Port City Review 2022

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INDIVIDUAL PIECES CONTAINED HEREIN ARE THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF THE CONTRIBUTORS, WHO RETAIN ALL RIGHTS TO THEIR MATERIAL. EVERY EFFORT WAS MADE TO CONTACT THE ARTISTS TO ENSURE THAT THE INFORMATION PRESENTED IN THIS JOURNAL IS CORRECT.

NO PART OF THIS JOURNAL MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION FROM THE EDITORIAL STAFF AND THE ADVISER. PORT CITY REVIEW, ESTABLISHED IN 2012, IS AN ANNUAL LITERARY ARTS JOURNAL SHOWCASING THE WORK OF SCAD STUDENTS EXCLUSIVELY VIA A SUBMISSIONS PROCESS. PUBLISHED CONTENT IS DETERMINED BY STUDENT EDITORS.

OPINIONS EXPRESSED IN PORT CITY REVIEW ARE NOT NECESSARILY THOSE OF THE COLLEGE. THE TENTH ISSUE OF PORT CITY REVIEW IS AVAILABLE FREE OF CHARGE TO SCAD STUDENTS, FACULTY AND STAFF. SUBSEQUENT COPIES OF THE JOURNAL, AND COPIES FOR THE GENERAL PUBLIC, ARE AVAILABLE FOR $10 EACH.

STAFF

THE TYPEFACES USED IN THIS EDITION OF THE JOURNAL ARE HK GROTESK AND PARK LANE.

THIS JOURNAL WAS DESIGNED BY TYLER LOWE WITH THE USE OF ADOBE ILLUSTRATOR CC, ADOBE INDESIGN CC, ADOBE PHOTOSHOP CC.

OUR Mission

WE EXIST TO PROVIDE STUDENTS A FORUM TO SHARE THEIR VERY BEST WORKS. CURATED BY STUDENTS, THE JOURNAL SEEKS TO BE INTIMATE, EXPLORING ART FROM EVERY ANGLE.

Illustration

Aarohi Devasthale

Mumbai, Maharashtra, India

Graduate Student, Illustration

Stage for God of Carnage

Production Design

Paola Alexandra Herrera Moya

Quito, Pichincha, Ecuador

Graduate Student, Production Design

Remote Photography

Madisyn Welborn

Denton, Texas Sophomore, Photography

Big Little Lies

ANXIETY AT BEST

Writing (Fiction)

Sarah Elizabeth McVicker Killeen, Texas Graduate Student, Dramatic Writing

Every morning is a battle. The daily stressors of your day creep in as the sun beamed abrasively through closed blinds and curtains meant to darken the atmosphere. Eyes still closed you elongate your tense and heavy body, arms to the headboard while pointing your toes downward stretching out the night’s paralysis. Relax. As soon as you awake thoughts begin to race and the quietness ends. Eyelids like a broken down elevator where the doors have to be pried open. Grudgingly you attempt to get out of bed, but only turn to one side. Breathe in, out, in, out.

Half an hour goes past as you lie in bed thumbing through social media. Sandra’s getting married, Katie’s pregnant, and Mark got a new job making six figures while you focus on keeping a polished 4.0 GPA afloat knowing your mother expects nothing less. You’re stuck in the past wallowing in misery. Once you build the strength to peel out from the pillowy, silky sheets you sit on the edge of the bed. In, out. You want another lazy Sunday with little physical exertion. Rather enveloping exhausted muscles between two-hundred fifty thread counts and a fleece blanket are where you intend to stay for the remainder of the day. Interacting with the world creates rapid thoughts, a hare repeatedly laps the turtle, a static sting in your palms, and an anchor around your ankles submerges you in the Gulf of Mexico, stuck and uncomfortable.

Twenty-three steps to the kitchen you grab a bottle of water, take vitamins and stare at the desolate temperature controlled box. Without any decision on food you retreat to bed for a nap hoping to revive stronger, but the attempt fails. You turn on Star reruns, you’ve already seen three times, for background noise. Little mountains of literature live on top of nightstands framing the bed, but on the corner is a black leather journal. Doodles, poems, and thoughts grace the pages with snippets of events of the past and prayers for the present future.

My dreams scare me. They are the truth and reality of my subconscious awareness.

Dreams, though sparse, are frightening and seem like visions for the future that dictates a Shakespearean tragedy. The recreated terror, the step by step instruction using ropes and razors complicates indecisive thinking, so falling asleep

was never a blessing. To calm a vocal stomach you indulge in sugary glazed cinnamon honey buns. Waking up in a daze not remembering falling asleep, the time jumps four more episodes ahead. The left nightstand resembles a landfill, wrappers thrown and picked at by seagulls. There are two missed calls and one voicemail from your mother. “Hey Flor, it’s your mom. Where did you put the spray paint I bought from Walmart? Let me know. Love you, bye,” she says.

Standing naked in the bathroom mirror you stare at the constellations sitting atop custard filled hills on high cheekbones that contrast with androgynous features and slothful exercise habits normally covered with layers of shirts. There’s no sparkle nor motivation in your eyes, letting out sighs wishing that it was easier to become a more favorable person. I look like a prepubescent boy with a beer belly. For three minutes the warm water slowly defrosts your body. After the shower you lather lotion on your limbs and put back on the same pajamas. Climbing back into bed you return your mother’s call.

