STRIKE MAGAZINE ATHENS ISSUE 09: Catalyst

STRIKE MAGAZINE ATHENS

09 Staff Catalyst

LIST

STAFF LIST

ISSUE 09

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Caylin Payne CREATIVE DIRECTOR Grace Lang EXTERNAL DIRECTOR Kylie Bensalah ART DIRECTOR Ze Wang EIC & AD/CD ASSISTANTS Emma Johnson Stella Turner Esha Pamidi

SOCIAL MEDIA DIRECTOR Rachel Clark SOCIAL MEDIA ASSISTANTS Zeynep Koseoglu Anne Marshall Mills Salma Hanifa

CONCEPT DIRECTORS Esha Pamidi Kiyoko Spencer Kanan Parikh CONCEPT ASSISTANTS Maryjane Richard Bella Roman Morgan Shaw Jamila Reeves-Miller Carson Gorrow Sarah Punjani

STYLING DIRECTORS Vanessa Gissel Liam Scott STYLING ASSISTANTS Mya Williams Julianne Lopez Elizabeth Walker Sophia Bradley Claudia Vlasoff Caroline Sims Kitzia Sandoval-Hernandez Jermaine Johnson Jamila Reeves-Miller Louis Miranda Alice Young Eleanor Cleveland

BEAUTY DIRECTOR Juliana Hartley BEAUTY ASSISTANTS Will Johnson Caylin Payne Lauren Coughlin Emma Johnson Ashanti Meadows Greta Johnston CG Sigman

WRITING DIRECTORS Alex Keezer Blake Witmer COPY EDITORS Anna Kadet Emily Copp Madelyn Launer McKenna Edwards WRITERS Stella Turner Ann Harper Covington Hannah King Lovely Grace Pilibino Mia Tanner Maura Rutledge Katherine Fivgas

LAYOUT DIRECTOR Ansley Taylor Jordan

CASTING DIRECTOR Ashanti Meadows

LAYOUT ASSISTANTS Bella Ayers Skye Boutall Emily Resmondo Amelia Hay Karen Shi Mia Smitherman Anslee Reid

CASTING ASSISTANTS Riya Patel Dorian Cushing Kennedy Boger Laasya Ananthu

COMMUNITY OUTREACH DIRECTOR Chloe Pendleton COMMUNITY OUTREACH ASSISTANTS Sasha Kaufman Katie Mackechnie Sophie Yoo Chandra Sunkara

PHOTOGRAPHY DIRECTOR Maddie Painter PHOTOGRAPHY ASSISTANTS Sydney Grove John Atkinson Zahan Hajimohamed Lily Lusk Emma Lou Conliff Jolie Bellaff

MERCH DIRECTOR Greta Johnston

VIDEO DIRECTOR Gisella Espinosa

FINANCE DIRECTOR Teddy Goldstein

VIDEO ASSISTANTS Isabelle Farina Kennedy Reid Megan Machan

FINANCE DIRECTOR ASSISTANT Victoria Moreno

GRAPHICS DIRECTOR Laura Ross GRAPHICS ASSISTANTS Karen Shi Kate Riopelle Anslee Reid Marianna DeTitta Lauren Beeco SOUND PRODUCTION Viv Awesome

MERCH DESIGN ASSISTANTS Koeda Hayes Jermaine Johnson Amelia Hay Mya Kirkman

FINANCE ASSISTANTS Jenna Cao Ria Yesare Sneha Kummarapurugu Dorian Cushing Katrina Nguyen Karen Correa Praneet Venigalla

PROMOTIONS & EVENTS DIRECTOR Wesley Gilbride PROMOTIONS & EVENTS ASSISTANTS Liberty Lebos Macy Mannheimer Erin Kalinsky Kate Riopelle Tyanna Tejada Matan Gal Meredith Conger Avery Ward Isabella Rubiano

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LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

ISSUE 09

Editor’s Dear Issue 09 Staff,

Another beautiful issue completed for all of us. I am and always honored to work with this many talented and creative individuals each semester! I learn so much every issue and what a gift it is to continue to grow with this organization.

To the creative team, you have shown such passion and talent for your craft! It is beyond extraordinary what you accomplish in Strike but also outside of Strike in your other involvements.

Continue to do what you love! You are amazing at it!

To the external team, you’re the backbone of this organization. I am proud to work with individuals who want to better our team, but also want to make this an amazing experience for everyone here. You will be amazing leaders as we continue on Strike together but also in your future endeavors!

To my editor team, we would not be here if it were not for you all!

My support system, my go-getters, you all are a massive part of how Strike runs as a whole. It is genuinely the best part of my day getting to sit at Walker’s Pub (maybe not anymore iykyk) to brainstorm ideas and get stuff done. Thank you all for your patience, guidance, and laughs!

Once again, thank you Strike staff! We killed this and now we are on to the next. Looking forward to all the magic we will create in the fall, but for now – let’s celebrate!!

Lots of Love,

Letter

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STRIKE MAGAZINE ATHENS To Whom It May Concern, As my first cycle as Creative Director, this issue’s theme and the staff who helped bring it to life hold a deeply special place in my heart. To my editors, I am incredibly grateful to have worked alongside each of you to facilitate such an encouraging, professional environment for our staff. To my creative teams, thank you for making my first issue as Creative Director as much fun as it was. It was a privilege to work with over 70 creative, talented people all dedicated to creating the best work they can on a theme so dear to me. As our contemporary reality continues in its current direction, this issue draws on parallels to a nostalgic past.

Visually, this theme employs aesthetics based on the flamboyance and color of the 1980’s, laced with the spirit of rebellion. Subliminally, the 80’s remained a time of public fear and uncertainty, despite how it appeared looking back for those who did not experience it. A global pandemic crisis, war, and a rising conservatism nationwide. Only in hindsight have the macrotrends of societal fashion been clear: a rising draw to minimalism when fascism is on the rise, or a return to personal style and color during more progressive periods like the 1960’s.

Fashion is notoriously rebellious, with trends of disobedience counteracting with the societal pressure to fit in – grunge, goth, punk, and more. As a challenge to systems big and small, this theme serves as a rendezvous for collective human connection, aiming to ignite the questioning of one’s perspectives using a vessel of a familiar nostalgia. The catalyst remains unchanged after the reaction, but the product of the reaction remains dependent on you– what will you let Catalyst change?

Hihi Lovely People, First of all, welcome to Issue 09 of Strike Magazine! We have our talented staff and models all collaborating together to bring you these wonderful pages. Please feel free to immerse yourself in our world and I hope you have fun while you are at it.

This is my third issue with Strike and I’ve been having the most marvelous time in every position I’ve adapted to. From a model, stylist, to Casting Director and now Art Director, every position has provided me with a new and exciting experience. It’s delightful to work alongside a big staff and so magical and inspirational to see everyone exercising their unique talent in hopes to make every issue the best issue yet.

I want to thank our magnificent staff for working with me as a new editor who had so much to learn. Especially to our editor team, Caylin, Grace, Kylie, Emma and Stella for being patient with me and teaching me all the beautiful intricacies that goes into an issue of Strike Magazine.

I have no doubt that this group of Creatives would go far in life, pursuing their passion and goals. I wish nothing but the best of the best for everyone and a contentful and prosperous future!

With much love,

xoxo

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

ISSUE 09 To My Strike Family, Seven semesters ago I joined Strike as a finance assistant. It was my first semester in college and I didn’t know anybody or anything here at UGA. My grand-big, the then finance director, encouraged me to join Strike. As I’m nearing the end of my eighth and final semester, I find myself reflecting on the countless stories and experiences that Strike has given me.

When I first joined Strike, I never imagined I would stay for long. What started as a simple opportunity quickly turned into something much greater—a place where I grew, evolved, and found a second mini family, especially in finance. Strike has allowed me to be responsible for something much bigger than myself. Having the hands-on experience that I did has helped me more than I could ever express.

As I moved into Finance Director in my second semester, I had the ability to shape some of the ways that Strike operated. I will forever be grateful to Miss Nastasia Rozenberg for helping me get my footing and making sure that even though I was new, my voice was still heard.

Being the External Editor these past two semesters has been amazing. I loved being able to work with all my directors to try and help Strike be the best it can be. From bowling to charms to Strikefest, my directors have always been on top of things and made sure that everything goes smoothly. I’ve developed such a strong sense of pride for this organization. I have never claimed, and will never claim to be a fashionista so thank you everyone for allowing me to be a part of it from afar.

To my editorial team. Grace, Ze, Emma, and Stella, I could not have asked for a better team these past two semesters. You’re all so brilliant at what you do and I can’t wait to see how Strike grows and develops these next semesters.

