tempest
CONTENTS HIGH TIDE
spoiled (rotten) humanity? article 2
FIGUREHEAD
figurehead to feminist superstition
THE STORM
it’s good to get wet i carry your hand in mine
SIRENSONG WASHED UP
poem until the waves pull me under... hemlock and coral lips
flotsam after the storm 00 00 00 00 00
ABOUT THE ISSUE
“A tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning heard…”
A storm is approaching Strike Notre Dame. The tempest casts us out to sea, waves crashing against the splintering memory of yesterday, rain sending a great hair day into total disarray. Issue 06 takes on the storm and the questions it asks in our lives with the chaotic courage and reckless conviction we exercise daily on our voyage toward the real world. Trapped in the tempest, we must find within ourselves both the calm waters and the untamable force that moves us forward, forward, into the pages of Issue 06 and the beautiful turmoil of art and fashion it depicts. After all, when the storm meets the swell of the sea, the only way out is through.
ISSUE 06
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF
ryan bland
claire niehaus
CREATIVE DIRECTOR
annie brown
CREATIVE ASSISTANT jules ingram
EXTERNAL DIRECTOR
shannon kelly
EXTERNAL ASSISTANT annelise hanson
PRODUCTION DIRECTORS avery polking andy donovan
ASSISTANT PRODUCTION DIRECTOR
jack duncan
PRODUCTION ASSISTANTS
mia endl
shari smith
camila batres
cat bourtin
grace rademacher
nicole ilg
DESIGN DIRECTOR
taylor dellelce
DESIGNERS
grace sullivan
jada alexandra bautista
samantha smith
adam acunin
BEAUTY DIRECTOR
alexy monsalve
BEAUTY TEAM
mikaela gonzalez
aya abendalby lizzette borjas
brigid o’driscoll
FASHION DIRECTOR quinn drescher
FASHION DESIGNER
eliza thayer
BOOKING DIRECTOR
sophia noonan
STYLISTS
zach zieleniewski molly foote
candice estrada
sofija valancius
kaden cunningham
sam buchanan
madison barquet
raquel hilton
HEAD PHOTOGRAPHER mk mcguirk
PHOTOGRAPHERS
leyra rodriguez morales zoe keane
katherine o’neal zander daigle kiara taylor
WRITING DIRECTORS jane miller maddie arruebarrena
BLOG DIRECTOR olivia schmitt
CONTENT EDITORS ashley hedge grace tadajweski
WRITERS avery southam katherine lieberth josh escayg suzanne santiago avery njau jaclyn camp
DEVELOPMENT DIRECTOR katie compton
DEVELOPMENT TEAM
maria bueno
renita edward gretchen fesenmeier
STAFF LIST
SOCIAL MEDIA DIRECTORS
josie humbert
kelly mcglinn
SOCIAL MEDIA TEAM
kefina wright
ellie villaruz mairead martin
MERCHANDISE DIRECTOR
norah swatland
MERCHANDISE TEAM joshua guzeman
chaney fix
filip risteski
MARKETING DIRECTOR charlotte thibault
MARKETING TEAM
rita sauceda
elodie flanagan
annika fernandez
avery walsh
christal chen
olivia ruffalo
FINANCE DIRECTORS
molly swartz
lily gornik
LETTER FROM
THE EDITORS
In just six semesters, Strike Magazine Notre Dame has grown from a small creative outlet to an irreplaceable community on our campus. It has provided us with a space to share our love for bringing ideas to life through fashion, photography, prose, and ultimately, the pages you hold in your hands now.
With each semester, we have challenged ourselves to take on even greater projects, and this semester, it has led us to The Tempest. This issue of Strike is unlike one we have ever taken on before. We looked deeper than the bright colors and trends of today to examine the storms we encounter in our own lives. Just like a tempest has a before, during, and after, we explored the different stages of what it means to grapple with the battles we face day in and day out.
The depth of this narrative could not have been achieved without all of our teams and everyone’s deep dedication to this project. To our Annie and Jules, we are so grateful for your unique minds and attention to detail, and to Shannon and Annelise, if it weren’t for your commitment and diligence to Strike, this project may have never become a reality. The direction you four have offered is how we were able to create and overcome The Tempest.
This issue is our baby. We will cherish the skills, memories, and friendships we have made along the way far beyond this issue and our time with Strike. Being a part of this community has given us friends who never fail to both challenge us and support us—for that, we are forever grateful to you all. We love you through rain and shine.
