FADO
long ago...
the gentle art of drowning delusionally alive bean sídhe
banshee diarmuid & grainne
the sweet risk of loving the sun this could’ve been a text the geography of almost machine untitled beautifully damned should've seen it coming letters to the real me
feast changeling
CONTENTS
ABOUT THE ISSUE
Fadó
Fah-doe, Irish: "Long ago"
Liminality lives in the moments that we almost overlook. It lies in the breath before a change, the shimmer at the edge of a story, and the quiet place where myth meets the real. This issue enters those thresholds, a place where the unseen begins to take shape.We follow the pull of omens, the tension of transformation, the echo of crossing into and out of this world. Shadows double themselves, abundance becomes decay, and desire moves with the urgency of something fated. Each image leans into the in-between, where nothing is fixed and all is still possible. Fadó is our homage to the Irish narratives that anchor us, not as unbendable artifacts, but as living ideas. This issue looks back to where these stories began and forward to the forms they are still becoming.
ISSUE 09
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF
annie brown
jules ingram
CREATIVE DIRECTORS
kaden cunningham
maggie brangle
EXTERNAL DIRECTOR
sophia noonan
EXTERNAL ASSISTANT
candice estrada
PRODUCTION DIRECTOR
lily scully
PRODUCTION ASSISTANTS
norah swatland
josie humbert
DESIGN DIRECTOR
annie brown
DESIGNERS
julie tran
nguyen nguyen marcela rodriguez
BEAUTY DIRECTOR
lizette borjas
BEAUTY TEAM
lizette borjas morgan williamson
FASHION DIRECTOR quinn drescher
BOOKING DIRECTOR kaelyn maddox
STYLISTS
nansi chalulu
alexa morales-lopez
raquel hilton
blair kedwell
chaney fix
HEAD PHOTOGRAPHER
zoe keane
PHOTOGRAPHERS
shane wall
ian mackenzie
lucia reynoso donis
daniel donoso cobo
WRITING DIRECTOR
rayhana bouhara
BLOG DIRECTOR
amelia beltran
CONTENT EDITOR
natasha rathi
WRITERS
jenny miller
redmond bernhold
suryansh arora
charles sander
clara miller
annabella mayer
STAFF LIST
MARKETING & DEVELOPMENT DIRECTORS
lorin aknin madison lester
MARKETING TEAM
molly morrow
SOCIAL MEDIA TEAM
audrey fremeau
jessy luna
jacklyn messina
FINANCE DIRECTOR maria bueno
FINANCE TEAM jack morrow aj nelson
LETTER FROM
THE EDITORS
As Strike Magazine Notre Dame publishes its ninth issue, we could not be any prouder of the community this magazine has forged on our campus. We began our journeys with Strike as a photographer and a design assistant, and, in this space, we’ve been able to creatively flourish.
This issue of Strike is incredibly special to us because of the way it integrates our unique Notre Dame identity with the diverse facets of tradition and innovation. Fadó interrogates the way we carry on stories and renders the past through our collective perspective. In the magazine, references to Irish folklore and mythology find a contemporary outlet, so we’ve reimagined the conventions of fashion, art, writing, photography, and design to convey the “long ago” ahead of us all.
We are continually impressed with the Strike Notre Dame community and all the staff does to bring each and every issue’s vision to life. Thank you to our visionaries and collaborators, creative directors Kaden and Maggie, for your insight, commitment and out-of the box thinking. This is truly your creation. To Sophia and Candice, your work on the external dimension of the magazine makes all of our imaginings possible. We also would like to share our gratitude with the entire staff, especially those seniors who have traveled this story alongside us— you are all exceptionally talented, and the products of your collaborations are the real substance of each and every issue of Strike.
We hope the storytelling of this magazine speaks to everyone who comes across it. It has been a labor of love that extends beyond a single semester, and we’re glad to have the opportunity to share this with our family, friends, and campus community. Go raibh maith agat, and enjoy the tale!
