Strike Magazine WashU Issue 02

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2 Images from the Lyons-Carlson Family

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Letter from the Founders

The Next Generation Suitcase Inheritance

Pieces of My Mirror

Fashion Through Time The Re—Cycle

Reaching Obsolescence

History of Drag Drag and Femininity

Dis/Connected Familiar

This playlist is curated to match the cadence of the magazine. Although strike is a visual experience, we wanted to find a way to activate as many senses as possible. We encourage all readers to listen along, is possible, for a heightened reading experience.

GENERATIONS Issue 02 explores time, growth, and expansion through the lens of generations. We examine not only the changes induced by time, which seems to endlessly dilate and expand at random, but also the impression that past generations etch on our present. We are inevitably and irrevocably products of what has come before — a connection that is omnipresent but never quite obvious. Strike examines the past and present in an attempt to understand the future and what is to come.

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ISSUE 02 STAFF LIST CREATIVE

EXTERNAL

Production Director Caroline Weinstein

Marketing Director Annie Levitt

Photographers Ethan Tsai Bailey Herman Anjali Reddy Ben Levine Sofia Angulo-Lopera

Finance Director Jasmine Peterson Oliver Mass

Art Coordinators Allie Sassa Courtney Huang

Social Media Coordinator Biddi Solomon

Design Team Maya Simon Grace Ok Mia Harris Abbey Rose Thuy Tran Grace Li Beauty Director Dylan Bell

FOUNDERS Editor in Chief James Landman Creative Director Jenna Pearlstein

Stylists Alex Lutz Krishna Vaidyanathan Aliya Hollub Kate Ward Fiona Lyons-Carlson Olivia Baba Maddie Savitch Teni Toriola Natalie Rubenstein Jon Oshinsky

Art Director Lilia Jiménez Business Director Noa Diamond

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Public Relations Director Taryn Gurbach

Social Media Strategy Ali Keonig Casting Director CJ Benn Music Director Lila Dickstein

WRITERS Editors Rachel McCarthy Talia Chairman Staff Writers Hannah Bash Amanda Kravitz Jason Lyons Natalie Linares Bailey Herman Sidney Speicher

We present Issue 02 of our beloved Strike Magazine with immense pride and joy. In just one year our publication has grown into much more than words on a page. Strike is a community of creators that has quickly become a family. We are eternally grateful for the dedication, determination, and love that each of you has put into this magazine.

This year we were able to flex our muscles in new ways. Without some of the restrictions of our first semester, we were thrilled to be able to gather together in person. Our first meeting this semester had palpable energy—full of anticipation, creativity, and delight—that we tapped into all semester. The power of togetherness emboldened us to make something striking and continue to grow together.

We have cultivated a team of writers, photographers, stylists, and leaders with a frenetic dedication to this publication. Our organization has given us all so much, and we cannot wait to continue to create.

Strike is a place to think big, and then think bigger. It is a space for university students to express themselves and explore fashion. In a year filled with volatility and unknowns, Strike has been constant and known. Strike gives us a voice to tell our truth and share it with the world.

We would like to thank the original founder of Strike Hannah Kealy for allowing us to expand on your vision and providing us with this space. You continuously inspire us and we are forever grateful to you for trusting us to continue the legacy.

We would also like to thank all of Strike HQ, and specifically Emma Olek, for your guidance and support this year. We could not have done this without you and appreciate all that you do.

Since Strike Magazine has come to St. Louis in the past year, we have evolved immensely. We have gone from an idea to producing two incredible magazines.

With that, we are so excited for you to read Issue 02. Enjoy!

Strike out, James Landman, Jenna Pearlstein, Lilia Jimenez and Noa Diamond

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Photo Sofia Angulo- Lopera, Anjali Reddy Styling Krishna Vaidyanathan, Fiona Lyons-Carlson Makeup Dylan Bell, Izzy Edison Featuring Krishna Vaidyanathan, Oriana Christ, Natalie Linares

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Words NATALIE LINARES ORIANA CHRIST

THE NEXT G E N E R AT I O N

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Words NATALIE LINARES

In 1963 my grandpa decided to flee his home in Havana after Fidel Castro took over the government of Cuba.