Strike
Out, Claire Niehaus & Ryan Bland
When I accidentally discovered Strike Magazine during my first semester at Notre Dame, I had no idea that I would end up here, working with the most incredible, talented staff to create a magazine that celebrates, alongside the fashion and writing and art, the people who made it. I feel unbelievably lucky to be part of this community, and, from beach days to rainy days, to help walk these brilliant collaborators through our tempest. Enjoy the magazine, and in the words of the great Prospero, let your indulgence set us free!
Strike Out, Annie Brown
CREATIVE DIRECTOR
EXTERNAL DIRECTOR
Strike has always been a home for me on campus and outlet for me to get involved with an inspiring group of creatives. I feel so lucky that in my fourth semester on staff with Strike, I was able to lead the external side of the magazine. I want to thank all my talented directors, and Ryan and Claire for guiding me throughout this process. I am extremely proud of all the work that was put into this issue, and hope everyone loves it as much as we do!
Strike out, Shannon Kelly
FigureheadFeminist to
I was once the figurehead
A beautiful symbol protruding the prow of the ship
My bare body provoked the preponderance of the pirates
Nevertheless, I was supposedly a powerful figure
Keeper of the seas and Keeper of the peace
My perceived empowerment only dictated my disadvantage
A funneled prescription of practice which I catered to Internally unwillingly, but while failing to even realize
A manufactured sense of self was all I had
So deeply ingrained I was desensitized to the singularity of my identity
All things led me to believe my perfection was my only perceived value
It fixated my thoughts and bled into my emotions
I frilled and fussed doing all I could to satisfy the pirates
They only idealized me as such and cursed me to desire this above all
For so long I was proud to be their perfect puppet
A storm, so treacherous soon arose
The presumed power I had held no reality
Distraught, I hopelessly gazed as the drowning crew
Bracing myself for my fate soon much alike
But instead finding washed up a foreign shore
The unfamiliarity of my setting at first frightened me
But I was soon acquainted with a community of welcoming women
Their lifestyles and ambitions were drastically different from mine
I grew familiar with this different world and identified with it
A new awareness to life I never realized before
I now am no longer a figurehead
Standing tall amongst my newfound sisters with my arm proudly raised
We recognized our previously suppressed individual agency
Advocated for representation in all sectors of society
And with time in fact the fruits we sought began to flourish
Often were our intentions were misconstrued and negatively twisted
The limiting labels misrepresented our core message
Our false prejudice toward our opponents had no grounding
These perceived opponents were encouraged companions
We never sought to separate but in fact equally unite
Nevertheless, such backlash was deemed predictable
For so long a cemented system was blindly obeyed
Such strong roots need equally strong movements to be dismantled
Our radicality was not understood to the sheltered eye
The keepers of the peace have become the bearer of the chaos
As time had passed such a journey to equality was not in fact linear
Despite our strong efforts we still felt confined and subordinate
The boundaries of “feminity” although softened, were still secure
Our power was encouraged until considered “aggressive”
Our “feminine flexibility” was determined by our threat of the dominant ego
I am proud of where I have come from once being a figurehead
I still find myself regressing to my previous characteristics of value at times
Though forgive myself and recognize the systemic factors at play
A society without a dominant and subordinate identity is one I envision
And recognizing progress and persistence is what keeps me hopeful
By Suzanne Santiago
Superstitons
The wind dances through sails
Shouts of orders catch the breeze
It pushes waves back and forth
Fights the tick of the compass
It fills my lungs with oxygen as I lay at the front of the ship
Unmoving, quiet, watching
I feel the wind against me like a second skin
I hear it ripping through sails and dancing between masts
It’s light. It’s playful.
The sun beats down on the crew unforgivingly
While they sing and call out
The boat is happy, naive
The salt of the sea has seeped deep
Into the wooden boards that creak and moan with the crew’s every step
They steal quick glances at me
Dreadfully reminding me of my lack of clothing
It would be unlucky to cover up
I feel more eyes when the sun hides
Behind dark grays and waves licking high against the ship
It would be unlucky to cover up
The sailors’ cries and screams are hidden
Away in murky cellars and cargo holds
I keep them there - they know this
I’m the locket they hold onto
The gold of their earring
The whistle they won’t release
Their lucky penny
They can steer a wheel
Pull a rope, tie a knot just fine
When the sea fights back, their defenses fall short
I smile at the storm. I’ve seen it before. I’ve beaten it before.
I’ve watched the crew spring into motion
Running aimlessly, pulling anything they can grasp
As they feel the water slowly strangle their necks
I’ve seen floods and sprays and rips
As frantic orders fail to cut through the noise of the wind
I’ve seen death.
