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From The Editors
CO-MANAGING EDITORS
HEAD ART EDITOR
ART EDITORS
CO-HEAD LIT EDITORS
LIT EDITORS
HANNAH GUPTA
AUDREY NGUYEN
KATELYN WANG
VIBHA BESAGI
JESSICA LI
EDEN LIU
CAROLINE TIERNEY
SHIRIN PATEL
ANOUK FREUDENBERG
SARAH WENG
ETHAN LOI
NAVAMI MULGURMATH
HEAD BUSINESS EDITOR
BUSINESS EDITORS
HEAD COPY EDITOR
COPY EDITORS
AMY LI
ZION BROWN
AYANKA KUDALUGODAARACHCHI
ADA LAVELLE
SUKANYA MENON
JESSICA JOSEPH
ELISE GERSTLE
COLE MARSHALL
EZOZA MUKHAMMADONOVA
ARCHANA NAIR
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Dear Readers,
Congratulations on your admission into Folio University!
We are proud to represent a space in which students can contribute their diverse creative voices and perspectives. This academic year, the University is revolutionizing its educational approach by allowing students across all disciplines to experience and engage with all of our academic colleges. And so, we strongly encourage you to explore all of the narratives and mediums our colleges have to offer.
From beginning to end, this year has been nothing short of unexpected. In 2024— an election year and overall a year full of conflict and change—we experienced significant cultural and social shifts. Artificial intelligence continues to permeate our media and culture. The social and political polarization that divides us has only intensified as more and more people are becoming more vocal about their thoughts and beliefs. During this time of uncertainty and tumult, many of us turned to literature and art; some as a form of expression, others as a reprieve from the pressing matters of the world.
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In addition to our staff, we would like to extend our gratitude to our trustees— advisors Mr. Smith and Mrs. Wilson, without whom this publication would not have been possible. Thank you for your unwavering dedication to The Folio. Thank you for building the Folio community we cherish so much, and thank you for creating an environment that fosters individuality and inspiration in all of us. You are and will always be our rocks.
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Table of Contents
The Laboratory
Sunken
The Library
Nicholas Jernigan
Arima Agrawal
Ezoza Mukhammadomonova
Navami Mulgurmath
Gerstle
Orr
in Complementary Colors
Niharika Sule
Woman Without a Face
Caroline Tierney
Just a War
Ezoza Mukhammadomonova
Sea of Somebodies
Ezoza Mukhammadomonova
Gerstle
tick, tock
Gigi Prothero
Solace
Jessica Li
Amnesia
Jayna Grossman
The Gallery
82
83
84
Silhouetted Angel
Gigi Prothero
New York Skyline
Gigi Prothero
UPPERCASE LETTERS
Rey Bandyopadhyay
Shadow Sun
Esther Loi
Can you hear it?
Vibha Besagi
Parasite
Sarah Weng
The Jester
Esther Loi
Ghoul in the Night
Esther Loi until i(t) turn(s) purple
Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi
Ballerina
Marina Azmaiparashvili
Love + Other Things
Zwierzchowski
Katelyn Wang
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
The Laboratory
The sciences. Physics. Biology. Chemistry. Seemingly so far removed from the art and literature we accept. But, is there not a magic that is felt when we reach the stars? When we heal the human body? At Folio University, we urge you to look beyond. Think creatively and be open minded (but not open-toed!) in our laboratory.
I’ve always loved plants. Ever since I was a child, I’ve found myself caring for a variety of flora and fauna. Whether that be by watering my mother’s flowers whenever she’d forget, or simply by talking to the tiny succulents that lined my windowsill. I didn’t care that some of the flowers weren’t as bright as the others, or how my cacti sometimes poked me when I’d try to open my window. I loved them all equally. Well… Not all of them, I suppose. There was one plant that had taken root within my very heart and soul. The giant banyan tree in my backyard. It was my favorite. I’d watched most of the plants at our house grow. Seeing them transform from little seedlings, watching them grow taller, their buds slowly forming, flowers slowly blooming. Not the banyan tree though. It had been around even before my time. While I watched the other plants grow, the banyan tree watched me. I had an almost intrinsic bond with the banyan tree. I would lay under its branches and read, its dense foliage shading my young body from the harsh sunlight. I’d fall asleep to the soothing sound of the wind rustling through its leaves, leaning back against its strong, firm trunk. When I still had the agility and energy, I’d even climb up onto its branches and sit amongst the lush green leaves, and take in my surroundings. The banyan tree in my backyard has been a constant in my life, a firm anchor, an unwavering pillar. It wasn’t, no, it isn’t just any old
tree. It’s my banyan tree and I love it. My banyan tree is dying how it got to this point, and honestly, I don’t know if I want to. As the years passed, the amount of time I spent with my banyan tree gradually decreased. This distance reached its peak once I moved away. I left my childhood home, and my banyan tree along with it. I would always try to visit whenever I could, but I suppose it just wasn’t enough. I still remember when I got the call from my mom. She sounded somewhat serious, which wasn’t like her. That was when she told me–that was when I found out–the banyan tree was sick. My banyan tree was sick. My constant, my anchor, my pillar. How could this happen? How could something that symbolizes strength and longevity get sick? It didn’t make sense then, and it doesn’t make sense now. It feels shameful to admit, but it took me a while to muster up the courage to go back once I’d heard the news. To me, it was almost like, if I didn’t go, if I didn’t see it before
my very eyes, then I could just pretend it wasn’t real. I couldn’t stay away forever though. After all, I loved my tree with everything I had.
It had always been there for me whenever I needed it, so how could I abandon It when It
fInally needed me?
I don’t know how I ever thought I was ready for this. How could I have thought that I’d be ready to see my strong banyan tree in such a weakened state? All the feelings of courage that I had
mustered up, and the strong facade that I had crafted with such painstaking precision, fell apart as soon as I saw her. My poor banyan tree. She was nothing like I remembered her. Her once coarse but firm branches that could easily carry the weight of my nine-year-old self now drooping down, sagging under a seemingly invisible weight. Leaves that were once a brilliant green now a sickly brown and riddled with holes. Even the bark of the tree had become so brittle, some parts even peeling off. My mother told me how she had tried all sorts of things: pruning, aerating, fertilizing, mulching. She even talked to some professionals, but no matter what any of them tried, my banyan tree just wasn’t getting better. It was as though she was refusing the treatment, and a part of me couldn’t help but be angry at that. Why wouldn’t she just get better? It certainly wasn’t for a lack of trying. Everyone was trying. My mom was trying, the professionals she hired were trying, hell, even I was trying just by being here. My banyan tree was the only one who wouldn’t try, and she’s still the only one who won’t try. It’s like she doesn’t want to get better, but I know that isn’t true. It can’t be true. I know my banyan tree. My banyan tree is strong, and has always been there for me. She’s my constant, my anchor, my pillar. I know she wants to get better. She can’t possibly enjoy living like this, suffering and in pain, no one can. She must want to get better. Because if she doesn’t… then what am I going to do without her? My banyan tree has to get better, and she will. Whether it takes weeks, months, or even years, I know she will get better. And I will be by her side, every step of the way, forever and always.
Fish Photography
Gigi Prothero
Tierney
Coral Reef Painting
Caroline
Content Warning: Domestic violence
EGreenGRASS
ver since Evan moved into the neighborhood all I could do was think of him and his perfect family. As soon as Evan and his family moved right next to my house, they put up this nice, pristine fence. Their grass was always perfectly green; so green it almost looked stained. I couldn’t say the same about my family’s worn, yellow grass. I still remember the day they moved in. The boxes were huge, and one of the movers dropped a box, making a loud thudding noise. The box opened and a mountain of toys flowed out of it. I wished I could play with the newest toys, for it would make me so happy. I was stuck with this worn stuffed animal that I had since I was one, which was a faded blue.
Evan was an only child with jet black hair that was always slicked back. I don’t remember his mother, for I almost never saw her, but I do remember his dad. He was a tall, wide man with black glasses, and he always wore dark brown shoes around the house. He also had black hair just like his son. He had this sort of presence when he entered a room. Everyone knew who he was, and everyone talked about him. I never knew what made people talk about him so much. I guess some people were just born to be in the spotlight. Our neighborhood was made from a cookie cutter; all the houses looked the same. They were all low hanging, beige houses with a small patio in the front.
Evan was never nice to me; in fact, he was terrible to me. Whenever I was in my front yard, he would always mock me over the fence, saying stuff like, “Having fun out there all by yourself, wimp?” He
Laboratory
would never keep quiet, and it annoyed me so much. He would throw objects over the fence at my head. One day, one of those objects hit my head really hard and caused a loud ringing in my ear. I started crying and ran into my house, exclaiming to my mother, “Evan…. Evan hurt me!” My mom flew out the door holding my hand, and marched right up to the fence, ready to confront that snot-nosed kid. She yelled at him to get his father immediately, and Evan responded quickly to her authority. I was shocked to see my mother in such a powered position, and it soothed me that she was there to protect me. I glanced up at her and offered a smile to her, and she smiled back.
Evan’s dad soon came up to the fence and towered over my mother. She instantly lost her confidence to this intimidating man. He shouted, “Why are you wasting my time?” “Your son hurt my child,” my mom said. “No, I didn’t,” Evan said, and his dad stared down at my mom saying, “No he didn’t,” and walked away. She was on the other side of the fence, so she couldn’t do anything besides mutter to herself. The grass flattened underneath Evan’s dad. Even the grass loved him, I thought. The grass praised him.
Dinner was just as usual that day, microwaved spaghetti. I ate it every day, and I grew distasteful
Declan MacDonald
of it. I brushed my fork through my spaghetti, not actually eating it. “Why aren’t you eating your food,” my mom said, and I replied with, “I don’t want to eat it. I don’t want to do anything with you.” She looked at my wearily. “Do you want to watch a movie with me? You can choose,” she said. I didn’t even respond. I ran to my room shut the door and looked out the window. I saw Evan’s house. Evan’s house was so perfect, not like my family. His dad wouldn’t be weak, like my mom. I fell asleep dreaming that Evan and I could swap places, and I could live like a king on the other side of that fence, where that grass would cower to me.
The next day, I overheard Evan’s dad talking to a neighbor on his porch. “What was that tussle I heard yesterday with your neighbor,” she said. He responded with, “Why do you care?” That seemed to shut her up. I couldn’t hear anything else, but she soon walked away.
That night I had the sudden urge to jump the fence and see what Evan’s life was like over there. Maybe if I peeked through the window, I could see his perfect life. The sun was beginning to set, and I snuck out of my house to jump the fence. I leaped over the fence easily, which I’ve never done before, and ran through Evan’s grass. The grass felt different, but I didn’t think of it before I made it to one of their windows. I slowly walked myself up to their front window, looking into their living room. I crept under their window and found a right angle where I could comfortably investigate their house. I then saw Evan and his dad. I also saw Evan’s mom, sitting in a chair, reading a book. I stayed laser focused on them, breathing in every movement they made. I heard the dad say to Evan, “Do you know how embarrassing it was to deal with your shit yesterday? A neighbor came up to my door to talk about it. Do you even realize how em-
barrassed I was? How mad I was that you are such a stupid, stupid child? You disgust me.”
I then saw him pull it out. It snapped in the air and came down in a thunderous boom on Evan’s face. It then recoiled and cracked back on Evan’s face again. The noise was terrible, and Evan’s face was covered in tears, but he did not make a single noise. He dared not to fear his father’s wrath again. What horrified me the most was that the mother did not look up from reading her book.