He brought with him a pregnant wife, a four-year-old daughter, and a single suitcase. They were able to settle down in Madrid, where my mother was born shortly after. Life was not easy for them, but they knew that their decision to leave Havana was necessary to create a better life for their family. With a newborn daughter and a toddler, my grandparents had to scrape by in a country where they knew nothing except the language. My grandparents speak so highly of Cuba; they tell me about the streets that were filled with music, and the food that could never be replicated by an American establishment. Leaving behind Cuba meant leaving behind a part of them. Every time I hear my grandparents speak about when they left Cuba I am filled with pride. While to some it may seem like a sad story, to me it is one of bravery and triumph.

Leaving behind everything you know is terrifying, and something I could never understand. These types of stories are so common in America, which is why it was so important for us to celebrate what makes each of us unique in this shoot.

SUITCASE INHERI— TANCE 07

My grandma loves cooking for me and my sister. I never understood why it was so important to her for us to all eat together. For her, food is a way she keeps in touch with what she left behind in Cuba. By cooking for us we aren’t just eating, we’re experiencing what she did when she lived in Cuba.

The recipes she brought over from her mother have been passed down to my mom, and will eventually be passed on from me to my children. When I eat at a Cuban restaurant, without fail I remark that my grandmother’s cooking is better. Not only because it is authentic, but because she puts her heart into everything she makes. Heritage is preserved through family; something I learned from my grandparents.

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I grew up in South Florida, a place where Spanish culture is extremely prevalent, yet I always felt out of place.

I felt that I wasn’t white enough, or Spanish enough. But when I eat with my grandma, or I wear her clothes or jewelry, I feel connected to her and connected to my Cuban heritage. I am proud of my Cuban heritage because to me it represents resilience and strength. My grandparents sacrificed their home so that my family and I could build a new one, although they only made it out with one suitcase, they brought so much more with them. Through clothing, food, and traditions my family and I are able to keep our Cuban heritage alive.

The immigrant experience is different in every scenario, but the effort to maintain a connection to one’s heritage is something most immigrants can relate to. My grandpa always says that the only thing that is constant in life is change. While their lives changed drastically when they moved to America, they maintain their connection to Cuba through family and traditions.

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PIECES OF MY MIRROR Words ORIANA CHRIST

My mother loves me in colors my culture doesn’t recognize. For most of my life, this has meant that my mother loved me in ways that I didn’t recognize either.

Her love came in the form of annoyances. Each night she pushed more bai cai, flat strips of tofu with celery, bean sprouts, or slivers of Chinese sausage onto my plate well after my stomach had begun to knot and ache. She pushed me to practice piano every day, for thirty minutes at first, then an hour, until nine years later, I quit. She forbade me from drinking coffee because it stunted my growth and made me anxious. When a boy broke my heart in middle school, she called his parents—a matter for adults to settle. She loved me, and I hated it. The problem was that I thought she didn’t love me at all.

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Dinners were always tense. They oscillated between silence and shouting matches, the second less common than the first, the first rooted in anticipation of the second occurring. We ate tomatoes scrambled with eggs and tread carefully on their shells. One of us, my mother or I, was always saying something wrong; so usually, neither of us said anything at all. When we did, grains of rice would fly from my mouth as my voice rang out, fighting to overpower my mother’s. She yelled back in broken English, words missing or misused, and I clung onto each one. You need study more. Why you go to bed so late? You need exercise more, your weight gaining. Why you don’t eat enough? She says these things because she wants me to have a good life. She doesn’t know how, in the language I understand, to sound gentle, so her love comes in the form of criticisms. All I could hear then was an onslaught of contradictory, impossible expectations. When she cooked for us, an hour of steam softened her wrinkles—while we ate her labor, I deepened them. I gave her the two crevices between her eyebrows. I made the corners of her mouth sag into a permanent frown. And then I pushed my bowl away, mostly untouched, utensils clanging, and left it all for her to clean.