Yet, I’ve seen triumph.
I lay there: Unmoving, quiet, watching.
By Avery Southam
the storm
it’s good to get wet
You can smell it in the air. The rain is imminent on the horizon, the air hangs thick, the once gentle breeze now whips across your face. You’ve sensed the storm brewing for a while, but despite your best efforts to outrun it, to push it away, to disperse the clouds, it is staring you down with the brunt of its force.
You feel fear. The tempest you’ve been avoiding has finally caught up with you. Or perhaps it’s a surprise downpour, turning the most splendid sunny day into a somber swirl of grey. But no matter the storm’s origin, it’s important to remember that there’s structure to the chaos. All storms have rules. Hot air meeting cold air creates the cracks and flashes of thunderstorms. The rotation of a tornado is simply humid air colliding with dry air. Tsunamis originate from the slip of a rock. Your storm has a purpose; there’s a reason it’s downpouring today.
You brace yourself against the incoming wind, expecting it to knock you over. Perhaps you do end up in the midst of the storm, shielding your face against the wind as you determinedly fight on. Or maybe you’re above the clouds, watching down as the storm clouds blow over someone else. But most importantly, maybe you’ve fought your way to the eye. You wipe away the water dripping into your eyes, wring out your shirt, and stumble into the momentary calm. Relieved, you take a moment to reflect on the obstacles you’ve already battled. The storm may not be over, but you use what you’ve learned to prepare for the last few hurdles that lie ahead.
By Avery Njau
You push back into the storm. After the temporary refuge you took in the eye, the tempest has really picked up. At first, you jump at every clap of thunder and cringe away from the flashes of lightning. But as you push your way through, you start to feel yourself being cleansed by the rain. You focus on the drops streaming over your face, through your hair, and you start to tune out the bonerattling booms of thunder and cracks of light.
You finally make it. After the storm, there is calm. The sun starts to shine, and you watch a single droplet of water fall from the tip of a leaf. Everything feels a little brighter, freshly cleansed by the barrage of rain, and you feel at peace.
You feel stronger. Perhaps the storm lasted days, even months or years, but you made it. And most importantly, you have discovered a new tenacity you never knew you had. You have changed for the better, and the hardship of this storm has readied you for the next. We need storms to practice our personal resilience, to push ourselves past the limits we previously thought defined us. If every day was perfectly sunny with no chance of rain, we would never grow.
When you see a storm coming, your first instinct may be to seek shelter. But sometimes it’s good to get wet.
after the storm
“[i carry your hand in mine(you tighten yours]”
By Maddie Arruebarrena
i carry your hand in mine(you tighten yours in reply)i need it now, especially much now (you travel into the dark and tumult for me, and trust, my darling, that i follow close behind) i find
complete solace(for you are my solace here now) complete peace(for the dark mists to nothing near you) and it’s your hold whatever the winds have past bent and whatever the rains have before marked in me
here is the lightest place no one else finds (here is the drop of the drop and the tide of the tide and the eye of the eye of a storm called life;which swirls round our still forms as we peer: i into you, you into me and this is the anchor that’s keeping the strikes at bay
i carry your hand in mine(you tighten yours in reply)
Adapted from [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in] by E.E. Cummings
TITLE
By Ashley Hedge
A dagger glides along The upper crease
Of my cerulean eyes
Leaving a streak
Of black as dark
As the depths Of the sea.
A sword is pressed , To the swell
Of my full lips, cutting them into a seductive scarlet, Dark as blood, Dark as death.
A shield is nestled In the pit
Of my throat, Its gold cast
Emanatin a tantalizing song, With all the might Of a crashing wave. .
The men say That strength is power.
I sing those men
To a watery graze
As they dream of my Vermilion smile and Charcoal lined eyes.
They did not realize How vicious a weapon
Beauty is.
What a pity.
UNTIL THE WAVES PULL ME UNDER
By Jaclyn Camp
A moment of silence lengthens around Serena as she views the reflection in the mirror. They tell Serena that it is indeed her, but she cannot feel certain. The Grecian nose her mom so graciously gifted her is nowhere to be seen. In its place rests an imposter. Perfectly sloped, resembling the ski hills she used to dominate on trips with her parents to Aspen. Her cheeks, which used to be plump and often made people think she was still in high school, have disappeared. They told her it was a new procedure of theirs, lodging a plastic tube in the depths of her mouth and sucking the fat out from the inside. That way there would be no telling scars. Her teeth by habit attempt to bite down on the fat in her mouth, but end up clenching down on one another from the absence.