“The grass flattened underneath Evan’s dad. Even the grass loved him, I thought. The grass praised him.”
I ran out of their patio still hearing the very faint noise of it cracking through the air, repeatedly striking Evan again. I looked down at the bright green grass on their lawn, and it was creeping towards me, holding me against my will like a bunch of thick vines wrapping around my feet. The grass was evil, the grass was evil. I made it back to my house, my lungs refilling with air every breath I took. I shut the door on my house and ran into my mother’s arms. My eyes watered and my voice shook as I talked to my mother.
“I’m sorry mom, I love you. I love our yellow grass, I love our spaghetti dinners, I love my stuffed animal. I love you.” I loved how the grass in my front lawn was rough when I ran it through my fingers, how the spaghetti was always warm and how my stuffed animal felt when I rubbed it against my cheek. All of Evan’s belongings were fake, and had no meaning to him, yet I envied them for some reason. My belongings were unique, and I loved them for that. Every day I looked over at Evan, he was suffering. That green grass had no meaning. The green grass was never actually green. It was all dead, painted with the chemical stain of green colors. “Can I watch a movie with you, Mom?” She looked down at me and offered a smile. We then watched a movie.
Marina Azmaiparashvili
Signagi, Georgia Oil paint
Forest Eye
Ceramic Lucy Schwarz
Of Monsters and Men
Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi
CIA OPERATIVE #8724867- ENTRY 1
October 17, 2024
The first attack was yesterday. Boston, Massachusetts. The first, but likely not the last. It was a massacre— an absolute bloodbath. News channels are being sent into a frenzy, fear-mongering as they know best. The people are terrified and it only got worse when the CCTV footage was leaked earlier today. There were millions of reposts worldwide: America, China, France, Brazil, Australia...the footage is everywhere. It’s clear whatever started the attack was not human. Comments go on and on about how it moved with unearthly speed, long claws ripping out voice boxes and raking at people’s chests. Well, that and the fact that just before the attack, human skin melted right off the creature, collecting in a goopy puddle on the pavement.
CIA OPERATIVE #8724867 - ENTRY 2
October 20, 2024
Shapeshifters. Mimics. Therianthropes. People are throwing out names like candy on Halloween. But it hasn’t changed anything. No matter what you call them, it won’t stop the attacks. Law enforcement troops are being deployed in every major city in the USA. Except the creatures are popping up everywhere now; not only in the US, but around the world. Forums are exploding with theories about where these creatures came from, and what their end goal is. Many claim they’re a failed government experiment, and others are going as far as to say that they were mutations created by a higher being to wipe out the human race. But they’re only fragments of the truth.
CIA OPERATIVE #8724867 - ENTRY 3
October 21, 2024
The CIA has uncovered evidence suggesting that these creatures are something even more vile than we could have imagined. They aren’t a failed experiment, but a successful one. A secret society has infiltrated governments across the globe, taking their intelligence and resources to create these mutants. To wipe out the human race and leave the planet to organisms more deserving of it than us. And now, we know that their goal isn’t just to kill. The attack last night in Tokyo was the first where not everyone was left dead. The creatures would create long gashes along backs, arms, and chests, and a black liquid would ooze out of the wounds. Then, the transformation began and the people became the very monsters that attacked them. The creatures are reproducing if you will, and the CIA is coining it as “turning” people. Global leaders are assuring citizens that everything is under control, but behind closed doors, there are hushed whispers and secret phone calls. There is panic. Fear. Death. But perhaps, it’s for the best.
CIA OPERATIVE #8724867 - ENTRY 4
October 25, 2024
It's absolute chaos. I've never seen anything like it. People are locking themselves inside their houses, preferring starving to death over being torn apart. Some have taken advantage of the situation, parading as a creature in disguise to get what they want. I don't blame them. The creatures are starting to take over. There are hundreds of attacks every day. More deaths. More people being turned. We have one in confinement at least, which we’re using to learn more about them. Or we were, before it ripped its own heart out. These monsters have intelligence, and that’s not even the worst of it. They can secrete poison out of their claws, which is what causes the rapid mutation of the people they turn. Their cells make ATP 81 times faster than ours, allowing them to move with lightning speed and agility. It's terrifying and yet beautiful.
CIA OPERATIVE #8724867 - ENTRY 5
October 29, 2024
I never expected it to get this far. Entire governments are collapsing as the world falls into complete anarchy. Even the CIA is suffering from instability. People are scared, and rightfully so. But it seems these creatures are doing far more than just killing and converting. They are completely dismantling society and thrusting it into hell. I admire them, to be honest. It’s remarkable how quickly they’ve brought the world to its knees. And we can already see the results of their efforts. Forests are recovering, vines are taking over abandoned buildings, animals are creating new homes in the chaos. Their vision is coming to life. And as much as I love humanity, I believe our time has come to an end. I always have.
CIA OPERATIVE #8724867 - ENTRY 6
October 30, 2024, 11:48 PM
Our organization’s labor has now borne fruit, juicy and flavorful. The CIA has crumbled, so there’s no need for me to keep up this facade. Our mission is in its final stages; the human race is running on its last dregs of fuel. I've already injected myself with my share of serum. I want to be part of this final act, to become one of the saviors of this world. These creatures are the symbols of a new era, one that I wish to become a part of.
CIA OPERATIVE #TRAITOR - ENTRY 7
October 31, 2024, 12:00 AM
The transformation is almost complete. You may be thinking I am vile, terrifying. Perhaps even a monster. And that’s okay. I am all of those things. But I am also a hero, and this world will remember me. The age of humans is over, and the age of skin-walkers shall begin. So, happy Halloween. Because it shall be the last.
My Dream House
Watercolor
Pranavika Vijayabalan Parvathi
The Ring of Kerry
Chalk pastel
Kiera McHugh
THE Periodic ‘R O U N D
T A B L E
Ethan Loi
Once upon a time long forgotten, There was a reunion, long-awaited, Of former students, good and rotten, With every single one equated.
Amongst them, one called Hydie. Lighthearted, yes, but stern. Her dress was good and tidy, And from work did she adjourn.
Our high school class reunion! 10 years… Can you believe it? We enter school in union, But apart we have to leave it…
When she arrived, she looked about. The people here… She thought… Yeah… it is them. She had no doubt. Though they had changed a lot...
For example: Liam Lithic. In school, the shyest of the class. The change was almost mythic… Repairing phones and blowing glass?
The opposite would be Wyatt Tung. The class’s greatest runner. His actions praised, those praises sung, Each step he took, a stunner.
Every single former student entered. Streamers flowed across the wall, All crookedness was centered, Everyone was standing tall.
Hydie stood next to Phoebe Beck, Who now played heavy metal rock. In school she was a toxic wreck, But now she’s polite enough to talk.
Everyone sat down at a table, Though it did take a little while. The aesthetic was like a fable, And very Victorian in style.
Beside Hydie was Eudora Porter, Who just came home from Greece. In school she was a “bully thwarter,” College failed to make it cease.
The room had grown so quiet, And the lights began to dim. From Amy down to Wyatt, Now they all awaited him.
Oliver Oxley-Tai. The ever-gracious host. Then he raised a chalice high, And there, announced a toast.
“To Hydie!” He proclaimed, however, Very much to her surprise... “Lovers once and friends forever!” He stated, a glimmer in his eyes.
“Now, grab the tablecloth!” He said. She did with some hesitation.
“And toss it now over your head! It’s time for the presentation!”
“So now, I do implore you! Please see as you are able… Of what wonder lies before you: The Periodic Table!”
The table was engraved a decade ago, On Hydie’s graduation. A warm feeling in her began to grow, Filling her with strange elation.
Oliver gently tapped her shoulder, And asked her for a dance. Although both of them were older, She gave him a second chance.
The dance went on for hours and hours, Until it was extremely late. Hydie went home with a bundle of flowers. She had to plan tomorrow’s date.
- Hydie Gennings
LOBSTAH
Ceramic
Sadie Breault
Ethereal Bloom
Jessica Joseph
Photography
Jellyfish
Acrylic paint
Karen Hang
Sun Rays
Colored pencil
Lauren Sweet
The Library
Envelop yourself in the prose and poetry of the classics, discover authors in the short story columns of the magazines, and discuss your thoughts! (But only out loud on the lower levels, please. It gets quieter as you go up.) Since we like to keep our books intact, please do not light the decorative candles. As much as we study Fahrenheit 451, we do not need a demonstration of book burning.
Sunken Treasure
Watercolor & colored pencil
Karen Hang
The Ship
Nicholas Jernigan
I do not understand why, nor where these feelings of randomly spurred, unexpected contentment are spawned from, however these now rare moments have become — as contradictory as it may sound — synonymous with crippling uncertainty.
A deluded handicap of my own making; I confuse myself with unexplainable duress and occasional unprovoked relishment of existence. I am the unwilling passenger to an unwieldy ship of constant inertia, rocking between moments of tranquility — escapism wrought on through the childlike nostalgia one bornes from the air in the midst of a storm — to times of immense blackness. As if tendrils of dark were encompassing my body, smothering any attempt of escape, dragging it — now tired from the futile exhaustive effort of trying to break loose — from the ship’s gleaming hull into the murky waters below, the current excited. Body churned with the waves, my thoughts attempt to form but become ransacked by the next impeding force, a wave catapulting my body onto the surface of the water. I sink, the current plunging me farther into the depths. I inhale a futile breath of saline water, choking as I close my eyes and allow myself to think.
And then the sea calms, and the ship has reappeared, and I am returned to the same silver hull I was once comfortable on, the ship an inconceivable tranquility in the waves of disorder; body still engrossed in the products of my imagination; mind in a state of torpor by infeasible creations of not.
I am dazed and humiliated by the incoherence of my mind. Ashamed of my incompetence; of my failed attempts to fight what did not exist in the first place.
I view my damaged body, but the forceful results of my imagination are no longer; my subconscious wishes that it could have visibly damaged me, to justify to myself what did not occur, to give me reason to doubt my health. But there was not. And as my body is embraced by the warm sun, the otherwise pleasant feeling burns away my being, relentlessly grasping to cleanse the now tainted version of myself. I wish and I yearn, crying to myself as my shape deforms atop the once-heavenly metal oasis, wishing to return into the cold embrace of the violent waters; to live.
I am marred into a feeble form of what I once was, shying away from what protects, in order to return to what is a product of my mind. Deluding myself, believing it is the only place in which I am able to be free — to be loved. I create a set of beliefs around myself, forming an amalgamation of misused assumed truths. I justify these means and these creations under the precipice that if I am not hurting, there will be no ray of love to intersect the dark, no warmth to be relished, and no thoughts to be expressed.
I create these values, understanding my delusion to the extent to where I am content in my discontent, yet I know they are simply an expression of an irrational martyrdom; a trap of my own making and my own engaging, and in this creation of mine, a spark of loathing is born.
Trapped in a forever inconclusive cycle of non-being, I exhume myself from what is real in order to return to what is not; longing to escape into unreality, so that I may one day join it.
