MIRAGE
Mirage examines the internal and external illusions we maintain to navigate life, juxtaposing a world of vibrant fantasy against a darker, more complex truth. It centers on one’s perception and its distortion. It begins with a state of innocence where the world is viewed through a lens of wonder and simplicity. However, as we move through life, this facade begins to crack. The theme captures the transition from a curated, idealistic existence to the surreal realization that nothing is as it seems.
Editor’s Letter
Dear Strike family,
What a profound honor it has been serving as your editor-in-chief this issue! I had some metaphorically big, realistically very tiny shoes to fill in the wake of Caylin, our former editor-in-chief’s departure. I can only hope that I did her and all of you justice. I would not have been able to do any of it without all of you. On that note, I have a few thanks to give.
To Kanan, thank you for being by my side throughout this entire journey. I hope that you are so proud of your vision and how it has come to life. You know when to support others, when to challenge them and when to give them a flat out “no”. You’re going places!
To Skye, thank you for remaining dedicated to our team through it all. Your attention to detail and commitment to excellent visuals has been invaluable to the team this issue, and it will take you far. I can’t wait to keep working with you.
To Teddy, thank you for being steadfast when little else was. I can only hope that your perseverance and contagiously positive attitude has rubbed off on me, even a little bit. We will miss your travel stories and belly laughs next issue, I truly do not know what I will do without you. Watch out, world!
To my lovely assistants, thank you for your constant willingness to help. Tim, you always make me giggle on the Wednesday nights that I need it most. Lauren, your calm demeanor and down for anything attitude are the best counter to my chaos. And my dear Emma, I am so lucky to have found your friendship through Strike. You have been endlessly kind and important to me these past three years, and I will miss you oh so badly. I am so proud of you, the human you are and the one you will become. I cannot wait to watch you graduate and kill it in grad school.
And last but certainly not least, to all of you! Directors and assistants, thank you for all of your hard work, dedication and flexibility as I stepped into this role. Your support means the world to me, and I hope that you are proud of the work that you put into this issue. You are all so important to Strike and your talent and hard work is what makes it run. Y’all rock!
Without further ado—I give you “Mirage”!
Strike out, Stella Turner
Dear Strike Family,
I remember attending a Strike valentines day event with my friend joining Strike as a stylist my sophomore year fundamentally shifted my college experience and has been everything I was looking for and more.
Strike has given me an incomparable experience and has allowed me to express myself creatively and develop as a leader as I progressed from a Stylist to Concept Director to Creative Director. With Issue 11, I’ve learned to challenge my creative vision and create cohesive conceptual narratives, creating ‘Mirage’. From developing ‘Mirage’ as an initial idea with Skye to watching the creative teams bring that vision to life, this semester has been one of the most fulfilling experiences of my time in college.”
Mirage tells a story of self reflection, illusion and realization. This theme explores our relationships with ourselves and others as it forces us to look inward while navigating complex relationships, examining
the internal and external illusions we maintain to navigate life. We battle to keep our “inner child” or our original sense of trust alive while the external world reveals its “real, darker side.” We are forced to confront the difference between how we view ourselves and the reality of who we are.
Thank you to Stella, Skye and Teddy and the editors team for the constant support, ideas and laughs. I couldn’t have asked for a better group of individuals to work with my last semester!
Thank you to all my creative directors for your commitment, leadership and creativity. Lastly, thank you to each and every staff member of Issue 11. The magazine wouldn’t be possible without all of your hard work and dedication to Strike! the best last semester ever!!
It has truly been an honor to serve as Creative Director for Issue 11.
Strike Out Kanan Parikh
To My Strike Family,
I first heard about Strike from the previous Layout Director, Ansley Jordan, during a study trip my freshman year. I had no idea just how much this magazine would come to mean to me.
I joined Strike as a Layout and Graphics Assistant in my sophomore year, wide-eyed and with very little experience in publication software, drawn in simply by my admiration for what Strike had built. Under the guidance of my upperclassmen on the Layout Team, I spent those early days strengthening my print design fundamentals and learning to advocate for myself and my creative decisions. I am forever grateful for the patience they showed me, and I still cherish those late nights at the Dodd, where I iterated, refined, and pushed my designs until they were something to be proud of.
To Bella and Yuree, my wonderful Layout Directors: Thank you for everything you have given to Strike, and to me. You have been endlessly kind and supportive friends throughout our time together, and I feel so lucky to have grown alongside you, both as designers and as individuals.
To the Layout Team: This magazine would not exist without your hard work and design expertise. Each of you has been an absolute joy to work with, and I have been truly amazed watching the leaps of growth and refinement you brought to every iteration.
To the Creative Team: Thank you for your dedication to this issue. Watching all of your ideas come together the way they did was one of my favorite parts of this process. You each bring something irreplaceable to this magazine, and I cannot wait to see how you continue to grow.
To the Editorial Team: It has been such a pleasure getting to know you all and collaborating on how to make this magazine the best it can be. I loved every moment of working with you this year, and I am truly sad to see some of you go.
