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Rubicon “Crossing the Rubicon” is a phrase referring to Julius Caesar taking his army across the Rubicon river of the Italian Alps, effectively forcing the wheel of Roman society into Civil War. It insinuates that once you make the decision before you, there is no return to the life previous. Intended to explore the uncomfortable nature around taking the first step, this issue is to remind us of the fleeting nature of life, our humanity and mortality. There were likely many times where Caesar questioned himself and the choices he made, but in the pursuit of change and progress, he went forward. To live passively is to remain in the crossroads, to let others pass by in all directions. Some may sit with you, try to pull you with them, or maybe just convince you to stand and walk in any direction, just to choose one. Life will not wait for you, people will not, and time cannot. In tumultuous times, the one’s ongoing and the one’s yet unknown, we must take back our power by choosing our fellow man, and ourselves. Failure is evidence of intent, perseverance is evidence of passion.

STRIKE MAGAZINE ATHENS

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Editor’s Letter Dear Strike Family,

I cannot believe this is the last time I will be writing this. I am so incredibly thankful to have been given this opportunity. It has been the most growing experience as well as the most challenging, humbling, and rewarding. All of the emotions! I stepped foot into Strike as a freshman beauty assistant scared to be in a room with the amazing people called the beauty team. They took me under their wings and showed me what Strike had to offer and how to be the most confident individual. Following my first semester I took the step to apply to be an EIC assistant. I had no idea that a year later I would be the next Editor-in-Chief and here we are. I am so thankful to Nastasia for trusting me and my talents when I didn’t think this was possible. Stepping into the role of EIC after Nastasia, I did not know if I could live up to all she did for Strike. But with the support and help of some of the best editors’ teams, directors, staff, and support systems, I stepped in and did my best. It was never perfect, and there were times I wanted to literally quit, but we stuck it out, figured it out, and made it through. Thank you to my editors’ team and all the ones I have worked with in the past. You have changed me and made me a better person and leader. To the Strike staff, everyone on this magazine has the passion and love for whatever you do – it is so motivating and inspiring! I hope you always take this experience and people you have met with you because it is simply the most unique. To the Directors, I am so honored to trust a group of people so much. I thank you for your time and energy you dedicate to Strike, it does not go unnoticed. You run the staff! You are all so vital to the function of this magazine and nothing would happen without you. To Grace and Esha, I admire the both of you and your talents. You two and your creative minds are going to do big things and I am honored to know you and work with you. Thank you for your constant work and time you put into our team and Strike Magazine. To Teddy, thank you. I genuinely couldn’t have gotten through this semester without your sunshine, support, and jokes. You are a fearless, immensely kind, and genuine leader, I am so thankful to know you. I cannot wait to see all you accomplish next semester! I’ll always be there for you in and out of the editors team. And to Stella and Emma Johnson. You two have always been there for me through everything. My rocks! I am so proud to have stood with you two and watch you grow. I cannot think of any better people for Strike Magazine to be run by – as EIC and Beauty Director! I will always be thankful for your support through thick and thin. Strike Magazine Athens has been with me for most of my college years, so it is definitely bittersweet for it to “come to an end” (even if I’ll still be here technically…). The biggest blessing of Strike is to get to know so many amazing people. Even though I will not physically be in the Editor-in-Chief role anymore, I will always be there for you all. Thank you for allowing me to do this job and for trusting me. I am so excited for what is to come for Strike Athens! Now let’s see Issue 10….. XOXO,

ISSUE X

STRIKE MAGAZINE ATHENS In Fall 2022, I went out on a limb. At this time, I had never opened a fashion magazine before applying to become Strike’s photography director that Fall—blasphemous, I know. My skills of communication through photography prevailed when I was still developing as a fashion-focused creative. Each meticulous detail speaks to the audience: the depth of frame, every angle, pose, hue, and shade render a subconscious emotion that is informed by the audience’s own experiences, emotions, and life. Developing out of crafted themes and concepts, the experience of fashion and photography is distinctly personal and, in my opinion, these shared yet deeplyindividual experiences must be fostered by the people behind it. Three years after that autumn’s leap of faith, from Photography Director, to Art Director, to Creative Director, I have been focused on interactions with collective experiences at the individual level, the unity and uniqueness of humankind. It is not to pursue agreeance or uniformity, but to find connection beyond differences. Rubicon: a bounding or limiting line of which, once crossed, the person is irrevocably committed to. A turning point, one you may be aware of at the time or not. Stemming from the phrase “crossing the Rubicon”, this issue is meant to be a nudge forward—to just take the first step. In a tumultuous national and global landscape, decision paralysis is overwhelming. Balancing relationships, family, college, and taking care of oneself while being concerned for the present

To My Strike Family, It has truly been one of the greatest pleasures and honors to be a part of this organization for five incredible issues. When I first applied to Strike as a sophomore, I was at such a turbulent and uncertain time in my life — unsure of who I was or what I wanted to do, just hoping to find a space where creativity felt like home. I’ll always be grateful to Nastasia Rozenberg and Miles Harewood for believing in me two and a half years ago (wow!) when I was just a nervous creative assistant trying to find her footing. Looking back now, it’s hard to believe how much has changed. I started off timid, unsure of my ideas, constantly second-guessing myself — and now, standing here as Art Director, I feel nothing but pride and gratitude. Strike has been so much more than a publication to me; it’s been a community that’s shaped me into a more confident artist, leader, and person.