Flicker
Charcoal
Arima Agrawal
The End of the Dark
Rachel Wang
A face is shining outside Awake, my dear It cries
A hand runs over my Contorting face
And I push away, afraid It’s so nice
It’s so calm But if I rise My bliss is gone
A woman is standing outside WAKE UP, HONEY! She cries
And the face from before Extends a hand once more And pulls me up To the end of the dark
And the start of the day
Breathe
Ezoza Mukhammadomonova
Breathe
A million thoughts flood your mind crashing against one another like waves pounding against your skull until your feeble mind and weaker body can take it no longer and it all spills out you are choking on tears and the ocean and all you see around you is more water dark, turbulent waves encircling you and pushing you down, down, into a darker and yet more turbulent world will you ever rise? or will you drown?
Breathe
Because a million pounding waves are still just water, and you have swam and floated atop oceans like this before you have sunk down, down, and somehow rose up once again, to the surface, to the light of a brand new day, and you can do it again, you will do it again, because you can swim, you just need to convince yourself you are not drowning, you are not dying you are sitting on the ground and crying and you can stand up and wipe away tears you can start again and clear your mind of every ocean and storm and flood if you just raise your head and know that things have been worse and have become better, and eventually you will rise to the surface and the ocean will be calm
All you need to do is
Breathe
The Calm Before the Storm Photography
Ridhima Parnati
ಮೂಗು
(mūgu)
Navami Muglurmath
Authors Note: “ಮೂಗು (mūgu)” means “nose” in Kannada
They always told us our noses looked the same, that you had given birth to a miniature version of yourself. Your long nose, crooked with a hump at the top and a downwards slope, looked out of place on me, superimposed on a child’s face with wide eyes and chubby cheeks. But I wore it with pride. I wanted to be you, with your pretty, blow-dried hair where mine was a mass of tangled curls; straight, white teeth where mine were crooked and filled with countless cavities. From the moment you first held me in your arms, you knew that I was going to save you. Appa couldn’t lay a hand on you when I was with you. He couldn’t raise his voice, either–loud noises weren’t good for growing ears, you said. And so I protected you, during the day when I was snuggled between your arms, and during the night when you slept in my nursery, never willing to leave my side. And I was never willing to leave yours. I cried incessantly when you were away from me and quieted instantly when you soothed me. You were the only one who knew how to elicit a much-needed burp from me after meals, and, at night, you sang sweet lullabies from your childhood, your voice lulling me to sleep on the gentle waves of a song. As I grew, I clung to your skirts and followed you everywhere. I watched as you
kneaded chapati dough and fed me small pieces of it for me to taste-test. You made bendekayi palya and raita and kosambari and watched as Appa chewed it all unceremoniously and complained about its taste.
After dinner, you would scoop me up and place me on your hip as you cleaned the kitchen. Your fingernails stained with turmeric, you brushed hot tears off of your face when you thought I wasn’t looking.
Later, you pressed soft kisses into my head as you combed the knots out of my hair. Your hands, slender but strong, massaged tengina enne into my scalp, and the heady smell of the oil filled the room.
“I love you. I’ll always love you, you know that, right? Namminu?”
I nodded wearily in response, my eyelids drooping as sleep washed over me.
But I didn’t know. I didn’t understand, until much later, what you meant. What love meant.
You loved me when I was sick and you had to feed me scraps of roti by hand. You loved me when you found me in my room, crying, and kissed the tears off of my face, whispering words of comfort in my ear. And you loved me still, when I grew up and spat words of fury at you, stomping out of the room even as you called, desperately, for me to come back.
face and were whisked off to a strange country, and you thought that you had better turn strange, too. You straightened your hair, whitened your teeth, and stamped down the flames of your rage.
But you couldn’t change the shape of your nose. Long, hooked, with a mole on its bridge, it was the only familiar thing in the strange world you had entered. When you gave birth to my older brother, you sighed in relief because he did not carry the features of the home you had learned to forget. But then, with a pang, you realized that his face was a product of two people who had never loved each other. And suddenly, you were back in India, sipping one last cup of filter kapi before you were to be wed, wondering what your groom would look like. You ran a hand over everything you owned, trying to memorize the familiarity of its touch. But even after that, your memory faded, little by little, and you forgot your hometown, remembering it only through whiffs of spiced chai and saffron.
“I didn’t understand, until much later, what youWhatmeant. love meant.”
I didn’t know the weight of your words then. I didn’t know that you would pad into my room, late at night, and collapse on my bed. You took comfort in the sight of my sleeping body, rising and falling with my quiet breaths.
I didn’t know that when you looked at me, you saw a younger version of yourself: long nose, toothy smile, thick hair, outspoken manner. And you loved me for it, even when I grew and you began to see me for who I really was: crooked nose, yellow teeth, unruly hair, volatile temper.
I reminded you of everything you tried to leave behind when you got married. On your wedding day, you were met with a strange man with a strange
That was, until you saw me. At first, my features were too soft to discern, my nose but a nub of cartilage. As I grew, your mass of curls made its way onto my head, then your uneven teeth, then finally your long, crooked nose. Then the memories came flooding back, and you remembered the smell of the earth beneath your feet at the tota. The feeling of bliss when you sunk your teeth into a fresh mango. The sound of the sitar as you plucked its strings. You let yourself cry, remembering how it felt to hug your mother after a trying day at school, the voice of your father calling you for chaat. You saw yourself in my face as I slept, blissfully unaware of the tears that pooled in your eyes. And you promised to never let me go the way your parents had.
I didn’t know anything, then.
I only knew that when I woke up, you would be there, your nose brushing my identical one because of how close I had hugged you in my unconscious sleep.
Lila Hiltz
CANDID SHOTS
Elise Gerstle
She doesn’t hear the shutter clicking away. Or rather, she does, she just forgets that it’s there in the bright lights and loud noises of downtown Lancaster. I’ve managed to keep my hand over the flash, despite the fact that it’s dark in the roofed cafe patio on a cloudy day, rain about to push through the dark swirls overhead. I do this purposefully as I watch her talk with our friends, because if she sees it when I click the button, I know she’ll stiffen. Look right at the camera and fix the stray lock of hair behind her ear. She’ll try her best to look happy, forgetting when she looks at the lens that she actually is happy.
Her face is beaming, her eyes squinting when she laughs at my joke. She looks left of my camera, then right, and her excited chatter is contagious, lingering in the humid air, sticking to my skin. In the damp heat, drops of condensation appear on my plastic cup and straw. My sweaty hands grip my dad’s old DSLR, lowering it to look outside the viewfinder. My hair grows more frizzy as the thick, hot air weaves around tables and booths. She fans me with a napkin and jokes about something on the TV in the semi-outdoor cafe. It’s a perfect shot, with the TV’s bluish light on her face contrasting the warm hues of the leather booth that sticks to my thighs, her dark eyes sparkling as she sips her boba tea.
When I show her these photos later, I can easily imagine what she’ll say. Aw, we all look so nice. Ew, except me. What is that face? Why do I look like that? She’ll laugh it off and make me promise not to post the photos anywhere.
But for now, I let it be the way it is: She doesn’t hear her warm laugh through my ears. She doesn’t notice how she’s captured the table’s attention with her contagious positivity. She doesn’t see her face, her brilliant smile and her slightly messy hair–imperfect and perfect all at once, captured in time as I click the shutter.
Content Warning: Self-harm
Author’s Note: The journey to recovery is a long and arduous one. May we all meet at its end one day.
Erscape
Pen
Kate Orr
Dersk In Ctmplemendiaoy
Watercolor
Niharika Sule
A Woman Without A Face
Pen & India ink
Caroline Tierney
Just a War
Ezoza Mukhammadomonova
He stood and told the world “Israel will continue its just war” but even a just war is more than just a war A war is more than just its cause
More than just the soldiers fighting
More than just the people dying
There’s always a reason to kill Always a way to justify all you do But that never makes it just Never makes it true
In front of our watching eyes a massacre is unfolding women, children, infants killed without an ounce of guilt raising the question of our own humanity buried under excuses under lies under the belief that it is all for a just cause a just war a just purpose that could excuse even the greatest acts of injustice
All the death displayed in front of our very eyes yet we turn off our screens turn away
As if by closing our eyes as if by not seeing not caring we could simply make the suffering vanish Make it no longer matter make the deaths just a number the lost lives a simple sacrifice for a just cause Where do we draw the line? between sacrifice and slaughter? Where do we draw the borders? between the nations we attack the people who should have if nothing else the right to live?
Yet you take even that from them the worst kinds of thieves you uproot their trees and burn their pastures and bomb their homes and flatten them to the ground then take that land and build a new city a new nation on its broken, bloodstained foundation Thinking you can ignore the bones your nation is built on thinking we will ignore all you have stolen All you have broken can never be mended The lives you have stolen can never be returned You stand and reassure the world that they are just regrettable sacrifices just obstacles in the way the only steps you must take for your just war
Does a drop of water feel like it is drowning? in a sea of others? Or does it feel lost?
as if no one will find it? See it?
Another nobody in a sea of somebodies seeing their faces wondering if they can see it
When they laugh the surface of the water rippling in unapologetically disruptive amusement It wonders if they will notice as it stays still and silent as if frozen in place Will they notice its stillness? Will they care?
Laughter, chatter smiles, banter The drop remains still wanting to be seen wanting to be found
But the ocean continues to ebb and flow Life keeps moving, the tide keeps rolling And the drop of water waits to be seen Maybe it’s nothing more than a dream
So why can’t it move on? Past the night and drifting thoughts? Back to the real world. Why can’t it open its eyes? And see itself?
Maybe just a tiny drop of water in a great, wide ocean
But maybe that is all it has to be Maybe just maybe it is enough
Sea of Somebodies
Ezoza Mukhammadomonova
Treasure Hunters
Elise Gerstle
First, I valued the treasure.
I vividly remember our trips to the ocean. Whether it was on the Jersey shore or the outer banks, I can’t recall, but every other detail rushes back. I’m four, you’re just a bit younger, and we see the soothing gray swells of the Atlantic for the first time in our lives. A lover of sea creatures from an early age, I hurry down the soft dunes and into the forest of brightly colored umbrellas. Before we got in the car, Dad told me all about small, ocean-dwelling critters who make tiny houses called seashells. He said maybe I could find one in the sand, and I am on a mission to do just that, even though I’m not quite sure where to look. I imagine myself as a pirate or an archaeologist, looking for long-lost riches in the sea.
I sit down in the surf, oblivious to the chilly waves or the sand filling my swimsuit, and shove my small hands into the ground. I extract fragments of shells, some shiny and paper-thin, some thick and shaped like small crescent moons.
You trundle along behind me, swinging a yellow plastic bucket. You’re not sure what I’m doing, but are eager to follow the leader. You scoop handfuls of sand into your bucket, collecting very few shells in the process.You don’t know what sort of treasure we’re trying to find, but are at no lack of enthusiasm. The perfect first mate to the captain. You proudly present me with a small, purple clam shell. Amazed, I take it and hurry to my towel, where I dump your discovery into an ever-increasing pile. We sift through the water together: Me looking for shells, you copying my every move with wide eyes the color of the ocean.
Mom gives us plastic bags to carry our treasures. At home, I store them in Tupperware containers and old mason jars, identifying them with a field guide or turning them into crafts. You give me all of yours, more interested in making sandcastles with your bucket. Back then, I valued the treasure.
Now, I value the moment.
I have too many seashells. I jump out of the minivan not looking for more, but looking for a relaxed day by the sea. Gone is the yellow bucket; if we want to make sandcastles now, we’re much faster with our hands. You chase me down the beach with your favorite towel, driving me into the cold water. My ankles are numb at first, but before I know it, we’re both up to our knees, jumping over the white surf as it crashes. We’re so cold we forget to shiver, so happy and sun-scorched we forget to complain.