To everyone on Strike staff: thank you. I am so proud of what we made together, and I cannot wait to see what comes next.
Strike out, Skye Boutall
To my Strike Magazine Community,
When I first joined Strike, I never imagined how deeply this organization would shape my college experience or the person I would become. What started as something I hoped I could grow into quickly became one of the most meaningful communities in my life. Being part of Strike and especially serving in leadership has changed me in ways I will carry far beyond Athens.
Now, as I write this during my final issue in leadership with Strike, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Strike has been my creative outlet, my challenge, my support system, and my reminder that there is always space to build something meaningful alongside people who believe in the same vision. The energy in this community is unlike anything else. Whether we are in the Dodd late at night, preparing for events across campus, or bringing Issue 11 to life together, there is something electric about what each of you contributes. That spirit is what I will miss the most and what I will always try to find again wherever I go next.
To my directors, thank you for stepping into this semester with creativity, commitment, and heart. Meredith, thank you for your humor and for making every event happen no matter what came our way. Alexandra, I am so excited to watch your impact on community outreach continue to grow here. Greta, my ride or die, I am so grateful we get to step into this next chapter together. You have been one of my closest friends and strongest advocates throughout my time in Strike, and I would not be the leader I am without you. Karen C, following your journey as External Director next year will be something special to watch and I know this upcoming year will be the best one yet. Karen S, I have so much respect for you and the way you lead with thoughtfulness and care. Rachel, your organization and consistency never cease to amaze me.
To Izzy, Kadija, Karen C, and Nishika, my External Director assistants and truly my unit, thank you for making me better and more operational in every sense. I could not have done this without you.
To Stella, Kanan, and Skye, thank you for your leadership and vision in shaping what this issue has become. And to Emma, Lauren, Timothy, and Chloe, your care for this magazine and the people in it never goes unnoticed.
There are so many people who have shaped my time here in ways I will always be grateful for. To name just a few, Mary Margaret, Wesley (I love you and the experience we have shared together), Kylie, Stas, Chloe, Molley, Paige, Emily, Brandon, Pace, Kitty, Emmy, Sydney, Miles, Esha, Grace, Victoria, Eby, and Skyli, thank you for being part of what has made Strike feel like home to me throughout my time here.
Leadership in this organization has truly changed my life. It has taught me how to show up for people, how to build something bigger than myself, and how powerful it is to be surrounded by individuals who care deeply about what they create together.
To everyone in Strike, thank you for the memories, the laughter, the late nights, and the magic we continue to make together. I am so proud of this community and even more excited to see where you take it next. Good luck to everyone and stay striking.
Strike Out, Teddy Goldstein Issue 11 External Director Strike Magazine Athens
Issue 11 Editors
STAFF LIST
Editor-in-Chief
Stella Turner
Creative Director
Kanan Parikh
Editorial Assistants
Emma Johnson
Lauren Groce
Timothy Richardson
CREATIVE TEAM
Head Concept Director
Maryjane Richard
Concept Directors
Bella Roman
Surabhi Joshi
Concept Asstants
Bristol Cox
Emma Dubard
Kate Logan
Kehinde Opaaje
Mary Stephens
Styling & Design Directors
Caroline Sims
Jermaine Johnson
Styling & Design Assistants
Addison Dennis
Alice Young
Brayden Boone
Chloe Tufts
Eleanor Cleveland
Maddie Murrow
Mariana DeTitta
Taiwo Opaaje
Timothy Richardson
Beauty Director
Emma Johnson
Beauty Assistants
Alice Young
Angelie Uzcategui
EXTERNAL TEAM
Promotion & Events Director
Meredith Conger
Promotion & Events Assistants
Elise Weber
Liberty Lebos
Lillie Coffey
Maureen Brown
Savannah Spruell
Skylar Rechtman
Outreach Director
Alexandra Bradberry
Outreach Assistants
Brooke Rouse
Meghan Bosman
Avery Ward
Art Director
Skye Boutall
CD/AD Assistant
Chloe Tufts
Caylin Payne
Elizabeth Pope
Sahya Kilaru
Will Johnson
Casting & Logistics Director
Riya Patel
Casting & Logistics Assistants
Arrie Bowden
Isabel Reynolds
Lauren Groce
Margaret Kiser
Photography Director
Emma Lou Conliff
Photography Assistants
Madison Goldhill
John Kim
Jordan Raines
Delilah Ponce
Evelyn Kim
Jolie Bellaff
Paige LeCompte
Ronin Lim
Videography Director
Gisella Espinosa
Videography Assistants
Mia Souza
Arti Girish
Yashvi Vadlamani
Ashley Aiken
Anna Baylin
Meghan Pascual
Merch Director
Greta Johnston
Merch Assistants
Savannah Spruell
Finance Director
Karen Correa
Finance Assistants
Kadija Islam
Kassidy Trujillo
Nishika Pandit
Sanaa Khan
Nanayaa AgyemanKankam
Skye Nguyen-Fenrich
External Director
Teddy Goldstein
ED Assistants
Izzy Nicklas
Kadija Islam
Karen Correa
Nishika Pandit
Jordan Raines
Madison Goldhill
Megan Machan
Penelope Pennington
Writing Director
Mia Tanner
Blog Director
McKenna Edwards
Copy Editors
Sydney Annis
Meghan Bosman
Cira Thigpen
Writers
Anna Kadet
Katherine Fivgas
Meghan Pascual
Nathaniel Cooper
Layout Directors
Isabella Ayers
Yuree Choi
Layout Assistants
Barbara Mathews
Charlie Friedman
Emma Breier
Han Truong
Mallory Westbrook
Sarah “SJ” Patterson
Shevlin Harley
Graphics Director
Karen Shi
Graphics Assistants
Amarah Wilson
Brooke Harty
Emma Dubard
Han Truong
Izzy Nicklas
Reese Miller
Social Media Director
Rachel Clark
Social Media Assistants
Kennedy Boger
Salma Hanifa
Tess Minkewicz
Zeynep Koseoglu
Table of Contents
01 Ephemera
Ephemera is defined as something that is fleeting, temporary, and short-lived. We can reference this word to describe the beauty of a sunset, flowers blooming in the springtime, or the joys of childhood.