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In Cathy Park Hong’s essay “An Education,” she poses the question: “Does an Asian American narrative always have to return to the mother?” As it turns out, the answer in my case is yes. Reading essays and novels like these are what helped me to understand mine and my mother’s fraught relationship as a product of differences we can’t control, sealed into existence before she even gave birth to me. Before this, I saw my family unit as some unique, isolated fluke that prevented me from relating to anyone around me—now, I know it as a commonplace, almost stereotypical experience, all of its narratives converging on the mother, the originator of the dissonance. Literature led me to a better understanding of my mother, while language remained something that divided us.

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Why is my mother assigned the blame, dubbed the “originator,” instead of my Wisconsin-raised dad?

He came to be the one who pushed piano and chess, even when my mother relented to my quitting; he was the one who punished my bad grades, even when my mother told him to let it go. But I spoke his language, I assumed his culture, and I learned to see my mother as an outsider. She was the one who insisted I take Chinese when all my friends chose Spanish or French; she was the one who gave me a middle name no one could pronounce, Xin, which translates to ‘precious’ but felt like a mark of shame. Eventually, I quit Chinese, giving up on something that might have helped me understand her. I wanted to get as far away as possible from this thing that made her different. I wanted to get as far away as possible from my mother.

I was from, which I would see again in a matter of months. I wondered if she felt this way when she left home to attend Peking University. I wondered if she felt this way when she left China at 27 to begin anew in Sydney. I wondered if she felt this way when, nine years after that, she left Australia to start a family in California. It occurred to me that she, too, was a visitor on those trips, but she was a visitor in her own home.

It occurred to me what she’d given up, and what it might have cost her. When I left for school that first time and every time afterwards, I felt nauseated, and then emptied, like I’d lost some part of me, a vital organ I didn’t know I had. Every time I return, it’s there waiting for me, served in the steaming vegetable dishes and rice my mother cooks every night. I think part of her is still in China. She catches glimpses of it when we visit.

Another part is in Australia, where her It wasn’t until I left home for col- citizenship remains. These are pieces lege that I finally started to grasp at she will never get back. her. Not long after I’d moved into my dorm in St. Louis, I was writing about myself, as I always am. I was homesick. I mourned the place where

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I recently decided to understand my mother. I started taking Chinese again, I sat back down at the piano, I went to China without her to translate or hide behind.

It’s a long and overdue process. I’m still trying to figure out how to go about it. I try writing about her, but I always end up circling back to myself. But maybe that’s the only way to understand someone who, despite the many ways in which we and our upbringings differ, is so much of myself, my genetic blueprint, my mirror. When I write about myself I am writing about her. She is a full head shorter than me with hair that sits straight where mine curls upwards, she walks in strides shorter than mine yet forges ahead of me, this dress custom-made to fit her body bags at my waist and makes me look like an impostor; but I have her irises, her fingernails, and on good days, her smile. Her birthplace is a key I can’t yet access to why she is the person she is, but I write in hopes of getting there.

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But maybe that’s the only way to understand someone who, despite the many ways in which we and our upbringings differ,

is so much of myself, my genetic blueprint, my mirror.

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T an exploration of fashion through

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Photo Ethan Tsai, Bailey Herman, Anjali Reddy Styling Natalie Rubenstein, Teni Toriola, Alex Lutz Featuring Natalie Rubenstein, Biddi Solomon. Jenna Kampe

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THE RE— CYCLE Words SIDNEY SPEICHER

I’ve come to learn that a love of fashion is one that follows you; it’s a love that stretches across generations.