You spot large shapes getting pulled out to sea by the tide and snatch them up with deft hands.You no longer find shell fragments or handfuls of sand, but whole shells. We both holler with excitement every time we make a discovery.
It goes like this: you spot something just as a wave crashes and the water becomes opaque with white froth. We converge on the area, sometimes getting pushed by the surf. We see it again; we lose it again. On the third or fourth wave, I finally spot it, reach into the chilly water, and emerge victoriously before the next wave crashes, clutching a clam larger than my hand. Each treasure is a victory; a trophy rewarding us for our artful teamwork.
We keep very few of our findings; the rest we hide in sandcastles or give to intrigued toddlers who want their share of treasure. They haven’t learned to hunt for treasure properly yet, and more importantly, they haven’t learned where to find the real treasure. We relax on our towels, carving footrests out of the sand, enjoying the moment.
I Want That Burger
Digital
Niki Chen
Niki Chen
A Personal RealizadiitnrsON
ESSAY Retrieved FROM AN OTHERWISE Childhood MtrstlyFtogttten
Ezoza Mukhammadomonova
Iwas eight when I finally realized it, sitting on the brown striped couch in my living room, contemplating the deeper meaning of life. Or maybe I was seven, in the backseat of the car, gazing listlessly at the rolling scenery we passed by, too young to feel anything but boredom at the lack of engagement from the world around me. Maybe six, staring at my reflection in a school bathroom. Five, trying to bite open a pistachio or put a bead up my nose, or eat Play Doh, or whatever normal children busy themselves with in more carefree, ridiculously risk-filled years of youth.
The truth is, I can’t remember an age, a setting, or even a real, clear moment when the thought came to me. Time does that; it snatches away the blissful, innocent nonsensicality of a childhood well-spent, replaces it with the trailing lists and bleary facts and honest, blunt, worry-stricken world of a person old enough to face their life. Time snatches away the little sparkles and sequins, the brighter details of a life you no longer hold the right to, removes the little moments and dreams that used to be your entire world, replaces it with an entirely new set of rules and expectations, leaves you with only the most sacred, meaningful of memories.
And that is why I’m here today, still grasping the firm, unforgettable realization of my childhood: “I can do what I want. Right now I could jump up and down and scream like a monkey and break the TV”.
I’m not entirely sure where this meaningful realization came from– mind you, I was quite fond of the TV. I didn’t exactly want to scream and disturb the relative peace of what I suppose must have been my living room. I didn’t want to do any of those things– so I didn’t. People have wants, and often, if we want something hard enough, we’ll feel that it is right. A right to us. The right thing to do. For us…? For others…? Impulses and urges that shape ourselves and the world around us. What do we do when we come to the realization of what we’re truly capable of?
inclination for disruption, for destruction.
I never leapt up and screamed. Nor was the TV ever broken by my hands. Because at the end of the day, I think it comes back to our desires- what we want to do, and our choices- what we decide to do. I think that as we grow older, we lose touch with this realization, our minds are set on agendas and goals and thoughts too “complicated” and “adult”, tangled up like yarn we leave in a messy pile, believing that’s the way it’s meant to be.
We grow bigger and smarter and more and more distant from the innocent chaos and gleeful danger of childhood stupidity, into a more fatally turbulent world. We shake our heads, laugh at the lack of reason in the simple idea of jumping and screaming like a monkey, of breaking the TV.
“We grow bigger and smarter and more and more distant from the innocent chaos and gleeful danger of childhood stupidity, into a more fatally turbulent world.”
Yet, some of us will grow to lead on crowds that will swell with a million angry shouts, bombs that will burst louder than the screams of pain and desperation, choices that will leave a million televisions and homes and bodies and lives shattered. Unable to be put back together. Broken. They say there’s nothing to fix. It’s complicated. Nothing is black and white. And maybe it isn’t, but why do those have to be the only two options? Why does grey have to mean a blurred line that evil excuses itself behind, never crossing to white, never accepting fault and admitting itself to the darkness? Tangled yarn. But with a thousand hands and a thousand minds, couldn’t we undo every last knot that we tied? Weave a beautiful tapestry, a work of art, a better world, out of something we won’t admit we broke?
It wasn’t free will that I discovered, that I could do things I wanted. I had known that before, known that I could move or stay still, speak or stay silent. What I didn’t know, perhaps, is what I, as a person, could truly be capable of. At the time, my tiny lungs could only doubtfully handle any form of screaming, my little fists could probably barely dent the TV. Yet, I could envision it all, could feel it all, deep down inside me, there was an urge, a realization, an
Maybe I’m still just too young to understand. Too idealistic, too hopeful, too naïve. Or maybe it isn’t so complicated after all. Maybe we all need to take a step back from that blurry border, take our hands away from the complexity we crave and embrace, the need to feel so smart and strong, and realize that the world is just a world. And we’re just people. And maybe we deserve love, we deserve happiness. Maybe, behind everything we’ve ever done, that’s all we’ve been seeking and moving towards.
We deserve the quiet, sometimes. An unbroken TV. We shouldn’t desire destruction. We shouldn’t destroy. Maybe all we need is the opportunity for our own bright, beautifully chaotic lives, every breath that comes in a world woven together by minds and hands, united for peace.
Ginger Gouache
Sarah Bernholdt
sugar cane song
Rachel Wang
Remove its peel like it’s a dagger’s sheath,
Chop it to reveal the flesh, fresh and young,
Crush a small piece of it between your teeth,
Taste the liquid sweetness on your tongue.
But the taste will fade like the evening dew
Leaving mere fiber, too bitter to digest
Wishing for the lovely taste you once knew,
You lick your lips and go spit out the rest.
Cast away those parts that stopped tasting sweet.
Cast away those parts like you cast away me.
The Lightning Bug Killer
Jayna Grossman
The road was foggy with flickers of warm summer. I felt colder than I’d been all day. My frozen fingers clenched the steering wheel with fury I refused to address. My sister was bugging me while I was wishing to evaporate into the car’s radio waves.
And then I heard a pattering like heavy rain, felt it in shock waves through my arms and into the sockets of my shoulders. I concluded that it must be hail, sent to target me personally on this specific hellstorm of a day. Then I noticed the pulsing lights, smaller than headlights, but somehow brighter against the backdrop of a steel blue sky. They flew by without moving, shining over accelerating asphalt.
None of them saw me coming.
With a distant, unbelievable plunk, they made contact with my windshield. And with even more distant composure, I smeared their remains with the wipers. There were dozens, battering the glass as I sped faster through winding back roads fading rapidly in darkness. My sister didn’t seem to hear them. She was too engrossed in advancing her Snap Score to watch me violate a holy tradition of summertime. Even when one unfortunate insect made contact while it was still aglow, she refused to acknowledge it. I was forced to stare at its splattered fluorescent neon residue and take note of the time it took to fade.
I couldn’t feel my heartbeat. I was the pollen-encrusted windshield, and I felt each miniscule impact like a blow.
I was alone. All the bright lights in my life shattered to debris I couldn’t mend.
Pestilence
Digital Lia Piccoli
Bikes and Bones
Pencil & charcoal
Iris Zhang
Pop-pop’s Garage
Photography
Lucy Schwarz
Watercolor
Skarlett Beck
The Wall
Chloe Proud
I have long plastered posters and cutouts and stickers of women on the walls in my room. I saw them in the movies I watched, on the stickers I got at the dentist, and decorating the fun (and impractical) band-aids I received at the doctor after getting a flu shot. I saw female cartoon characters who could be doctors and astronauts. Even little girls like me could be the stars of shows I watched. I had life-sized graphics of fictional princesses pasted on my light-blue walls, cartoony stickers of girls from my activity books, and messily taped cutouts of dolls I cut from their boxes. And now, they rule my high school life.
The women on my (now white) walls have changed into pop stars with long, flowing hair, sparkly eyelids, colorful lipstick, who always seem to be photographed in action, microphone in hand, with crowds of imperceptible faces worshipping them. Singers whose songs have been the soundtracks to my solo dance parties and cry sessions, but also to hangouts with my best friends. Whose songs’ lyrics feel written by someone who knows me, who feels my feelings, thinks my thoughts.
Up on my wall these women go. Actresses who let me live in their world for two hours; worlds of color, glamour, and love. Worlds in far-off lands that I couldn’t dream of reaching myself. I have long watched female-centered movies with starry eyes, wondering if I’d ever have a friend group like her, a job like her, a love life like her. I have long escaped to worlds of cinema to get off of a dark train of thought. The female leads in these movies always make me feel seen, even if they are prettier criers than me.
And so, I plaster them on my wall as well. The women from these shows and movies have not only made me laugh, cry, and smile, but they are actively shaping me into the woman I am. Every time I consume a piece of media with a strong female lead, I subconsciously take a piece of their personality, lifestyle, or world with me.
Not only do I paste actresses and singers on my wall, I reserve space for political figures who inspire me, guitarists I have learned from, cinematographers and directors who create my cinematic havens, artists who foster emotion with their brush strokes, and quotes from my favorite journalists and authors. But something has changed with time, along with the women on my walls: my perception of girlhood. As I have grown, so have my questions about being a woman. Why do I always compare myself? Why does society want me to look like the models I see on the walls of department stores? How long will it take for our country to finally have a female president? Will I always feel like I’m not being “feminist” enough? How many more years will I have reproductive rights in my state? These questions have haunted me and cast a dark shadow over my beautiful wall. With time, I realize that they haunt me simply because I let them. I let these questions consume me because I felt that it was normal to constantly wonder. And so, I have chosen to be the person that I would’ve plastered on my wall as a little girl. A woman who embraces the questions and the feelings and the sadness. A woman with power
polished white fangs
Content Warnings: Gore, horror
It was just a regular day. That’s what they all say. I didn’t know it would be the last time I saw him. Neither did I.
How was I to know that a random Sunday was the last day of my life?
I was playing the church’s organ for someone’s wedding. I remember the sweet smell of flowers, the soft sheen of the bride’s dress as she greeted me, the smiles of the guests, the well-worn, yet polished keys of the organ.
As I reached to play the first few chords of “The Wedding March,” my hands froze in place. Something didn’t feel right. The church had large stained glass windows, and the sunlight should’ve been shining colors on the keys right about then. When I looked up, the windows were filled with a soul-sucking dark sky. Not quite nightsomething darker.
Rey Bandyopadhyay
For some reason, it felt like that dark was about to creep through the windows and swallow me whole. A chill trickled down my spine, and my head felt heavy. Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to play. It felt like my hands were being consumed by the organ, and it would soon team with the night sky and dine at the sick restaurant where I was the only dish.
Even reconciling it now makes me nauseous. It felt like I was stuck on an airplane that was going down fast, and there was nothing I could do.
A moment later, just like that, it was gone. The window above me lit up with color and I realized I was staring straight into the sun. Blinking spots out of my eyes, I 1turned back to the organ keys, which looked mysteriously brand new. There was a strange glow about everything, but I started to play despite everything. The music echoed through the room, and I managed a smile. What just happened?
And then my head jolted back and the sky flashed dark, and my hands shakily stumbled over notes. My stomach dropped, and I tasted blood, realizing I’d bit my tongue. Suddenly, my vision darkened, and a terrible headache came over me. Was I going to die? Was I crazy? It was horrible- but at least I could tell that it was horrible. After this, it seems I lost the ability to be scared.