Caylin, you are an absolutely amazing editor-in-chief. No one makes me laugh as much as you and no one makes me feel funnier than you do. You’re amazingly sweet and capable and are such an all-around amazing person, I am so lucky to have the privilege of working with you. Thank you for being the Elphaba to my Glinda <3.

Teddy, you have been a constant for me here at Strike. In the two years that I have known you, you have always been dependable, whether it’s actually getting work done, bouncing ideas off each other, or just letting me vent, you’re always my go-to. While I am sad to go, I know that I couldn’t be leaving Strike in better hands.

Thank you to everyone, being able to be a part of this organization has been the proudest part of my college career. I look forward to seeing Strike for many issues to come.

Strike out,

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

able

STIMULI GROSS A WOMAN’S INHERITANCE COMATOSE DIGITAL DELUGE TRAGEDY OF THE COMMONS THE ROT OF THE SELF

11 13 29 31 55 57 75

INTERMISSION

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SUBJECT PROLETARIAT THE GLASS TOWER FATE & VOLITION IS IT REALLY UP TO ME? STAR MAN ENCORE

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STIMULI STIMULI

ISSUE 09

ACT The opening act for Catalyst is centered around the individual experience. The extraneous forces that shape how we think, what we enjoy, and who we become. The miniscule experiences unite us: shared feelings of love and embarrassment, anger, joy, and dread. In an exploration of nature vs. nurture, Stimuli seeks to understand the nature of being an individual in the contemporary.

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A group of friends has made it home after a night on the town. Waves of shame overcome them when they awake, having slept in their clothes and still in their makeup. Shame is generational, and traditional: a mighty force in suppressing the individual Reject the shame being transferred upon us.

Glamourize the unglamourous.

GROSS

GROS OSS GROSS GROS ISSUE 09

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CONCEPT DIRECTOR Esha Pamidi CONCEPT ASSISTANT Bella Roman PHOTOGRAPHY Emma Lou Conliff VIDEOGRAPHY Kennedy Reid BEAUTY Emma Johnson, Ashanti Meadows, Caylin Payne

GROSS

ISSUE 09 CASTING Ashanti Meadows STYLING & DESIGN Julianne Lopez, Jermaine Johnson, Kitzia Sandoval MODELING Sivani Dontu, Maddie McDonald, Jerry Velasquez WRITING Katherine Fivgas, Ann Harper Covington LAYOUT Ansley Taylor Jordan, Isabella Ayers, Lee Reid SOCIAL MEDIA Zeynep Koseoglu

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A TOAST TO TOMORROW’S REGRET WRITER Katherine Fivgas EDITORS Madelyn Launer, Anna Kadet

GROSS

ISSUE 09

I love my life

Amber liquid courage runs down my throat Glass sticky, music loud The burn soothes the cravings To be fun, to be beautiful, to be enthralling To be enough.

To be loved, to be liked, to be desired Lowlights in this dingy apartment, along the mind-numbingly loud music giving everything a rose-colored tinge I love my friends I will have fun tonight Tomorrow doesn’t matter I have to figure things out, Right?

Wrong.

No longer is everything lit in romantic hues My head throbs.

My heart yearns.

The itch of a bedsheet that is not mine reminds me of reality Hands I don’t recognize graze my waist Another’s bed, not the one I wished for No messages on my phone Regret from the night before forces its way up my throat Cold tiles along my cheek keep me sane

The body heat of the mass around me keeps me warm A skirt and a sparkly top slink off my body My cheeks burn, smiling Our song plays, I order another drink

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GROSS

ISSUE 09 The body heat of the mass around me keeps me warm A skirt and a sparkly top slink off my body My cheeks burn, smiling Our song plays, I order another drink A dirty apartment awaits me, heels in hand Tears in my eyes Last night’s dinner on the counter Clothes mar the dirty floor I lay among it, wallowing Wishing I were better: Self-controlled

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GROSS

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I look better

I notice them I walk by, eyes locking They look good They want me I want them I’ll get them

I looked for them, eyes trained on all exits I knew they would come here I make direct eye contact They are with someone else.

I stumble towards them, friends fighting to pull me back They’re gone.

I don’t feel well GROSS

I set the glass down.

The table is covered in low-grade liquors & mixers Someone makes me another I drink it anyway.

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GROSS

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A WOMAN’S INHERITANCE

STRIKE MAGAZINE ATHENS

WRITER Ann Harper Covington EDITORS Anna Kadet & Emily Copp LAYOUT Ansley Taylor Jordan

A WOMAN’S INHERITANCE

ISSUE 09

T

he first child and should-be son to Leonard Charles Williams III and his wife was born in the midst of October, a blue-eyed babe whose tuft of hair seemed to match the crimson shade of the sugar maple leaves falling outside the hospital window. The baby’s mother sat back in exhaustion while her father pushed through to peer over the nurse’s shoulders. After nine months of eager anticipation to see his namesake, his future crumpled as he was met with an unmistakable wail that, in his mind, had no possibility of coming from a man. His eyes moved back and forth from his wife to his daughter, accusations sent with each striking glare. Her mother peered down into her lap, the indignity of this new reality setting in. The nurses looked from the newborn child to the supposed parents who were set to take her home, eyes filled with pity. I pray she is strong, they thought.

The world can be a cruel place otherwise.

SHE’S SIX NOW, and while she is still allured by her Barbies and babydolls, they rest in the closet more often than not as she runs around outside instead.

With no siblings following in her footsteps and two parents whose interest never increased with her age, she finds solace to her loneliness in the open-ended sky and rolling hills that sit a half-mile from her house. Any free moment she could find was spent exploring that ultimate escape from her reality, those gentle valleys inviting her to spend time running, rolling and racing. The same comfort could not be found at school, where no matter how hard she tried, she was not included in the games she had most interest in playing.

The boys would group together, playing games of soccer and football in the grass surrounding the playground, and each day she would approach them with newfound hope they would react differently than the day before. “You run like a girl!” they would object, deliberately keeping the soccer ball away from her. “So?” she would respond, trying her hardest to keep up with their obvious attempts to shut her out. It was these days when she realized that “running like a girl” was not the encouraging compliment her mind had allowed her to believe thus far. Eventually, she stopped trying to join her male peers for their soccer games, growing tired of climbing a rotten tree that would never permit her to reach the top.

SHE’S THIRTEEN NOW, red-faced in Target after running into a classmate as her mother forced her to go bra shopping for the first time. Her cheeks heated up almost to the shade of her hair, tears pricking her eyes as the fellow teenager peered into her cart where the pack of training bras sat.

Embarrassment was an understatement, and her mother’s dismissal of her reaction to the situation only made her feel more out of place. Time seemed to move at double speed the older she grew, and the changes she observed to her mind and body made the whirlwind of each day take an even larger toll. It wasn’t her rising height that frightened her – afterall, she’d grown at least two inches each year before. She focused more on the child-like body she’d grown so accustomed that suddenly was shaping itself into ways she

didn’t understand. Each night, she would study her reflection in the mirror, pinching the bottoms of her upper arm and inner thighs, poking the skin covering her neverflat-enough stomach, and cinching the sides of her newly developed waist, not recognizing the girl staring back at her. She would scrutinize each rising pimple on her chin, the stubble forming under her arms, and the braces clattering her teeth, picking apart each imperfection she would have no trouble finding. The brightly-patterned clothes she once wore were folded into a give-away pile, no longer fitting how she remembered, and were replaced with bulky monotone pieces to hide her changing figure, mainly from herself. Each night, she would close her eyes and pray for the clock to halt so she could go back in time to a place where she had no care in the world for her appearance. She would plead for her stomach to shrink and her old, faithful jeans to fit once again. She would cry for the newfound loss of identity that would follow her like a shadow for the next four years of her life. While the rest of society welcomes the development of a child’s body growing into a woman’s, she had never felt less like herself.

SHE’S SEVENTEEN NOW, and despite spending fifteen hours studying for her looming chemistry exam, she did not receive the outstanding grade that she believes is the only acceptable outcome for any assessment she would take.

School, which graciously always came naturally to her, morphed from one of few priorities to the only light guiding her through her days. Her junior year of high school became a gruesome cycle filled with days of repetitive classes and preemptive applications and nights of neurotic studying and caffeine overload.

She measured her success by however many A’s she received, the ever-important GPA dictating her entire worth in her own mind. Nothing else has been good enough for the world’s standards in the past, so why can’t her intelligence make up for everything else she lacks? Each week further into the year, the classes and days seemed to gain another hour and the repetitive cups of coffee she would consume seemed to halt their effects. The sleep she once managed to avoid began to trap her into hours of rest, her control over her body’s clock gone. Her mind grew tired alongside her physical being, and her presence in school reflected the exhaustion she felt confined in. “You should put a smile on that face,” her AP American History teacher would say each time she would trudge into the classroom.