“It’s on the table in the dining room. Everything is still in the bag,” you say.

“Alright I found it. How’s school?” she asks.

“It’s ok, I just have a lot of stuff to read.”

“Have you started reading?” Before you could answer she continues. “You know you gotta keep your grades up if you wanna find a good job after graduation.”

“Yes, mom I know,” you say dropping your head down and wishing she would encourage instead of lecture.

“A slacker attitude won’t get you anywhere.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m not going to take care of you forever. You gotta take care of you.”

She has repeated herself for four years. You’ve grown quiet with a tight chest desperately wanting to change the subject.

“How was work the other day?” you say.

“Oh the usual, my client’s case lasted all day. The judge finally ruled in his favor on account of proper documentation, but sweetie I gotta go, some coworkers want to go to the symphony tonight so I need to go run a few errands, but go do your homework,” she urges.

“Uh, ok, bye mom, love you.”

Beautiful Tears

Photography Kazimir Brumley Shelton, Washington Senior, Advertising and Art Direction

The Burning of Turtle Island Illustration Chloe Alford Bessemer, Alabama Junior, Illustration

Brian off Broughton Photography Alex Cummings Weston, Connecticut Senior, Photography

Deep and Dark Photography

Daniella Almona

Lagos, Nigeria

Senior, Photography

Rising Equinox Painting

Anthony Perry

Miami, Florida

Junior, Sequential Art

FROZEN GROUND

Writing, Fiction Perrin Smith Rock Spring, Georgia Senior, Writing

Snow drifted in off the mountains. Came south before another cold front. We had six inches of snow in a day. Most we’d gotten in a decade, the weatherman said. The signal cut out to a pop song, then warbled back. I think he said to expect three more inches tonight.

The road to the funeral home was blocked. Two snowplows, I could see them up ahead, overturned while clearing the highway. Plows bent, curved like they were broken. Probably hit a pothole through the snow. I slowed the gas, was motioned onto the bypass by a roadworker.

The funeral director’s office was decorated in oppressive green and floral-patterned wallpaper. The whole place smelled like an air-freshener bottle exploded. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. I think his name was Rogers.

“Yeah,” I said. He motioned me to his desk. It looked more like a table. There were six seats around it, a few more pushed against the walls. I sat down.

“Sorry, Carter,” Rogers said. He turned on his computer, then angled it so he could keep an eye on me. “Any plans made before...?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“Alright.” He took a minute, typed something on his computer. The screen lit his face up blue and white. He was old. White hair, no beard. Pale skin. “So,” he said, “would you mind telling me a few things about your father?”

“Happy birthday,” Dad said. I was seven. This was sixteen years ago.

The inside of our house was littered with party streamers. They were tacked onto the ceiling, above the doors, over the couch, in my bedroom. A banner was pinned above the kitchen table, read “Seven” in gold letters. A SpongeBob cake was placed at my spot.

“Mom picked it up this morning,” he said. Smiled at me. I think it was around noon. A weekend. Probably a Saturday. “Before she went into work.”

Dad pulled out a box of candles from a drawer. “How old are you?” he asked. He feigned confusion, cocked his head to one side. He had facial hair then—brown stubble. His hair was short then, too—near shaved. He was wearing one of his old high school football T-shirts, the sleeves cut off.

“Seven,” I said. We laughed.

“Yep. I think,” he paused and narrowed his eyes, “that’s old enough to start paying rent.”

“No!”

“Yeeaaahh,” he drew the word out for a second and laughed a little at the end. “Let’s wait on Mom. Then we’ll light these.” He held up a handful of candles. They were all white, striped with green.

I looked down at the cake. SpongeBob’s frosted eyes looked back at me.

Did he have a plot?” Rogers asked. He looked up at me through wire-frame glasses. “Sometimes people pay for one and don’t tell anybody.”

“No,” I said. “He didn’t have one.”

“Okay, we can arrange that.” He looked back to the computer and typed something. “Was he a member of a church? Somewhere he might’ve preferred?”

“No.” I looked out the window. The snow was falling quicker now. It must’ve been about three-thirty, but the snow was so thick, like a fog, there was no way to tell. A little sunlight flickered through, bounced off the cars in the parking lot. A glint of light reflected off the ice-frosted glass.

“How’s Trinity Methodist? That’s the one on Carissa Road.”

“That’s good.”

Mom drove us down to Daytona. Dad slept in the passenger’s seat. We piled the back of our Toyota hatchback with an inflatable beach ball, a tent, and about three folding chairs. I was nine. This was my first vacation.

“You want to stop and eat?” Mom said. She looked up at the rear-view mirror, to me in the backseat. She was thirty-five then. Gray hair poked through from her roots.

“I guess so,” I said.

“Where at?” She looked over at the shoulder of the interstate. Nothing there but dry fields.

“Anywhere.”

We stopped somewhere in north Florida. I don’t know where. We got burgers from a McDonald’s. Sat in the grass at a rest stop, under some trees. Dad’s door opened.

“C’mon,” he said. “We’re burning daylight.” He shut the door, too hard. He looked annoyed. He shot his eyes to his side mirror, watched us. Waited on us to get back in the car.

“Let’s go,” Mom said. “Up, up.”