21 Variable
Life is clean cut, sterile, and uninterrupted. Living life as subject to experiments, choice is unnecessary when every outcome and action is expected. A life in passivity lets the world around you pass by, without taking action. Subjected to the tests of the world, it is not until the one flaw that cracks the perception of life.
41 Ambivalence
Connection isn’t gone - it’s diluted. Many fall for the mirage of modern love, a version of intimacy that feels shallow, predictable, and relentless. We are taught to lose ourselves in the presence of our partner, to treat the loss of our identity as intimacy.
Revelare
As the world around us evolves, so do we. In life, it’s the surroundings that unravel us to our true potential. Every situation, big or small, affects us in some way or another. Whether you build walls to combat the hardships you may face, at some point, those walls will crumble down.
83 Warped
Warped stands at the periphery of change, unmasking other perspectives. Much like life itself, it shows the beauty in all things strange. Mirroring life, change is inevitable, Warped comes to terms with said changes, good or bad.
CONCEPT DIRECTOR Surabhi Joshi CONCEPT ASSISTANT Mary Stephens PHOTOGRAPHY Delilah Ponce VIDEOGRAPHY Madison Goldhill BEAUTY Lizzie Pope, Sahya Kilaru, Emma Johnson STYLING/DESIGN Brayden Boone, Addy Dennis WRITING Katherine Fivgas, McKenna Edwards (Stand-alone) COPY EDITOR Meghan Bosman CASTING Lauren Groce SOCIAL MEDIA Kennedy Boger LAYOUT Bella Ayers, Shevlin Harley, Barbara Mathews FINANCE Skye Nguyen-Fenrich MODELS Eisha Dhinoja, Raine Loney, Sophie Yoo
Foam crests as the waves lull towards the shore, bubbling like children’s laughter, yet salty like their tears. The sun warms the shore, gracing those who lie upon it with a pink and tan flush. Feathers flap as creatures soar through the air, playing in the breeze.
Sandcastles
Along the shore, in the damp, cool sand, four small, uncoordinated hands work tirelessly to build the castle of their dreams. Toothless grins punctuate the ends of unsaid sentences. Salt dries in the hair that their parents will lovingly comb through tonight, yet it will still hurt. But that doesn’t matter now. Their castle prevails. Short legs, yet to be scarred by unavoidable falls, carry them to and from the waves, pawing at their feet, carrying water in uncalloused hands cupped together like a prayer. The cement to their sand house of dreams.
As the castle grows in height and detail,
little is shared. It’s not needed. Two kids, four hands, that’s all. Maybe one day they’ll regret not sharing more, as most people do. A name, a hometown, who’s your mom, who’s your dad, all tie them together, the way water cements the grains of sand. Secrets unsaid.
As arms tire, and soft flesh begins to burn, the castle is done. Sandy hands drag parents to their masterpiece. Crow’s eyes wrinkle as four old sets of eyes look down at what four new sets of hands have made.
As they leave, they don’t look back. Innocent minds assume it will be there when they return tomorrow, sunscreen reapplied, swimsuit still damp even though it hung off the balcony. But don’t we all wish things would stay, that people would.
Aren’t we jealous of children’s confidence in what they do not know?
The Tide Will Rise,
turning violent and ripping down the walls of the castle. What once held it together will ultimately tear it apart.
The tide comes and goes as the sun circles overhead.
Children come and go, dragged by their parents.
Soon, the hands that clumsily held the castle together will be the ones hauling children back in and leaving them unaware that their effort is for naught.
But tomorrow, four hands will come together and build again.
That it will be gone come morning
Maybe we must learn by ourselves. Maybe this is why we hold on to those small hands so tightly, so they too will not disappear with the rising tide.