Strike Out, Annie Brown and Jules Ingram
CREATIVE DIRECTORS
Creating each issue of Strike is a reminder of how much meaning can emerge from collective creativity. Our work begins as merely a handful of ideas, a mood, a feeling that we cannot quite name yet. The conversations flow and those fragments take shape as people bring their individual perspectives, skills, and a willingness to experiment. Watching this process unfold is one of the most rewarding parts of contributing to our team. We’re deeply grateful to everyone who brought their energy to this issue and to all the creative teams for building something with us that we could have not imagined alone. We love seeing everyone's personal touch in the crafting of the shoots, whether it is a slouchy sock or a beautiful necklace-- it matters. The intention and care that you all brought to each stage of this process is visible on every page. Even when the pace is fast and the pressure is real, there is a genuine passion that unites all of us. This issue is a reflection of our shared commitment to creation in a world of automation.
With admiration, Maggie Brangle and Kaden Cunningham
BANSHEETHE
The Gentle Art of Drowning
by Rayhana Bouhara
The sea is a mother. She gives birth endlessly not in warmth, but through erosion, carving coastlines with every pull of her tide. She kisses the stone, but her kiss takes more than it gives.
She is not calm. Her love does not soothe. It strips. It scours. It leaves the salt, the pressure, the silence.
To love like a mother is to erase yourself piece by piece out of devotion so absolute It forgets the self entirely.
And who is left, When the self has been washed away?
She swallows salt because she must. The sun presses into her bones as if trying to etch her into permanence. But she is not permanent.
She is carried by the current of obligation, and expectation
Can the sea drown? Perhaps not, but a mother can.
And so she returns, not to be saved, But to master the gentle art of drowning.
her kiss takes more than it gives.
Delusionally Alive
by Amelia Beltran
Delusionally Alive = envisioning great lives, crafting randomness in the world, confusing reality for fantasy, what is even real?, what are we doing, living in the process,
Life was never meant to be a dread. You find the beauty in the mundane life by imbuing it with the whimsy of curiosity. I am the creator that is unseen by the naked eye. Prancing on the endges of reality and a world so faraway from that of humans. You could say its delusion that makes me envision creations that are yet to break free from the chains of the realm of in
Bean Sídhe
by Jenny Miller
Lingering in the heavy mist, The valley echoes back the call Of promises from beyond the veil And secrets unknown to all.
Always kept away from the hearth, Shadows hover above the wall
Waiting to grasp that immortal piece That hears the desperate call.
“Oh, find your peace again in rest–Long awaited and hard fought. No other method last longer Then hearing my call you bought.”
But the breathings’ grasp pulls harder Than that voice piercing the shroud And the promise of natural light breaks Any hope of the call’s gain now.
Though the fog begins to clear, The veil lingers between breaths. Once the invitation was made, The call reminds you how it was left
DIARMUID
GRAINNE
The Sw eet Risk of Loving the Sun
WHAT I LEARNED FROM ICARUS ABOUT LOVE, BRAVERY, AND REJECTING MODERATION
by Natasha Rathi
The myth of Icarus has grown weary after being taught in high school English classrooms for decades: “Icarus flew too close to the sun, and the sun’s heat melted his wings made of wax.” They teach it to you like a cautionary tale: to warn you to learn your limits, and essentially to tell you to stay small enough to stay safe; to steer away from excessive ambition and hubris.
Icarus has followed me into adulthood in ways I did not expect, not via the classic lesson that it is supposedly meant to teach you, but rather the moment right before the fall, the split second when he let himself believe he deserved the sun. I see Icarus as someone brave enough to chase what his heart desired, even if it meant melting for it. So no, I don’t believe the story of Icarus is a cautionary tale; rather, it teaches you a myriad of lessons that you probably did not let yourself interpret in high school. When I look at what makes life meaningful, I think of love, ambition, and a real hunger, but what are these things if not the dangerous pull towards the light and the heat of the sun, and inevitably yet most importantly, the possibility of burn? People often forget that before Icarus fell, he flew. He flew higher than he was expected to, higher than the constructed ideal, and higher than the seemingly perfect average altitude. Before he was swallowed by the water as he fell, he kissed the sun. Before consequence, there was a sense of hunger, and pure, molten, and unashamed desire. What if that’s the point all along?