Rogers looked tired. His eyes had bags under them, looked like he needed to sleep. “We need an obituary,” he said. “Then we’ll be almost through.”

Untitled Photography

Madelyn Conlin-Day Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania Senior, Photography

Autumn Town Illustration

Alyssa Lee Gahanna, Ohio Senior, Illustration

Amy Phillips

Elmira, New York Graduate Student, Painting

The House Beside the Tracks Photography

Amelia Ray

Birmingham, Alabama Junior, Film and Television

Abandoned Factory Illustration

Shuhan Yang

Hunan, China Senior, Illustration

Ballerina at Rest Painting

A Treat To My Eye(s)

Painting

Maya Pegues Montgomery, Alabama Senior, Painting

Bacteria Motion Media Design

Xianxun Liao

Guangdong, China Graduate Student, Motion Media Design

A SUNSET I WISH I COULD RELIVE

Writing (Poetry) Grant Davis Nashville, Tennessee Sophomore, Advertising and Branding

dawn sneaks up on the horizon like a prowling predator preying on the innocent skyline of the city i’m in tonight. i admire it from a distance as the golden sphere dissipates into nothingness, down to earth it goes with no resistance from the innocent skylineno dissonance with the colors blending beautiful bliss before my eyes.

on his way out, the sun tugs at the chain controlling the lights he bids the onlookers of the city a farewell and lays a blanket of black on us. courteous enough, the sun made sure to poke a thousand tiny holes in that blanket for the kids, so they wouldn’t be scared.

neither the moon nor her star-crossed friends are mad about it either,

they happily babysit us again and again giving a nightlight to out bronze-branded memory of the sunsets we wish we could relive.

By the Fire Illustration Ellis Fox Mount Pleasant, South Carolina Sophomore, Illustration

I Think, Therefore I Tweet

Illustration

Braden Maxwell

Phoenix, Arizona

Graduate Student, Illustration

Dreamy Dreamy

Illustration

Yuntong Lei

Savannah, Georgia Graduate Student, Illustration

A Traveler’s Guide to Upper Michigan Illustration

Brianna Naughton

Troy, Michigan Senior, Illustration

Wonder Illustration

Yeong Yuh Lin

Taipei, Taiwan

Freshman, Illustration

fears that hold you back Illustration

Anushua Sinha

Mumbai, Maharashtra

Graduate Student, Illustration

Beauty Photography

Katelyn Myrick

Pompano Beach, Florida Sophomore, Photography

Overgrown Garden Jewelry

Ashley Boyle

Long Island, New York Senior, Jewelry

Darling Suzy Jewelry

Ashley Boyle Long Island, New York Senior, Jewelry

WHY I CAN’T GO TO SCHOOL TODAY

Writing (Fiction)

Olive Adams Richmond, Virginia Junior, Writing

It is an honor to hold your council today, Mother, on the very day that will wake tomorrow. In our years together I’ve understood that, as always, you’ll be taking no prisoners. Let my trial by fire commence.

I cannot go to Catholic school today, Mother, because the cyber-geometric, biodegradable nightmare that is reality, has betrayed me. At school I ask, “Where did your faces go? Faces I haven’t seen for hundreds of thousands of years or so? Do we still share the same feeling? Have you, too, felt our ideals standing still, pressing against a reality that refuses question?” On the sacral grounds of ritual ripening and education, it’s anyone’s guess if the youth can reconcile fact and historical fiction. But Mother, this morning I am here to strike a deal, regard my reasonable plea. I’ve simply lost my Bible. There is no reason for me to leave.

We are no strangers, in no strange land. We are home! We are at home, watching tomorrow take flight, feeling yesterday pull away slow. And every morning I am woken, shaken awake, by tomorrow. Tomorrow wakes me. And I don’t want to get up, because every morning, tomorrow’s sea level rises, and Heaven grows hotter and hotter. Here you will tell me to deepen my roots, so I may bear all their fruits. But roots need a heavy weight of faith to move like so, and I just don’t have it. You know me, I’ve never been known to miss a good show, I guess this time I’m really through with it. Please don’t make me go. And here, you’ll say no, no, this is spiritual retribution. And still, that’s not the root of it.

Really Mother, it’s not the eternal serpent hissing in my ear, or the fig on the wall. It’s that I’m blessed by God, and hunted by devils. It’s

not the institution itself, nor everything I’ve ever said or done there. If we’re being quite honest, it’s that no one will ever remember what I’ve said or done there, it’s their forgetfulness that’s got me on edge. It’s not that God chooses my Fate, or that Death is alive and real. It’s not that I’ve made no decisions, ever. Because if we’re being quite honest, Jesus wept, for neither could he accept his fate. And they say we’re not all from the same grain? I don’t believe, I never will.

You’ll say, oh dear, I can’t think of a child more horrible. Well, how can I put this… Mother, you don’t have to fight me, God’s children, or the world. Just yourself, it’s only a thousand years. How would you have me please Him anyway? How am I to know what still tastes good after eternity? I imagine nothing pleases His immortal, unchangeable certainty. At school, I ask, “Is this the deepest we can go? Are you sure we’ve traveled true?” And they’ll say, it’s been proven, we can prove any truth. Not by divine order or unwritten law, nor with bringers or bearers. It’s really that memory we all used to share. The one that wakes us up at night, the one each must bear. Our poor, original sin.

