. I thought you’d quit your job, moved across states; something with the sole purpose of getting away from me. That was until I saw you again; your dark hair as shiny as ever, your skin supple, dewy almost. The smile that widened on your face stopped when your glance moved over to me, dropping almost instantly. I pretended not to see you whisper to your coworkers, but their eyes all looking towards me at once were hard to ignore.

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Your tallest coworker asked me to leave saying I was disrupting the ambiance of the shop and to that, I said I wasn’t doing anything wrong and had never done anything wrong in this café. I looked towards you, hoping you would help me in this situation. Hoping you would see that I only wanted one thing. For you to be with me, take care of me, let me hold you when you’re crying or scared. All I received was a soulless stare as the employee asked me to pick up my things and go somewhere else. I yelled to you, disrupting the ambiance more than I expected, asking you to help him understand that I was a good person and that I wasn’t doing anything wrong. But I’d forgotten the one thing I’d meant to do. The one thing that slipped through my fingers, unraveling our connection, our trust.

You said my location was on and being shared since the beginning. You saw when I was at your apartment the first night. You saw that I was at your shop all week. You looked scared of me, the last thing I was wanting. Please, don’t be scared of me.

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That’s why I wanted to send you this. I wanted to explain myself, to show you that it was all out of the goodness of my heart. I wanted to explain that it was all for you. So please, if you’ve read this much, let’s try again. I know I can do better. I know that we’re good together. I can protect you. I can give you everything. Just give me a second chance. I know that we’re meant to be.

Tout mon amour,

Yours

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L OV E SICK A

FASHION

FILM

DIRECTOR Lauren Harwood ASSISTANT DIRECTOR June Heithcock ACTORS Kolen Cone Taylor Buckner PHOTOGRAPHER/GRAPHICS Lauren Harwood BEAUTY Eliana Gallegos June Heithcock STYLING Kirsten Canas June Heithcock GUEST VIDEOGRAPHERS Liv Cullison Liv Howard Edwin Loughry Payton Maddox Cody Owen Quinn Walker Aubrey Salm Brandon Whitton ISSUE 06 / FALL 2023 / 29 LOCATION Stormlight Pictures

“If our lives are so deeply intertwined now, does that mean one day we must split ways?”

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“This devotion cannot exist outside of us. Its our love.

No one else’s. So intense its hard to look straight at it.”

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WATCH THE FILM HERE:

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CONCEPT LEAD Mathilde Caindec MODELS Noah Ford & Joyce Chen WRITING Cierra Hinckson PHOTOGRAPHY Won Jun Seok STYLISTS Hope Thomas & Rebekah Frey BEAUTY Sarah Coleman & Eliana Gallegos GRAPHICS Lauren Harwood 34 / STRIKE MAGAZINE NASHVILLE / @strikemagazinenashville

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I look into your eyes. all at once I feel resurrected from my slumber a creeping lust and ardent desire thoughts of hands, those licking waves

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burning holes in my stream of consciousness

until our language morphs to foreign tongues that speak only in the form of need

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flooding all thoughts that don’t resemble your lips on mine

sharing two beating hearts and one heaving breath

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you speak with your mouth and i respond with my body

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out in out in

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Flames crescendo in chorus of inhale And break with the fall of our chest.

A pulse is born again in the inferno’s wake

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Concept Lead: Ani Woodward Writer: Ashley White Graphics: Eliana Gallegos Stylist: Sidney Hopkins Beauty: Tandaneya Boga Photographers: Aaron Guo & Rahul Koul Models: Grace Kim & Kemontae Jordan

falling for you

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I crumble and melt like snow in Your palms. You warm me with an Unending grace, shaded sunlight with A breeze. The first day of spring.

I retrace my steps from my journey And find myself returning to my home.

The lightning that once struck now a Low rumble of thunder in the distance.

To Him. If only the quake within my bones Would quiet the electric surge of My overcharged nerves. Static Hides behind my eyes.

I am Cairo. Sand and wind caking Your nostrils until you cannot breathe, Unless the granules enter as well. I Feel I cannot be helpful without hurt.

How can you see the natural disaster As an act of a miracle-working God? Each step towards you is another split In the crust, revealing the magma underneath The heat does not scare you. I sense No fear. Your arms around me are strong vines That keeps the rubble of an old home From collapsing in on itself.