When I opened my eyes again, I was in the crowd of guests, watching the wedding go by. The organist was messing up all of the notes, and I tried not to stare at him. What was the guy doing? I heard someone near me whisper, who hired him?
I laughed, a strange glee coming over me. Here I was at a wedding! People were in love! There were gorgeous stained glass windows, and pretty flowers everywhere! Even if the organist wasn’t doing too great, this was incredible!
I turned to look at him, feeling a little bad… but no one was there! I giggled crazily- was it a ghost playing? Had they got one of those strange speaker-things?
Since I knew how to play, I thought I’d take control of the music. I knew a perfect wedding song, so I stepped up to the bench. It felt weird, like I’d been here before. Trouble is, when I sat down, the organ’s keys rose up out of their places. I grinned; for some strange reason everything seemed normal. Singing a little tune, I let the keys fly at me. The pipes bent over and shot a strange darkness in my face, which I breathed in.
It felt like it was eating at me from the inside, and I tried to back away. Too late, I was already being forced inside the instrument. The keys came down like swords, chopping at me here and there.
My fingers left one by one, but I didn’t feel a thing. Well, I suppose I can’t play instruments anymore! I smiled at this. Would I become a boxer, maybe? Or a swimmer?
My arms were now gone and I disregarded those options. I could still sing! Or dance?
The darkness that was eating me escaped out of my mouth and I suddenly realized who I was and where I was. All of the pain hit at once, but I was surprisingly still awake. I wasn’t bleeding, but the dark sky hovered around my wounds. I’d always wondered what it would look like to lie inside an organ!
To my horror, arrows whistled out of the bentover pipes of the instrument like missiles, glinting steel tips searching for my heart. Now, that I didn’t stay awake for. I was out before the pain was even able to register.
Soon after, I woke up and stood up without any effort. Just as I suspected, I was dead. The stained glass ceiling had shattered and glass shards had pierced sometime ago, but I hadn’t felt it.
The bride and groom were now dancing, as if nothing happened. The guests were turned away from the terrifying mess of blood and organ behind them, not fazed at all. I wondered if they’d even seen it.
A second later, the whole scene was cleaned up as if it had never happened. The ceiling was repaired and my body was gone. The sun shined as it was supposed to, and someone new was playing the organ joyfully.
But I could still taste the blood and glass shards on my tongue, and my ghost didn’t seem to have arms.
Fireworks
Emerick Lange
Some of the greatest creative minds in human history
Have held the most incredible anguish
Yet the world mistakes their obsession for dedication, And loves them for it,
And when the double-edged sword of excellence finally falls
All they can say is
“What a shame”
“Gone too soon”
“They’re in a better place”
The price of genius may prove to be torment,
As for some, a great mind is a beautiful bomb,
A monster that smiles as it sinks its teeth into your neck
A car with the brakes cut out,
But no one complains about the beauty they bring
Even as their tortured minds wreck them from the inside out,
A firework
Flying,
Flaring bright,
Gone in an instant
Joseph Greenwood
Shirin Patel
Autumn Jungle
Watercolor
Jessica Joseph
Autumn’s Embrace
Photography
X-ray
Chalk pastel
Lauren Sweet
Fool’s Gold
Rebeka Zwierzchowski
I know that some of me whispers warmth.
Inviting others’ eyes, and even their hearts.
The external features that calm people.
I believe that most of me shrieks judgment, of myself, of others, interchangeably. My disappointment and conjectures permit burdens.
Sometimes, I think I’m stronger, superior, an Artemis that can shake mountains.
I am pride and wisdom, I am everything.
Most of the time, I think I’m of no worth, useless, self-abasement ridicules the mere idea of value.
I am a stranger, I am nothing.
It’s not that I’m not aware of what I know, rather, it’s that I don’t trust or accept what I know to be true.
I love the idea that perseverance equates healing. What’s the hurt of falling, spiraling, out of control?
I am comfortable there, a place I am safe being.
Well, it is pure, mental bondage. Thoughts on a cycle of evidence to justify assumptions. Out of control, this trap is; even comforting.
It’s fool’s gold to believe that you cannot redirect your thoughts. You can’t control thoughts, but you can give them new purpose.
I had a dream
Jayna Grossman
Content Warning: Blood
I had a dream last night. The night of November 6th.
A rageful day and a satisfyingly rageful night. It took place in class.
A guy heard us talking about the election and our fears. I didn’t recognize him. I constantly pray that he does, in fact, not exist. Because he yelled across the room, “Your body, my choice!”
All the sound in the air became still.
I stood up.
It’s funny, the fact that I’m courageous in my dreams. Or maybe I was too angry to realize what I was doing.
“Say that to my face,” I spoke clearly. He came forward faster than I thought. All up in my face, smirking. The typical brand.
“Your body, my choice.”
The domineering look in his eyes itself was too much, but the approval from the others pushed me over the edge. My mind had descended to hell. And my fear burned away in the flames.
“Okay,” I said. “Then have it.”
My hand reached into my underwear and peeled the thick pad from the dark fabric. It was warm and soaked.
Before he could flinch away, as I knew he would, I brought my by hand up with the pad and swung it at to his curly forehead, smearing it on down his face and mouth and shirt collar. He gagged and yelled as I slapped the sticky flaps to his pant leg. The curls of his hair had blood clots sticking to them, and his face was almost brown.
“There,” I seethed, “The part of my body you want so bad. Have it. Take it. Consume it.” My hands were shaking—as they are now, while I write this.
“Because you’ll never get it any other way. I would rather rip myself open from the inside out and let the maggots free than let you touch me. I would rather bleed than be forced into silence, just so that everyone else would hear my screams and know that you brought them upon me. A reminder. A screamSomething so truly anguished that you can’t unhear it.” In my dreams, I am numb, but this is something new. “Someday you’ll try. Someday you’ll try to take it back, to beg for forgiveness. And, even then, I will not give it to you. You are less deserving of my uterus lining than any potential child—wanted or otherwise—would ever be.
“You’re the one who dared. You called for blood, and I gave it to you.” I think my face was hurting because I was smiling. Then I got in his personal space. He probably smelled awful. “Give us a smile,” I think I cooed. I don’t remember anymore. Maybe I just want to think I said that.
“The way you were acting, you fucking asked for it.” When I woke up, there was a bloodstain on my bed sheets.
I like to imagine it was his and not mine.
“I do not wish [women] to have power over men; but over themselves.” —MaryWollstonecraft
Thursday
Ezoza Mukhammadomonova
It was just another Thursday afternoon to me. Walking home from the bus stop. Everything quiet and still. Everything at peace, despite my mind grumbling about upcoming tests and some homework I wasn’t keen on completing. When I looked at my phone, I was none-too-surprised to see a few texts– much more surprised to see the content of them. I wasn’t exactly used to feeling helpless. Hopeless. Like something was broken that I couldn’t reach, that I couldn’t fix anyways– that if such a situation could be fixed, it was by people unwilling to even reach out and try.
I stared down at the words from my friend, telling me that her friend in Lebanon hadn’t responded to her texts in two days. That she could be displaced. Or dead. I didn’t know what to think– flashes of concern, pity, terror, panic. It’s unfair, I told myself, that a girl my age could be facing death raining down from the sky. That any innocent person could suffer at the hands of another. That their life is in the hands of an old politician, sitting in an airconditioned office, his words, written and spoken,
What right does he have? What right does any person have? Maybe none, in a world like this. Where someone could do nothing wrong and be killed for a crime someone else committed. Where you can do nothing but survive, and have even that be taken away from you. Where death rains from the sky, and the air is heavy with smoke and fire and screams, and your house is destroyed, your family killed, and everything is broken. Everything is shattered. Maybe it was broken long before, when we gave people power. Watched, and let them take power from others. Put our lives in their hands. Put their hands on other’s lives. Let them decide to bring down the iron fist, full force, citing a feeble excuse. A constant blame game. Maybe we don’t want to play anymore. Maybe we’re tired of this game, playing against one another. In the end, no one will win. Not without losing everything– everything besides an empty victory, the right to raise their flag over a broken land.
change, but what power do I have, what power does anyone have– anyone who cares enough to want change, anyone who desperately needs change? People can raise awareness, raise money, raise their voices for those who won’t be heard, rise up for those being pushed down. Maybe we feel like we can do nothing, maybe we feel helpless, but we are not the ones being silenced, the ones being killed– we are the ones watching from the side, we are the ones with the choice. The choice to speak or remain silent. The choice to stand, on the right side of history, or to back
things we should do? Even when we can’t save lives, or reach out our hands and pause a conflict, or sometimes even send aid to parts of the world with nothing– there is always something we can do, something we must do. There is always something. The smallest of words, of stands, of protests, of declarations. The smallest moments of solidarity, of support. The small, yet unbelievably strong and meaningful things we can do, to bring– if nothing else– hope, of a better life, a better world, somewhere beyond the horizon of a new day.
Axel
Colored pencil
Kate Orr
What Poets Say
Jayna Grossman
When I look at you I see the universe. My universe.
You are the brilliant sun, and I am lowly Venus wishing to be closer to you than Mercury so that you might feel all the warmth of my affection.
But the poets say we are star-crossed.
When I think of you I hear your laugh.
I replay it in my mind until I forget my own name. There is only you.
I have only ever known you.
Fate orchestrated our meeting too late.
But the poets say we are soulmates.
When I see your eyes I am reminded that they hold their weight in words. Deep rivers of endearment.
Fountains overflowing with compliments.
Waterfalls of regretful goodbyes.
Sometimes I cannot bear to see them because I know what they will say.
But the poets say they are windows.
When I am with you I hold tight and do not let go.
You do not mind.
You are holding me tighter.
We comfort each other within the parallel lives we have lived without the other. You birthed the seed of cingulomania in me.
But the poets say we are cut from the same cloth.
Well fuck the poets.
I say we are cut from the same
We are more than windows and mirrors and minds.
We are friends.
From the beginning to the end.
Twin Flames
Colored pencil
Kyleen Zhang
Campfire Aroma
Elise Gerstle
Reese nearly dropped the match when it finally lit, but managed to nudge it carefully into the pile of dry kindling. Leaning back with a satisfied smile, she watched warm orange and yellow flickers start to darken the dry wood.
“I could’ve done it faster,” Jamie said.
Reese scowled at her little brother for ruining the thrill. Although he was known for his boy scouts-inherited skill at building fires, Reese felt accomplished for what she did. Life these days was either moving too slow or too fast, but when she focused all her energy into building something small, the pace felt right. “You can’t deny that this is a good fire, Jamie.”
“If you say so,” he responded dubiously, but rubbed his hands contentedly in the heat. “Let’s get the marshmallows.”
As Jamie opened the plastic bag, Reese drew closer to the fire, hugging herself to keep warm. Although it was June, nights in the Appalachians were chilly. The scent of burning wood brushed her nose. School had let out just four days prior, and summer loomed ahead, expansive and bleak. Reese’s current plans included SAT prep, rotting in bed, and occasional family stints in state park campgrounds like this one.
Jamie passed a thick length of wire skewered with a marshmallow to Reese. She held the metal skewer over her campfire, just far away enough to turn it gold. “It’s been too long since we’ve gone camping,” she said, watching the smoke rise gently and disappear into the dusky evening light.