Well, Mother, it’s tomorrow that wakes me, tomorrow with a sick grin. It’s the clear star of yesterday, hundreds and thousands of years ago. It’s everyone who waves goodbye, to the person who just arrived. It’s letting Death know that the only thing I’m betting on is good karma too - and Death laments, “Only one way out.” I’m not going to school today, Mother, because my soul is bleeding and my fever hasn’t broke. I have nothing more to bet, and when I pray, God whispers in my ear, “The dice are loaded.” And still, that’s not the root of it.

one in the hand is worth... Illustration

Angela Frazier

Overland Park, Kansas Sophomore, Animation

Shakespeare Book Cover Animation Adrienne Krozack Stevensville, Maryland Senior, Illustration

Fruitality Graphic Design Tyler Lowe Tappan, NY Senior, Graphic Design and Production Design

The Serpent’s Tale Painting Katie Chapman Templeton, Massachusetts Senior, Illustration

Grandma & Mum & I

Fashion Echo Gu

Dalian, China

Sophomore, Fashion Design

Queen of the Underworld, Persephone

Illustration

Jori Pope

Baton Rouge, Louisiana

Sophomore, Sequential Art

SILVER SPOONS DIG GRAVES

Writing (Fiction)

Hannah Ryder Roscommon, Michigan Graduate Student, Writing

Nelly Ashburne was a large woman but held herself delicately. It always worked for her and her wallet, and she stuck consistently with holding her large frame like she was on a cloud. Today, she looked like a cloud with stereotypical middle-aged woman capri pants and a light blue tank top and matching shawl. To top it all off was her hair. It teetered on her head, back and forth, like toddlers playing on a seesaw, a red-gray froth swaying on the ocean’s current. Nelly expanded to fill her seat and swayed gently on the rickety chair.

The restaurant was busy for a Wednesday in the Californian valley heat. It was quite the sight to see, such an oversized woman with ridiculous hair perched as daintily as possible, in the middle of a patio packed with thin glamazons nibbling salads like rabbits. Nelly was mimicking her thinner dining counterparts, munching her salad one tiny bite at a time. She looked across the table at her guest, a large male who looked similar, sans whipped hair, who had gobbled his porterhouse in under two minutes and was eyeing dessert—her.

“So, I think it’s great that you teach young girls to be socialites like yourself. Networking is everything. I think it’s a worthy endeavor, and I’m glad we could meet so I could give you the money in person.” A thick tongue stuck out to moisten his lips.

“Thank you—” Nelly ducked her head down to her large satchel sitting on the floor and noticed the name on the check. “Marcus. I’m glad people like you are so caring for the future generation.” Nelly smiled at Marcus, who gave her a lazy eyed scan and smiled. Steak was caught between his front teeth.

Nelly stuck out her pinky, capped with a carefully painted red nail, to balance her silver fork and speared a tomato. He looked at her doing so hungrily and it was almost too vulgar to watch. Vaguely she heard him huff something about the world needing more class and that she was the perfect one to fix that. Marcus wiped sweat off his brow and Nelly grimaced.

“Well, I must be going,” Nelly smiled. Marcus watched her stand up and hoist her oversized purse on her shoulder. “Thank you for your generous

donation…and lunch.” With an award-winning smile, she turned and tried her best to walk away daintily.

“Sucker,” Nelly whispered under her breath as the valet brought her car around. When he did, Nelly tossed him a ten-dollar bill and folded herself into the newly leased Audi. It didn’t take much time to get back home and into her gated residence.

“Hey John, make sure my car’s polished before tonight,” Nelly hollered into the shrubbery in the middle of the cul-de-sac driveway. Out popped her right-hand man from behind the tree he was clipping into a teardrop shape. Without looking, Nelly hurled her car keys in John’s direction and strutted into the house.

“Jenna!” she called into the foyer. It was a tall, incredibly built house. All the surfaces were newly polished, a complete opposite from their humble beginnings in a rundown cabin in the Midwest.

Daughters of a single mother whose career as a waitress couldn’t always afford them new shoes, Jenna and Nelly had gotten out of their life of poverty. Jenna’s idea of creating strawman organizations in which wealthy, fake-compassionate people could pour thousands their way made for the Dolly Parton fantasy they both dreamed about as children. All the women had to do was cash the check and send a follow up months later: look what disabled child you sponsored! They can ride a horse now! Here’s a stock photo that we’re going to say is the actual photo of a nameless kid that we’ll say is called Petunia! Donate more please!

“Jenna!” Nelly called. The large mansion reverberated with sound.

Instead of her sister, an Italian Greyhound greeted her, yipping and jumping on Nelly’s calves. She tossed her large satchel on the floor and picked the dog up to rub his head. Even though he was happy, the barking continued.

“In the study!” came a voice from upstairs. Nelly toted the dog up the stairs and into the study. Her sister Jenna was seated behind a massive black walnut desk typing up something on a too-large Mac desktop. She was barely visible behind the computer; all that peeked out was her spiky red hair.

“I’ve got another one!” Nelly danced over to desk. The dog in her arms bobbed up and down, snarling at the unwanted movement. “Hush!” his master ordered.