Do Butterflies Remember Being Caterpillars?
There was no day I stopped kneeling to look closely. No day I decided Wonder was childish. It slipped quietly, like a season changing while I was indoors.
I remember how intensely I used to notice things. The way a caterpillar’s body folded in on itself when it moved, the exact green of a new leaf. Now, I remember remembering them more than I remember these moments themselves.
If nothing is remembered consciously, where does the past go?
I used to keep caterpillars in glass jars with holes punched into the lid. I fed them leaves and checked on them constantly, afraid they might change when I wasn’t looking. What I wanted to know was simple: when they emerged with wings, would they remember the bodies they left behind? Would they know they had once crawled?
I kept these questions with me. They followed me long after I stopped collecting jars.
There was no distinct moment when my attention changed. No single day when the world became less vivid. I stopped kneeling to examine caterpillars. I stopped collecting what I found.
My curiosity didn’t vanish; it quieted, settling somewhere out of my grasp. I can’t locate when this happened—I only know I used to notice more than I do now.
Perhaps transformation is not a replacement, but a redistribution. What dissolves does not vanish, but rearranges. My earlier self does not remain intact; my self is not locked away in a keepsake box, waiting to be used later. She is metabolized into what comes next.
I think back to jars on windowsills and the patience watching them required. I was searching for proof that change did not mean disappearance. I wanted continuity that I could see. I imagined memory as a thread—stretching unbroken from one form to the next. But transformation was never about preserving a thread. The caterpillar does not carry its past forward as a story. It carries it as a structure.
Reorganized, invisible, indispensable.
I can’t clearly picture who I was when I first asked these questions. The intensity of her noticing is inaccessible to me now. But I recognize her influence in the way I still look closely, in the quiet pull toward transformation, in the unease that accompanies change and the steadiness that follows it.
I once believed the miracle was the wings. Now I think it is the persistence of what can’t be seen.
I still don’t know whether butterflies remember being caterpillars. But I know everything with wings emerges from something. What once crawled is not remembered in detail; it is built into what flies. And what I have been, though no longer visible to me in the same way, continues in the shape of who I am becoming.
No one can tell me whether butterflies remember being caterpillars, only how they change.
CONCEPT DIRECTOR Bella Roman CONCEPT ASSISTANT Bristol Cox PHOTOGRAPHY Evelyn Kim VIDEOGRAPHY Penelope Pennington BEAUTY Sahya Kilaru STYLING/DESIGN Jermaine Johnson WRITING Cira Thigpen COPY EDITOR McKenna Edwards CASTING Isabel Reynolds SOCIAL MEDIA Tess Minkewicz LAYOUT Yuree Choi, Han Truong, Bella Ayers FINANCE Kassidy Trujillo MODEL Lucas Martins
R I
THERE IS NOTHING BUT CONCRETE HERE.
The world is cold and dim and sterile. What had once been a flourishing city has turned into a bleak landscape. No one goes outside, and there is graffiti from the attempted resistance written on the walls of buildings. Marching together is the sound of a thousand footsteps—civilians morphed into one massive clump. Their boots hitting the concrete in sync, a dull industrial thud that echoes off the hollowed-out buildings. Neon signs hum and flicker weakly above us, their colors bleeding across the cracked pavement like dying strobes. After a time, the government forcefully implanted a chip into anyone they could. Old glamorous personalities and individual thinking, now turned into one hive mind. Think of it as living on autopilot. An attempt for those in charge in the government to remain within their own minds, in control of how society advances. Their wish to achieve a terrifying level of efficiency and stability to advance far beyond neighboring nations filled with individuals with blank stares...
UNTIL THE EXCEPTION.
GLITCH 1
I’m awake. Suddenly, the blurriness of my vision becomes clear. I’m asleep in a bed. It’s not the childhood bed I know, but a creaky cot. The room that surrounds me has others sleeping beside me in the same sort of thing, dozens of people lined up one by one. The light of dusk has made the room a pale blue, almost like when you’ve been in the sun too long and walk inside.
THE AIR IS SHARP AND SMELLS LIKE METAL.
I don’t understand what I’m feeling but it’s like my body is in shock. Every emotion, every sensation rushes through me all at once and then just as fast as it begins, it’s back to numbness, back to silence in my consciousness. I suddenly begin to feel everyone’s presence rush into my mind—the hive mind correcting its errors.
As quickly as the boy experienced a moment alone, immediately his thoughts fell back in line with the others. The days went on and the population completed more various mundane tasks over and over, and over again. Most of the civilian days involved building advancements to serve those in charge. Everyone wore grimy gray uniforms, only focused on building infrastructure and training physically for who knows what. Nothing but machines for a “perfect in-line society”
BUILT
ON POWER AND GREED.
Glitch 2
What’s wrong with me? Suddenly, as we were marching it’s like thoughts that aren’t my own are being placed in my mind all of a sudden. Or are they my own? Why am I thinking this?
I’m looking down at my feet as we all walk side by side. We’re walking through grim territory, it looks like rubble from what was left of our city.