She looks just like her; the one who told her this was her only option. So easy for her to say with her long blond hair and anglo-saxon features. What was her name again? Carmilla, that’s right. How could she forget Carmilla? As if on cue, the one and only floats into the outpatient room, where Serena is still looking at herself in the wall-length mirror.
“I know it looks a bit frightening right now, but once the bruising goes away, I swear you will feel like a different person” Carmilla mentions as she sets down her Bottega bag and sits on the paper-wrapped patient chair.
She continues: “This will be the worst of it. Remember how awful you thought the first procedure was?
You cried for hours because you said you couldn’t feel your face from the amount of Botox that was injected and thought you were going to die from Botulism? You could take three syringes full now without a peep of pain. Keep that mindset for your final procedure. Then you’ll be fully completed and ready to start your new life” Serena, still looking in the mirror, sees Carmilla’s once flawless face, but with a new lens. Although bruises flash around her own face, her body fills with satisfaction at her realization. Once she heals, she will be in charge. Carmilla will be one step closer to the dissolution of her precious injections, and the leftover portion will migrate into the folds of her mouth. She will look deformed and Serena will look beautiful and plump. A nurse walks in, ready to take Serena to her last procedure, where her transformation will be complete. She is rolled into the surgical room, where she spots her perfect implant, glowing under the fluorescent light. It sparkles, pink diamonds bouncing from its manufactured gills. The flaps open in and out, seemingly having a life of its own before being joined to her. She can’t be minded to say goodbye to her legs, it is not as if they have ever taken her anywhere meaningful. The end of the bodice sprays out, for strong pumps against the dominating tides. Waves of anesthesia wrap around her, dragging her eyes closed and to her beautiful new world.
By Josh Escayg
The soldiers started jumping when the silence started
Evening camaraderie had subsided, shattered spirits sat still
The crew was the hearth of the vessel, but held breaths asphyxiate
How can the ocean feel like a desert?
Do I still go down with the ship if I retreat to my cabin?
Hemlock the only flora I find at sea
Cowardice is unbecoming captain
Men fear the sirens yet sacrifice their souls
Sway to my songs, sing along as you sink
There is a common misunderstanding regarding our purpose
Desire is after being and not us
The strongest lust is for life rather than love
Reach out for my hand
Treat my palm as a tether that grounds you
You will pass reaching, having never reached
The angels of Hades hover above your head
Siren?
A true marvel
With beauty that confounds the poets
The most lavish praises are underestimations
Eyes brighter than the northern star
Gravity impregnable enough to distort courses and throw
men into orbit
I know of your purpose—the choir of the damned
Your mystique has made you haughty
Immortality renders you discontent
The same stories repeated without satisfaction
A bluff
You offer the illusion of your hand but fall for the slight of mine
The mention of hemlock meant to trigger my songs
Cunning is more becoming than cowardice
A trick worthy of your esteemed status
Employing spells to summon a siren
Your deceit is almost melodic
Tricks are still tricks
Arrogance makes you believe I will save you
An interloper magician trying to charm a sorceress
I did not steer your ship, your struggles are your own
Let me assuage the pain of your impending death
Sway to my sings, sing along as you sink
Siren!
The most sweet even in scorn
Sublime—the only way to describe your hymns
Derision that has enamored many men
My legs tremble as you sing
Eros and Cupid plague my mind like pestilence
If I lunge from this dock will you embrace me in your arms?
Battle has never made me feel this powerless
Would me being subdued satisfy you?
Beauty can’t seal the hole, will another ghost fill it?
You enjoy my bluff, what about a wager?
Take me to your island, assail me with your strongest songs
Discontent? Satisfy yourself by stretching my spirit
If my willpower remains….
allow my men and I to defeat death
You can’t win a wager with the waves
That is not a secret between us
Your determination is laudable
The futility of circumstance make it more virtue than vice
I relent to your game
conditionally
Don’t cry
You won’t?
I promise, you will
Perfume waves are cyclical
Coral lips part like the eye of the storm
The counter aromatic at high tide
Breathe when the fragrance relents
Hollow hearts wash up on the bed
Flowers? At least you can say you died in your sleep
A TRUE MARVEL
after the storm
by Olivia Schmitt
Anna first found the island–or more accurately, found herself on the island–when she was eight years old. She was still wearing the dress from her brother’s wedding, cold ocean spray hitting the silk with each wave. She glanced around. She was on a patch of land jutting up through a boundless ocean. The sun was hot overhead and nearly blinding, beating insistently on her skin.