I’ve seen it ironed into the first black dress my Grandma ever owned, still hanging in her closet. I’ve seen it in my mom’s first pair of earrings, still in her dresser. I’ve seen it splashed across billboards, magazine covers, and social media posts; items of clothing on display not as a means of showing off, but as a means of confidently showcasing who you are to the world. A love of fashion is one that keeps giving; that keeps coming back.

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How this love of fashion is carried across time has always intrigued me. The world of fashion is constantly changing; new trends, themes, colors, and styles cycle through ad campaigns and magazines on a monthly basis.

Until I reached Eighth grade, the quick pace felt very overwhelming to me. I had no idea how to approach fashion when it felt like trends would change before I could fully develop my own sense of style. Eighth grade, as I mentioned, was when I started experimenting with fashion. Accessorizing, discovering the french tuck, becoming comfortable with patterned pants and funky shoes were milestones for me. I became so excited with style that I decided it was time for me to re-organize my closet. My mom, upon hearing of my plans, had one piece of advice: “Don’t get rid of your jeans just yet; those styles will come back.”

Though curious about this, I didn’t question her suggestion. I did, however, begin to notice a different trend within the fashion world: recycled items. Recycled items

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are not only the literal pieces of clothing that sit in a closet for years before being worn again (ie a dress from the 50’s, bell-bottom jeans from the 60’s, a sweater-vest from the 70’s, or the high waisted jeans my mom advised me to hold onto) but also trends that carry across time. Take, for instance, collared shirts. Collars have been in the fashion world for hundreds of years and we still see them in magazines today. The same can be said about heels, long skirts, and even hair styles. These are all trends that have lived within the fashion world for years, only to be revived by a brand or magazine in modern times.

thrifting are often the main two. Recycled items from family members derive their value primarily from the relationship they are associated with.

For instance, when my grandma lent me her black dress from the 50’s for a student theater production, I was excited to wear it because I knew it was hers. She, in turn, was excited to witness the love I had for the same item she once wore. In a slightly different setting, when a close friend of mine refurbished her mom’s jean jacket from the 80s, her mom was excited to revive an item that hadn’t been worn in a long time. With thrifting, there is a thrilling connection between finding a unique item and incorporating Why do old trends come back? I it into everyday wear. And of course, believe there are a few reasons for this there is another less obvious benefit from an individual and global stand- to thrifting. point. Individually, recycled items can come from multiple sources. Family Thrifitng — a unique shopping (shoutout to hand-me-downs) and experience recently revived through

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Regardless of whether these recycled items are found through or other sources, it is safe to say that there is a sense of nostalgia (that of seeing old items reworn) connected to each. To be able to instill that nostalgia into everyday life while also recognizing that the fashion world is constantly evolving is to merge the past and the present and the future all within one outfit.

And here they are now, existing in a modern world through a photo-

social media movements - not only emphasizes this recycled fashion trend but also highlights the benefits of recycling clothing from an environmental and economic standpoint.

Thrifting allows us to slow down our shopping experience; to find unique items for a more reasonable price (depending on the store in which you are shopping) and incorporate items that would otherwise be burned or trashed into our outfits. Thrifting, in short, encourages us to depart from the world of fast fashion.

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This merging of the past, present, and future - a blurring of the timeline, if you will - was what we attempted to convey in our photoshoot on October 24th. We wanted to bring modern styles into a historic diner; to take thrifted clothing and create an outfit that could be worn today. Perhaps these were gloves, shoes, gowns that had been worn to fancy parties; that had been cherished items within a family, that had accompanied their first owner on an unexpected life change.

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shoot in a historic diner. Past, present, and even future, with future readers giving life to these recycled items through their eyes while viewing them in a magazine. More than anything, we wanted to remind everyone that although the world of fashion is a fast paced, ever changing one, it is

also a world that has been founded and supported by hundreds of trends and styles from years past. It’s a world that relies on a love of fashion carried throughout generations.