“Yeah.” Jamie seemed more concerned with the marshmallows.
Reese watched orange bursts of light emerge from the fire with a faint popping noise, lingering in the air before falling, as the thick smoke filtered through the leaves far above. She wanted to stay here forever, to stop inching toward summer and SATs and life. Wanted to stay by the source of friendly light and warmth she’d crafted with her own gritty
hands. She wanted the heavy scent of smoke to waft toward her, masking her view of anything far away, in time or in place, leaving nothing but the present.
“Reese, your marshmallow’s gonna burn,” Jamie said.
“I know,” Reese said (she didn’t know; she’d been looking at the fire), and took the skewer out of the heat. A little darker than she liked, but still golden to near perfection. Jamie had already sandwiched his marshmallow between two Graham crackers and part of a Hershey’s bar.
“That’s barely yellow!” Reese protested, looking at his s’more. “You actually have to cook the marshmallow, not eat it straight. Uncultured swine!”
“You were literally just zoning out with your nice fire like a pyromaniac,” Jamie shot back. “Don’t talk to me!”
“So you admit that it’s a nice fire?”
Jamie was obviously caught in the act. “Uhh, no.” But he let a smile slip out the corner of his mouth, his metal braces glinting in the firelight. Reese smiled too, for the first time in a while.
“There’s a few more marshmallows in the bag, buddy,” she said mischievously. Jamie, not needing to be told twice, dug out two more marshmallows. They held their skewers like a secret between them, Reese trying to convince Jamie to leave his marshmallow in the fire for longer. Their quiet laughter didn’t wake those in nearby campsites, but it drifted into the smoke and coiled around tree branches, warmed by the flickering light.
When Reese finally put out the fire and turned in for the night, Jamie was snoring loudly in the family tent. Smoke clung to her clothes, wanting to stay with its creator. The familiar scent curled in her hoodie pockets, in the wrinkles of her jeans, like memories of warm light and soft smiles and secret treats. Reese clicked off her flashlight and curled up in her sleeping bag, letting the lingering smell ease her out of her rowdy thoughts and into a deep sleep.
The Gallery
Browse the works of the Fine Arts majors in our historic art gallery. View each artwork as a window into another world; consider each artistic detail as intensely as we study literature in class. Each color chosen, each line drawn represents a thoughtful decision the artist had made that they wanted you to notice as much as you may have noticed repetition, unique diction, and metaphors in language classes.
Digital Niki Chen
“All I can do is start over ag
New Me
Amy Li
Every new face is a new canvas, a new sketch, a repeat drawing of my image. I’ve painted it in the minds of others so many times it’s dug into my memory, embedded itself in every flick of my wrist.
There are hundreds of images of me, but only my latest can I bear to look at. Every piece of art before it is flawed, some misshapen trait, a mistake made here and there, dabs of paint in the wrong place.
Im constantly moving from person to person, modifying my art to perfection. And when it goes wrong, I throw it all out for a new one… a new canvas, a new person, a new mind to draw on. There’s no eraser, no way to make someone forget. All I can do is start over again.
tick, tock
Gigi Prothero
The doll lay sleeping in her ornate wooden box, tucked away into a small corner of the attic. A decade’s worth of dust defined the folds of her elaboräte dress, her pale face framed by perfect brown ringlets. Though she was forgotten, her miniature gold pocket watch still ticked faintly from the grasp of her porcelain fingers…
On the eve of Sylvie’s tenth birthday, her mother unburied the box and blew the veil of time off the doll’s figure. She gently removed the doll from the box and rested her in a small bag and set it with the others. Carefully wrapped in blankets of tissue paper, the doll awaited dawn, when Sylvie would wake. The next morning, Sylvie and ner parents rose with the dim light of the sun hidden behind clouds. As she opened her array of birthday gifts, a pile of toys replaced the mountain of colorful packages. She lifted the doll out of its bag. Stunned by the elaborate perfection of the gift, Sylvie embraced her parents. As the weeks passed, her engrossment with the inanimate girl dissipated. The doll began to collect dust once more, sitting gracefully atop the dresser in her bedroom. The pocketwatch began to tick quietly again. Sylvie grew paranoid in the doll’s presence, Her infatuation turned to unease as the ticking echoed in her ears. Time seemed to... stop. The clock over her dresser stared her down as she slept until she awoke suddenly. The ticking grew louder, and the world fell to unnerving silence. Sylvie could not hear her father’s deep snoring from the couch below her, or the flutter of her mother’s books as she read before sleep. The solitude was unsettling. She glanced at the clock on the wall and was disturbed to see the hands dead still. Even more off-putting was the absence of the doll on the dresser. Sylvie pushed back the covers and made her way to where the doll had sat, only to find the gold pocket watch hands spinning out of control. scratched into the wood next to the watch were to words that made her blood run cold.
Amnesia
Jayna Grossman
Content Warnings: Blood, implied cannibalism
Sluggishly, I pulled myself from the pits of black and heady smoke into the constrained realm of consciousness. God, how I hated it. The first moments, anyway.
My mouth tasted of sleep. That slick, bitter entity clinging to the roof, only washed away by something doubly strong. Toothpaste, or wine, or metal, or mold. That was all I seemed to be able to taste these days.
My eyes weren’t very much help either. The lids seemed to shutter them too frequently. Often, I couldn’t be sure if I was blinking or sleeping. Each flutter was a day rippling past, too fast to last more than an inconsequential instant.
It made no difference, in any case, as the pasty artificial light in the only room my body recognized cast distorted shadows into even darker corners. I
went outside more than I cared to, but once again, I was not in control of this “minor” (or so they told me) detail.
It was morbidly ironic, I realized, in my normally belated fashion, that I happened to have a distinct dislike of nature, the precise place in which I was forced to ruminate.
They wouldn’t tell me what day it was. Of the week, of the month, and so on. I did, however, find out what year it is. Upside down, anyways. I don’t remember what order the numbers were in. There was a one in the sequence… somewhere.
Originally, I’d given up thinking about it, but something cold had settled into the depths of my veins the instant I stepped outside. I ducked back inside for an extra layer. No one would tell me whether I needed one or not, as the weather became
increasingly more volatile. I hated that.
I sunk forward, towards that dreary path which I was painstakingly advised to walk. Sometimes I thought it hated me more than I did it. It kept driving me towards people I’d never know.
The branches looked particularly deceitful against the pale sky as I passed under them, pointing me in what was decidedly the wrong direction; away from my bed. Ah, to collapse against the uneven earth and allow its dewey surface to cover me like a blanket in wont of suffocating my butchered bones.
Perhaps another time, the air seemed to say. Lately I seemed to be soaked in misfortune. It oozed out of the most lonely and darkened crevices, latching on with an unrelenting grip.
Maybe that was why I found myself thinking so often of death.
Mine, others. I wasn’t sure.
It just felt rather calming to envelope myself in its entity, the very root of its conception. Comfortable. Like I belonged there.
Or maybe that’s where all my memories had been stolen to.
Pain sizzled in my throat like vomit. It had to go somewhere. But what did death have to do with it?
joints ached for respite in dreams where I couldn’t feel a blessed thing.
So, with a determined resolve only the thought of my pitch bedroom could bring on an autumn day in which the leaves had already departed, I turned on the sole of my foot and trudged back. Seeing the same natural features around me but reversed brought about such a severe case of deja vu induced vertigo that I felt nauseous.
By the time I reached the withered porch, I was out of breath from running.
Why run from no one? they kept asking me, as though I were an insipid child.
Well, no one and nothing are two different insinuations, if we’re being technical.
“The steam blooming from my open mouth in fantastic spirals seemed to indicate the affirmative. From afar, it outlined the shed in its unfortunately deteriorating glory.”
Were they not interchangeable?
Who was I to even ask?
I watched a leaf twist and undulate along its downward spiral, landing beside my shoe. I stared at it as though it had the power to stare back. Gray and brown cracks splintered its once smooth surface, as though the life had been shriveled from it, rather than just been shed from a high branch.
Poor lonely thing. There’s something we have in common, I guess.
So I did the only thing that truly makes sense—I stepped on it. Okay, more like viciously stomped, but what’s the difference? The crunch my foot brought upon that leaf would reverberate in my head until time ended or I did. Whichever came first.
The end. Sleep.
My body involuntarily sagged with fatigue once more. That was my cue to get back to bed, when my
I gripped the decrepit railing as though it would force the vomit in my throat back into the recesses of my stomach, but I was merely gifted a palmful of splinters. I couldn’t break my eyes away from the horrible sight. Slivers of wood bent at odd angles against the surface of my skin, beads of red swelling and spilling across the rivulets of my heart and life lines.
Pain. Wasn’t I supposed to be in pain? Or sleep?
Were they not interchangeable?
The flash of deja vu hit like a blow as I doubled over—and then it stopped. Because I was sure I’d never seen that dented gray shed across the yard in my life.
Had I?
I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t even know if it was real. My eyes tended to produce strange sights in the dark.
But it wasn’t dark.
It was gray, and bright, and colder than I usually preferred to brave. And the shed didn’t waver with the ground, as the other things in my bedroom seemed to. The only things shivering before my eyes were the shedding trees as they battled for dominance with the wind.
Had it really become so cold so fast?
The steam blooming from my open mouth in fantastic spirals seemed to indicate the affirmative. From afar, it outlined the shed in its unfortunately deteriorating glory.
Ah, yes, the shed. Strange that it should only now make itself known, today especially. It contained such an unusually particular scent of familiarity within the small seconds I’d been staring at it.
Consciously, I felt my feet begin to move in its direction, but the rest of my body could not seem to follow. My pounding heart, my spiraling head, the blood rushing through my limbs all stayed stationary.
I was a million miles away from this intimidating little shed, and similarly, my hands were already pressed against the scratchy wood of the door. It pushed open soundlessly.
I’ll be honest–I expected the place to be empty. No bigger than a closet, maybe infested with mold or termites or rats or something disturbing like that. It was more likely that the place was filled to the brim with broken furniture or old files. Memories that had been hidden from me.
half out. I couldn’t discern what it was—until I glimpsed the glistening rib bone breaching a withered abdomen.
How interesting.
I couldn’t remember having ever seen a human bone before in my life. Funny, I thought, that this one, half hidden in decayed lumps of skin, should have any abnormal effect on me. The blackened, withered thumbs and toes hadn’t affected me in any such way. In fact, looking at them made me feel slightly ill and clammy, like there were ticks or worms crawling all across my shoulders and upper back.
I itched experimentally just to make sure. Nothing.
“You are what you eat, they say.”
There was something so blatantly different about this rib bone, seemingly speared into this unseen person quite abruptly, that I couldn’t think of an adequate word for it. And that was another thing—I couldn’t even begin to determine the sex of this revolving corpse, so mutilated and pale I decided that it didn’t matter. Most of the hair seemed to have detached from the skull and settled on the dusty floor.
Instead, I saw body parts. Lots of them. Fingers and toes cramped in jars on the floor. Why were there so many? Eyeballs, shriveled and sticky, glued to each other like a child’s sick art project, parts of the irises glossed in film-like cataracts. In tupperware along the only visible surface, what I instantly recognized to be gooey, brownish brain matter. I’m not sure how I knew, but I was certain in my deduction.
And in the corner, finally visible, was a slowly revolving gray form suspended by a thick cord, drifting in between realities. Half in the shadows,
The sex doesn’t matter, I suppose. It’s only a body.