All of those with me look depressed and… lifeless. But why am I thinking about this? What was I thinking about before this? I can’t remember anything except tasks. Most of my brain feels like a blurred mess.
All I know is that I am scared. I don’t want to keep slipping out of whatever this is I’m experiencing.
The glitches kept occurring for the boy for the next few months. With each time gaining individual consciousness, he grew more and more aware of what were his own thoughts and feelings. He began to understand the link between others and how much time he had when a glitch would occur, but feared whatever control was taking over again. One day he decided he had to get out. He had to fully leave the barren landscape and break off from this one-being consciousness mess.
HOW? BUT
GLITCH 3
I’m here again. Suddenly. Those around me continue in perfect rhythm: footsteps synchronized, heads angled at the same mechanical tilt, eyes empty. But inside my skull, there is a new pulse. Thoughts that aren’t my own reach for me, their presence is like a cold fog trying to seep back in, I can’t tell what I’m thinking and what’s been put there. But this time it slips off. I stop walking. No one notices. Not a single head turns. I finally feel the silence of my own thoughts echoing in the space where thousands of voices had pressed in.
I CAN’T BREATHE MANUALLY, EVERYTHING FEELS TOO LOUD, TOO ALIVE, AND I’M CONFUSED.
For what can explain this sudden break in the system? It must be an unbreakable sign of the individual mind persevering. A correction back to human nature in the wake of forced control, it could have only lasted for so long. Eventually, one will beat the system, isn’t there always a way out if you look for it?
GLITCH 4
I wake again. I’m trying to remember what all of these emotions are supposed to mean, regaining how to perceive. I take a step backward. Then another. The hive mind pulses again, a sharp pressure behind my eyes, trying to drag me back into alignment with the others. I fight back— getting a grip on what thoughts are my own. The pressure cracks and I think I’m going to collapse and I feel a burning in my head where the chip I found earlier is.
TURN AWAY FROM THE LINE, IS ALL I CAN THINK.
Ahead of me is still the looming city—or what’s left of it anyways. I still can’t remember what happened. Each step I begin to take feels like tearing away into a life I don’t recognize, one I can’t let slip away.
I don’t know what’s out there, and I still am grasping distant memories of what occurred and who I am, or was.
I don’t know where I will go, or what will happen next.
But for the first time, my mind is finally clear and not attached to the others.
FOR THE FIRST TIME, I’M MAKING THE CHOICES.
Ambivalence
CONCEPT DIRECTOR Maryjane Richard CONCEPT ASSISTANT Kehinde Opaaje
PHOTOGRAPHY Ronin Lim VIDEOGRAPHY Ashley Aiken BEAUTY Emma Johnson, Angelie Uzcategui
STYLING/DESIGN Chloe Tufts, Caroline Sims WRITING Nathaniel Cooper, Meghan Bosman (Stand-alone)
COPY EDITOR Mia Tanner CASTING Riya Patel SOCIAL MEDIA Rachel Clark LAYOUT Mallory Westbrook, Charlie Friedman, Han Truong FINANCE Sanaa Khan MODELS Michelle Zhang, Shaan Bhagat
The altar is burning beneath my feet. The passion in your vows is palpable and dizzying, and I don’t know if it’s the third glass of wine or the sincerity behind your words that’s making me so sick.
As you declare “I do,” I only can dream about when those words were smitten with petulance.
“I do!” He would squeal back at claims that he didn’t have the guts to ask me to prom. I’d been waiting months for this.
He was my first boyfriend. We’d met in our sophomore year math class, only for him to get a girlfriend two months into knowing him.
It was repulsive.
She had the kind of features that were able to be sought out even in darkness: piercing eyes, high cheekbones and a certain distinctiveness to her voice that only made you want to come closer.
Although it was a nauseating semester, it ended eventually. Along with their relationship, only for him to discover some year or so later that I’d been waiting patiently in the sidelines.
I come back to my senses. Has time passed for everyone except for me?
As I stare into the eyes of my soonto-be husband, all I can think of is the ring I was promised post high school graduation. His love has tarnished me like rust, and I worry that it’ll only work its way into my wedding band.
He dips me, with a kiss comparable to that of a 1960’s romance. And just as I was gathering myself, I cut back in time again.
My heels up in the air, as I’m whisked off my feet and into his arms. I couldn’t help but giggle, I told him I’d always wanted big romantic gestures. So here he was—literally sweeping me off my feet. He planted a kiss on my forehead and carried me inside to end the day.
“Focus.” I say to myself. This is not how I pictured myself walking down the aisle. His hands are warm, mine sweaty. He looks at me and mouths sweet nothings like no one else can see, just as always. His eyes are on me with such intensity, and all I can do is wish they were yours.
I’m
It is now dusk, and the sky is freckled with the same stars as a decade prior. This time, though, with a different man in my arms. My knuckles white gripping his hands as we waltz, and his arms draped across my waist ever so delicately.
My eyes were on you.