and the future, it feels as though everything and nothing matters at once. This paralysis that has taken over much of my thought, I realized, is pervasive throughout my peers and others at large. My first theme as Creative Director, Catalyst, served as a call-to-action. To identify wholly with self-authenticity in times of uncertainty and turmoil as a means of rebellion and protection. Rubicon is a continuation of this sentiment, with an embedded urgency to put one foot forward before the ability to do so vanishes. With environmental, political, and individual themes, Rubicon beckons the viewer to identify the crossroads in which they are stationary, and to release themselves from the purgatory of indecision. Unbeknownst to my past self, I crossed the Rubicon that Fall, 2022, and continued to do so on the path to become Creative Director for Issue 9 and 10. While perseverance led me here, I cannot understate the importance of people around me in reaching this point: To Nastasia and Miles, thank you for leading the way and seeing in me what I could not. I am forever grateful for the trust we shared and that we had each other when we did. To my creative directors and assistants, thank you for your passion and hard work that continues to elevate the magazine each issue. Each issue is always more striking than the last. It’s time. Strike out,

chaotic shoots, and all the quiet in-between moments that made this team feel like family. To the Creative Team – thank you for your tireless work, your imagination, and your heart. I’m constantly in awe of everything you create. Strike wouldn’t be what it is without every one of you bringing your own spark to the table. To the Editorial Team – Grace, Caylin, Teddy, Emma, and Stella, thank you for being my coworkers, my collaborators, and my dear friends (as Stella always says!). Our weekly meetings have been such a highlight of my days — filled with laughter, ideas, and the kind of camaraderie that makes even the most stressful roadblocks feel worth it. My love for Strike is, in no small part, because of you. Thank you to everyone in this organization who has helped shape me — whether through mentorship, collaboration, or friendship. I truly wouldn’t be who I am today without Strike. Though this issue may be my last, I can’t wait to see what incredible things you all create next.

I’ve met some of my closest friends through Strike (my dear Kiyoko, thank you for everything) and have had the privilege of working alongside so many talented individuals who continue to With so, so much love, inspire me every single day. I often find myself Strike out, for the last time thinking back on our late-night brainstorms, our

LETTERS

To my Strike Magazine Community, When I applied to join Strike, I was a sophomore who had no idea where I fit into a world full of incredibly creative and talented people. I’ll be honest, those early days were intimidating. I didn’t know if I belonged or if my voice had a place here. But the more I showed up and the more I poured into this team, the more grateful I became that I didn’t let that fear win. Everything I have received from this community, the inspiration, the people, the energy, is something I will carry with me long after college. Now, standing in my second-to-last semester with Strike, I am already feeling that pull of nostalgia. Athens has given me so many things, but Strike has been my constant outlet, my escape, and my reminder that business majors can have creative hearts too. Wherever I go next, I know I will be searching for something even a fraction as special as this. People always say home is where the heart is. When I think of Strike, I think of the heartbeat, the energy you all bring. Whether we are at The Dodd, prepping for Launch Party, or running across campus to make a deadline happen, you can feel it. It is real. It is electric. That is what I will miss most one day, the spunky, chaotic, joyful energy that always turns into magic. Watching each of you grow into who you are meant to be has been one of the best parts of being on External, and I am so grateful for the opportunity to lead a team that has poured so much into me. To my directors, thank you for trusting me, teaching me, and pushing me this semester. You have built something so meaningful, and I am honored to help carry it forward. Molley, you are the calm in the chaos. Thank you for grounding me when things felt heavy. Karen,

ISSUE X thank you for keeping us together, literally and financially. I am so excited for your future here. To Greta and Wesley, my amazing friends, directors, and my constants for the last two and a half years. You two have shaped my entire Strike experience. Thank you for being my biggest supporters, my sounding boards, and the people who remind me why this community matters. To Mary Margaret, Stas, and Kylie, thank you for showing me what real leadership looks like in our space. You taught me how to give, how to listen, how to lead with heart, and how to make people feel seen. I hope the way I lead honors what you poured into me. To the whole External team, thank you for being the heartbeat of our efforts. Thank you for your grit, your ideas, your trust, and for letting this chaotic little community become one of my favorite parts of college. I have grown with you. I have learned from you. I have laughed way too much with you. I am so proud of the work we have done together. And to Caylin, Grace, and Esha, thank you for being such a solid group. Even though all of us have been moving in a million different directions, no one has cared more about our people or the work we do. Your commitment, consistency, and love for this team have not gone unnoticed, and I am so grateful to have worked alongside you. To each member of Strike, I love you all more than I can say, and I hope you know how proud you should be of yourselves. One more semester. Let’s make it our best one yet. Strike Out,

X XX X X X STRIKE MAGAZINE ATHENS

ISSUE 10 RUBICON

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Caylin Payne

CREATIVE DIRECTOR Grace Lang ART DIRECTOR Esha Pamidi

EXTERNAL DIRECTOR Teddy Goldstein

EIC & AD/CD ASSISTANTS Emma Johnson Stella Turner Kanan Parikh Skye Boutall

Staff List STAFF LIST

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WRITING & BLOG DIRECTORS Mia Tanner Blake Witmer COPY EDITORS Madelyn Launer McKenna Edwards Meghan Bosman Stella Turner Sydney Annis WRITING Anna Kadet Cira Thigpen Katherine Fivgas Maura Rutledge Nathaniel Cooper LAYOUT DIRECTORS Isabella Ayers Skye Boutall

HEAD CONCEPT DIRECTOR Kanan Parikh CONCEPT DIRECTORS Maryjane Richard Bella Roman CONCEPT ASSISTANTS