The version of this myth that I keep close to my heart is the part of the story they conveniently skip when they first enlighten you with this story. As Icarus fell, he laughed.
But what if Icarus chose the moderation path: would we ever know his name? What poem has ever been written about restraint? What inventions or discoveries have been made without the blip of serendipity, accident, and steering further away from caution? Who discovered anything without the bravery and risk of facing the heat?
A meaningful life to me is achieved via leaving a mark on this Earth, not necessarily something enormous, but to leave the Earth while knowing I will be remembered. I firmly believe that we are not built for the middle. When we want things, we should want them to the edge of ache. And that is for us to dictate. There’s nothing romantic about holding back. There is nothing memorable about moderation.
To experience life, we almost certainly must fly to the beautiful blistering edges of the sky, in whatever realm of life you find meaning in, whatever “sky” means to you. To me, it is love and ambition. Those are two things I want to and always will fly too high for.
Here are my lessons from Icarus’ tale that make life meaningful to me: fly too high, love too intensely, and want dangerously. Let your life leave scorch marks on the world. Be kinder than necessary. Study harder than required. Tell people how you feel while you can. When you fall (and know that you will), laugh. Remember, it’s not failure, it’s a proof of momentum, it’s a proof of your bravery. It’s proof that you put your heart on the line. It’s proof you dared. You can always drag yourself back up from a fall; you most certainly cannot resurrect a life that was spent in fearful moderation.
When we want things, we should want them to the edge of ache
This Could’ve Been a Text
by Jenny Miller
There’s always an excuse.
An explanation away for our actions, our words, our choices.
We say things like, “that wasn’t me. I just had too much to drink last night.” or, when we’re confronted with our mispeach or callous remarks, we have no reason to apologize, not really. Afterall, we were having a bad day, bad week, bad year. Actually, the confronter made us say what we did, whether through their own callous remarks (perceived or otherwise), reminding us of something we would rather not remember, or by simply existing. They started it, we were just holding boundaries.
We truly have no reason to apologize. That wasn’t us. At least, not really. Sure, it was our voice, our body present in the scenario, and our deliberate choices, but under any other circumstance we never would’ve said or done that. Except when those circumstances occur, because that’s different. That’s not our fault; we were just responding in the way we felt appropriate at the time. And if at the time we truly felt it was appropriate, then what do we have to say “sorry” for. Everybody makes mistakes, why does the confronter have to bring it up? If everybody knows this aphorism, then why oh why confronter, do you constantly remind us? We already know, and so do you.
And, did you have to critique us in front of others? You could have at least done it in private, or over text. At least then we would not actually have to be present to the confronting. We could have thought up the appropriate response and responded within the hour. But instead, here we are, in front of the others, who now also know of the mistake, and in the moment you, confronter, expect us to respond to a mistake we made? Again, that was not us; not really. You know us, we never would have said or done something like that under any other circumstances. In fact,
You are being rather insensitive, confronter.
This is a vulnerable moment for us, and you knew that.
And you did it in front of others.
Did you even think how it would affect us, confronting us with something we did?
What’s that, confronter?
You didn’t mean it like that?
vulnerable you flee
The Geography Of Almost
by Reddy Bernhold
I still remember the taste of melancholy honey
Dandelion wine perfuming my windowless bedroom
Staring at the popcorn sealing, I can hear waves cement into sandstone, Your laughs echo off the walls
Enchantment stirs my ventricles
Shivers surge down my spine though it’s July
And I will always remember that feeling
Our breaths poisoned with minerals, seashells, grapes, and evergreen
A euphoria under the warm yellow light
Vanilla white walls insulated our sparks
It was the first time I felt something supernatural
Something different, unfamiliar, uncanny even
The second I wasn’t looking, there you were
The voices from beyond—
The magic from within
Just feet away from the waters of purity
Adorned with the lives of those who gave everything
There we were
Atlantic voyages flushed what once was
Oracles who told tales of love
Butterflies that fluttered onto blades of grass, bulbs of sunflowers, and pink peonies
A place where fairies once dwelled into the pastures of the past
For a moment, we felt this.