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THE FASHION reaching CYCLE—

obsolescence

Words HANNAH BASH

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very season new fashion trends emerge while previous fashion trends simultaneously make their way back into the spotlight. This phenomenon is known as cyclical fashion, in which fashion trends work their way through five stages: introduction, increase, peak, decline, and obsolescence. It seems like a never-ending cycle, and that’s because in some cases, it truly is.

The fashion cycle begins with the introduction phase in which new styles make their debut. This often occurs on the runways during fashion week or through celebrities wearing new items on red carpets. These looks are offered in extremely limited quantities, making them highly exclusive, and thus furthering the public demand.

Of course, everyone wants what they can’t have, but all exclusive items come at a high price.

After being introduced to the fashion world, new styles enter the increase phase. This is when the style gains momentum and becomes labeled a trend. Once a trend emerges, more retail stores start to carry the item. Yet, it is still not widely available or sold at accessible prices.

This is where the peak phase comes in. At this point everyone is seen wearing the trend. Mass production of replications of the original has begun which allows for prices to drop. The item becomes more affordable, and thus more accessible to the public. We must take note though, of how items can be mass produced so rapidly: fast fashion. Fast fashion employs workers at extremely low wages and overworks them to keep up with product demand of the peak phase.

However, this widespread popularity of the trend ultimately leads to the decline phase. The original trendsetters stop wearing the trend because it is no longer unique. The style has shifted from a rare commodity to a basic trend.

One of things celebrities and influencers seem to hate the most is dressing like everyone around them. Don’t worry though, while this phase is occurring, designers are already crafting the next big thing.

Finally, this takes us to the last stage of the cycle: obsolescence. The trend is now viewed as outdated, and designers have already moved on to a new style. Don’t be fooled though – just because a trend is in the obsolescence phase, it doesn’t mean it won’t make a comeback. In fact, as we have seen in history, numerous styles dating back to the early 1900s have made strong comebacks.

Let’s review some of the trends that have weaseled their way back into the fashion world over time. To start, haven’t you heard bell bottom and straight jeans are in, and skinny jeans are out? Bell bottoms saw their peak in the 1970s but have since returned. Looser fitted jeans are what is in style now. Dua Lipa, Willow Smith, and Emma Chamberlain are just some of the celebrities that have been spotted rocking these trends. This style was also featured on the runways of many elite designers, such as Missioni, Vaquera, and Molly Goddard, for the debut of spring 2022 collections. These jeans are now being sold by high-end brands such as Acne Studios, Alexander Wang, The Row, Frame, and Rag and Bone.

The 2000s influence on fashion is also shining through right now as people return to low waisted jeans. On Depop, it has been reported that the most popular category of clothing is vintage Y2K, featuring low rise baggy pants.

Famous TikTokers posts of their thrifted outfits inspire many to re explore these old fashion trends.

The predicament is, what are you supposed to do, just not wear the many pairs of jeans you paid for? The clear answer is to save them. My mom always told me to save my clothes because you never know what will come back in style. Who knows, maybe three years from now, skinny jeans will be back, or by the time we have kids and then they could be vintage jeans. For example, velour tracksuits are working their way back into style. I bet some readers are thinking I should’ve kept that Juicy Couture outfit, because I know I am.

While clothing items are seeing resurgences, shoes and accessory styles are as well. Platform heels and sandals peaked in the 1970s, then hit the market again in the 90s, and now are widely popular. The small sunglass trend takes its influence from sunglasses of similar shapes in the 60s and 90s. Lastly, baguette bags from the late 90s and early 2000s are one of the new hot fads.

So, how does one know what trends will be making a comeback this year? This is where fashion forecasting comes in. Fashion forecasters predict what colors, fabrics, materials, prints, and so much more will be in style each season. For example, corduroy and velvet are predicted to be popular this upcoming winter season. This job requires analyzing years of data and determining what styles are staples in our society.