A rock jutting out into the sea.

Withstanding each crest of a wave that Was pushed from the very depths of Dark, malevolent water far away 52 / STRIKE MAGAZINE NASHVILLE / @strikemagazinenashville

My body is not my entire body Without acknowledging your permanent Place in my chest. Light beaming through Skin. You are my divine intervention.

To Her. I’ve felt your grasp open and close Open and close, until Your muscles are tired and your Fingers ache Only to feel the scrape of your nail, I would move whatever blocks.

The familiar sensation The touch of my other being I exorcise the demon that Holds your throat like a Chalice, leaving your words Corked in your mouth The sweet taste of blackberry Wine running down my lips, my Neck stained as it spills. Decadence of your spirit with each drip I relish in your presence.

I glow with each hesitation, your Breath catching as walking Away seems all the more tiresome Rain showers muddle together each Small crack in the earth, a mortar And pestle in our kitchen, a symbiosis lives combined. Our martyrdom as two.

My martyrdom as one. Vertebrae cracks as I lunge toward your shadow then fall Underwater. Seeing your movements slow Resurfacing our underlying thoughts.

Until my last breath is only dust, your Face looking towards mine will be What quenches my essence. A Renaissance of what love and life will be.

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PRAGMA 58 / STRIKE MAGAZINE NASHVILLE / @strikemagazinenashville

Concept Lead: Charlotte Edmunds Writer: Jyoti Ghandi Laverack Graphics: Lily Britto Stylist: Rebekah Frey Beauty: Tandaneya Boga Photographers: Won Jun Seok, Sophia Yan Models: Lily Xie & Miranda Grustas Location: Stormlight Pictures ISSUE 06 / FALL 2023 / 59

March 23rd, 2022

A Hotel Somewhere in Chicago, Illinois We’re prostrated in a fluorescently deserted hallway at midnight adjacent to an out-of-commission pool reeking of eerie chlorine

Our friends had long wandered into the room we shared; legs intertwined in the back of the Uber a glaring reminder hinting us to leave, a glaring reminder of our constant assumption of ourselves as impositions.

We giggle as we melt into the outdated 70’s neon-blue carpeting and as a janitor pushes his rickety bucket he stops to stare: chuckling at our cuddled heap on the floor “Y’all two good?”

He can’t tell we’re the misfits He can’t tell that upon being witness to the lovers We must face the fact that we are the cowards The ones too scared to fuck up

The ones too scared of being fucked up 60 / STRIKE MAGAZINE NASHVILLE / @strikemagazinenashville

Maybe they are cowards for so unapologetically needing each other Maybe we are cowards for not acknowledging that we will always need each other.

“Do you think we are all cowards?”

You don’t know how to answer me, nor do I expect you to.

I love the weight of your head resting on top of mine comforted by the pieces of your hair falling into my eyes

misfits lying on the carpeted floor of a hotel still somehow making it cozy.

-J.G.L.

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March 23rd, 2023 One year later.

Green Chili Fries I wish you could pull out a parcel of cold green chili fries that were suspiciously sitting by your bedside and make a joke about Indians always coming prepared I’d ask you how long those fries had been sitting out but we both know I’d eat them anyway; crying ’till the fries were soggy and I felt safe.

I always used to skip so fast and you’d always catch up and that’s how I first knew I could trust you my dad used to tell me to slow down as not to get hurt but I’d never been met in my lonely and longing jubilee.

You were my partner in crime, my brother, my best friend, the feeling I’d get when I was feeling fine

I said I wouldn’t fall unless you asked me to.

But you asked me and you promised

you promised, you promised you’d love and chase me and choose me in spite of my

Brownness and whiteness and straightness and queerness and sadness and braveness and loudness and drivenness and feelingness and hyphenatedness I fucking warned you and you promised so I just kept skipping.

Did you know I cried when I put on my shoes this morning?

What a disgrace I am to myself.

I have never felt weaker than trying to survive without you knowing that it is my weakness that scares you away.

But you know what, I’ll never stop skipping I’ll break into a run so freeing that you won’t be able to catch up One day, when you chase after me with green chili fries again I’ll have to decide whether or not I still want them

- J.G.L.

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