Approaching the cadaver, I stopped its entrancingly slow gyrations with an absent finger, not really expecting the skin of this deceased person’s arm to feel as blistered as it was. The pressure I put against its forearm must have been too much, because a patch of skin that I’d made contact with simply fell off like a piece of meat.
It was a piece of meat.
I liked meat. I liked the sensation of sawing away at it with a knife, hacking off bits in either neat layers or hazardously uneven chunks.
Apparently, I liked mutilating carcasses too. I didn’t know that, but it’s important to realize. Why else had I never seen this place before. These things, parts, pieces. None were exclusively familiar. And yet, they were. I felt the faintest tapping in my brain like recognition or a reminder. The shed was sitting patiently in the woods and in my mind, just waiting for me to discover—no, rediscover—it. How interesting.
I poked the rib bone. The whiteness of it had dulled to a chalky beige, and I found it to be hollow. For a split second, I wondered what it might be like to sever the bone and scoop out the lovely, rich marrow from the inside.
Simultaneously I pictured the hollow inside to be crawling with half-dead maggots.
One was probably worse than the other, but nevertheless, these delirious, disgusting images flashed before my eyes and the lifeless form before me.
Yes, how did it come to be hanging there like a dead animal?
It was a dead animal.
Funny, because, often, a dead animal is skinned, sliced, and stripped of its body parts. Not left solitarily to rot.
And oh, how it smelled. It was like my sense of smell had been disconnected until that moment. With the intensity of its stinking flesh, a memory came unbidden to the forefront of my mind and out of the crevices it’d been hiding in.
This body had once housed a human soul. A soul I’d befriended. Gained its trust. Offered warmth after a long walk through the lovely woods. A soul with personal connections, probably a family, all sorts of advantages. And I could not remember ever interacting with anyone in the outside world.
Those creeps that monitored me clearly encouraged this. They’re trying to trick me. They must be. That’s the only rational explanation. But wait…
When exactly had I ever been anything other than dreary and miserable as the sky. If the weather was rational, I might see the sun every once in a while.
Okay, so maybe there wasn’t anything rational about this place, the things shoved inside, like somebody’s dirty secret, unknown hobby. Hobby?
Really? Has it come to that?
What year was it?
I don’t know.
What’s happened?
How did I get here?
What have I done?
What did they let me do?
A shudder migrated teasingly across my shoulder blades. I had to realize that they must, at all costs, have known. That this—that I—
Oh.
Oh.
I see.
They had never told me this was here for a reason… or maybe I never told them.
I would never have known, and therefore, neither would they; both of us too busy monitoring my dreams, my rate of exercise.
Now all I could see were nightmares and premeditations.
My eyes fixated once more on the limp corpse dangling in the dark. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. Very picturesque. A pose a ballerina or a circus performer might take in the height of their performance. This dead body was at its peak. So luminous. So voluptuous. So illecebrous. There was an orphic sense of enigma glistening all over.
And I needed it. I needed it on me, in me, with me, every waking instant.
The flesh, the bone, the blood, the viscera of this person I never knew.
Now that they were dead, I wanted to know them like the back of my hand. Except… it would be theirs.
Yes.
Lovely.
Without realizing it, I had clasped the fingers of the cadaver, and scraped a puddle of skin under my thumbnail. Dropping its hand, I brought my own to my mouth. I unhooked the meat from the crevice of my nail with my teeth and allowed my tongue to see it swallowed.
You are what you eat, they say.
And I am human as they come. Nothing wrong with that.
I might be sick, but surely not insane.
Silhouetted Angel
Photography
Gigi Prothero
New York Skyline
Photography
Gigi Prothero
UPPERCASE LETTERS
Rey Bandyopadhyay
WHY DO WE ASSOCIATE THESE LITTLE SYMBOLS WITH EMOTION? IS THIS POEM PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE OR JUST FULL OF ENERGY? AM I YELLING AT YOU OR SCREAMING WITH JOY?!
DOES A PERIOD AT THE END OF A TEXT MEAN I’M DONE WITH YOU? DOES A THUMBS UP MEAN ‘END OF CONVERSATION’? DOES ‘LOL’ MEAN I LEFT THESE LITTLE LETTERS AND LAUGHED?
OR IS IT JUST THERE TO MAKE MY SENTENCE SEEM NICER?
WHY ARE WE SO OBSESSED WITH WORDS ON A SCREEN? WITH THE WAY OUR FRIENDS TYPE “GOODBYE” WHY DO I FIND MYSELF TRYING READ BETWEEN THE LINES, CONSTANTLY CHECKING TO SEE IF SOMEONE’S REPLIED?
WHY IS IT SO HARD TO TELL IF SOMEONE’S HAPPY OR SAD, IF THEY WANT YOU TO PRESS ON OR JUST LEAVE THEM ALONE? WHY CAN WE NEVER BE SURE IF WE SHOULD CONGRATULATE THEM OR SAY “AWW, I’M SO SORRY :(” ARE MY FINGERS ON A KEYBOARD SUPPOSED TO EXPRESS EMOTION?
WHY DO WE THINK SOME PEOPLE ARE WORTH TEXTING FIRST, AND OTHERS WE CAN SAVE FOR LATER? AND WHY IS IT, THAT WHEN OTHERS USE UPPERCASE LETTERS WE JOIN IN?
Shadow Sun
Pencil & marker
Esther Loi
Besagi
Parasite
Sarah Weng
Once again,
You’ve wormed your way into my brain
You eat away at the gray matter
You push against the walls of my skull
The headaches are splitting.
Your caress my arms and whisper sweet nothings Your breath is warm against my thundering pulse.
At the piano, you put your arms around my waist
At my desk, you rest your chin on my shoulder When I make coffee, I remind myself to take out one mug, not two.
Once again,
You’ve wormed your way into my heart
You burrow holes in the traitorous muscle You snap my heartstrings
The heartache is intolerable.
The Jester
Pen & pencil
Esther Loi
Ghoul in the Night
Pen & pencil
Esther Loi
until i(t) turn(s) purple
Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi
i wrap a string around the tip of my pointer finger, tying it off in a double knot. i watch as my finger flushes, as the numbness sets in. the entirety of my fingertip becomes a frosty blue-purple and a gentle tingling sensation arises from where i cut off the circulation. i tug the string off, gazing at my finger, at the change in color as the blood returns to it. i do it for what feels like forever, each time getting less satisfying than the last. each time waiting a little bit longer, pushing the limit a little bit more, before I yank the string off. until one time becomes the last time and i leave the string on the floor and walk away.
as the feeling returns to my finger, i think of you. of how you are the string on my finger, slowly suffocating me. every time you touch me, i can feel something churning in the acidic pit of my stomach. i feel the sudden urge to bathe in bleach, to rid my skin of all traces of you. because you are the one who is slowly breaking me. you are the cause of the marks on my forearm, the ones that i hide with jackets in the middle of summer. you are the cause of my swollen eyes when i wake up, the ones i place tea bags on to get rid of before i head to work. you are the cause of my indecision, my heartache, my pain, my screams, my- everything.
i know a day will come when you no longer stop, even after i turn purple. i’ll wait for you to cut the string, for you to lose interest and walk away, but you’ll just watch as black spots appear in my vision and i finally succumb to the darkness. i’ll collapse on the ground, a lifeless heap. i know that day is just around the corner. but i’ll just spend the rest of my life hoping that it won’t be today.
Marina Azmaiparashvili
Ballerina Oil paint
Love + Other Things
Rebeka Zwierzchowski
Filling the ink across the well-worn pages of my Soft, dove grey journal, Edges are stained burgundy from Papercuts of the memories of pain, Laughter, but mostly pain.
I know that the secrets it holds, the hurtful memories it possesses, and the treasures it keeps will be there until I, and only I, decide to burn them.
The hurt, but also the healing. The beast, but also the beauty. The lies, but also the love.
What does it mean to be strong? Does it mean to have courage? Does it mean to push through, persevere?
Perhaps it means love.
Not just the type of love where you are able to sacrifice for others, but also that will allow others to sacrifice for you.
Maybe when I am weak, I can be strong. Maybe it is my weakness that can make me strong.
My vulnerability, a weapon. My naiveté, a hope.
I sing, but I will no longer sing merely mournful songs, hoping for the day to end. Hoping for the night to end, hoping for my life to end.
No, I will chant and dance and sing a new anthem; one of beginning of strength and hope and perseverance. And love. Love for others. But also for me.
“At
least we have each other” Acrylic on canvas
Katelyn Wang
Mixed media (colored pencil, tempera, polymer clay, charcoal) Hannah Gupta
BONE APPLE TEETH!
Stare
Charcoal
Mary Wolters
what’s it worth?
Eva Cao
sometimes, it’s hard to find a way to withstand the complexities that come with being born human. it’s like the small city that is overrun by the tidal waves of a tsunami, hearing a foreign language being spoken and the disorganized clutter on the shelves of our basements yet at the same time, it’s like the firmly planted buildings that withstand the tides, the intricate and delicately designed patterns of embroidery, and the energizing feeling after you finish a workout. but within the mix of pain and pleasure, i tend to wonder if any of those feelings even matter in our lives; if anything truly matters in our world. maybe it sounds nihilistic but perhaps the ideas of suffering and exhaustion, of beauty and intelligence, or good and bad are just made-up ideas meant to make everyone doubt themselves and feel like outcasts to their own community and species; to feel like they don’t belong anywhere but instead alien creatures to be isolated within the confines of their own heads. but if those ideas create the society we live in, it has to mean something, right?
yet in the past, present, and future of this world, these ideas will never be understood in the thoughts of the other inhabitants of earth. the heads of the feathery, inhuman sounding song-makers of the trees and the tough shelled reptiles that move painstakingly slow could never possibly be burdened with comparing their own companions by how empathetic they are or how smart they seem. so why are we the creatures who caused our own pain and suffering by creating adjectives to describe one another when in the end none of it would ever matter?
I want to
Amy Li
Content Warning: Toxic relationship
Authors Note: This piece is supposed to model what a savior complex in a relationship could look like and how it can be damaging.
It shouldn’t be my job to teach him how to love me.
But I want to. I want to be the bigger person, to be patient with him, even when he’s angry with me. I want to teach him how to be kind, to be loving, to reconstruct a broken notion in his mind, because I love him. I’ll tell him that love isn’t anger, isn’t violence, isn’t manipulation, it’s kindness. And he’ll listen, for a while, until I’ll have to teach him again.
It shouldn’t be my job to pull him out of his misery.
But I want to. I want to guide him from the dark into the light, to show him things he’s never seen, to teach him to feel in ways he’s never felt. I want to be the guide, the ray of hope in the distance, to feel good about myself, to know I’ve changed a life. I want to see his smile, to carry his demons, to love so deeply that it blinds me in bliss.
It shouldn’t be my job to fix him.
But I want to. I want to piece together his broken parts like a puzzle, not caring if those sharp edges pierce themselves into my skin, making me bleed from the inside out. I want to feel how an artist feels after creating a perfect new piece, a sense of satisfaction that I did something, made something, that I’m worth something.
It shouldn’t be my job to stay.
But I want to. That’s what I promised him, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. What am I if not the creator of this messed up project? What am I worth if I can’t help, can’t fix, can’t carry? What am I worth without him?