Jenna peeked around her screen and stared at her sister. In comparison, the two were wildly different. Nelly was more solid, with brighter clothes where Jenna was skeletal, dressed in black.

Storms

Illustration

Zoe Lipman

Pleasanton, California

Senior, Production Design

Boundless Motion Media Design

Weiqian Han

Wuhan, Hubei, China Graduate Student, Motion Media Design

Candy Craze

Illustration

Melanie Davis

Muskego, Wisconsin Junior, Illustration

Coffee Break

Illustration

Alyssa Lee

Gahanna, Ohio Senior, Illustration

AN ODE TO THE MOON

Writing (Poetry) Sarah Elizabeth McVicker Killeen, Texas Graduate Student, Dramatic Writing

Oh Luminosity, Oh Guiding Light never leading us down pastures astray orbiting in birds’ sight and allowing children to sit in deep craters and fish upon the lakes. Clouds may disguise the beauty of centuries created by almighty hands that hold the utmost truth of all existence; the beginning and the end and you will remain even when we have ceased to exist.

And we made it to you in the past with your future, light years ahead. You befriend the stars and the sun challenges your beauty with fighting shadows, but shadows that do not hide only highlight.

We wish to breathe your air but the elevation is too high and our gasp is not powerful enough to control the breathtaking hyperventilation you cause. When time is an allusion, what year is it where you are?

How strong and sturdy the surface is in opposition with the Sun and being so far into the distant future but appearing so close, we close one eye and hide you with our thumbs. Not so colossal after all.

March 8, 2017, 11:21 am

Sofia Bernal Williamstown, New Jersey Senior, Illustration

The Stars Illustration Yining Li Savannah, GA Graduate Student, Illustration

The Silo Illustration

Blue Side Illustration

Antara Ghosh

Panvel, India Graduate Student, Motion Media Design

Dream Illustration

Yuntong Lei Savannah, Georgia Graduate Student, Illustration

i is for insomnia

Illustration

Braden Maxwell Phoenix, Arizona Graduate Student, Illustration

Vivid Dream Illustration

Alice Chui

Concord, New Hampshire Senior, Illustration

Soaring Dragon Illustration

Yutong Lu

Handa, China Graduate Student, Illustration

Nature+Preserve Magazine

Graphic Design

Aarushi Gauri Menon

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

Junior, Visual Communication

Magnificence in Tatters

Fashion

Eryn Edwards

Charleston, South Carolina

Sophomore, Fashion Design

Alfre’s Room

Illustration

Ella Mitchell

Destin, Florida Senior, Illustration

OK Human Takes Weezer in a Surprisingly Pleasant Direction

Illustration

Alex Holmes Twinsburg, Ohio Senior, Illustration

Dreams

Illustration

Daniela Dock

Kennesaw, Georgia Freshman, Animation

Illustration

New Taipei City, Taiwan

Graduate Student, Illustration

Mushroom Girl’s Adventure

Sophia Chung

THE KIND OF GRIEF THAT’S EMPTY

Writing (Fiction)

Madelyn Buchmann Milwaukee, Wisconsin Sophomore, Writing

Caroline pulled the keys from the ignition, and the abrupt absence of the rumbling engine left only her breathing to fill up the silence. The cabin staring back at her was silent, too, but it never made much noise other than the occasional settling of its walls in the lonely late afternoon. As a child, she visited the cabin frequently with her grandparents, and it had since been left in her care.

There was a dog on the front porch, bathing in the sun. Brown spots freckled his white fur, and he lifted his head off the ground to see if she was going to upset his nap.

She opened the car door and stepped out, deciding she would unpack later because she was no longer able to approach the cabin. Instead, Caroline rounded the back of the car and walked into the forest.

The Northwoods of Wisconsin rivaled the beauty of tropical destinations not because it had blue skies and white sand— though there were thousands of lakes, many of which had clear water. The Northwoods were beautiful because they exuded character and wisdom and numinosity. The trees, with their sky-bound branches and seasonally-shifting forms, dampened external noise and echoed inner thought.

Caroline wandered through the supposedly introspection-inducing trees. She didn’t study the lower trunks covered in yellow-green moss, nor did she savor the crisp snapping of twigs under her boots. With her hands in her pockets, she put one foot in front of the other, letting her eyes become glassy. The Northwoods had indeed echoed her inner thought; emptiness had become oblivion.

The setting sun eased her out of her prolonged trance. It was necessary to return to the cabin if only because she couldn’t see her hand inches from her face. Upon her arrival back, she unpacked the car, towing her single suitcase through the front door. Its wheels skipped over the threshold.

The cabin hadn’t changed on the inside, but then again she hadn’t expected it to. There were antique fishing poles and maps still hanging beside

the fireplace and photo magnets still canvasing the fridge which you could only know was black from the exposed handle. The embroidered towels hanging over the handle of the stove hadn’t moved, and the mounted trophy buck hadn’t turned his head.

She crossed the dining room and opened the door to the smallest of the three bedrooms. It was the one she’d shared with her brother as a kid, and she saw no benefit in straying from tradition.

She set her suitcase on the end of the bed, unzipping it to take out her laptop. This trip was meant to cure her writer’s block so she could finally finish her novel. She’d been stuck on the same scene for a while as she was unable to write anything past a sentence before holding down the backspace key.