Your
eyes, lingering behind me.
You. God, you! I am here, dancing with my husband. “Happily” wed, and only thinking about our first time dancing together.
My eyes were on you. Your eyes, lingering behind me. All I could ponder is if they were on her, the one that got away from you in time.
If I were to be seventeen again, I’d so willingly do it all over again. If you were here, would you still think of her piercing eyes and high cheekbones the way I think of you as I stand upon the altar? Or would you be the one to object? After all, you were never able to hold your peace. But maybe that’s just being a teenager.
Me and my husband, in holy matrimony, make our exit; only one of us in confidence that this’ll work.
My grip loosens from his palm. As the line of sparklers in the hands of our guests rain behind us I make my escape to the towncar.
“Green-Wood Cemetery. Brooklyn.”
Oh, to be a runaway bride. Running to you and not your headstone.
Shattered Glass
(November 10th 1:12 p.m.)
Sienna: hiii love :)
Xander: Hey!
Sienna: can we still call to watch our show tonight? i miss you
Xander: Yeah for sure. I can text you when I get out of my late class?
Sienna: yay. lmk!! idk what i would do with my time if i didnt have you around LOL
Xander: I love you babe, talk to you later
Sienna: byeeee i love you
(November 19th 4:43 p.m.)
Xander: Hey can I call you when I get home from bball practice?
Sienna: sure lol but we were just otp for 2 hours silly
Xander: Ikik but I miss you already <3
Sienna: ur cute. ill talk to u soon
(December 1st 12:01 p.m.)
Sienna: im bored. whatcha up to
Xander: You just asked me that lol. Still doing my accounting work unfortunately :(
Sienna: ughhh hurry up so we can call
Xander: I’ll try my best, just having a crazy busy week
(December 21st 8:29 p.m.)
Sienna: hello? u havent responded for two hours
Xander: I was at the gym… like I am everyday?
Sienna: so?? u can’t take 2 seconds to text me back?
Xander: I honestly wasn’t on my phone. I won’t always be able to text you back immediately Sienna.
Sienna: thats what u always say yet ik ur on ur phone. i dont even need an instant response but how am i supposed to know everything is okay when i dont hear from u for hours
Xander: You know I love you. I’ll try to be better.
(February 2nd 11:31 a.m.)
Xander: Hey, you good? Haven’t heard from you since we got off FaceTime last night
Sienna: ur following went up. who is @alyssa_hall….
Xander: I met her last night at one of our team’s parties, she’s talking to my friend Marcus
Sienna: i’ve never heard of a “marcus.” xander are you just lying to my face rn or something
Xander: What? Why would I do that? He’s one of my buddies and it’s literally just Instagram
Sienna: its not. when is it ever just Instagram
Xander: I promise you’re overthinking. There’s nothing else to it.
Sienna: sure.
(March 8th 6:29 p.m.)
Sienna: r u on Hinge
Xander: What? Why are you asking that?
Sienna: someone sent me ur profile. xander wtf is wrong with you
Xander: That’s so old omg. I guess I never paused my profile I don’t even have the app on my phone dude
Sienna: how would an unused profile from MONTHS ago somehow pop up?? im not stupid alexander
Xander: Sienna, I genuinely have no clue but you know how much I love you and I would never do something like that. I swear on Bailey and you know how much I love that dog.
Sienna: ok fine. i believe u. i guess yeah it hasnt been updated or anything maybe its a glitch.
(April 13th 11:51 p.m.)
Sienna: do you still love me?
Xander: You know my answer to that
Sienna: so how come you haven’t said it in weeks. what did i do wrong?
Xander: Nothing, and I’m sorry I didn’t even realize.
Sienna: u still havent said it. i mean do we even make sense?
Xander: What? What does that even mean
Sienna: we havent called in forever or watched our show or anything. things dont feel the same and i just dont know what to do anymore
Xander: We can fix it, you’re my everything Sienna. I just don’t want to lose you.
Sienna: u cant lose something that’s already gone alexander.
RE V
E V LARE
CONCEPT DIRECTOR Bella Roman CONCEPT ASSISTANT Kate
VIDEOGRAPHY
BEAUTY
Lizzie Pope STYLING/DESIGN Alice
Cleaveland
MEDIA Salma
Meghan
LAYOUT Emma
Logan PHOTOGRAPHY Paige LeCompte
Jordan Raines
Caylin Payne, Angelie Uzcategui, Lindsay Robinson,
Young, Mariana DeTitta, Taiwo Opaaje, Maddie Murrow, Eleanor
WRITING
Pascual COPY EDITOR Mia Tanner CASTING Arrie Bowden SOCIAL
Hanifa
Breier, Sarah (SJ) Patterson, Shevlin Harley FINANCE Kadija Islam MODELS Temi Aina, Timothy Richardson, Nina Blair
THE CITY WAS SUFFOC
ATING.
The Same Sky
The City was suffocating. It never slept, people were rude, and there was a neverending flow of judgment. It took me years to finally realize this, lease contracts at run-down places in the east end and enough postgrad credit card debt to get this through my head.