How can I smile, she would think, setting her books on the aged wooden desks that had become a respite for her to hide from her supposed failures, when my entire future is devolving right in front of me?

SHE’S TWENTY-TWO NOW and decided she would not be graduating in May as she was originally expected to. Instead, she told her parents she would be taking a fifth year so she can truly decide what she wants to do with her life, despite receiving the overwhelming disappointment she had become so fond of knowing. The tunnel vision she once had towards academics meandered farther away from view with

each year of college, the knowing looks and hungry kisses from boys rising in their place. Their attention was her drug of choice, and each night spent alone left her going through withdrawals. So, she began to meet the boys and let them infiltrate her body and mind, even though it felt like a piece of her soul floated away each time she was taken. She became enthralled with the identity of a femme fatale, experimenting tracing thick black liner to the corners of her eyes with a kitchen knife as the base, cosplaying the type of woman she so wanted to be: a woman worthy of the sexual prowess that manifested inside her. She learned of divine femininity and studied her inner goddess, repeating the mantra in her mind on a current that she would never allow a man to make her feel less than her full potential. Afterall, she was the one in charge. She was the one they wanted. She held the power that would not be taken from her unless they pried it out of her cold, dead hands. So, night after night, the men would rotate through her bedroom door, leaving only crumpled up tissues and lukewarm bottles of Miller Light in their wake. She began to lay in silence once she was alone, staring aimlessly at the evidence of her sins, her stomach churning and mind blank.

Darkness would cloud her vision and she would feel trapped in emptiness, sinking into insignificance. It seemed her power would leave with each nameless face, until she was left drowning in the quicksand, her self-worth getting buried before anything else.

SHE’S TWENTY-EIGHT NOW, finally successful enough to feel a sense of pride, even if it comes solely from herself.

The extra year of school combined with two years of mundane receptionist work provided enough time to begin her career out of sheer boredom. Her true first love, painting, became the center of her life.

Days were spent striking canvases in a synchronized harmony, like fitting the pieces together of a puzzle, but making messages with each dip of paint. If creating art was a war, her paintbrush would act as her ammunition. Life went on, and as her career settled, she began to once again look towards the possibility of finding a partner, much to her mother’s elation. She eventually decides to marry Jeffrey Archibald Newsome IV, mainly to please her father, even though she knows deep down he would not care enough to notice a difference. He’s a respectable choice: comes from a good family, works at an accounting firm and already has a 401(k) in place. The sparks she once dreamed of feeling as a young girl aren’t as fiery as she once imagined, but she realized that comfort and steadiness in a lifestyle rise in importance while romance falls the older you grow. He’ll always be a kind husband and father in the future, and isn’t she smarter in the long run for being responsible in a choice such as this? His clean-cut hair style and glasses don’t make him the most exciting, but he thinks her fiery red hair makes her something special. As safe of a choice as he is for her, she’s the exotic choice he makes, the only step outside the paved road of his life. And, in the end, isn’t it his opinion that matters most? She fell into a comfortable

cycle, one life opened for her without any effort on her part. The role of a wife, homemaker and future mother welcomed her with more enthusiasm than any other position she had worked towards, and the fight to reach her fullest potential was becoming more exhausting each day. So, she would allow him to whisper sweet nothings into her ear while she would close her eyes and muse about the life she could’ve had, maybe should’ve had, but never loud enough for him to catch on to.

SHE’S THIRTY-ONE NOW, stuck in a hospital bed as the contractions come two minutes apart and the impending panic of being a new parent sets in. Although she felt she lost a small part of herself each month that her pregnancy developed, she wouldn’t have it any other way. From the second she heard her child’s heartbeat in the first ultrasound, a type of love bloomed into her chest that she never felt could be possible. She would remind herself that the point of being a mother was to put your child before yourself.

Isn’t it natural for the role of a mother to take over one’s entire identity? Sweat beads her face as she pleads with her body to work alongside her, taking in each encouragement from the doctor and her husband who sits at her bedside, awaiting the arrival of the first child to take on his name. Tears stream down her face as the nurses place the blue-eyed babe with a wisp of sun-kissed hair to her chest, finally hearing the unmistakable wail that answered the nine-month long question of the gender of her first child. Only a little girl would cry for the unbreakable glass ceiling above her in the first few moments of her life. She continued to cry, overflowed with joy that her baby was safe, but also with despair, knowing the future outlined for her daughter and constant hardships that lay ahead. I pray you are strong, she thinks to herself as she wraps the baby closer to her chest. The world can be a cruel place otherwise.

Identity of a Femme Fatale.

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COMA

CONTENT DIRECTOR Kanan Parikh CONCEPT ASSISTANT Jamila Reeves-Miller PHOTOGRAPHY Sydney Grove VIDEOGRAPHY Megan Machan BEAUTY Will Johnson CASTING Dorian Cushing STYLING & DESIGN Alice Young MODELING Jordan Teasley WRITING McKenna Edwards, Anna Kadet LAYOUT Ansley Taylor Jordan, Amelia Hay, Karen Shi, Skye Boutall SOCIAL MEDIA Anne Marshall Mills

COMATOSE

ISSUE 09

The melancholy of life in the twentyfirst century has infected the individual. Symptoms may include, but are not limited to, brain fog, desensitization, excessive phone usage, and lethargy.

If an individual begins to display 2D symptoms, emergency attention is required to avoid consumption.

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COMATOSE

ISSUE 09

Outside, the streets were nothing but empty.

There were dark clouds covering the sky and a cold chill took over the air. This wasn’t normal. Usually the sun was bright and shining and people were outside with family and friends snapping photos of the beautiful trees around them or videoing something funny they saw along the way. Phone in hand at all times. So, what happened?

Why the sudden change?

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COMATOSE

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COMATOSE

DAY 1

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COMATOSE

GREY.

ISSUE 09

THE WORLD OUTSIDE IS GREY.

When did it get so dark and lonely out here? What happened to the sounds and colors that encapsulated day-to-day life? I’m looking outside and everything is so, so monotonous. I keep asking myself, what happened? Where did the variety go? I live alone in this apartment, far away from family and, while friends are just down the block, I rarely get to see them because of our busy schedules. Phones are what keep us connected.

My phone. I haven’t checked it. I go to grab my phone sitting on my bedside table, just waiting to be used. How I love my phone. It has everything that I need: information, my friends and apps ready to download. I don’t know where I would be without it. I’m going to text my friends now. Surely my eyes aren’t deceiving me. My phone screen is grey too–– where did the vibrance of it all go? I’m shutting it down now and closing my eyes for rest.

Maybe the color will return when I wake up.

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DAY

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COMATOSE

I just woke up and it’s currently 3:00 a.m. I’ve always been told that it’s the “witching hour.” The first thing I do is check my phone for any missed messages, or color, from the prior hours I had fallen asleep.

I’m feeling disconnected quite literally from my phone, but oddly reality as well. I haven’t been able to put my finger on anything yet, but the only way to describe the pit in my stomach is apocalyptic.

I can’t keep a connection for more than a few minutes at a time. I see “Rebooting” on my screen every hour or so.

What does that mean?

Everything seems flat, like it’s two dimensional.

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COMATOSE

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COMATOSE

4 ISSUE 09

Apologies for not writing the past day. I’m starting to feel almost foggy? This “no color” really gets to you. I’ve been looking up symptoms online with no luck.

Every search engine says this is normal and what’s happening isn’t something I should be worried about. I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Something feels

almost unbalanced about this.

Not sure what, I can’t put my finger on it quite yet. I haven’t left my house since I started writing these entries, and I’m honestly feeling nervous. Sirens can be heard up and down streets…

I miss the sounds of footsteps and the chatter of a human’s voice.

When and how did this all happen?

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COMATOSE

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COMATOSE

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DAY STRIKE MAGAZINE ATHENS

At least, I think it’s day seven.

I haven’t written an entry in a few days. My eyes feel bloodshot, and I’m tired constantly. My phone no longer works, either.

I’ve lost communication with friends. How else do I know if they’re feeling the same way as I am? The walls are annoying. The books on my shelves are just dust. There’s a fog constantly outside of my window, so it stays closed.

What happened to me? I’m looking down and I no longer see skin, just a skeleton of what I once was. I feel disembodied, like I’m floating above the ground. I’m not sure what time

COMATOSE

it is, but I know the sun has not yet risen. I’m starting to reflect on times past. Was I too consumed in my phone to realize what was happening around me? How long has the outside really looked like this? Why did I notice so suddenly? God, there are so many things I wish I knew the answer to and all I can do now is sit, stare and wonder. I haven’t felt like myself recently. Or was I simply just a product of the things I saw on my screen? Do I really have any individuality about me? I’m starting to get restless in this place, and I want to explore the beauty around me, but I’m afraid that it’s too late for that luxury.