Caroline quickly lost hope, the little black line blinking at her as she sat at the open laptop. Despite the change in scenery, her absence of thought was still present. It was as if the blank white page on the screen mirrored the one in her mind.

She closed her laptop, not moving from the desk for a few minutes. She supposed a good night’s rest in an unfamiliar bed without the interruption of an alarm or rush hour traffic might help to alleviate her block.

The bed needed to be made though, and with a small sigh, Caroline slid the closet open. She randomly selected a set of moose-patterned sheets from the top shelf and a plush navy blanket from the one below that, then set them both on the bed before turning around again to slide the door shut.

As she nudged it closed, a dog bed on the closet floor caught her attention.

Caroline held the closet shut for a few moments, breathing in her exhaled air again as it bounced off of the wooden surface in front of her.

She moved her suitcase to the floor so she could stretch the sheets across the bare mattress. Once all four corners were secure, she wrapped the navy blanket around herself and crawled into bed, and it was likely a sore sight: a queen-sized bed too big for one human with their knees tucked to their chest, leaving plenty of room at the foot of the bed.

Caroline slept poorly that night. She rolled around every which way in the empty space, threw the blankets to the floor, picked them up again minutes later, and tucked her head under the pillow, only to repeat the process several times before the sun came up.

Delight Photography

Marleah Flajnik Warren, Ohio Senior, Photography

FATCAT Cakery Cook Book and Menu Design Graphic Design Mel Petzoldt Evans, Georgia Senior, Motion Media Design

Yining

Savannah,

Life Drawing with a Mermaid Illustration

Summerjoy Whittaker New Bern, North Carolina Senior, Illustration

Paper Boats-to Mother Illustration

Li

Georgia

Graduate Student, Illustration

Welcome to Hope Town Painting

Samantha Sawyer Abaco, Bahamas Freshman, Painting

The Garden of Forking Paths Illustration

Shuhan Yang Hunan, China Senior, Illustration

TOWERING

Writing (Poetry) Meagan Pusser Pinehurst, North Carolina Graduate Student, Writing

If you must tell my tale, read from the storybook written in my hand. Do not let me fade in a Prince’s charming shadow. Remember how I rolled my eyes at Rapunzel, Snow White, Cinderella. Recall that this beauty slept behind a locked door to avoid the dangerous prick, and kept her hair at her shoulders to disprove the Prince’s strength. Smiled at the virulent apple’s tempting sheen, but took orders from no one. I threw glass slippers out of the window, climbed towers, busted through ceilings and never looked back at those seven puny men that called me their wench. My tower was repainted, its ivory peeled away and replaced with the purple in my veins. Tell of the woman that escaped those grim brothers. I am a damsel, yes, but I have always taken care of my own distress despite the phallic fallacy:

“You need him.”

Waterlilies

Fashion

Rhea Gupta

Savannah, Georgia

Junior, Fashion Design

Chicago Poster Illustration

Caroline Gendron

Saint Charles, Illinois

Junior, Illustration

Eggs Photography Hannah Rodbell Annapolis, Maryland Senior, Photography

I Am Illustration Alice Chui Concord, New Hampshire Senior, Illustration

Togetherness Photography Charles Siwinski Chicago, Illinois Senior, Photography

Ophelia Illustration Yang Zhou LanZhou, GanSu, China Graduate Student, Illustration

Prop Tesseract Production Design Zoe Lipman Pleasanton, California Senior, Production Design

JUST ONE OF MANY LILAC SUNSETS

Writing (Poetry)

Kaitlynne Rainne Belize City, Belize Senior, Fashion Design

When asked, I say that I have not yet experienced butterflies swarming my insides

Rebuking the notion that they’ve ever graced my presence

How can I not when the memory of your sunkissed palms holding my own Reignites the notion that all love has ever done is leave

But in the rush of this mundane life, I cannot help but catch and hold glimpses of who we were Of the way your love met me

Soft and gentle, a caressing stroke like a cool, overcast Tuesday morning Rather unexpectedly, but the best addition to my humid life

You brought a lilac reprieve that quieted my scarlet heart

A ringmaster to the roaring in my head

And yes, while we only ever shared those moments when the moon was high, Those are the times I remember most

You would think I feel pain at having lost you

A deep agony that threatens the very sanity that is just barely holding me together

But rather, what remains is a bittersweet peace

A humbling buzz of emotions that remind me what a joy it had been to fall in love once

It’s a shame we made such a ruin of what could’ve been And though it’s been a few years, the memory of you lives on It rushes at me so suddenly some days that all I can do is sit and watch it fill my lungs All while I glance at my phone knowing that I can no longer walk that bridge

I’m sitting on the other side, wondering if we will ever mend And the only answer I can come up with is no Oh how I wish we had only looked before we leaped Perhaps we’d save ourselves the tragedy

But on a Friday night in my dorm, As I replay the sweetness of your smile

Reminding my soul that infinity runs in both directions, I fall asleep a little easier knowing