So, while everyone was gearing up to spend summers by the coast, I packed up a small bag with necessities to retreat back to the quaint countryside. I figured if I could get to the furthest, most isolating place I knew, peace would follow.
Swim team ribbons and ballet shoes from preschool were shoved in the back of the closet. Each item served as a reminder of some era of life,
Despite leaving for the city years ago, the first night felt easily familiar.
The childhood bedroom had stayed the same since I left, a perfect time capsule of life before leaving home.
It felt safe, consistent,and contrasted the bustling life that I led before.
I yearned for the familiarity, and sleep came easy at home for a while. I fell back into the same routines I had in high school, and when I wasn’t in my room, I kept myself constantly busy. I never wanted to leave.
Old soccer trophies collected dust above the bookshelf, the curtains of the canopy bed waved slightly in the stale air. and a mirror was held back on me.
but from what?
The comfort started to slowly fade. It started with little things, like the hum of the bugs keeping me from sleep and the collection of dust making me sneeze. The nature that had once calmed me as a child added to my unease. Cicadas now hummed so loud it felt like they were nestled into the walls, and the grass held a dew that stuck to your shoes like mold. As days bled into weeks, I was kept up with the thoughts of why.
I
WAS RETREATING, YES, BUT FROM WHAT?
Completely packing up life was easy, but figuring out what to do next scared me.
When I left years ago, I told myself I was starting fresh. I was convinced that moving far away would solve all of my problems. I held this notion throughout my adolescence, and I dreamt of this idealized life during senior proms, swim banquets and family vacations.
I wrestled with these thoughts for weeks, and the bags started to show under my eyes. Slowly, the memories of my life in the city started to infiltratemy head. The nights spent at jazz clubs, the long walks in the park after work, and the constant buzz of the air conditioner in my apartment.
After nights of restlessness, I decided something had to be done. I crept outside into warm humid air. My breath hung with a tangible weight and the same dew stuck to my feet.
When I was younger, on nights I couldn’t sleep, I would bring my pillow and blanket outside and look at the stars. The vastness of the sky made everything feel small, and I took comfort in seeing it like this. Without the pollution of the city,
THE NIGHT WAS ALIVE.
However, the old that once comforted me, illuminating back onto my face, made everything feel hazy. It felt like a mirror was being held up to my soul, shedding the layers I built up living in isolation for so long growing up.
In the vast field where I laid, the only thing alive were the stars. There was no loud honking from taxis or screams echoing from the streets below. This is all there is.
The sky I once took solace in now scared me the most. Retreating wasn’t the answer because at its core, there isn’t anything here. The life I created for myself, far away from the dust and isolation was real, and it was mine.
THIS IS ALL THERE IS.
CONCEPT DIRECTOR Surabhi Joshi CONCEPT ASSISTANT Emma Dubard PHOTOGRAPHY Jolie Bellaff VIDEOGRAPHY Megan Machan BEAUTY Will Johnson, Alice Young STYLING/DESIGN Timothy Richardson, Caroline Sims WRITING Mia Tanner, Sydney Annis (Stand-alone) COPY EDITOR Cira Thigpen CASTING Margaret Kiser SOCIAL MEDIA Zeynep Koseoglu LAYOUT Mallory Westbrook, Emma Breier, Charlie Friedman FINANCE Nishika Pandit MODELS Kate Eggleston, Emeka Eronini
Walking into the bathroom, Eva flips the light switch and turns to stand at the sink. She lifts her head to look into the mirror, her eyes following her body’s movements. Her chest slowly rises and falls with each breath. The strands of hair that have escaped the loose braid on her shoulder now dance in the breeze coming from a cracked window.
Eva brings herself closer to the mirror, hands gripping the sides of the sink. She notices small distortions in her reflection– the corners of her mouth are contorted higher than their normal resting place and her undereyes are dark and unnaturally drooping. She lifts her hands to her face, prodding at the disturbing features that have suddenly appeared.
A startled gasp leaves her lips when she sees her fingers, each stretched in a different direction. It was as if they were reaching for something, manipulating themselves to catch whatever has slipped through her fingers before. Eva’s mind must be playing tricks on her, she thinks, because what stares back at her is a grotesque, disfigured version of herself. The longer she is frozen in place, the more her appearance changes. Her face starts to hollow, and the high points of her cheeks transform into pointy, protruding peaks.
In a shaken state of disbelief, Eva reaches to flip the light switch off, hoping the darkness will erase the unsettling portrait filling the mirror. When only a faint outline of her figure appears, she breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of her blurred self. She can’t truly tell if her face has returned to normal, but that brief, dimmed moment is enough to soothe her racing heart.
But the relief doesn’t last.
As Eva exhales, the faint outline in the mirror exhales a second too late.
Her breath catches.
She freezes, eyes straining in the darkness. The shape in front of her stands exactly as she does— head tilted, shoulders tense, but something is off.