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COMATOSE

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DIGITAL DELUGE WRITER Anna Kadet EDITORS Alex Keezer, Mckenna Edwards LAYOUT Karen Shi

DIGITAL DELUGE

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W

rithing pressure between my brows, the hum from the rectangle in my hand beckons in time with my steps. Blue light dazzles my irises and competes with the halls under my feet, the symphony of high school but a mere whisper behind the glass barrier vying—and catching my attention.

Third period statistics arrives as if on auto-pilot: I don’t remember walking here. At my desk, college-ruled lines and red ink under my nose flash “67.

See me after class.” Friends in front, behind. Prom on Saturday. Right.

“Where are we going to dinner again?”

“Anna, check the group chat.”

“Sorry.” I stare reluctantly at my phone. Eighty-three text notifications.

At home Mom cooks dinner, the TV glows with headlines. I toggle to Snapchat, Instagram and Messages in rapid succession, but none hold my attention. I’m vaguely aware of it, but allow my app surfing to proceed anyway. TikTok finally does the trick and my brain sighs with relief as it submits to the dopamine tide. Questions from the kitchen go unanswered, the cases of water under the stairs go unnoticed.

“Our meteorologists have been tracking Elena’s path since it formed in the Caribbean five days ago. As of 7 p.m. Eastern Time, Elena is located approximately 220 miles southwest of Tampa and moving northeast at 14 miles per hour. This trajectory puts Tampa directly in the crosshairs for a potential direct hit within the next 18-24 hours.”

My hands grip the wheel the next morning. Like frayed rope my thoughts struggle to grasp, to take hold, to connect amid the music fighting to drown all else away. It isn’t until a red light that I finally drag my gaze out the window to find the bay —the constant of my city—almost sucked dry. I gasp momentarily.

There’s probably just a big storm coming, nothing to worry about.

Lunch appears and deteriorates

“The latest radar shows the eyewall strengthening, and forecasters at the National Hurricane Center warn that Elena could potentially strengthen to a Category 5 before landfall. Storm surge predictions are now between 15 to 20 feet for coastal areas, with the highest impact expected along Bayshore Boulevard, Davis Islands, and St. Petersburg’s waterfront areas.”

That night, the crowd around me sways as one. Sweat trickles down my back and I feel the vodka settle in my stomach in a familiar fiery sweetness. The buzzing in my back pocket, the particularly strong breeze subdued by the pulse of the speakers, of my friends packed like sardines to my sides. A cake is cut: white frosting and “Hurricane Elena” spelled above a swirling cyclone of icing. “NO SCHOOL!!!!” someone bellows. A cheer goes up from the crowd, lightning splits the sky. The thunder is the last thing I remember.

“Upon our latest reports, Hurricane Elena has officially upgraded to a Category 5 Hurricane. This is a matter of emergency: we are now issuing mandatory evacuation for zones A and B, including Davis Islands, Westshore and Bayshore Boulevard. We repeat, evacuate immediately for your own safety.”

My mom’s voice floods my dreams.

I snap out of a fitful sleep, the pounding in my head nothing compared to the shouts I hear escaping her mouth. Leaving in ten, she says. Why did I go to that party?

This is serious. For the first time, a kernel of panic blooms in my belly.

Ten minutes later, I haul a suitcase downstairs and kiss my room goodbye, my gaze lingering a beat longer than usual.

“All lanes of I-75 and I-4 heading northbound and eastbound have been converted to evacuation routes.

However, traffic is already heavily congested. If you’re evacuating, please bring essential supplies, medications,

and important documents.

Remember, the Tampa Convention Center, Raymond James Stadium, and USF’s Yuengling Center have been converted to emergency shelters for those who cannot evacuate the region.”

My dogs pant in my face, the Atlanta hotel room and last 12 hours of bumper-to-bumper traffic keeping them cooped up and stressed. The Coca-Cola museum, The Georgia Aquarium. Might as well get out of the hotel while we’re here, my parents said. I snap photos at each attraction, some kind of displacedturned-tourist. When I catch my parents’ eyes glued to the radar, they divert my attention to the next “vacation spot.” Their stricken faces snag on the terrain of my memory, but my denial washes them away.

“We’re back with a grim update on Hurricane Elena, which made landfall just east of Tampa at 3:42 this morning as a powerful Category 5 storm. I’m joined by our field reporter, Jessica Martinez, who’s in Davis Islands. Jessica, what are you seeing?”

Face against the car window, the remains of homes zip by in disastrous piles of devastation. Wood sticks out every which way, debris more common than concrete. One trunk impales a house so horizontally the scene looks fake. A father weeps on the curb, his toddlers play tag among the branches. I can’t help but wonder where their mother is. The bay glitters nearby as if nothing had happened – an ironic and undeniable beauty among the tragedy. When finally our car dodges the debris enough to arrive home, my family pales one by one, their gasps at the sight quickly followed by sobs, the only things audible amid the deafening silence.

“I’m standing in what used to be the marina district of Davis Islands, and I can only describe it as unrecognizable. Behind me, you can see boats that have been tossed hundreds of yards inland, some crashing through homes and businesses. Our meteorologists haven’t seen destruction of this magnitude in their careers.”

What happens next I can’t quite remember – my brain finds resolve in that ever-steady companion always clutched in my hand. Instagram stories: an endless carousel of wreckage and love letters written to what was lost, their filters and angles even so still carefully picked.

Photos of what the city once was— always sunsets and social media perfect views – permeate my feed.

“Governor DeSantis has declared a state of emergency and requested federal disaster assistance. The National Guard has been mobilized, with over 3,000 personnel headed to the area. For those of you with loved ones in the affected areas, a missing persons hotline has been established. That number is on your screen now.”

The fog intensifies as it shifts glacially over the ocean in my mind.

The storm surge rises with each tap of an icon. The pink folds of the brain give way to gray, the rope no longer frayed but rather unraveled. In the distance my name is called, I think, but I can’t seem to form a response.

Three hundred and sixty-two likes on my post.

The symphony stops.

“Good evening. I’m coming to you live from our Weather Center with an urgent update on Hurricane Elena, now a Category 4 storm with sustained winds of 145 miles per hour. This dangerous system has taken an alarming turn in the past few hours and is now headed directly for the Tampa Bay area.”

with a single email: school and all extracurricular activities have been canceled through the weekend due to Hurricane Elena. Swiping past the various National Weather Service alerts on my phone, I race frantically to the group chat to echo my friends’ devastation for the fall of senior prom. A GroupMe notification suddenly unfurls its banner between texts, “Hurricane party tonight.

BYOB” A grin slowly spreads across my face.

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TRAGEDY OF THE COMMONS

ISSUE 09

CONTENT DIRECTOR Kiyoko Spencer CONCEPT ASSISTANT Carson Gorrow PHOTOGRAPHY Maddie Painter VIDEOGRAPHY Isabella Farina BEAUTY Caylin Payne CASTING Laasya Ananthu STYLING & DESIGN Sophia Bradley, Louis Miranda, Liam Scott MODELING Lee Reid WRITING Maura Rutledge, Blake Witmer LAYOUT Ansley Taylor Jordan, Lee Reid, Amelia Hay, Skye Boutall SOCIAL MEDIA Salma Hanifa

If one choice was made that resulted in the life before you entirely changing, what would you pick? How do you choose what fig you would pluck from a plentiful tree? What is sweetest for others may seem rotten to another, but be warned, for the time spent ruminating on the choices before you is time taken from your future.

Infinitely spun, time stands still for no person or cause. Continually pulling the future closer and closer as the present we know becomes the past. The experience of time’s infinite nature is constrained by human impermanence.

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D

the ifference

WRITER Blake Witmer EDITORS Mckenna Edwards, Alex Keezer

Two roads emerged beneath my feet, one beneath trees, the other in the heat.

The decision scared me, feeling soft yet tight the weight of “figs” not yet picked ripe.

Each fig a life I cannot live.

Each path a past I did not give.

A different life, a different fate, but the choice was never mine to make.

I waited there until I knew afraid to choose, but knowing too.

Life will tug, will shift, will change, with or without my tight embrace.

And so I took a step and let time fade, upon the road within the shade.

And looking back through the roads and paths, I see all the difference made.

made.