There will always be more

Fashion Echo Gu Dalian, China Sophomore, Fashion Design

The Bride with White Hair

Hollywood on Lake Michigan

Graphic Design

Amelia Whittington

Scottsdale, Arizona

Senior, Graphic Design

Mid-Century Modern Residence Interior Design

Callie Welsh Burlingame, California Graduate Student, Interior Design

Rock Pools

Painting

Bella Kimmel London, United Kingdom Junior, Painting

Watching the Earth Turn Painting

Abby O’Malley

Cedar Grove, New Jersey

Sophomore, Animation

Needs and Wants

Illustration

Lu Pan Shenyang, Liaoning, China

Graduate Student, Accessory Design

July

Motion Media Design

Bella Shih

Taipei, Taiwan

Graduate Student, Motion Media Design

Illustration

Lanck in Maze

Illustration

Jun Zhou

Zhejiang, China Graduate Student, Illustration

We’re In Love

Chloe Alford

Bessemer, Alabama Junior, Illustration

MIGRATORY

Writing (Fiction) Jordan Bonn Westport, Connecticut Senior, Dramatic Writing

The cycle of migration is often one I don’t tend to find comfort in. Then again, most days I tend to find comfort in simply watching the sun hide behind the towers of grey, ever so close in the distance. And given how large our family is, it’s also safe to assume that we will always have difficulty doing so, that any greater journey will always hold strife. The same scenarios tend to play out in no particular order, but the entirety of the trek is largely unchanged. The only difference I could possibly bring to question is the mental state of our parents, as I observe them the most during these few day periods. Our usually planned destination is somewhere that the Blue is, where the careless nature of the Walking Ones allow for more meals dropped before our beaming eyes. We caw in excitement, imagine the bountiful amounts of fresh fruit laid before us, but are soon brought into the crushing reality by Father.

Our Father has migrated far longer than us, seen things we have started to see only in the past few cycles. He is our only guide in surviving this planned exit, but he is far from the most reliable. Mother is not ready to leave, as she is too used to the setting sun up north. There is some fighting and reasoning that the sunset will be sooner, a breakdown regarding the nature of the world, and it finally ends with a peck to the eye reminding them of their place. We are forced to leave regardless, my Mother’s reluctance meagerly turning into acceptance of circumstance, and we soar upward into the first thermal draft we can find. The feeling of thermal heat hitting your feathers as you glide further into the sky is something I can say grants me unbridled joy, one of the only caveats to continuing forward. Finding these thermals will not be an issue, it’s keeping formation amongst the heavy winds that will be. The push of unplanned pressure on our bodies, the diverging of paths that seem to be in the wrong direction, the disappearance and death in the cold wind blowing against us. These are things that tend to drag us off-course, and although fatalities are uncommon, they are not unheard of in our many attempts.

You are to ignore those, as they are too weak to survive the journey, and their attempt at having you stop was foiled. Their body is a memory, just like your experience with them. Even if you had attachment, love for this unit in your formation,

you are to leave without any acknowledgement they were ever there. This starkness of behavior sends Mother into distress, quickly ignored by the rest as the wind continues to challenge us. At some point, we break through the wind into a warmer climate, but there’s no catharsis in doing so. The journey is not over, so we reconvene and continue flying in formation. There’s the singular stop for a meal, picking off the blackbars for scraps of bread and sweeter things.

This is where the deaths happened one year, something looked similar to the berries near home and a brother went to feed from it. A red colored speeding death crushed him in place what I can surmise was five times, the screech from our Mother so unearthly we all assumed it was a predator nearby. The scrape against the black that was once a brother I knew was something I chose not to recognize, fighting against the emotions Father has claimed to have turned off. I ignored memories of hatching with them and returned to the remainder of the flock, our journey continuing without mentioning the trauma that was formed. There is no sleep until we reach the planned destination, the dark bringing about a cold that hangs in the air rather than blows. This portion is silent for too many moments, too many thoughts going by that make you think about if we are even to reach the end. This end that you have heard so much about, had made plans to finally reach when this was all over, the fruit you’d finally taste the juice of dripping down your beak. The only words spoken are to the other side of the formation, a simple “you’re lagging behind” and the response of flying closer to the family.

Only orders, no conversation. We stay behind, we attempt to discuss anything, it throws our plans off-course. That is the only thing Father chooses to acknowledge other than his plan for the end, his idea of safety from the cold. And as we near what we believe is the Blue, the sun beating down on us in a way that’s intoxicating, we land near the maize of a Walking One’s nest. We have made it according to Father, this will be our location until it is time to return. There is no disappointment at this point, because I among many of us realize the expectation is always greater than the reality. The dream of the Blue was the motivator, not the end plan that would fill us with euphoria. Mother, in a daze almost, begins making her new nest far away from the noise-filled red building in the field.

Smoke Break Painting

Taylor Wilson Cheshire, Connecticut Senior, Painting

DAISIES

Writing (Poetry) Emily Sanders Dallas, Georgia Senior, Writing

Stop comparing me, to a flower, who’s petals you can pluck at will-

I am not a metaphor for you. And I am not a flower. I am not delicate, or fragile, broken in the palms of your hands. I am human.

I live and breathe, of flesh and of bone, And I am not at your disposal.