Eva slowly lifts her right hand. The figure lifts its right hand too.
No— its left.
Her stomach drops.
She jerks back, the pipes under the sink rattling as her hip bumps the counter. The shadow in the mirror doesn’t follow this time. It stays where it is, arm still raised, fingers twitching as if testing the air between them.
“No…” Eva whispers, her voice thin and brittle.
The window creaks behind her, the breeze growing colder, sharper. The loose strands of her hair whip across her cheek, but the figure in the mirror remains perfectly still now, untouched by the wind.
WATCHING.
Eva fumbles for the light switch again, her fingers slipping against the wall before finally finding it. She hesitates, heart pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else.
Then she flips it on.
The bathroom floods with light.
For a moment, everything is normal. Her reflection stands where it should. Her face—her real face— stares back at her, pale but intact. No hollow cheeks. No twisted smile. Eva lets out a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to her chest.
“Get it together,” she mutters.
But the reflection doesn’t laugh.
The sound dies in her throat.
Slowly, so slowly she almost convinces herself it isn’t happening, the corners of the reflection’s mouth begin to rise
Higher.
Higher than any human smile could stretch.
Eva doesn’t move.
She can’t.
Because this time, she knows. She feels it.
She isn’t the one controlling what’s on the other side anymore.
The reflection leans closer to the glass, though Eva hasn’t moved an inch. Its breath fogs the mirror from the inside, forming soft, spreading clouds that curl into shapes.
Letters.
Three words, written from within:
LET ME OUT.
The light flickers.
Once.
Twice.
And then, darkness.
When the bulb steadies again, the bathroom is empty.
Only the mirror remains.
And in it, Eva stands perfectly still, hands gripping the sink, eyes wide with terror— watching something just over her own shoulder.
By Sydney Annis
Marissa, at the ripe age of 22, has just moved to New York City after graduating from her small liberal arts college. New York City: the absolute art capital of the United States.
“This is when I really find out who I am,” Marissa tells herself as she gazes out the window of the Q train, overlooking the Manhattan Bridge.
She arrives back at her 300-squarefoot studio apartment, grounding her body on the cold, hardwood floor. Boxes upon boxes surround her.
Marissa jolts up, feeling unsettled, and immediately scavenges for the box with her art supplies. Sifting through canvases and prints of her most successful pieces from college, she finally finds a blank canvas along with some paint.
Marissa selects her colors, picks the brush and primes the canvas. She dips her brush into the vibrant red paint as the particles collect on its millions of fibers.
In the first stroke, the red protrudes out amongst the crisp, white canvas. Brush stroke after brush stroke, she finishes her piece. She feels a sense of release, yet something is missing.
“I’ll sleep it off,” Marissa said. She begins to lie upon her adjacent mattress on the floor, drifting off.
The following morning, sunshine gleams through the windows, beaming down upon her face. She turns to face the canvas. It is blank.
A puddle of paint congregates at the bottom of the easel. The paint is a displeasing brown, a melting pot of all the colors Marissa used. She runs to get her oil pastels. She manically begins scribbling on the canvas. No pigment is reflected. She tries the same thing with a marker; nothing.
A stiffness overtakes her body, with tears swelling up in her eyes. Marissa’s body rolls into a tight bound, with her knees resting on her eyebrows and her face buried in her chest. The one constant, the one release she has from all this change and unfamiliarity in her life, is not working.
Marissa remains beyond herself. She’s on edge. For once, she has no idea what to do. Breathing in and out, she stares at the blank canvas.
“Nothing is going to stick,” Marissa whispers to herself as she slouches in her ragged college shirt on her dusty apartment floor.
As she stands up, her knees crack from stiffness, and she begins to brew herself a cup of coffee. Continuing with her day, she left the blank canvas. Marissa unpacked all of the boxes and took her time to settle into the Empire City.
Months pass, and the blank canvas remains on the easel in her studio apartment. People come and go, always asking Marissa why she has a blank canvas.
“I don’t know, quite frankly. Maybe I just leave it because I know one day it won’t be blank, but that day just hasn’t come yet,” she tells them.
Marissa returns home from a late Friday night with some of her new friends. She suddenly is overcome by a foreign feeling, a feeling of warmth and emotional nourishment. Something she had not felt since living in her old college town.
After throwing her jacket and purse on the scuffed apartment floor, she lies down on her couch, embedded with scuffs and wear from the memories made in her old college house.
That warm feeling pulses through her body, and she jolts up off the couch to find herself in front of the blank canvas, yet again. Marissa rustles through boxes to find her paint and brushes, and her hand begins to tremble as she hovers it above the vibrant green paint on its journey to the canvas.
She waited for the paint to drip. For all the colors to conglomerate into the familiar, muddy brown at the bottom of her canvas. Yet, she watched the edges of each continuous brush stroke lose their sheen and harden, finally choosing to stay. Each of the strokes comes together to form a bold self-portrait that stares back at Marissa–the artist she thought she had lost.
DIRECTORS
11 Film