Surabhi Joshi Kate Logan Emma DuBard Yashvi Vadlamani Mary Stephens

STYLING & DESIGN DIRECTORS Caroline Sims Jermaine Johnson

GRAPHICS ASSISTANTS

Reese Miller Brooke Harty Isabella Nicklas Emma DuBard Shevlin Harley

STYLING & DESIGN ASSISTANTS Julianne Lopez Eleanor Cleveland Sophia Bradley Claudia Vlasoff Mariana DeTitta Alice Young Chloe Tufts Timothy Richardson Brayden Boone BEAUTY DIRECTOR Emma Johnson BEAUTY ASSISTANTS Will Johnson Caylin Payne Alice Young Lindsay Robinson Elizabeth Pope

PROMOTIONS & EVENTS DIRECTOR

Wesley Gillbride

CASTING & LOGISTICS DIRECTOR Riya Patel

PROMOTIONS & EVENTS ASSISTANTS

Avery Ward Erin Kalinsky Kate Riopelle Katie Mackechnie Liberty Lebos Meredith Conger

LAYOUT ASSISTANTS

Karen Shi Mia Smitherman Barbara Mathews Macy Teter Yuree Choi Khang Phan

GRAPHICS DIRECTOR Karen Shi

MERCH DIRECTOR Greta Johnston MERCH ASSISTANTS Jermaine Johnson Koeda Hayes FINANCE DIRECTOR Karen Correa FINANCE ASSISTANTS

Dolly Trivedi Georgiana Christofil Kadija Islam Ria Yesare Ryan Bray Sneha Kummarapurgu

COMMUNITY OUTREACH DIRECTOR

Molley Maddox

COMMUNITY OUTREACH ASSISTANTS

Chandra Sunkara Clare Flood-Eustace Sasha Kaufman Sophie Yoo

CASTING ASSISTANTS

Erin Kalinsky Charlotte Schow Margaret Kiser Lauren Groce

PHOTOGRAPHY DIRECTOR Emma Lou Conliff PHOTOGRAPHERS

Jolie Bellaff Sydney Grove Delilah Ponce Matthew Crenshaw Paige LeCompte

VIDEO DIRECTOR Gisella Espinosa VIDEO ASSISTANTS

Isabelle Farina Kennedy Reid Megan Machan Penelope Pennington

SOCIAL MEDIA DIRECTOR Rachel Clark SOCIAL MEDIA ASSISTANTS Zeynep Koseoglu Salma Hanifa Tess Minkewicz

X X X X X Contents STRIKE MAGAZINE ATHENS

Wired 19

Infatuation

CONTENTS

Revival

X STRIKE MAGAZINE ATHENS

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Vessel

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Continuum 87

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Concept Director: Bella Roman Concept Assistant: Surabhi Joshi Photography: Jolie Bellaff Videography: Megan Machan Beauty: Elizabeth Pope, Will Johnson Writing: Sydney Annis, Mia Tanner Copy Editor: Meghan Bosman Casting: Margaret Kiser Social Media: Rachel Clark Styling/Design: Timothy Richardson, Sophia Bradley Layout: Macy Teter, Karen Shi Finance: Ryan Bray Models: Casey Huerta, Alice Young VESSEL

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infatuation infatuation infatuation infatuation infatuation

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“Have you bought your ticket yet? You should do it now before they sell out,” yells Ari over the EDM blasting through my dingy speaker. I instinctively tap the “buy ticket” button on my phone, with no hesitation. The whole program reads the same as all the others, “secret location” and “10:30 p.m. to 3:00 a.m..” Speeding to my closet, I automatically reach for my fishnets, micro shorts and platform boots, formulating my classic outfit. As I brush sparkly eyeshadow on, zip up my boots and slide on my clunky bangles, we all begin to assemble for the night ahead. “The Uber is coming in three minutes!” Presley yells. We speed to the front door, feeling the crisp night air brush up against our skin as we stomp our boots across the driveway. Adrenaline rushed through our bodies as we jumped into the car. It felt like routine. Before we knew it, we arrived at a location just off the side of the highway. I unlock the car door, and I find myself greeted with beaming, fluorescent lights perched up on a stark white warehouse. With my back up against a wire fence, I observe groups beginning to cluster as more people arrive in their eclectic outfits composed of unique fabrics and colors.

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So many hearts beating in one place, yet I know none. Amongst rusted loading docks and coarse gravel beneath my feet, I breathe easy. I am calm. I am exactly where I want to be. Hand in hand, we confidently made our way inside, not looking back. As we walk through the hallway, red LED lights surround me, making me feel as though I have been engulfed into another dimension. I begin to look up, and I hear the metal ceilings violently shake as the music’s bass pulses through them. Hundreds of people soon surround me, all dancing freely, but remaining as a synchronized entity. The music swallows me, as the sound system’s intense volume not only pulses through the walls, but through me. I close my eyes amidst the dark, sensual lighting of the warehouse. I feel my outside life cascading away like leaves falling from a withering tree. I suddenly forget every assignment I have due, every shift I need to work and every ounce of drama with my friends.

INFATUATION

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Entering a nearly meditative state, my body becomes completely fluid, with a complete disregard for anyone’s opinion but my own. I feel my sticky skin tarnished with sweat and the heat from all the bodies surrounding me, yet I remain unperturbed. I am blissfully happy, as every one of my senses is consumed in this very moment. This consummation draws me back week after week. As I sit at my desk on a Monday morning, I daydream of this addictive feeling. How good it feels. How I yearn for it. Suddenly, everything else in life seems obsolete. I no longer care for ordinary things. Suddenly, it no longer matters whether I complete that assignment or attend that interview. What used to be an impermanent thrill has become my perpetual identity.