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PAST PRES ENT FUTURE 42

A final interesting aspect to consider is that the psychology of buying and buying behavior has drastically changed, which contributes to cyclical fashion in new ways. Social media is a powerful tool for fashion. Influencers post in the new trends and people can also shop from their targeted Instagram ads. The shift from shopping in-person to shopping online has opened the door to a new shopping experience with infinite choices.

So, I leave you with this, what trends do you think will make a comeback? Or, better yet, what trends are you hoping to see enter the fashion cycle again?

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Words BAILEY HERMAN

Photo Ben Levine, Anjali Reddy Styling Kate Ward, Jon Oshinksy, Liam Dean Featuring Liam Dean

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& FEMININITY

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Everything is susceptible to the effects of time.

Nothing will remain unchanged by trends, the state of the world, and the zeitgeist of the era—including drag.

What started in Shakespearean amphitheaters, with men portraying women in English tragedy, is now catwalks, lip syncing, and national television.

At its core, drag is an adorning homage, a jubilant eulogy, an impassioned love letter to femininity. The intersectionality between drag and feminism is something both exceptional and troubling, and the cultural shift that accompanies it poses the question: can drag be a celebration of femininity if it does not include women themselves?

Drag has been, and always will be, fundamentally about liberation. Liberation from the social confines of gender conformity, liberation from the “have-tos” or “supposed tos” of masculinity, liberation from the stifling mundane.

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Crossdressing has been a part of culture for centuries, but William Dorsey Swann, born into Maryland slavery, was the first to call himself the “queen of drag,” making him history’s first official drag queen. Newfound freedom produced by the emancipation proclamation led Swann to ponder how he and his group could foster their self expression further than they ever could before.

Swann attended drag balls hosted by the formerly enslaved queer population of Washignton DC. He emulated regal women, wearing long dresses of silk and satin and lavish accessories and jewels. Swann and his community crafted what it means to have a drag identity, or rather, having drag as part of one's identity, despite the watchful eyes on the Black community and the widespread disapproval of the LGBTQ+ community.

Arguably today’s most prominent drag queen RuPaul represents all that drag is now and serves as an invaluable force for incorporating drag into the mainstream. Extravagant performance, vivaciously animated persona, and exaggerated femininity are all characteristics of drag. In fact, drag has evolved into hyper-femininity, with sparkling costumes, larger-than-life hair, and amplified cleavage replacing the understated dresses and simple makeup.

The hit reality TV show, RuPauls Drag Race played an immeasurable role in the normalization and popularization of drag. However, through the representation of joyous feminism with the zany bouts of comic relief that the show fostered, RuPaul’s Drag Race also facilitated the emergence of a controversy. There is a troublesome hostility in drag that surrounds who gets to perform as a drag queen and the circumstances in which they are allowed to do so.

Can biological women or a transgender person be a drag queen, or solely cisgender men? To be successful in RuPaul’s Drag Race, it is not necessarily crucial to emulate the perfect biological appearance of a woman, but to transform and perform in a way that embraces divine femininity and the beauty of feminine presentation. This is the state of drag today. So why is it that RuPaul herself claimed it to be unlikely to cast a transgender queen that has already undergone gender confirmation surgery?

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In an interview with The Guardian, RuPaul discussed transgender contestant, Peppermint, on her show who had not undergone a breast augmentation before competing. RuPaul claims that gender identity alone does not change whether someone fits into the definition of drag, but once they start modifying their body “it changes the whole concept of what we’re doing.” He goes on to say that biologically female people are also excluded from the drag umbrella, as “drag loses its sense of danger and its sense of irony once it’s not men doing it, because at its core it’s a social statement and a big f-you to male-dominated culture... So for men to do it, it’s really punk rock, because it’s a real rejection of masculinity.”

Well, RuPaul, the community of drag queens and their fans vehemently disagree, and frankly, so do I. If drag is a celebration of femininity, why should female-identifying folk be excluded from the celebration?