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The Rot of The Self:

How aesthetics are plaguing our minds WRITER Maura Rutledge EDITORS Alex Keezer, Anna Kadet LAYOUT Emily Resmondo

THE ROT OF THE SELF

ISSUE 09

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked… I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

You try to hold onto them, relishing in the sweet taste of fitting in or being “cool,” all the while losing your sense of individuality fig by fig until one day you look around and each fig is dead.

You don't know who you are.

The term “aesthetic” can be dated back to the 17th century, referring to the idea of imagination and taste.

Over time, it evolved to represent different trends.

From the late 1800s through modern times, many different aesthetics cycled in and out, many of which were rooted in political and economic status. Prime examples of this include the rise of more masculine clothes for women during the ‘40s in response to entering the workforce during the Second World War, compared to the futuristic and psychedelic patterns of the ‘60s alongside the growing interest in space exploration.

Patterns of growing trends progressed at a steady rate until a new factor was introduced: the internet.

From the 2000s to the 2020s, more and more aesthetics have become mainstream. Following the rise of social media, new fads are introduced almost daily.

The question: is this a bad thing?

At its root, aesthetics serve as a means of expressing individuality; however, we have circled back to the original problem. As so many different trends surface at such a quick pace, an individual is almost overwhelmed with how to precisely express that individuality. So many different styles and fads, how to fit in,

what to do and what not to do. In this entanglement of choice, the core self becomes lost.

The root of the fig tree is being suffocated by its thousands of fruits.

The cycle continues over and over again, leading to wasted money for individuals and an increased amount of clothing waste and pollution for the environment. It also can lead to an overuse of resources, such as water.

will lead to caring less about being perceived, and over time, noticing fads less and less. I have struggled with the same process, and still do in aspects of my life. However, each day I begin to nurture my own core tree more and more.

False Figs:

Warped Within The Tree:

By shifting from trend to trend in a short amount of time, an individual can lose their sense of self. This can lead to a loss of personal taste or individual interests. It also can lead to false perceptions of different cultures or motifs.

“How to glow up” “how to serve no makeup makeup” “how to dress to be an alpha woman” “how to give off rockstar girlfriend”

And at the end, a small fruit will begin to blossom and glow;

Let's examine the mob wife trend from late 2023. It consisted of bold animal prints, big hair, and a more sexy vibe compared to other trends of the year. But where does this come from?

Mob wife style refers to a blend of American and Italian styles of the ‘80s; however, it in turn romanticized the violence and oppression women of that time faced.

And in the blink of an eye, the trend was gone. Replaced by the idea of “clean girl.” This shallow representation of culture and history is seen over and over in trends.

Aesthetics borrow parts of certain identities, and allow the user to try it on for size until they get bored again without having to suffer the negative aspects of said identity.

The Cost of Rotten Fruit: In order to follow trends, most of the time, you must first look the part.

This can become expensive, and when it is too expensive users tend to turn to cheaper alternatives, such as fast fashion brands like Shein and Aliexpress. When that trend is over, the items bought for a specific trend are discarded.

Each of these have something in common: change. Trends seek to alter or improve the individual, but with the constant influx within the social sphere, there is a sense of restlessness. The idea that this specific trend will make one perfect or likeable is constantly looming over everyones head. Another factor is at play: the fact we are seeing the best microscopic moments of others' day-to-day life at any moment, and are left wondering how we can achieve that. The reality is, social media is warped. It causes us to always scrutinize and compare our lives to others. Trends just add to this phenomenon, creating the idea that a post or vibe defines your worth and personality to a T.

one

Coquette, dark academia, y2k, goth, acubi. Just a few pop culture terms to describe popular aesthetics of the 2020s. Each one a fat, looming fig hanging on the societal tree, beckoning those who are lost.

The Golden Syconium:

Not all is lost. There are many ways to get back to your inner self, cleansed of all the clutter of modern times. Unplugging is the first step. Deciding that trends don't define you, and you want to be your genuine self. Followed by taking time to experiment with your style and interests that truly speak to your soul, not the souls of those you wish to impress. Providing yourself with positive self-talk and thinking patterns, such as saying out loud that you are “cool” and interesting the way you are, and what makes you happy is the best version of you. This

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The tide lingers before the shore, its breath held in silence Air taut, as thread Sky stretched smooth Lungs full of oxygen Skin tight over bone The static air trembling A ripple a fracture And, unseen, the thread begins to fray an ache in the stillness The steady hum of the tide shifts, not yet a whisper Change is inevitable — it taunts us.

An exhale Eyes shoot open A foot forward into the flood The hush unravels The blue, unknowing sky snaps The tide surges outward What’s done is done.

What was once comatose is no longer.

THRESHOLD

ISSUE 09

THRESHOLD WRITER Madelyn Launer EDITORS Anna Kadet & Emily Copp LAYOUT Ansley Taylor Jordan

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SUBJECT

SUBJECT

ISSUE 09

Expounding on the concept of the individual, the closing act develops the full-frame image of humanity as a collective; one to be nurtured. Subject aims to heavily question one’s place in the system, and to investigate what control we truly exert over the circumstances of our existence. How can we preserve our individuality within the collective experience?

ACT 79

CONTENT DIRECTOR Kanan Parikh CONCEPT ASSISTANT Morgan Shaw PHOTOGRAPHY John Atkinson VIDEOGRAPHY Megan Machan BEAUTY Juliana Hartley, CG Sigman, Lauren Coughlin CASTING

Riya Patel STYLING & DESIGN Claudia Vlassoff, Caroline Sims, Eleanor Cleveland, Jamila Reeves-Miller, Julianne Lopez MODELING Anjie Gbadebo, Jeshua Segura, Jude Greco, Kacy Caldwell, Lauren Coughlin, TJ Poole

WRITING Mia Tanner, Lovely Grace Pilibino LAYOUT Karen Shi, Ansley Taylor Jordan, Emily Resmondo, Mia Smitherman SOCIAL MEDIA Rachel Clark

ISSUE 09

After succeeding in the banning of color, the elites retreated to pale, illustrious mansions. Most of the public had merely resigned to the decrepit life before them. Despite what control wealth provides, the elite cannot remain vigilant to all that takes place, and thus lack absolute population control.

Without the watchful eye, the proletariats began to slowly recreate lost patterns, banned clothes and makeup—defiance through a chromatic revival. It’s only a matter of time before color begins to overpower the powers at bay.

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WRITING Mia Tanner EDITING Emily Copp, Madelyn Launer

PROLETARIAT

ISSUE 09

“In our world, divide and conquer mu�t become d�fi ne and empower.”

Audre Lorde

From the mountains, a beam of light illuminates the train tracks below. Its source: the dozens of mansions among the hills, housing the elite powers that oversee our decrepit village. Boxed in by towering glass windows, figures roam the bleak halls like clones in similar beige clothing. Emotionless and chiseled to perfection, you cannot distinguish one form from another.

Vibrance is absent, along with mercy.

Any evidence of humanity remains in the movement of limbs; the muscles of mouths speaking contempt for the very peoples their success is founded on.

It is there that these tyrants plot against their own citizens, taking and erasing any opportunity for individuality.

Gone is the sound of music.

Fading are the colors and patterns that adorned our lives.

Sleeping is the spirit of the revolution.

Each day we make our journey to the river and farms by train for work, aware of the eyes that belong to reclusive watchers perched in their castles. We are nothing but entertainment to them. Like circus animals we bend and break to their commands, jumping through rings of fire to support the weight of the world for them.

But no longer will we let them puppeteer us. We have felt the repercussions of this faux modernity, fallen victim to false promises of a utopia–until now.

In the deepest caves of our beloved mountain, we are feeding the flames of a new united front. Those solitaries deny our existence and attack our character, but we are alive and breathing. We are bona fide revolutionaries becoming the very thing they despise.

Independent. Outspoken. Unafraid.

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There isn’t anything more that can be taken from someone who has been left with nothing.

We have been stripped of our dignity, our freedom, our very identities; rendered invisible and reduced to mere cogs in their great machine. But it is from this nothingness that we have found a new power.

When there is nothing left to lose, there is nothing to fear.

They think we are broken; beaten down by their command. Our scars are not signs of defeat; they are the marks of resilience, proof that we have endured and learned. Every slight, every injustice, has only sharpened our resolve .

We no longer wait for permission. We no longer beg for scraps from their table.

The truth is, we’ve been steadily moving in the shadows,in the silence, that they’ve forgotten we are still here. They’ve forgotten the strength that lies in desperation.

We are the forgotten, the ignored—but not for much longer.

What we have lost cannot be returned, but what we will take from them will be so much more. A world not shaped by their greed, but by our union. The revolution that begins in the heart of one will soon spread to all, igniting fires that will burn brighter than any beam of doubt they could cast.