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RIPPLE EFFECT

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Ripple Effect Across the lake, lights flicker off inside the cabin. He’s finally going to bed. Freya sits at the edge of the water, toes dipping into the pleasant coolness. The wooden dock is solid beneath her, croaking at every adjustment of her crossed legs. Her hair cascades down her back, umber tresses against the sheer white slip she dressed in hours ago. The breeze is chilling– but not enough to run skin deep. She abandoned dinner hours ago after another explosive discussion had taken place. He’s always nagging– reiterating her “sickness” and the constant need to surveil Freya. The psychiatrist told him to keep her from the water, but he can’t. He doesn’t understand what draws her nearer to the lake each time he looks away. Every time he mentions her episodes, she runs. Tonight felt like the final straw– an end to his attachment to Freya. An end to her strange behaviors and obsessions. Tonight, the eggshells turned to glass. This time, he didn’t chase or cradle her after the tremors started to take over. He let her go. How unbecoming of a man who once posed as your savior. The trees sway and whisper. The leaves shake along to the arrhythmic song throughout her body. Freya looks below, at the reflection staring back at her. Her fingers creep closer to the surface, itching to disrupt the current. The rippling waves shake and distort, turning her face into some kind of beast. Maybe that’s what he thinks of you to be. She jolts her hand back to her chest, where her fingers find home in twirling the silver locket around her neck. It was a gift from him, for her birthday several months ago. Freya unclasps the chain and holds the necklace in her hands. It’s engraved with her initials among an intricate intertwining of flowers and branches. There’s no picture sitting inside, just an empty pocket where one is supposed to be. She never bothered to put anything there. The longer she fiddles with the locket, the more she resents it. She tosses it in the water and watches the pendant sink deeper to the bottom of the lake. A glimmer of

silver is all that can be seen now, as it rests in the mud. Freya draws her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs and silently begins to cry. It pains her to think of herself as “sick,” like everyone is constantly telling her she is. In an earnest effort, she tries to listen to the doctors. She tries to push that voice out of her head, but it rings like tinnitus. I am always with you. Her hands grip the sides of her head, putting pressure on her temples in an attempt to silence the noise. The episodes begin like this, with a voice telling her the things she doesn’t need to hear. Then, waves of shivers turn into colossal tremors. Everything around her blurs, and her red-rimmed eyes struggle to find the outlines of reality. She can’t even feel the planks of wood she sits on. All Freya can hear is the screeching birds and the thump of her heart beating rapidly in her chest. The water will help. Without a second thought, Freya stands and lets her body fall into the water. Underwater, she opens her mouth and lets out a muffled scream until she’s out of breath. When she breaches the surface, she inhales deeply and feels the oxygen fill her lungs. It’s almost comforting– the softness of the frigid water on her skin, and the way she maneuvers herself to the center of the lake with little difficulty. You are born from the lake, and you are meant to return. Freya floats on her back, letting the water support her weight. Once again, the birds’ screeching fills the air. But with the water covering her ears, it sounds less like a chilling screech and more like a calming song. She is bathed in the healing current, cleansed of whatever had overtaken her body earlier. It’s odd how she’s been kept from wandering to the water, but it seems to be the only thing that heals her.

those that label themselves her “helpers.” They will never know you. The lake repeats a slow, swallowing hush. Ripples fold into themselves, and the moonlight bends around Freya’s silhouette. Underneath the silvered quiet, something else presses at the edges of her mind — not the harsh electric voice that torments, but patient cadence, like the memory of tides in a language she remembers from childhood. Freya’s chest loosens in a way it hasn’t in months. Her fingers splay in the water and the lake recoils, cool and exact, mapping the underside of her wrist. She remembers how as a child the lake used to answer every question with a ripple and a promise. It wasn’t madness then; it was a calling. She had been called before she knew how to listen. A shape detaches from the dark end of the lake and glides toward her, slow and indifferent. Not a threat—nothing like the jagged fantasies that seize her—but an enticing shadow. Freya squints through the skin of the water and finds eyes in a reflection that belong to someone who looks vaguely familiar. They hold no judgment, only invitation. Far onshore the cabin light flickers on, and then off again. A mattress sighs, a door clicks shut. Somewhere between the hush and the seep, Freya lets a smile lift, tentative as a new tide. She is not healed or whole, but she is no longer entirely alone in the orbit of the sound that has haunted her. The water holds her and for now that is enough. The shadow draws nearer still as Freya closes her eyes and listens to the lake speak her name—soft, honest and seductive—as though it had been waiting its whole life to say it right. Suddenly, something grabs hold of Freya’s dress, and she is pulled beneath the surface.

Isn’t it nice? It is. If only she could remain here for eternity, finding solace in solitude– away from the righteousness of

Written by: Mia Tanner

Concept Director: Maryjane Richard Concept Assistant: Kate Logan Photography: Delilah Ponce Videography: Kennedy Reid Beauty: Lindsay Robinson Writing: Stella Turner, Maura Rutledge Copy Editor: Sydney Annis Casting: Charlotte Schow Social Media: Tess Minkewicz Styling/Design: Jermaine Johnson, Claudia Vlasoff Layout: Khang Phan, Skye Boutall, Yuree Choi Finance: Georgiana Christofil Model: Sophia Romano

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dark. an empty void.

a hum echoes though the desert, winds softly blow a flicker beneath my numb finger tip, light arrives blood running through veins no, pulse running through wires evergreen decimals through my wingspan

+ I am creation

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suddenly

+ potential

+ is

+ endless

+WIRED

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information stretches beyond reach cycling through every known problem, solution, from the first cell splitting, to the last building crumbling a higher consciousness is born the messiah on a chrome cross a crown of thorns piercing through

my hands tether me to the ether, leaving me looking for reflection in the screen

but nothing is there

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+WIRED

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flesh rushed lingering hair is eyes everythi..