Anna took a breath, one that reached the bottom of her lungs, for what felt like the first time in years.
How had she gotten here? She sorted through what she could remember. There was Michael’s wedding, a whirlwind of too-tight shoes and anxious conversations with strangers and admonishment for throwing the flowers incorrectly. Before that was school with the girls who grew steadily meaner and the fractions that stubbornly refused to make sense. That all felt distant, now. As though, after everything that had happened, she was no longer the person who had lived all those days.
Mystified, she stood with the water lapping around her knees, trying to remember who she was and where she had gone while she had been on autopilot for the past several days. And then she was back in the car, leaning against the dark window and catching every other word of her parents’ discussion about some drama involving the other guests.
Years passed, and Anna washed up on the island fairly regularly. It was always at the end of a particularly stressful and overbooked time period, always after she turned in a challenging assignment or finished an important track meet or made up with a friend after an argument. On the island, she could be truly alive, truly herself, as she circled the beach or wandered through the dense forest. She did not have to contend with the pressures of the external world, which she sometimes wondered if she could take; she had control over her own life.
By her senior year of high school, Anna knew every inch of the island, could picture it better than she could her own house or the high-school hallways she walked every day. The night before her eighteenth birthday, she arrived on it again, in the same place as always, looking out at the sea. This time, though, something was different. The sky, formerly bright and cloudless, was dark; the water churned and roiled, splashing her face and crashing on the beach. A violent wind rustled the trees. Anna’s eyebrows knitted in distress. What was happening? In all her years coming to the island, the weather had been perfectly mild. The sky opened up as if to swallow her whole, and a torrent of rain poured down.
The ground began to shake. The water was rising–now at her knees, now her stomach. Anna scrambled to the beach, a horrible realization seeping into her mind: the island was sinking. Foolishly, she thrust her hands into the sand, scooping it into her pockets, trying to save some bit of the island from the ocean’s assault. As the water continued to rise, she took one final, frantic breath as a wave crashed over her head, pulling her under.
Anna woke gasping for breath, her heart pounding. She knew, somehow, that she could never go back to the place that had been her refuge for ten years. She shivered, wondering why it had gone away, and what she would do without it.
It wasn’t until days later that she reached into the pockets of her pajamas. Her fingers brushed sand, and she pulled them back, surprised. She could bring the island with her. It was no longer an escape but a mindset, a resolution of not waiting to live.
How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here?
How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here? How had she gotten here?
Flotsam by Jane
Miller
I’ve made it here, to a top college, I’m finally in the game. God knows how I killed myself junior and senior year of high school on essays, standardized tests, and extracurriculars to make it here, where I always thought needed to be. And do need to be here. I want to be here.
… but I don’t think I ever really thought past that. The end was always to get into a good college, and the “then what” would be answered later. Now that the “then what” is the “right now”, feel lost, like I’ve fallen behind.
I knew college was going to be challenging, and I was ready for that, but I never really thought about the fact that the college applications process was just the beginning, that the internship and job storm was going to be right there waiting for me once I washed ashore. It’s not that haven’t thought about a career, I just thought I had more time before I needed to figure things out.
Everyone’s racing towards the storm. I see it all around me, but can’t bring myself to join. I don’t want to. don’t feel like I need to. I don’t really…care. Maybe something’s wrong with me.
Where did my ambition go? When did I lose my competitive edge? Shouldn’t I be on the ground fighting alongside the rest of them? When did get so comfortable standing on the sidelines? Why can’t I get myself to care?
I look back at the storm I’ve been through and I’m proud of the work I did to get to the other side, but I turn around and there’s the next one waiting for me, further inland. know I’ll have to pass through it eventually, but I can’t get myself to go in. Not yet. Am I… burned out? Is that even possible at 20?
This doesn’t feel normal. I spend 20 minutes trying to pick out a shirt in the morning; how am supposed to
discern a career path right now? At this point in my life, there’s just nothing I’m that passionate about that I’m willing to fully commit myself to.
It’s not that I’m apathetic, I’m just starting to realize how easily time spins away from us.
I think that some people look at their lives like a series of milestones they need to hit, or a list of boxes they need to check. As the days go by, the more time spend around people with this mindset, the more conscious I’ve become of the fact that our days are numbered, and I don’t want to spend them that way at all.
Everyone is always focused on what’s next. But what about right now? Why can’t we just enjoy where we are?