The moment of reckoning is coming—and when it does, we will stand tall.

Unbroken and unstoppable.

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No more whispers behind closed doors.

No more buried animosity.

RISE

NOW, WE

We will not stand idly by while they erase it all.

They think we are powerless. They think they can keep us under their thumb, but they are wrong. We are the force they cannot control.

We are the spark that will set the world ablaze.

We will not wait for permission. We will not ask for a seat at their table. We will take what is ours. We will tear down the walls that divide us and build a future for the people, by the people.

The time for their rule is over.

So, gather your strength. Stand together.

The revolution is here.

We are the storm that looms over the horizon.

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WRITING Lovely Grace Pilibino EDITING Madelyn Launer & McKenna Edwards LAYOUT Skye Boutall

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THE GLASS TOWER

The Glass

ISSUE 09

The tower loomed like a shard of glass piercing the sky, its mountainous silhouette gleaming with an unsettling stil ness.

It rose impossibly high, a monolith of transparency and cold elegance, so flawless in its glass façade that no one could peer inside, only imagine what lay behind its walls. The sunlight refracted off its surface, casting sharp, shifting reflections that danced like whispers, revealing nothing and yet everything.

No one remembered when it was built, just that it had always been there. An ever-present god, casting its cold shadow over the cracked concrete and rusted steel of the city below. It was a thing of beauty and power, a monument to the untouchable, the unreachable. Some called it salvation—the last vestige of order in a world undone by its own hunger. Others spat when they passed it, muttering curses beneath their breath, too afraid to say them aloud.

The tower listened.

But lately, something was different. The reflection of the sky in the tower’s surface seemed to warp and twist, an almost imperceptible distortion rippling through the air when the light hit it just right. A crack, silent but present—barely there, but enough for anyone who cared to notice. And in the alleyways below, someone saw.

Vara lifted her gaze to the glass tower, her thoughts swirling. For all its transparency, she knew the real darkness lay buried beneath layers of thick glass, waiting—begging—to be shattered and set free. Secrets pulsed behind those walls like trapped breaths. She quickened her steps, eyes locked on the looming structure, until she collided—hard—into someone.

She stumbled back, ready with an apology, but the stranger simply handed her a small, folded pamphlet, his hand brushing against hers for a brief moment.

“Take it,” he said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the city. His gaze was steady but unreadable.

Vara hesitated, the pamphlet feeling too heavy in her hand, like a secret she wasn’t ready to uncover. She glanced at his face, dark eyes, a sharp jawline, but his expression didn’t give anything away.

“Who are you?” she asked, unsure if she should even care.

“Someone who believes there’s more than one way to change things,” he replied.

In the tower above, the elites continued their quiet watch, their gazes sweeping over the

city like unseen gods. They believed the glass would always hold. That the world below would remain fractured, desperate, willing to obey.

But something had shifted.

And in Vara’s hands, the first crack had already begun to spread.

Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving her standing there, the pamphlet still clutched tightly in her hand. She took note of a dark shadow that loomed over her.

Vara knew this wasn’t a coincidence. Something was pulling her toward the unknown.

She looked down at the pamphlet, the thin paper crinkling in her grip. It felt wrong, like it didn’t belong in her hands. But then again, so much about this world felt wrong.

Vara unfolded it carefully, the secret message that could possibly incriminate her.

The words were simple, printed in stark black ink: Meet me at the glass steps at midnight.

You’ll see why. Below, a small symbol, an eye with a crack through it, was etched beneath the text. It felt wrong. But in a world already broken, where cruelty reigned and the elite shaped reality with their indifference, Vara doubted this could bring more destruction than what had already been done.

Night fell like a slow exhale, swallowing the city in its quiet grip. By the time Vara reached the glass steps, it felt as though the world had paused.

The usual hum of life—the murmur of voices, the distant wail of sirens, the restless shuffle of the streets—had dulled to nothing.

At midnight, the glass steps were bathed in a cold, pale light, casting long shadows on the cracked pavement. The air was thick with tension. They were an odd assembly, a mix of wary anticipation and quiet resolve in their eyes.

Some had their heads bowed, as if in prayer, while others scanned the darkened streets, as though expecting someone—or something—to appear. There were no words, only the weight of their collective presence, a silent agreement that they were all here for the same reason, drawn by forces none of them fully understood.

A figure appeared at the top of the steps, silhouetted against the gleaming façade. The crowd held its breath. The figure was tall, cloaked in shadow, and held something in their hand—a thin, glinting object that caught the

light as they moved closer. It was a hammer, small but purposeful.

“Tonight,” the figure’s voice was clear, cutting through the still air, “we break the first crack.”

The crowd murmured, some pulling back, others inching forward. Vara’s heart raced, her mind spinning. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but this wasn’t it.

The figure raised the hammer high, the gleaming metal reflecting the tower’s light. Then, with a single motion, they swung it toward the ground.

A loud crack rang through the air, echoing across the silent city. The first real crack in the glass tower.

The chaos that followed was inevitable.

The next morning, Vara found herself in the middle of something bigger than she had imagined, an uprising. The cracks weren’t just in the tower’s façade anymore; they were everywhere. People had started to realize that the tower wasn’t untouchable, wasn’t invincible.

It had vulnerabilities—just like everything else.

But as the protests grew, so did the violence.

It wasn’t long before there were whispers of betrayal among the crowds, voices calling for more extreme measures, for destruction rather than change. The towers might fall, but so would the city. So would the people.

Vara had been part of this now, she couldn’t deny it. She had felt the first crack. But now, the question loomed over her: what was she willing to do to bring it down?

She stood at the edge of the crowd, watching as the streets began to fill with more and more people, all seeking the same thing—freedom, justice, revenge. But what if none of it worked?

What if even the destruction of the tower wasn’t enough to break the cycle?

Her eyes traced the outline of the glass tower, its gleaming surface unmarred by the night’s chaos, still standing tall, unyielding. Somewhere high above, behind the flawless glass, the elites watched. Their eyes were everywhere, a constant, unseen presence. Vara could feel their watchful eyes, heavy and unblinking, but she wasn’t afraid. And for the first time, she wondered if it was even possible to bring it down—or if it was something far worse: a symbol of an inevitable future.

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The contrast and connection of polar opposites, the question of fate and free will has intrigued humans for millennia; ideas that can represent opposing forces or completely independent impacts to others. The role fate plays in an individual’s volition, as well as its inverse, is largely under-investigated.

In a dynamic experiment, we seek to understand how volition may intertwine with fate, and how it may repulse it.

FATE & VOLITION

ISSUE 09

CONTENT DIRECTOR Kiyoko Spencer CONCEPT ASSISTANT MaryJane Richard PHOTOGRAPHY Zahan Hajimohamed VIDEOGRAPHY Isabella Farina BEAUTY Greta Johnston, Lauren Coughlin CASTING Riya Patel STYLING & DESIGN Mya Williams, Vanessa Gissel MODELING Lovely Grace Pilibino, Olivia Packwood WRITING Emily Copp, Hannah King LAYOUT Ansley Taylor Jordan, Emily Resmondo, Karen Shi, Skye Boutall, SOCIAL MEDIA Salma Hanifa

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upe But why do twins elicit such extreme emotional responses?

In 2005, researchers from the Institute of Oriental and European Archaeology of the Austrian Academy of Sciences discovered the remains of two infants dating back to the Upper Paleolithic era in Krems, Austria. The burial site was covered not by soil, but by the shoulder blade bone of a mammoth, whittled and shaped to fit. A string of beads was found inside, with the lack of wear a sign that it was placed as an offering for the deceased.

After DNA testing, they found that the male newborns were not only brothers, but genetically identical. They were monozygotic twins.

This discovery provided the first and earliest proof of identical twin birth, with the evidence dating back as far as circa 31,000 BCE. It proved that twins have always been part of human life.

Throughout history, twins have been depicted in vastly different ways across literature, film and television.

Sometimes, they are a source of humor and lighthearted mischief, as seen in William Shakespeare’s The Comedy of Errors and Twelfth Night, or Nancy Meyers’ The Parent Trap (1998). Other times, they are unsettling, used to invoke a sense of fear and the uncanny, such as in The Shining (1980) or The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson. But why do twins elicit such extreme emotional responses?

In all representations of twins in media, whether it be family-friendly shenanigans or gothic horror, betray a cultural obsession with individual identity and selfcontrol. Conceptually, twins and doppelgangers pose a fundamental challenge to the idea of a unique self.