The tiny island became ours
Skyscrapers crumbling to the sidewalks
Lights beaming into Leo regressing to Cancer
But eventually all breaths become air
Nature can cease, too.
Salient in the cool effervescence
With nothing left until a mere essence
I see your figure in the kitchen, grabbing a small nickel spoon
Glasses slide down your roman nose
You nearly say it, but you don’t
You flee
What happened to the AC?
Now I can feel the heat
Pouring into the daylight
Pooling cigarette stench
Masquerading the twoweek-old wine
Everything falls away into the screams from the street
If only you could see me now, numbing to the pain of your fleet
But you can’t
I bet you can’t even see yourself in the bronze mirror
Nonetheless in the fields of what we had.
Pictures and tags
camouflage your chuckles, our chuckles
A curated pomp and circumstance of fleeting attempts
Budapest, Dublin, London
I swipe them away — Knowing it won’t happen again
they ran, but fate ran faster
f e a s t
Machine
Charles Sander
i only recently realized my whole life has been the product of this disastrous well-oiled machine.
a maze of carrots and sticks that we’ve all been taught to navigate for (better or for) worse.
the climb up the pyramid is a head rush of prizes and awards and “good job!” and high fives and “keep it up!” and gold stars: so damn intoxicating.
but when you climb so high on some pyramid whose name you never really knew, you forget what it was like
to sit at the bottom and look out your foggy car window, nose pressed against the glass, and the world flies past and you imagine yourself in the clouds, and you have a dream, a purpose, a direction.
i knew i was there once, but i couldn’t point to the cloud I dreamed of. that old version was encapsulated in a shell and hollowed out, leaving nothing but a caricature of all i knew to love.
an accolade, what is it for?
i’ve heard that old paternalistic argument: we know what is best, and we must honor it, and we must ensure all follow suit.
maybe it’s true, yes, i could do, all that our grandparents have decided was best.
but what’s the thrill? where is the life in a roller coaster that rides smooth and never dares to leave the ground?
i want to be screaming, sobbing, laughing, crying, soaring through the peaks and the valleys with my hands flailing in the air, eyes wide open, taking it all in.
one day i will.
i just hope i have time to escape the machine.
with my hands flailing in the air, eyes wide open, taking it all in.
Good Eats
Suryansh Arora
We found the creature deep in the northern woods, far from any path marked on our maps. The trees grew so dense that sunlight reached the ground in thin, cold strips. Snow covered everything in a sheet that looked clean from afar but felt heavy and old once you stepped into it. My friend said he felt watched. I agreed, although neither of us said much.
The stories came from fishermen who lived near the coast. Something large moved through the water and crawled onto land during the longest nights of winter. They called it a relic from a time before farms and villages. They spoke with a kind of quiet dread, as if the creature kept some unwritten agreement with the land.
We tracked it for hours. The prints looked wrong for any living animal. Too long. Too deep. Sometimes in pairs, sometimes in threes. The snow around them carried a faint smell of salt. When we found it, it lay beside a frozen stream, half submerged, half exposed. Its body looked like a mixture of fur and armored skin, stiff from the cold. Its head rested against a boulder as if it chose that spot to die. No roar. No struggle. Just an enormous shape that breathed slowly, each breath shaking ice from its sides.
We moved closer. The creature lifted its eyes toward us. They held no fear. Only a kind of weary recognition. As if it had seen people like us many times before. The spear struck first. It sank in easier than I expected. The creature exhaled and went still. No dramatic collapse. The world simply absorbed the moment. Skinning it felt like work done in silence. The smell rose quickly, thick
and metallic. Steam curled upward and vanished into the cold air. My hands moved without much thought. The body opened with a strange ease, as if the creature accepted the process. We cooked the meat over a fire built with whatever dry wood we could find. The flames burned low and blue. The meat darkened fast, releasing a scent that felt unfamiliar yet strangely inviting. Hunger made the choice for us.
The first bite tasted wild in a way I never experienced. Heavy. Mineral-rich. It felt like eating something pulled straight from the beginning of the world. My friend swallowed and stared at the ground for a long time. Neither of us spokefor several minutes.