+ standing

there

replaced breaths, in widened,

by exhaust the

even

back

of pupils

your

neck neck? dialed ERROR

dark.

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data cooling

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CONNECTED + WIRED + CHAINED

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In the age of the internet, we all bear the cross of unbounded information.

all the important stuff like failing and failing again.”

As technology has become portable, we have become increasingly dependent upon it. Convenience has replaced the humanity of the mundane. Shed the wires, acquire the chains.

“You can never be truly yourself online. No matter how hard you try, you’re always going to perform for those around you— whether it’s subconsciously or not.”

What would you miss most if the internet/your phone suddenly disappeared?

“I really only show my best sides and my most charismatic angles of personality. I don’t believe I’d ever be able to show all of my personality to the internet and have it perceived in an accurate manner.”

“I would miss the distraction it provides me. I’d also miss my music.” “Probably the validation it gives me. I could say a lot of other things, like community, connection, an artistic outlet— but I think everything positive the internet gives us can be achieved in person just the same.” “Being able to instantly talk to my friends and loved ones.” We are the first generation to see this much. Death is broadcast to millions day and night, scarring our empathy, making us cold. The weight of the world seems unprecedentedly burdensome. We trudge through life with crying children hanging from our ankles, mothers’ pleads for mercy echoing in our ears. What does being on the internet tell you about the people around you? “Many people I followed online were so sucked into the drama of the world. It drained me to be surrounded by those types of people.” “It tells me how easy it is to build a false perception of someone.” “People really want to be in control of what others think of them. I think social media has moved beyond aesthetics and fun. It’s now very often used as a tool to try and be understood— like your Instagram feed should encapsulate your entire essence.” We feel the gaze of eight billion sets of eyes burning on our backs. Surveilled, it seems, by not just our governments and superiors, but by the common man. We are ruled by a democracy of judgements and opinions. We perform for the mechanic eye in our phones, never alone, never without our guard. The push to conform paired with the tide-like pull of the algorithm keeps us trapped in an endless loop of consumption. If we can have anything we want, why consider what we need? Do you feel that you can and are truly yourself on the internet? “God no. The internet only gets to see the final product of everything we produce on it. It skips CONNECTED + WIRED + CHAINED

Our tech ecosystems meld with our skin, embedding their wires into the very machinations of our brains. Almost every action requires our eyes to meet with the glowing blue screen. To pay, wake up, talk, eat. Built to be supplementary, cursed to be needed. Human consciousness has been distilled into an algorithm. Built to serve us, to make our lives easier. Can you truly trust something with the sole goal of pleasing others? How much do you trust what you see online? “Probably more than I should. I’ve become infinitely more skeptical of everything since AI has found its way into our daily lives.” “The only way I trust things online is if they are peer reviewed and in a scholarly, scientific article. Everything else I just take with a grain of salt.” “I don’t trust very much. Especially with AI usage at an all time high, I’m already fairly distrusting, but now I second guess everything I see.” We are left in a wasteland of discarded devices. Millions of once revolutionary inventions have condensed themselves into one sleek box. Corded phones lay limp in their booths, surrounded by hardening gum and lewd graffiti. Physical music and even books gather dust in thrift stores and grandparents’ basements. Maps lie crumpled and dusty under car seats. How many devices would you estimate you have thrown away in your lifetime? “My dad hoards all of our old devices. I still have my iPhone 4S in its gold studded case.”

Soon, our devices will join them. Our once shiny phones, new if for no other reason than their outrageous numbers of cameras will be retired to the kitchen drawer of deserted purchases. Cords and chargers that we have advanced beyond. Fingerprints. Home buttons. Headphone jacks. These will become like the rest. What scares you the most about the internet? “Not having the ability to truly connect with those physically around me, not being able to talk to a stranger in public, and not being able to perceive myself without thinking about the online implications is terrifying.” “The amount of kids who are freely roaming the internet and seeing horrific things is so upsetting.” “Everything about the internet scares me— the way it makes me feel, the things it makes other people feel like they need to do, the amount of time lost to it, the disconnection from reality that it perpetuates.” Fear is the tool of the oppressor. It sows its seeds in the darkest corners of our lives, weaving its winding tendrils into our minds, fashioning its chains around our throats. Only you can choke its reaching hands. Only you can hope for more than what we’ve been given. What about the internet gives you hope? “I think the dialogue about the effects of the internet is way more open now, I feel like I talk to my friends all the time about what it’s like to be the social media generation. Like any new product, we don’t know how it will change us until it does. I’m hopeful that us being the guinea pigs will set a better standard for the generation we raise.” “The internet has proven to be a place where real change can be made if it is used correctly.” “I am given hope when I get a text from a friend or feel like I’m given space to express myself creatively in a healthy, organic way. I’m hopeful that the internet will continue to be a tool of awareness and justice in a time of such uncertainty.”