Job Interview
Acrylic on paper
Joseph Greenwood The Folio
Lonesome Visitation
Pencil Evie Loi
Don’t Fear the DARKNESS
Ethan Loi
Content Warnings: Gore, blood, suicide
Olive had heard of the deep dark of the Abyss, a sort of nightmarish rift into nothingness. In The World Under the Dome, stories about the Abyss had long been told in whispers and ancient, cryptic texts. She always had a fascination with this strange rift under the world, hearing the stories about it from her grandfather as a child, studying it in secret as a young woman, and searching endlessly for it during her adult years. Now, however, she was here. She was in the Abyss.
As Olive walked down into the rift, hearing her feet land on hard stone and her lantern crackle as it illuminated stalactites and old carvings patterning the walls, she looked out into the eternal darkness ahead of her. She placed her lantern down before taking out her leather notebook and jotting down her observations. The pure blackness of the cavern’s depths seemed to pulsate; move. It wasn’t just the absence of light, but a force pulling her deeper and deeper. Her mind thought ill of the darkness below, but her heart succumbed to it.
As she gazed into the void, Olive instinctually reached for her lantern, but touched nothing. Con-
fused, she traced her hand across the ground, grasping at the pebbles and scraping her skin across the jagged stone. Nothing.
Olive grabbed her head and rubbed her temples as throbbing pain rushed through her head, as if a parasite was now burrowing into her head. All of this was accompanied by horrific images of distorted memories and scenes unimaginable to the human mind. Her sight rapidly deteriorated; what she could see of the cavern walls was slowly replaced with the sight of the pitchy darkness crawling towards her.
“I see you have found me,” a deep, echoing voice bellowed in her head. It bounced off the bounds of her skull like a large, blaring church bell, causing Olive to fall to the ground, landing on rough, cold stone. When she reopened her eyes, she could not see a thing. She felt around the ground for her tools but found nothing.
“Listen well,” the deep voice echoed again, sounding like a shout in one ear, but a whisper in the other. “Listen well,” the voice repeated, “I am oblivion. I am nothingness. I am God here.”
Olive’s breathing quickened as she realized that all she had now was the clothes on her back. She grinded her teeth together as the sharp, throbbing pain now felt like she had cracked open her skull. She clawed at her arms until she had broken skin and began to bleed.
She tried to think about her family, but only disgusting and regretful scenes arrived in her mind. Her husband was sprawled across the ground, his eyes wide, staring up at her, with blood slowly bubbling from his lips. His chest heaved and he struggled to move, bones snapping with every attempt. His fingers were gnarled and bent in unnatural ways, and his skin had been peeled from his flesh. At last, he screamed for what seemed like hours on end, blood still pouring through his teeth. However, his cries of agony eventually became soft sobs, and he awaited the Reaper.
Then she saw her son, alone. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was unruly. He twirled a knife like a pen between his fingers, staring at his reflection on the blade. He looked at his face for a long time, his breath quickening, before he placed the blade up against his throat.
The deep voice chuckled at her suffering as the thrumming pain only intensified and spread across her body. The chuckling turned into delirious fits of laughter which overtook all other sources of sound.
The pain in her head, in her skin, in her heart, was unbearable. And now, she could see nothing, smell nothing, and hear nothing, bar the incessant laughter of the Abyss itself echoing off of the insides of her head. She crawled about the ground, scraping her hands against the rough stone, trying with all her might to relieve herself of this pain and tumble off the edge. Finally, she made it; she was falling.
She awaited the splattering of her body at the bottom, but it never came. Instead, she landed remarkably safely on what seemed to be wet grass before losing consciousness to its cold yet comforting touch.
Hi rs finge ors we o e gna o led and bent in unna di u o al way rs , and hi rs rs kin had been peeled f ot m hi rs fle rs h.
She would awake quite a time later, and when she reached out her hand, she felt the rough cloth of a tent. When she opened her eyes, she was surprised by the mere fact that she could see again. Perplexed but intrigued, she thoroughly investigated the tent. As she gazed at her arms, she noticed scratch marks and scabbed-up wounds surrounded by dried blood. She felt strands of hair tangled between her fingers and felt an ache in her back.
Finally, as the image of her son dissipated, a large shadow appeared before her. It had no discernible features and made no sound. In an instant, she could feel its hands tightening around her neck and a sudden pressure on her chest. Her body froze in place as the figure tightened its grip before it faded away and left her in the dark.
Still struggling to breath, Olive crawled into a ball on the ground and her skin felt like it had frozen. She ripped up her clothes and pulled at her hair. She tried to scream but no noise escaped her lips.
She heard the distant chirping of crickets and the hooting of owls. There were murmurs and whispers, but she could not hear the exact words. There were brief glimpses of moving shadows across her tent before she heard a slight gasp.
She felt something wrap around her, and her heart skipped a beat. Then she relaxed as it became a comforting, warm weight on her chest. When she looked down to see what it was, she found her son hugging her. She smiled.
Port City Music Festival
Graphic design
Aren Framil
Domesticated Acrylic on canvas
Katelyn Wang
Gaze on ahead.
Ahead, a carnival spills with performers, each competing for the prize of recognition, acceptance, joy.
The more they get, The more they want, the more they need, the more they crave
Finding this place is simple; merely glance at the weary lines of the umber eyes, or the unfortunate downward tilt of the heart-shaped lips.
Passage is (harrowingly) open to anyone who wants to be known and make a name for themselves.
A vicious carnival it is, a wheel of deceit, wrath, and roaming. No purpose is preserved for the prodigal.
This place celebrates the most broken of hearts, flesh encrusted with reckless dialects And misplaced desires. The slaved spirit is sent for incineration.
A school for the lost, the feathers of the carnival stain inky, silky, guilty red over its performers; it doesn’t spare the onlookers.
Viciturs
Rebeka Zwierzchowski
This carnival, Perfection, stretched out its arms, invited me in (my decision, it would taunt me later).
Its music of laughter and appreciation warms me, ties me to its teachings: had you been impassioned, beautiful, and well-spoken, you would receive more of this merited gift.
One performer doesn’t recognize the other, that’s the trick.
I would not know if a fellow performer were my foe, my friend, my sister.
To caress loneliness and to encounter rejection is this carnival’s delight, its currency, if you will.
I would know, since I am a performer on this stage that elevates my faults, but trapdoors my glories.
I would not know whether you’ve joined me, since I’m blinded by the lights of repulsively false validation.
Ada Lavelle
“And we just manifested. I’ve been through adversity before — physically, emotionally, mentally. This isn’t anything new. It’s just another step.”
—Brady Cook
Anouk Freudenberg
“If you never bleed you’re never gonna grow.”
— “the 1,” Taylor Swift
Aashita Singh
“All that exists is what’s ahead”— The BoJack Horseman Show
“To escape death, she’d become death ”
— Sarah J. Maas
“Brick by brick. Brick by brick, I will destroy you.”— Six of Crows, Leigh Bardugo
Abigail Dobson
“Dux femina facti.”—
Aeneid, Virgil
Amy Li
“Life is short. Smile while you still have teeth” — Mallory Hopkins
Arima Agrawal
“Horses lend us the wings we lack”
— Pam Brown
Audrey Nguyen
“What were you before you met me?”
“I think I was drowning.”
“And what are you now?”
“Water.”
— On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, Ocean Vuong
“Art is what we use to decorate space. Music is what we use to decorate time.”
— Jean-Michel Basquiat
Austin Wang
“No mourners, no funerals.”—
Six of Crows, Leigh Bardugo
“Let your smile change the world, but don’t let the world change your smile.”— Instagram Reels Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi
Caden Aldridge
“All we have is that shout into the wind - How we live, how we go, and how we stand before we fall. So you see, pride is the only thing.”
— Morning Star, Pierce Brown
Chloe Proud
“What is done with love is done well.”
— Vincent Van Gogh
Caroline Tierney
“I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.”
Claire Arnault
“Pardon my heart/If I showed that I cared/But I love you more than moments/We have or have not shared”—“Pardon My Heart,”
Neil Young
Cole Marshall
“They say the eagle flies on Friday”—
Wild at Heart (1990)
“I think I have this thing where I need everyone to think I’m the greatest, the ‘fantastic mr. fox’”— Fantastic Mr. Fox
Ethan Loi
“Everything can have beauty, even the worst horror.”
— Frida Kahlo
“There’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.”—
Samwise Gamgee, The Two Towers (2002) “LOL, NOOB!”
— Percy Jackson
Eva Cao
“It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.”
— Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez
Evie Loi
“The same feeling of not belonging, of futility, wherever I go...What attracts me is elsewhere, and I don’t know where that elsewhere is.”
— Emil M. Cioran
Ezoza Mukhammadomonova
“The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.”
—Jack London
“All that glitters is not gold”— The Merchant of Venice, Shakesphere
Jane Reynolds
Hannah Gupta
“We dream to give ourselves hope. To stop dreaming - well, that’s like saying you can never change your fate.”— The Hundred Secret Senses, Amy Tan
“There’s a time for daring and there’s a time for caution, and a wise man understands which is called for”— Dead Poet’s Society, John Keating
“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race”— Dead Poet’s Society, John Keating
“The course of true love gathers no moss”—The Philadelphia Story (1940)
Iris Zhang
Jessica Joseph
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—/ I took the one less traveled by,/ And that has made all the difference”— Robert Frost
“She didn’t usually feel the aloneness quite this much, but it was harder, this time of year, to ignore the graveyard in her chest.”— Crier’s War, Nina Varela
“We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents.”— Bob Ross
Katelyn Wang
“When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don’t seem to matter very much, do they?”— Virginia Woolf
“Breathe out so I can breathe you in” — “Everlong”, Foo Fighters
Maira Usmani
“Just keep swimming” — Dory, Finding Nemo (2003)
“Minnesota!”— Joseph Robinette Biden Jr.
Maggie Ng
“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth”—Conan Doyle
Maitreyi Senthil
“We accept the love we think we deserve.”—The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Stephen Chbosky
“He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.”—
Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
“And the universe said I love you because you are love”—Minecraft End
“‘My motive is that I prefer dragons.’//‘To what?’ //
Pranavika Vijayabalan Parvathi
“Your love makes me strong, your hate makes me unstoppable”—Cristiano Ronaldo
Poem, Julian Gough
‘To the absence of dragons.’”—Truly Devious, Maureen Johnson
Rebeka Zwierzchowski
“Wish that I just said all the things that I didn’t”— “Loving You From a Distance,” jomm
Rey Bandyopadhyay
“She has always thought herself foolish for loving so much and so easily. Yet now it is her strength.”
Where the Dark Stands Still, A. B. Poranek
“She was a girl. In Nazi Germany. How fitting that she was discovering the power of words.”
— The Book Thief, Markus Zusak
Riana Esenbaeva
“What’s the joy of giving if you’re never pleased?”
— “Champagne Coast,” Blood Orange & Dev Hynes
“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard”
—Winnie the Pooh
“Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts”
— Charles Dickens
“I burn my life to make a sunrise that I know I’ll never see.”— Luthen Rael, Andor (2022)
Vibha Besagi
“...the very instant that our usefulness has come to an end we are slaughtered with hideous cruelty”—Animal Farm, George Orwell
Ben Smith
“Peace & Love”
Shirin Patel
“Here’s to the fools who dream”— “The Fools Who Dream”, La La Land (2016)
Zion Brown
Katie Wilson
“Well, my feet they finally took root in the earth
But I got me a nice little place in the stars”— “Growin’ Up”, Bruce Springsteen
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