The warmth spread through my chest slowly. My fingertips tingled. A strange clarity settled in my mind, like the cold air entered my blood. My heartbeat felt slower, deeper. The forest around us felt closer, as if listening. We finished the meal, though each bite felt heavier than the last. When the fire died down, we buried the bones beneath a pile of stones. It felt like the right thing to do, though I could not say why.
Walking back to camp, my limbs felt stronger. My hearing seemed sharper. Every crack of ice and distant shift of branches stood out clearly. I carried the sense that the creature stayed with us somehow, quiet and steady, sitting in the back of the mind like a memory we never earned.
A feast like that changes the body. It also changes the land that gave it. Some meals simply fill you.
Beautifully Damned
Amelia Beltran
It was always going to be us and the stars. Twinkling down upon the masses of the poor, shameless, and unadulted. We were like gods in velvet, coming down for the fun of the mortal world.
Imagine a room, covered in roguish flickering candle light that blows as the champagne flows and sputtered throughout the room. Velvety swirls found on the prints of thick moody curtains over the tall Victorian windows. Great feast of colors, beauty, intoxication. It was all like one long induced smokey dream. Creatures not meant for the earth, swaying and sweeping the marble-tiled floors as silky colors waft around. Stone statues with hard Roman frowns and expressionless distaste looked upon us but we didn’t care. Who would? Don’t make me laugh, for the beautiful can never be damned!
So long petty flights of mind-numbing bores in starch suits, flutes of bubbles sloshing about as toasts and roasts are said and served. Only strings of pearls are served here on platters titillatingly piled high with the delicacies of another life. Who could stop us as we fluttered like the comets we were? Ripping through crowds of jeweled peacocks, laughter and crystal reverberates and imbudes you inside this chaotic symphony of color, sounds, and decadence.
We live in these parties. Sucking the oxygen out of life and breathing out the vapors of beauty. It doesn’t matter if tonight is forgotten, if we are forgotten, because tomorrow as the rays of sun manages to breakthrough the night, we’ll still smirk and laugh out that nothing can touch us. For we shall always be beautiful young fools twinkling like stars.
changeling
Should’ve Seen It Coming
Charles Sanders
Yesterday, we were just nine years old, frolicking in the park with our toy dolls, and shooting basketballs.
You came over after school, and we built a pillow fort, then we walked my dog over to your house, and we bounced and flailed and giggled on the trampoline in the backyard until the sun began to set, and then we ran to the river and sat on the rocky beach and told each other we were going to get married.
Yeah, I should’ve seen it coming.
The Friday nights in high school, when I drove over to your place, watched you get ready through the bathroom mirror, while pretending to explore the vinyl collection on your bookshelf.
Then we picked up our friends, went to the houseparty, and we all made out with some other face. we skipped the afterparty like clockwork, and we went back to your backyard, and sprawled out on that same trampoline, far too small for us now, looked up at the stars, and we giggled hysterically: who puked in the bushes, who our crushes were, who flirted, who fumbled, and who we swore we’d never become.
We were just friends.
But yeah, I should’ve seen it coming.
When we sat in the same place at the park at twenty years old, skipping rocks across the river past sunset, and we reminisced about the toy dolls that my mom found while cleaning out the attic last week. and, you revealed: I love you.
I giggled at first, but I knew what you meant. I always knew, and the feeling was mutual.
But was it too late? I already had everything I ever wanted.
I didn’t need to kiss or touch you to love you. To tarnish our eleven years of childlike love with a vulgar kiss seemed a crime.
We had already loved for so long, why must anything change?
You reached for my hand, and I jerked mine away. But I responded: I love you too.
I don’t know if I understand what it means to love. But I hope you understand me.
Will it ever be the same? Can it ever be the same?
letters to the real me
by Reddy Bernhold
I know you are somewhere beyond the icy hills. I can hear your cries billowing through your mother’s withering bosom. Her aches call out from her bedroom every night, like a wolf’s shriek cast into Capricorn.
Oh, so sweet soul I know you are. Our powers would’ve possessed something much greater than the heart. We were meant to prance the forest, seize the stars, frost the lake. To become. Then it all fell from forces beyond our destiny.