Human beings often equate their identity with both body

FATE & VOLITION

WRITER Emily Copp EDITORS Mckenna Edwards, Alex Keezer

and mind, assuming outward individuality reflects internal uniqueness. The presence of an identical twin disrupts this assumption, suggesting physical individuality is not as intrinsic as we may believe. This is why “scary” twins often evoke a sense of the “uncanny valley.” Their identical appearance makes what should be singular— faces, bodies and voices—eerily repetitive, triggering discomfort. In the same way we often associate our unique outward appearance with a unique inner world, “scary” depictions of twins work in the reverse. The fear escalates when twins exhibit synchronized behavior, such as speaking in unison or appearing telepathically linked, which suggests not only a replication of physical form but also of thought and volition.

The deeper fear underlying twin depictions is the fear of losing control—over oneself and one’s actions. This theme is explored in Shakespeare’s The Comedy of Errors, where the mistaken identities of twin brothers lead to confusion and chaos. The twins become unwilling participants in each other’s lives, demonstrating how a duplicated identity can threaten an individual’s autonomy. Similarly, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde explores the duality of self— though not featuring twins in the literal sense, the novella uses the doppelganger motif to question whether the self is ever truly singular or entirely under control. In Twelfth Night, another Shakespearean comedy, the twin motif delves into the complexities of personal identity versus societal perception. Viola, disguised as her twin brother Sebastian, navigates a world where her individuality is subsumed by her resemblance to another, reinforcing the idea that identity is often dictated by external recognition rather than internal truth.

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ISSUE 09 Because the nature-versus-nurture debate has shaped human thought for centuries, science has sought empirical answers—often at great ethical cost. Pioneered by Francis Galton in the late 19th century, researchers identified twins as ideal subjects for studying genetic versus environmental influences. These studies, continuing throughout the 20th century, provided significant evidence in the quest to understand human genetic influence on behavior.

The Minnesota Twin Study (1979–1999), led by Thomas Bouchard, found that genetics play a major role in intelligence, personality, and even political beliefs and religious attitudes.

The Swedish Twin Registry has been used to study the heritability of diseases like cancer, cardiovascular conditions, and mental health disorders, confirming that genetic predispositions contribute to these illnesses.

The Danish Twin Study explored longevity and found that genetics account for about 25% of lifespan variation. Additionally, research on twins with schizophrenia has shown that if one identical twin develops the disorder, the other twin has a 48% chance of developing it too, demonstrating a strong genetic component.

However, the methodologies of such studies often failed to consider the ethical ramifications of experimenting on human lives. One of the most infamous examples of unethical twin research is the case highlighted in the 2018 documentary Three Identical Strangers.

In 1980, 19-year-old strangers Bobby Shafran, Eddy Galland, and David Kellman discovered that they were all adopted from the same agency, they all had the same birthday, and––oh, right––they all looked exactly the same, even down to their uniquely large, baseball-mitt hands. The triplets soon realize that they also have eerily similar personalities–– they all liked Chinese food, smoked the same brand of cigarettes, wrestled in high school, and had the same taste in women.

“They were more like clones than brothers,” said Alan Luchs, a friend of David.

The film exposes the Louise Wise adoption agency’s covert experiment in which identical siblings were deliberately separated at birth and studied by psychiatrists Peter B. Neubauer and Viola W. Bernard without the children’s or parents’ knowledge. According to Natasha Josefowitz, a research assistant to Neubaurer, this research aimed to determine whether genetics or environment played a greater role in human development. She recounts the moment that Neubaurer first pitched the idea to her, enticingly stating, “We would put to rest the dilemma of nature or nurture, forever.” Josefowitz claimed that the results of the study showed that our lives were more genetically-driven than we could have ever imagined. “I did not believe it would be as hereditary as it was,” she stated in reference to the findings. “That was more than any of us thought. We are moved to behaviors that we are totally unconscious about.”

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This extends beyond identity crises and into philosophical questions of fate and free will. Throughout history, humans have sought out several methods of understanding and taming that which we cannot control. Before the Enlightenment, human communities relied on tradition and established authority to answer the unknowable. Religious texts served as the primary sources of guidance and truth, and a belief in divinely ordained order gave purpose to all of the world and human history. In Greek and Roman mythology, the deity Poseidon/Neptune is associated with the ocean, earthquakes and wild horses, all representations of unpredictable and unbridled forces of nature.

The pantheon of Hellenic deities is often understood in foils, where gods and goddesses are often “paired” in dual roles. Athens’s patroness Athena, goddess of wisdom and strategy, is the feminine foil of Ares, god of war, who represented the distasteful and untame aspects of violence.

Practices like witchcraft, prayer, and tarot readings can be seen as attempts to impose structure on the uncontrollable, a way of maintaining agency in an uncertain world. If twin narratives reflect a fear of losing control over one’s own identity, they also mirror a broader existential concern:

How much agency do we truly have?

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STRIKE MAGAZINE ATHENS With the emergence of Enlightenment-era philosophy in the 17th and 18th centuries, humanity shifted towards the Modern mindset, wherein empiricism and the scientific method was utilized to explain the unknowable. No longer attributed to divine forces, the limits of autonomy are instead examined through genetics and environment, shifting the conversation from theology to biology. However, there are drawbacks to this method.

Chris Firth’s “The Psychology of Volition” categorizes actions into two diagrams: voluntary acts and reflexes.

Movements done by reflex happen entirely outside of human control. For example, we cannot cause our pupils to dilate through thought alone, and we cannot prevent our pupils from dilated when we experience stimuli (light). On the other hand, voluntary acts can both be executed or refrained from with human “will.”

But, as Firth points out, there are movements which satisfy both of these definitions. We can choose to blink, but we cannot stop ourselves from the reflex of blinking if we experience a puff of air to the eye.

This blurring of boundaries raises philosophical questions—how much of our behavior is truly within our control? Where do fate and biological determinism intersect? In modern discourse, the fear of fate has been reframed as a debate between nature and nurture.

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ISSUE 09 Because the nature-versus-nurture debate has shaped human thought for centuries, science has sought empirical answers—often at great ethical cost. Pioneered by Francis Galton in the late 19th century, researchers identified twins as ideal subjects for studying genetic versus environmental influences. These studies, continuing throughout the 20th century, provided significant evidence in the quest to understand human genetic influence on behavior.

The Minnesota Twin Study (1979–1999), led by Thomas Bouchard, found that genetics play a major role in intelligence, personality, and even political beliefs and religious attitudes.

The Swedish Twin Registry has been used to study the heritability of diseases like cancer, cardiovascular conditions, and mental health disorders, confirming that genetic predispositions contribute to these illnesses.

The Danish Twin Study explored longevity and found that genetics account for about 25% of lifespan variation. Additionally, research on twins with schizophrenia has shown that if one identical twin develops the disorder, the other twin has a 48% chance of developing it too, demonstrating a strong genetic component.

However, the methodologies of such studies often failed to consider the ethical ramifications of experimenting on human lives. One of the most infamous examples of unethical twin research is the case highlighted in the 2018 documentary Three Identical Strangers.

In 1980, 19-year-old strangers Bobby Shafran, Eddy Galland, and David Kellman discovered that they were all adopted from the same agency, they all had the same birthday, and––oh, right––they all looked exactly the same, even down to their uniquely large, baseball-mitt hands. The triplets soon realize that they also have eerily similar personalities–– they all liked Chinese food, smoked the same brand of cigarettes, wrestled in high school, and had the same taste in women.

“They were more like clones than brothers,” said Alan Luchs, a friend of David.

The film exposes the Louise Wise adoption agency’s covert experiment in which identical siblings were deliberately separated at birth and studied by psychiatrists Peter B. Neubauer and Viola W. Bernard without the children’s or parents’ knowledge. According to Natasha Josefowitz, a research assistant to Neubaurer, this research aimed to determine whether genetics or environment played a greater role in human development. She recounts the moment that Neubaurer first pitched the idea to her, enticingly stating, “We would put to rest the dilemma of nature or nurture, forever.”

Josefowitz claimed that the results of the study showed that our lives were more geneticallydriven than we could have ever imagined. “I did not believe it would be as hereditary as it was,” she stated in reference to the findings. “That was more than any of us thought. We are moved to behaviors that we are totally unconscious about.”

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But the triplets’ families disagreed. Their birth mother was discovered to have also had extreme mental issues, which manifested in dysfunctional and disturbed teenage years for all three of the boys. However, as they grew older, Eddy’s mental health deteriorated far beyond any of the other brothers’, and he was diagnosed with Bipolar disorder, or Manic Depression. The explanation for this difference was considered to be the difference in the way the boys were raised. The other brothers were able to better cope with their psychological issues because the families who adopted them were open, and talked about their problems. Eddy’s family was quiet.

His father was militaristic and strict, and this personality often clashed with Eddy’s artistic leanings, causing their relationship to be poor.