And why does the biology of the performer inhibit or permit the classification of a drag queen? RuPaul herself so eloquently said that drag is a big ‘fuck you’ to the patriarchy. And it is! That’s what makes the art of drag so empowering to the LGBTQ+ community, women, and drag queens themselves. But this statement loses its power and credibility if drag is also something women are not able to participate in, another industry where women are excluded and cisgender men dominate.

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Misogyny should not exist in an art that idolizes womanhood. Men and women, regardless of gender identity or biology, should both be able to experience the freedom of expression that is drag.

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Words JASON LYONS

Photo Amee Rothman, Anjali Reddy Styling Aliya Hollub,Olivia Baba, Maddie Savitch Featuring Maddie Savitch, Bereket Dereje

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FAMI— LIAR She zoomed in on the picture of herself. Nothing made her feel better. Nothing made her feel worse. It was a gamble, a risk, a dangerous bet that could set in motion a perfect week or a destructive month of self-hatred, doubt, and anxiety. She had gone all in, though, and came out of the round with a sense of adoration of her own skin. She sighed to herself, relieved.

Clara was not always so meticulous. It was a consequence of her time, she would say to her parents. She had to pick apart each photo, each text, each sentence spoken out of her mouth because if she didn’t someone else would. It was in this self regulation that Clara began to feel comfortable again. Her persona could be constructed, tooled and perfected from behind the safety of her screens. It didn’t matter what she looked like last night, or last week, or whenever this particular picture was taken, what mattered was how she looked in the picture now, at this moment.

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She spent an hour of her Sunday night sitting on her bed editing the photo. After sending it to her older sister, who was away at college, for approval, she posted the photo online. A like! Two! A comment: “wow, stunning!” Another: “GORGEOUS.” it didn’t matter if the poster thought what they were saying was true, what mattered was the social credit. A comment for a comment, a thought for a thought, a lie for a lie. Clara was confident in the photo of herself, but did it even matter what she thought? She didn’t care to question it. The euphoric rush each compliment gave her was satisfactory and strong enough to blind her from the danger of her habits. Like anyone, like any of us, she was doing it to make herself feel good.

As the notifications died down and the battery on her phone plunged towards exhaustion, she plugged it into an outlet at the side of her bed. Charging, she abandoned it for dinner. When she returned, more likes and comments but also a follow. She clicked on the notification.

She didn’t recognize the name at all. As the screen loaded her brain raced to come up with an expectation but it fell short. The screen flashed into reality. A page for a girl named Carson Scott. Weird, thought Clara.

Carson and Clara could have been twins, at the very least they could have been sisters. Their hair, their eyes, their noses, each piece of them matched. Clara was confused but thrilled by the idea of having her own doppelganger. She spent the rest of the night tucked into her bed, scrolling through this girl's posts. Trying to figure out who she was, and how she had never heard of her. Clara discovered that Carson lived only twenty minutes away.

She went to a rival high school. Yet Clara had not come across her once. Clara followed her back.

For the rest of the week Clara was preoccupied by Carson. She sat in the back of Clara’s head as an enigma.

A mystery painted with the colors of familiarity. Clara asked around the school, “do you know this girl?” No one seemed to have met her. The more Clara dug, the more she became enthralled by Carson. She couldn’t tell if it was vanity or fear but for some reason Clara needed to uncover more about her cryptic twin. As the weekend reappeared, Clara sent Carson a message. She invited her to a party that was happening on Saturday. Carson said yes.

There, Clara assured herself, they would meet.

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Clara arrived at the party, walked in, and scoured the crowd for her look-alike. Nothing. Instead, she made herself a drink, absent-mindedly mixed by her finger in a red solo cup. The music was loud and the bass shook the house. Clara looked down and could see the music shaking the liquid in her cup. A young man, Clara’s age, approached her. He tried to speak but Clara couldn’t hear him.