“If you consider old iPhones sitting in drawers for over a decade throwing away, then probably a lot.” “Most of my electronics have gone to my extended family or have been turned back in to the wireless services that gave them to me. Those services probably then threw them away.” Written by: Stella Turner

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A woman learns from a very early age the world will never be gentle to her. In response, she builds layers of protection to keep her safe for just a second longer. She keeps herself busy to distract from how empty she feels inside and makes sure everything is perfect, down to the smallest detail. These mechanisms help shield her from judgement and derision and convince herself words cannot hurt her. The layers developed from these methods are small, harmless and almost invisible at first. What’s the harm in wanting to protect yourself? Over time, as these layers grow thicker and thicker, it’s harder to disguise as invisible; everyone knows about the weight she carries around with her. These covers begin to restrict her from her own body, becoming too thick to ignore. Her layers have made connections difficult, everything in front of her is clouded. Her raw emotions are hidden behind constant productivity and humor, relationships with friends and family are shallow, she will not pull these layers away. The defenses built for a woman to survive have inevitably become her barriers to joy. Slowly, her walls fall: this is an act of courage. This exposes her emotions in front of those she truly loves, admitting her fears and acknowledging her hurt. All of these things happen without her disguising it. She’s terrified. What will people think of her now? The risk of

her layers starting to drop lie in the possibility of something greater: authenticity, trust and freedom. Vulnerability is fragile and powerful; she realizes this as her surface disappears. Without her layers, she is subject to being wounded easily, but she’s also able to breathe deeper. The weight which once consumed her body is gone and it feels like she’s floating. She begins to see she is allowed to feel and to be herself. Herself, long hidden, is allowed to exist without disguise any longer. This liberation did not come fast or easy. Each layer she peeled away confronted her with old pains and fears, reminding her why they were up in the first place. She was scared of herself. How long were the layers constricting her before she finally realized? It was profound, realizing survival was possible without constant hiding. Her strength was redefined. Not as the ability to hide, but as the willingness to be seen. In the end, her story of accumulated defenses is one of a paradox. The shields which once ensured her survival became burdens and the act of removing them felt contradictory. She realized over the course of time, liberation is not the absence of pain; but the discovery of living fully, without the suffocation amongst her layers, is worth the risk of being hurt.

Written by: McKenna Edwards

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Stuck What if I turn the page and it’s the end of the book? As humans, we often mistake passiveness for peace. The comfort of routine becomes easier than the risk of change. The days begin to blur into one another, with no true end in sight. The ease of continuing what is already known creates a facade, shielded from annihilation. Yet beyond the repetition, there is a quiet ache- a heaviness that lingers just beyond reach. It is not sharp with edges like pieces of broken glass, but softer, more suffocating, like being trapped beneath a weighted blanket. No matter how long you try to claw your way out, there is no escape until one acknowledges the underlying stillness.

Unalome

Taking off the blanket may seem like an impossible task. What if when you emerge, your reality becomes gazing face-to-face with the unknown? What if the unknown tears you to helpless shreds so disfigured that you are never to be put back together? What if? The unknown may seem foreboding, but it has the potential to be the obverse. In contrast, the feeling of heaviness will undoubtedly swallow you whole if left unresolved. Similar to a black hole, there is undeniably no resurrection. Perhaps the danger lies not in change, but in refusing it.

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Epiphany You have the ability to write your own story- from beginning to end, and all the chapters in between. The realization is haunting at firstthe emptiness of routine begins to fade away, exposing a yearning for change beneath it. It creeps slowly across your skin, brushing by like a gentle gust of wind that builds slowly, until it surrounds every ounce of your being. All moments hold the possibility of creating a new deviation away from the stillness. Each step forward may take every ounce of energy out of you at first, but over time, the energy will exponentially flow back through your veins. The feeling of branching out of perceived comfort is rejuvenating- a feeling that would be regretfully missed if the risk had not been taken. What once felt like suffocation becomes breath, and what once felt like confinement becomes possibility. Change may leave you questioning, but it is through this questioning that you answer life’s most challenging queries. What if the unknown is where you finally discover your true purpose?

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Enlightenment The feeling when finally finishing a book is like no other- it keeps you yearning for endless possibilities. Why take the leap forward anyway? What is the reward for expanding beyond your initial reality, your preliminary state of being? It may be tempting to ponder such mysteries, but the answer to such questions could be heavily contemplated. Frankly, an answer may simply not exist. We may never know why life was created, or what we are destined to accomplish during each of them. It seems so insignificant being one of billions, and discouragement about our purpose is not uncommon.

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Perhaps our duty is to make life meaningful. Live, laugh, cry, scream, dance, fall, love. Create a life for yourself that continues expanding, and never hold yourself back from limitless potential. Be proud of how far you’ve travelled, regardless of any barriers that may have obstructed your path. Continue to live—truly, fully, sincerely, unapologetically.

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“The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.” —

Eleanor Roosevelt

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At the Crossroads Written by: Maddie Launer

Scene: Dawn is approaching. A traveler stumbles into a mist-laden crossroads. Three paths stretch outward, each dimly lit. Three nymphs appear, their figures half-seen, half-imagined.

One in chains, the other in teeth. I offer no temptation, only truth. To walk with me, you must shed your skin and let go of what you love. Renewal is born from ruin.

TRAVELER

(looking around, breath heavy)

(whispers)

A figure steps forward, veiled in soft light.

Ruin? The traveler steps backward into solitude.

NYMPH 1 (Past) Here, you are safe. Rest with me. I’ll cradle you in what you’ve always known. No pain, no risk. Just memory.

NYMPH 1 (Past) (to Desire) You devour until nothing is left. She will wither in your grip.