On June 16th, 1995, Eddy would tragically take his own life.

“Why Eddy? Why Eddy? Why not me?”

Bobby asked.

“I can’t answer this.”

Their similarities––the women, the cigarettes––were superficial. In the ways that mattered, they were completely different.

“They were not the case study of biology being destiny,” said David’s older (adopted) sister.

“IT’S ALL ABOUT NURTURE.”

The study was never published, and upon his death, Neubaurer sealed it at the Yale University Library until 2066 so that all of the twin participants, born in 1961, would never live to see the results.

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In recent years, there has been a drastic uptick in movies concerned with the idea of duplication. From hit TV series Severance to Oscar-winning The Substance to in-theaters Mickey 17, the current world seems to be obsessed with twins and doppelgangers. Critics and influencers argue that this is a reflection of our current socio-political environment, one in which the common man is deeply disconnected from themself. Perhaps it simply reflects the current uncertainty of our world, and the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness that many of us feel.

For as long as humanity has existed, we have grappled with the concepts of fate and volition, assigning them different names and interpretations across time. The cultural obsession with twins is, at its core, a manifestation of this concern—an anxiety over our own autonomy and the forces that shape our identities. Yet, as the history of twin studies has shown, seeking definitive answers to these abstract questions can lead to unintended harm. Should we even attempt to resolve these mysteries, or is the pursuit itself an ethical dilemma? If we ever do find an answer to the debate of fate versus free will, will we regret uncovering it? Perhaps the Postmodern perspective offers the best resolution— there may be no singular answer to the nature of existence.

Instead, identity, autonomy, and volition are fluid concepts, shaped by an infinite number of influences both within and beyond our control. Maybe, rather than searching for absolutes, we should embrace multiplicity.

In Song of Myself 51, Walt Whitman writes, “Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large.

I contain multitudes.”

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is it

really up to

Is it really up to me?

Do I have the ability to choose who I want to be?

Who I become?

Is there more to life than the four corners of my room?

Must we play the cards we are dealt, or is there an option to trade them in?

I long for something more A life led with purpose, love, and fulfillment I strive to be more than just a mere figure on this Earth But, yet, I am unsure what the future may hold

me ?

WRITER Hannah King EDITORS Madelyn Launer & McKenna Edwards LAYOUT Mia Smitherman FATE & VOLITION

ISSUE 09

part one: fate I am proud of the ways I have matured into who I am today But I have grown out of this house and this city I look back in adoration For the people, the places, the experiences, and the moments I have been so lucky to live in I know there is more for me out there The world is so vast and so wide And I am so eager I want to truly live and soak it all in Although the world is large It is filled with so much danger Because of this, I feel so small in retrospect and so fearful of my surroundings What if I am meant to stay where I feel safe?

If I stay where things are familiar, life can be simple I can feel safe and find comfort in where I am I can trust that something more will eventually come along and fall into my lap This seems like the easy way out To trust that another will watch out for me And indicate where I need to go when the time is right They will show me a sign one day, leading me in the correct direction But if I let a higher power or the universe decide, it begs the question: Is it my life?

Can I call this life my own?

Or am I surrendering to another?

part two: volition Having confidence is having the willingness to try There are moments in my life when I feel the fear boil inside of me The fear of the unknown The fear of knowing that your life–your one precious life—is in the hands of another

And I am so eager I want to truly live and soak it all in I want to go somewhere new A part of me has always loved the unfamiliar To explore a new place, with new faces, and be someone that no one knows Having the opportunity to start fresh We are meant to expand our horizons And make choices that are for our greater good I believe that the choices I make directly correlate to the life I live Even the smallest choice can change the trajectory of our future What is the harm in moving away?

I have the power to pack my things, travel to a new place and start a new life Only I can make that choice for myself No one or thing is in my way And if I fail, there is no one to blame but myself I must learn to be okay with that Part of capitalizing on our volition is accountability Knowing that you, and only you, made the choices you did So I think to myself, let’s take a risk Because, why not?

Do what I want to do, when I want it and how I want it This is my life, and I should decide how I want to live it This debate is a question of control The human factor that drives all interactions and relationships It is a moment of faith Either faith in yourself or faith in something greater, which you can not see Who will you let control your life?

Yourself or the universe?

I often think to myself that there are small actions I can take to decide my future Acting upon my own free will Because at the end of the day, you only get to be on this Earth once So you may as well do what you want Cities are merely stops on our journey My father once told me, “You can always move; you are never stuck in one place.”

And he is right because humans are meant to move I know there is more for me out there The world is so vast and so wide

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CONTENT DIRECTOR Esha Pamidi CONCEPT ASSISTANT Sarah Punjani PHOTOGRAPHY Lily Lusk VIDEOGRAPHY Kennedy Reid BEAUTY Juliana Hartley, Emma Johnson, Will Johnson CASTING Kennedy Boger STYLING & DESIGN Liam Scott, Vanessa Gissel, Lizzie Walker MODELING Lee Reid, Taylor Jochum, Naomi Partridge, Taylor McCormick WRITING Stella Turner, Alex Keezer LAYOUT Ansley Taylor Jordan, Mia Smitherman, Emily Resmondo, Lee Reid, Isabella Ayers SOCIAL MEDIA Zeynep Koseoglu

STARMAN

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People piled into the venue in the brisk moonlight, layers of chatter permeating the tight space. A hazy air of perplexed excitement lingered as they awaited the surprise final act.

The audience was electrified as they took the stage, soon realizing it was nothing they had ever felt before.

Their collective experience was only emboldened by the performer, as Starman would call into question everything they have known.

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HE’D LIKE TO COME AND MEET US

WRITER Stella Turner EDITORS Anna Kadet, Emily Copp LAYOUT Bella Ayers, Ansley Taylor Jordan, Lee Reid, Emily Resmondo, Mia Smitherman

“He'd like to come and meet us, but he thinks he’d blow our minds!”

A crowd waits with bated breath in the Mars Lounge. It is a Friday night. Spectators have journeyed from far and wide to see Him, to hear Him, to have color, joy, hope restored to their worlds. Hope of breaking free from their monitored, monotonous lives dwindles with each passing day– but He is surely here to set them free. As the night settles in, moonlight drips through the windows to light the stage. Low chatter floods the room as the lapping sea of audience slinks in expectantly. The tense air seems to hum with anticipation. The people have long awaited His arrival. Promises of a new world drives the ever-growing crowd closer to the stage like colorless moths to its silver luminescence.

“Come out, come out!” they seem to hiss.

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As if on cue, the grand drape parts. The band emerges one by one, but He is still in the wings. Each in a different shimmering, metallic outfit, the band members are almost too vibrant for the audience to comprehend. The swell of tuning instruments seems to draw the anticipation of the crowd up in waves; starting low, then growing louder and softer like the flicker of a dying lightbulb. The flat buzz of the masses slows. The band shuffles into their respective places and redirects their attention upstage.

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ENTER

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The clack of heeled boots on wooden boards stifles he nervous clamor and replaces it with a dead silence of pure awe, as though every molecule of oxygen has been drawn out of the room and into his orbit. He is a forceful, cosmic body. Clad in silver, He seems one with the

molten moonlight. As fluid, as mysterious, as celestial. Stage lights catch on the iridescence of His vestments, refracting hundreds of tiny rainbows across the drab room. He approaches the microphone and looks up to meet the eyes of His people.

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What is to follow far exceeds the wildest dreams of the ashen-faced spectators below. As they marvel at His staggering visage, He takes a deep breath and begins to sing. The music seemed to possess the crowd. One by one, they begin to dance. Their movements are more free than anything they have ever experienced. With reckless abandon, they sing, dance, laugh, cry and hold each other. Their hearts swell with visions of possibility and hope for their future as the full moonlight reaches its peak in the confines of the lounge. Light, color and music reverberate off of the dingy walls as the room teems with joy.

The night has never felt so bright. From this day on, no power would be able to hold them back or keep them down. They needed only for Him to bring in the moonlight.

STARMAN

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ENCORE ENCORE WRITER Alex Keezer EDITORS Emily Copp Madelyn Launer LAYOUT Isabella Ayers

ENCORE ISSUE 09

The curtains close A velvet farewell A shift in the crowd A ripple of emotion Ten thousand hearts Suddenly beat in tune They walk together On the tightrope of time

Fate is the mortar

Reality is a choice

In the mosaic of the masses

Though decision is illusion

The audience has chosen And a path has been forged They walk a road together Every stone etched with hope

Dancing as one

Ten thousand souls

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T hank You

SPONSORS STARLAND LOUNGE & LANES SHANNON MORRIS PHYLLIS POLSKY BROWN MILES HAREWOOD

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