Even if she could, Clara had no interest, not tonight. She was set on unveiling the secrecy she had built around Carson. As the lights flashed around the first floor of the house--reds, purples, deep rich blues--Clara could feel her palms sweat. Everytime she felt a cool breeze of air, her eyes whipped to the door...could it be her? Not yet. The anticipation of the moment made her drink feel like molasses sliding down the back of her throat while the air grew heavy and shook her lungs against a fast beating heart. Growing impatient, Clara began to ask around. Maybe she had missed Carson’s grand entrance. And as she asked a boy with curly hair and a feminine face she saw in the corner of her eye a girl that looked like herself. She followed the figure around the corner and down the hallway. The girl turned into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

“No!” shouted Clara, obtaining odd looks from those around her.

She stood at the door, waiting but the girl in the bathroom did not come out. Clara, unable to wait any longer, burst into the restroom. Empty. Clara didn’t understand.

hand on her shoulder. The girl turned around.

“Clara.”

It was like looking in a mirror.

The resemblance was even more abrasive in person, face to face. How could this be?

“So much for the saying ‘one in a million’ huh?” joked Clara. But Carson was in no laughing mood. Silence quickly overcame the two girls. Their breath, steaming in the cold night air, filled the short vacuum of space between their indistinguishable bodies.

“I shouldn’t have come,” confessed Carson.

“Why not?”

“You….you won’t understand.”

“What’s the matter? Why are you acting so strange?”

“Clara, I can’t be here.”

“Of course you can, who cares? I invited you!”

“No, Clara, not the party. Here. With you. I can’t be here with you?”

“Why not?”

“God! Why do you ask so many questions?” Carson spewed out angrily. She couldn’t stay any longer.

The window, though, was slightly The light changed and Carson began to leave. Clara ran ajar. She peered out of it but couldn’t to stop her. She grabbed Carson's wrist and pulled her see anything clearly. She must have back. left, thought Clara, she must have.

Clara hoisted herself up onto the “Tell me what’s going on!” demanded Clara. ledge and jumped through the window, tumbling into the bush below.

“Clara, I'm you!...you can’t remember but I’m you.

She rose and cleaned herself off and began to walk down I’m the you you discarded. Tossed away. Forgot. I’m the the road, hoping to spot Carson in the distance. After you that wasn’t visual, the you that couldn’t be seen so nearly twenty minutes of walking, and growing pain in you pushed me away and then you pushed me out. Out her feet, Clara saw the girl standing on the corner wait- of your body and into my own. They tried to have me ing for the light to change even though there were no killed when you did that. Said you’d made a choice. You cars driving this late at night. “Finally!” Clara sighed to were the real one. I was some abandoned reflection of herself. She briskly walked up to the girl, and put her

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your ‘true self.’ But look at me. Look at me! Am I not as much you as you? And now, I've let my guard down. I told myself I could risk it. To see you again. But they’ll be here any second. Clara, let me go.”

Clara stood in shock. This was crazy. Insane. Impossible. Yet the words sounded intimate. It was as if Clara’s own tongue was speaking to her. It was instinctual and disbelief overtook Clara. She let go but moved closer, trying to embrace her. Carson fell into Clara’s arms. As they broke apart, separate again, the air grew warm and in the familiarly silent calm, a bang vibrated through the midnight air.

A bullet flew through the air and hit Carson straight through the stomach. Tracking the sound, Clara swung her head towards the shooter. Two men in navy jumpsuits, with white-grey hair stood firmly, partially hidden in the trees. The one on the left lowered his gun and the two vanished into the trees. Clara darted down towards Carson yet she was gone. Vanished into thin air.

Clara could feel a sorrow grow larger and larger inside her yet almost instantaneously, the memory of the girl she had just met, or remembered, faded into oblivion.

A gaping cavern of an unrecognizable size collapsed into itself. Clara’s eyes grew heavy. Her hands clasped on to her thighs. Clenching tightly. Almost ripping the skin off her legs. She fell down into the street and watched the street lights grow dim and the world grow dark around her.

As the sun returned, Clara, in her bed, rolled over to her phone. She had a new follower!

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