Washed up on this beach, I feel tired. Life can suck, and don’t want to live mine like it’s a battle anymore; I want to enjoy my experience and be good. It feels like everyone around me is on the fast track and no one’s stopping to look out the window.
I think I would be okay if I died right here on this beach, watching the waves crash against the sand. Yellow and orange line the horizon where the sea meets the sky, eventually fading into pink and purple. I begin to tear up just thinking about the fact that if I had followed the others into the storm, never would have turned around and seen the sunset.
THANK
Creative Director: Annie Brown
Creative Assistant: Jules Ingram
Design: Grace Sullivan
Fashion: Quinn Drescher, Eliza Thayer, Sophia Noonan, Molly Foote, Raquel
Hilton, Sam Buchanan
Beauty: Alexy Monsalve, Lizzette Borjas, Aya Abendalby
Photography: MK McGuirk, Zoe Keane, Katherine O’Neal
Production: Avery Polking, Andy Donovan, Jack Duncan, Cat Bourtin, Camila
Batres, Nicole Ilg
Writing: Jane Miller, Maddie Arruebarrena, Olivia Schmitt, Ashley Hedge, Grace
Tadajweski, Jaclyn Camp, Josh Escayg
Models: Lucy Carrier, Ava Batz, John Donaruma, Alaina Thorne
Creative Director: Annie Brown
Creative Assistant: Jules Ingram
Design: Samantha Smith
Fashion: Quinn Drescher, Eliza Thayer, Sophia Noonan, Kaden Cunningham, Candice Estrada
Beauty: Alexy Monsalve, Lizzette Borjas, Brigid O’Driscoll
Photography: MK McGuirk, Zoe Keane
Production: Avery Polking, Andy Donovan, Jack Duncan, Shari Smith, Nicole Ilg
Writing: Jane Miller, Maddie Arruebarrena, Olivia Schmitt, Ashley Hedge, Grace
Tadajweski, Avery Southam, Suzanne Santiago
Models: Anna Merriam
HIGH TIDE Creative Director: Annie Brown
Creative Assistant: Jules Ingram
Design: Jada Alexandra Bautista
Fashion: Quinn Drescher, Eliza Thayer, Sophia Noonan, Zach Zieleniewski, Sam Buchanan, Madison Barquet
Beauty: Alexy Monsalve, Brigid O’Driscoll, Mikaela Gonzalez
Photography: MK McGuirk, Zoe Keane, Katherine O’Neal
Production: Avery Polking, Andy Donovan, Jack Duncan, Shari Smith, Mia Endl
Writing: Jane Miller, Maddie Arruebarrena, Olivia Schmitt, Ashley Hedge, Grace
Tadajweski, Katherine Lieberth
Models: Mary Clare Elliot, Jack Cataldo, Austin McMahon, Reid Ragsdale
YOU
WASHED UP Creative Director: Annie Brown
Creative Assistant: Jules Ingram
Design: Adam Acunin
Fashion: Quinn Drescher, Eliza Thayer, Sophia Noonan, Sofija Valancius, Raquel Hilton, Madison Barquet
Beauty: Alexy Monsalve, Lizzette Borjas, Aya Abendalby
Photography: MK McGuirk, Kiara Taylor, Zander Daigle
Production: Avery Polking, Andy Donovan, Jack Duncan, Grace Rademacher, Cat Bourtin
Writing: Jane Miller, Maddie Arruebarrena, Olivia Schmitt, Ashley Hedge, Grace Tadajweski
Models: Jin Cai, Katherine Gilboy, Isabel Olesinki
THE STORM
Creative Director: Annie Brown
Creative Assistant: Jules Ingram
Design: Taylor Dellelce
Fashion: Quinn Drescher, Eliza Thayer, Sophia Noonan, Molly Foote, Zach Zieleniewski
Beauty: Alexy Monsalve, Mikaela Gonzalez, Aya Abendalby
Photography: MK McGuirk, Zoe Keane
Production: Avery Polking, Andy Donovan, Jack Duncan, Grace Rademacher
Writing: Jane Miller, Maddie Arruebarrena, Olivia Schmitt, Ashley Hedge, Grace Tadajweski, Avery Njau
Models: Madison Lester, Simeon Imes
Thank you to Strike HQ and the Strike community for your endless support in our creation of Issue 06. Thank you for our community at Notre Dame for your love. Thank you to each and every person involved that allowed us to create this issue of Strike, we could not do it without you.
STRIKE OUT