I must now take your place, if only to heal your maimed mother.
//
Our genetic entanglement pulls tighter each day. We are more connected with each passing season. I feel your essence in each crevice of the lace and thread of the quilt.
The horizon crystallizes our emergence. For nature, you are. For your mother, I must. I will.
Together, we are tethered to two realities.
//
I see your silhouette in the forest behind the poison bushes. I feel your aura in the wind, enchanted for only a moment, calling into the gray-fallen depths. My waves signal the trees — hush. Hush. Rustles startle rabbits, their kindred souls. Feel alive. Feel alive.
Reminders of the sudden past come and go, pushing me closer to Mother. She is haunted by the ghost of your past and ghosts of my present. Her aches are larger than Hydra.
//
Your jasmine scent has perfumed only the creek. Whispers of your name leak through the walls. The house harrows your essence yet forgoes my waltz.
//
I stare into the rusty bronze mirror. A ladybug flies onto my hand — protection. This dress traces my figure like a wing stroking the air. Mother’s dress is a perfect fit, and she said my blonde hair bounces like hers used to.
She knows it’s not inheritance, but she still chuckles and smiles.
//
The berries now call to me in the forest. The lakes echo. The trees creak. Birds chirp to the harmony of my skip. Today, I even saw a fawn frolic on the hill that overlooks the plains.
Spring has come, and so has the smell of honey. Its warmth relaxes the tension buried in the buzzing bees and stirring creatures from within.
//
Today, on the summer solstice, I can finally feel the sun’s full radiance. I see myself running through the coral horizon. Alas! My Saturn returns.
Frost and greenery have long subdued my powers; now the coral horizon flaunts a second chance. Humidity dances around, and I stumble. I’m free. I’m free. I’m free.
humidity dances around,
and I stumble.
I’m free. I’m free. I’m free.
THANK
BANSHEE
Creatjve Directors: Kaden Cunningham & Maggie Brangle
Design: Julie Tran
Fashion: Quinn Drescher, Kaelyn Maddox, Blair Kedwell, Chaney Fix, Nansi Chalulu, Raquel Hilton, & Alexa Morales-Lopez
Beauty: Lizzette Borjas & Morgan Williamson
Photography: Zoe Keane & Ian MacKenzie
Production: Lily Scully, Norah Swatland, & Josie Humbert
Writing:
Models:
DIARMUID & GRAINNE
Creative Directors: Kaden Cunningham & Maggie Brangle
Design: Marcela Rodriguez
Fashion: Quinn Drescher, Kaelyn Maddox, Blair Kedwell, Chaney Fix, Nansi Chalulu, Raquel Hilton, & Alexa Morales-Lopez
Beauty: Lizzette Borjas & Morgan Williamson
Photography: Zoe Keane, Daniel Donoso Cobo
Production: Lily Scully, Norah Swatland, & Josie Humbert
Writing: Natasha Rathi, Jenny Miller, & Reddy Bernhold
Models:
YOU
FEAST
Creative Directors: Kaden Cunningham & Maggie Brangle
Design: Nguyen Nguyen
Fashion: Quinn Drescher, Kaelyn Maddox, Blair Kedwell, Chaney Fix, Nansi Chalulu, Raquel Hilton, & Alexa Morales-Lopez
Beauty: Lizzette Borjas & Morgan Williamson
Photography: Zoe Keane
Production: Lily Scully, Norah Swatland, & Josie Humbert
Writing: Charlers Sander, Suryansh Arora, & Amelia Beltran
Models:
CHANGELING
Creative Directors: Kaden Cunningham & Maggie Brangle
Design: Annie Brown
Fashion: Quinn Drescher, Kaelyn Maddox, Blair Kedwell, Chaney Fix, Nansi Chalulu, Raquel Hilton, & Alexa Morales-Lopez
Beauty: Lizzette Borjas & Morgan Williamson
Photography: Zoe Keane & Shane Wall
Production: Lily Scully, Norah Swatland, & Josie Humbert
Writing: Reddy Bernhold & Charles Sanders
Models:
Thank you to Strike HQ and the Strike community for your endless support in our creation of Issue 09. 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