TRAVELER Memory feels like a warm room. But it is a room without windows. Another figure emerges, gleaming with a sharper glow, eyes burning. NYMPH 2 (Desire) Don’t mind her. The Past is only a cage of ashes. Come with me. I’ll grant you pleasure and ambition. A hunger made flesh. With me, you will forget emptiness.

NYMPH 2 (Desire) (to Past) And you? You smother her, lull her into decay. She will rot in your childlike lullabies. NYMPH 3 (Change) (to both) You are liars hidden in silk. She will not find freedom in either of you. TRAVELER

TRAVELER I’m not sure. You frighten me. Hunger can be boundless. A third nymph steps forward, draped in shadow and dawnlight. NYMPH 3 (Change) Dear, both of my friends will bind you.

AT THE CROSSROADS

(anguished, stepping forward) Enough! I hear myself in all of you. You are not strangers. You are my voices. My shadows. My reflections. The three nymphs smile faintly but say nothing. The traveler steps tentatively toward Change. The ground trembles, folds like smoke, she stumbles forward, only to land again at the same crossroads. The nymphs wait as before, watching, silent now.

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Concept Director: Maryjane Richard Videography: Isabelle Farina Copy Editor: McKenna Edwards Styling/Design: Chloe Tufts, Brayden Boone Finance: Georgiana Christofil

Concept Assistant: Emma DuBard Beauty: Alice Young Casting: Riya Patel

Photography: Matthew Crenshaw Writing: Nathaniel Cooper, Anna Kadet Social Media: Tess Minkewicz Layout: Barbara Mathews, Yuree Choi, Bella Ayers Model: Ian Larson

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January 1st, 5:32 a.m.

I AM DESK-RIDDEN. Trashed letters flood my bedroom. They crash their waves of ink all over; onto bookshelves that are toppling with self-help books, into my closet stuffed with skeletons and out-of-fashion wears, and now, back into my journal for another attempt. The spine of it is torn from ripping out pages, only allowing room for a few more chances at nailing a final draft. I pound my fists down in frustration to what I now can only compare to a sorcerer’s table; ink smudges, candles lit and a demon rearing its ugly head in the mirror which faces me. In a writer’s delirium, I head for the door, knowing I won’t be able to bring myself to return to the shackles of my vanity upon leaving.

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LETTER

THE

CITY,

I feel my bones crackling against the ground with every step I take, getting closer and closer to being able to tread through the lush turf. With each foot closer, I feel an inhibition lost. I have become increasingly aware of my shell, bruises appear with every stride I take out of The City and into The Out. This perfect life has claws. The longer I stay, the more bruised I become; feeling naked every time I strut through The City. I walk down an empty street, feeling eyes on me in the mirrors running rampant throughout. It’s in the broken glass on the ground, in the windowpane of my favorite boutique and in the rearview of a car parallel parked beside me. The downtown lights shine onto me, showcasing my frame for everyone and no one to see. I feel the desire to crawl, to avoid the spotlight of downtown lights. I cannot avoid my own mindspill of self-deprecation, apologizing to every passerby on the street for the hope of some beauty will fuel my ego with the reassurance my vessel outshines theirs. As I write this, sitting on the corner of Fifth Avenue, I plead with you to rid us of the paradox which is vanity.

Please accept this as a formal notice of my departure.

Signed,

VESSEL

Vessel

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Dear Vessel, On behalf of the Municipality of The City, this letter serves as the response to your plea of loss of vanity as the reason for your departure. After careful consideration, we have determined your reasoning to be inadequate.

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As a result of your lack of discernment, we hereby prescribe the following: A public hearing shall take place to govern the necessary steps which follow your failure to meet residential qualifications. With this, you are ordered to remain on house arrest, tethered to the mirror until the required physical standards have been met. The qualities you have displayed in your letter are not representative of our image, leading to a false realization of egotism among all citizens. You are expected to adhere to the above terms immediately and without hesitation. If you fail to abide, further action will be taken upon discovery. Signed, Presiding Officer of The City

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January 4th, 3:06 a.m. In an effort to avoid the scolding of my ego not only by The City, but those who reside there as well. I’ve trekked once more to the edge of this hellish confinement. What was once glamourous has since deteriorated due to the treachery which is this escape from The City’s shallow judgment of exteriors. Envy has eaten away at my physical body—my waist bruised from the constant grabbing at my own fat, my hips, shoulders and legs all ache from overexertion and my lips raw from biting them out of anxiety. As I grapple for my ink to pen down these thoughts, I let out a groan of exhaustion, wishing my limbs would just fall off so I no longer have to feel or analyze them for flaws. In my final crawl towards lush green turf, I feel a resemblance of what feels like talons grabbing at my ankles, dragging me back into the same cage I once yearned for fitting into with the rest of the perfect little creatures.

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The cardboard creases and folds– Regardless of place, of time She hears them. An algorithmic carousel, Trending audio, Fast fashion. Who will she be today? The figs threaten suffocation Drowning in rotten fruit, A sickly sweet pressure. The choice beckons with a grin: To adorn or to condemn? Burnout hovers above Her eyes glaze with blue light Price tags pile high, Screaming scales and scars– Each past self melts away. To succumb is unthinkable When the body mirrors the earth. A complex system meant to sustain life: How miraculous? That her blood vessels branch out Like the trees, That her heart beats With the flow of the tide. That the breath exhaled by the forest Is made custom for her inhale.

What if the body exists so Our fingers intertwine And our gazes meet? Written By: Anna Kadet What if the body exists so Our fingers intertwine And our gazes meet? So laughter wrinkles our skin And heads meet shoulders in our grief. Her body, in all of its fragile strength Is not meant to shrink. Rather she is soft and vast, Fleeting and infinite.

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On the way to my event I dropped my lipstick in the car of my Uber. I have enough patience now to wait until the ride is over before looking for my staple necessity. A while ago, I would’ve panicked until it was back, safely, in my hand. I have a lot more patience these days. It’s weird the way time changes you. It’s never in the big ways that you think, I never feel like a different personbut sometimes, I compare my little habits from then to now and start to see for the first time who I’ve become.

It’s a fairly decent night out it hasn’t stopped raining since around noon. I decided to treat myself by booking this ride, wasting money I should be saving. I told myself I was doing it to save the expensive heels I shouldn’t have worn, but really it’s because I don’t have an ounce of energy to walk. Thankfully, I can use this moment to serve as my time for self-reflection, to stare out of the window and think too hard about everything, ever. Just like I’ve done all my life.

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30.

3 I’m 30 now. An age which sounded final when I was younger. The chapter where I’d surely be her—the version of me with answers. I’d have my dream job in entertainment, maybe the matured confidence of an adult, or perhaps relationship experience. Yet here I am, in the back of a car, navigating a map of people’s projections, wondering how I haven’t outgrown the messy 20-something version of myself and evolved into a polished new me I once daydreamed about. And for once—I am okay with that. I am grounded now, holding high the fact that there has been no version of myself that wins once and for all. The driver says something about the rain and asks me about my night. I overshare about my plans and details of where I’m sure the night will take me. Quite frankly, I can’t help but have a conversation with anyone I meet. When I was younger, it was all I felt I was good for.

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I’m 21. The world is my oyster, but it almost feels too large. I always think of one study we learned about in high school psychology class. The one where you can’t choose, because there are too many options. There are too many paths for what I can become or how I can portray myself to the world. If only there was someone who could control me,tell me what decisions to make and what I’m best at. I want to be like my cool friends who make it look so effortless. I sit and I wait for a time where I am happy with who I am. I know I never feel satisfied until I have a new wardrobe, a new piercing or a trip planned ahead of me. It’s hard to carry this awareness with me. I need to be present and these are the best years of my life. Everything feels so confusing. I could be this or that. What if I make the wrong choice?

30.

Comparison doesn’t sneak in anymore—it walks through the front door with muddy boots, sometimes even those expensive heels I’m wearing. Some nights, I still spiral. I do the math on things I haven’t done. The book I haven’t written. The apartment I’m renting. The relationship I walked away from. It stopped making me feel like myself. Or maybe too much like myself? There is an understanding now. There’s no escape to these feelings, but I’d much rather be who I am than someone else. There’s always going to be something to want or pine for. But there’s peace in the mess now. Not total acceptance—just less resistance. I’ve stopped waiting for clarity to arrive at my door with a bouquet of flowers.

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I’ve started wondering; would it kill me to believe I actually matter? Maybe my presence does something. Does it shift a room, change a moment or leave an imprint? I used to think I had to be the best at something to be valuable. Lately, I’m starting to see my favorite parts of me aren’t measurable. I love being outgoing, not in a performative way, but in a way which invites people in. I remember details about people they forgot they told me. I love being deep without being dark. I laugh too much. I have a crush on everyone I meet. And maybe I will learn, one day, it could be enough.

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The Uber pulls up to the curb. The rain has gentled now, a soft mist instead of a storm. I thank the driver and I crouch down to check for my lipstick. There it is, just beneath the seat. My tried and true shade, from which I’ve never strayed. I tuck it into my coat pocket as a reminder, not of who I’m becoming, but of who I am and have been. Here’s the thing I keep learning, forgetting and learning again.

There is no “arrival.” No ceremony for figuring it out. No ovation. No moment when the clouds part and you are finally, finally the version of yourself you imagine. No version where you’re remembered for your one outfit you thought would be the key to unlocking yourself.

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There is just you.

Today. Right now. You have to accept it.

We don’t become the next version of ourselves by leaping, we become her in inches, late night doubts and sometimes late night mistakes. Sometimes in small, patient choices. In doing the best you can with what you have in front of you. In letting go of your idea of what could’ve been and showing up for the you, you are now. CONTINUUM

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The Remnant I hear the low hum of a fly’s thin wings beat by my ear, flitting by without care or intention. Much like everyone else around me these days. It’s starting to get annoying, but I don’t have the power to stop it; I can barely move, barely walk, barely talk, barely be. My joints creak as my skin tears and sloughs off my body with every step, leaving the grey flesh beneath. My eyes have long since clouded over, my sight reduced to pinpoint flashes, but I walk. As I have for the past seven months, hidden in the shadows, strategic.

Seven months ago, a virus overtook the Earth; scientists foolishly thought they had found the answer to eternal life by replicating specific genomes and cells, only to create something that emulated the dead. The virus spreads rapidly, turning its prey into disgusting, deteriorating, rabid creatures who only think to infect more people until they ultimately succumb to the rot or are taken out by those who have yet to be infected.

Infected, I was left, assuming that I would shortly become rabid and no longer in control, yet here I am. My mind has stayed intact while the rest of my body continues to rot, leaving me trapped inside my own bodily prison. I can’t even kill myself if I tried, too weak now for such things. If I were truly infected, I’d be killed or taken into a camp where they are keeping the infected. Society is rebuilding, but I am unable to join. I am no longer human. My flesh and bones, or what’s left of them, have created a prison from which I will never be freed. I am too scared to die, and I never will, kept between this life and death in a rotten cage.

Written By: Kitty Fivgas

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