Mixed Media Mid-Century Repetition

Printmaking

Callie Welsh

Burlingame, California

Graduate Student, Interior Design

Lulabah

Illustration

Ellis Fox

Mount Pleasant, South Carolina

Sophomore, Illustration

Aaron Williams Cookeville, Tennessee Sophomore, Photography

Oceans and Sunsets Fibers

Brianna Naughton Troy, Michigan Senior, Illustration

Painted Faces Photography

Cristina Monarrez Littleton, MA Senior, Photography

E.M.M.A Production Design

Hannah Fulkerson Owensboro, Kentucky Senior, Production Design

Prisoner for a Day Motion Media Design

Changyu Zou

Chengdu, Sichuan, China Graduate Student, Illustration

Snake Camouflage Mixed Media

Caroline Gendron Saint Charles, Illinois Junior, Illustration

Graphic Design

Xinxun Liao

Guangdong, China Graduate Student, Motion Media Design

Pop Tarts: Nostalgia in Every Bite

Graphic Design

Marleah Flajnik

Warren, Ohio Senior, Photography

SXSW

The Grand Blasphemers

Painting

Charles Siwinski

Chicago, Illinois

Senior, Photography

Chroma

Illustration

Maris O’Brien

Smithtown, New York

Freshman, Painting

SASHA IN THE MUSIC BOX

Writing (Fiction)

Olive Adams

Richmond, Virginia Junior, Writing

Last night Sasha dreamt they lost their spirit again. In the material world, the warm fluttering of Sasha’s heart was ticking like a metronome. Sasha was in bed under layers of silk. On the dream plane, there was a war raging and Sasha fought harder and harder to prove it. There was a war of choruses, melodies, harmonies, refrains, and verses crumpling the ears of their composer. But the instruments didn’t have to be Sasha’s enemies. They trusted Sasha with their secrets, though they shouldn’t have; Sasha played them for the world. Every evening at sunfall, Sasha stood on the iron-lined balcony of their square green home and sent vibrations across the small town of Aurora. These twilight sonatas had been happening since Sasha learned to play their first instrument: the double-strung harp. Next, the cornet; then, the piccolo, viola, fortepiano, clarinet, and flute. Eventually, Sasha could play every instrument available at that time, by the age of 18.

“I am a revolving metal comb, each tune rolled into one.”

On one wet and slippery night, Sasha played for the last and longest time. When the sun finally peeked out from under the horizon, Sasha stepped inside and closed the balcony doors. Never did Sasha come out again, though it was rumored that piano notes floated out the cracks from time to time.

“I am cold and automatic.”

The townspeople wanted to know why Sasha didn’t play anymore. What had gone down that night inside The Music Box? What is happening in there now, to their virtuoso? There was concern for Sasha’s wellbeing at first, and then anger. The Aurorans felt shamed, blasphemous, abandoned. Their messiah, rich and diverse in taste, had renounced them, and time had started to flow swiftly. Every evening began to look like the last, without Sasha’s songs to break the monotony.

“Sasha, why did you stop caring for your audience? We lived for you.”

The Aurorans, teased by their nocturnal repertoire with Sasha, demanded that Sasha come off the balcony and play in the streets. They wanted to meet and praise Sasha in the flesh, congratulate Sasha on freezing time. They knew nothing about Sasha. Was Sasha a boy or girl? How old? All they could discern from the balcony was the drapery of Sasha’s straight black hair and youthful movement. All they could discern from the house was that Sasha was probably very wealthy to afford living in such a decoration. They did not know the sound of Sasha’s voice; Sasha never sang.

“I will play until the notes suffocate my lungs.”

Every evening, like a cuckoo clock, Sasha would appear, automatic and pre-winded, performing out of their Music Box. Sasha’s songs would slither through the streets, slip gently into ears, and drift through open windows. Nothing was asked in return, and nothing was given when asked for more. Several times, brave fans would knock on Sasha’s door, but no one ever answered. They didn’t dare knock twice.

It took about six months for enough townsfolk to gather and hope for a return, and plot when there was none. Eventually a plan was formed to break into Sasha’s Music Box, to question and cry and empty their hearts for just a few more nights of song. On the driest night of the season, seven villagers approached the silent palace from the back, and cracked open a small white window. Each tumbled loudly inside, one after the other, in a crescendo sure to wake the dead. But Sasha did not appear, with candle or musket in hand. Instead, they found an oddly reflective scene; almost everything was constructed from tin. The ceiling and floors were warped mirrors, the furniture was shiny with lumps. Their whispers unraveled back to them hard and smooth. The glossy tin seemed the farthest texture from the warming timbre of Sasha’s notes.

“I am a chime in the wind. The music trusts me with its secrets, yet has no say in how I play them.”

All the bedrooms were empty; the kitchen was rampant with rats. The whistle of silence through the halls was slightly out of tune. Yes, they searched The Music Box from top to bottom and found several curious scenes, but not one sign of an instrument or their beloved maestro.

“People trust me with their ears...they shouldn’t.”

Pyramid Song Set Concept Production Design

Daniel Rivera-Aponte Ponce, Puerto Rico Senior, Production Design

Woodland Winter Illustration

Lindley Wiesner

Lake Forest, Illinois

Junior, Illustration

Local Mermaid Illustration

Summerjoy Whittaker

New Bern, North Carolina

Senior, Illustration

666 Painting

Kenna Steele

Mount Pleasant, South Carolina

Freshman, Illustration

Hong Dong Intro Motion Media Design Fang Ju Lin New Taipei City, Taiwan Graduate Student, Motion Media Design

Robin Hood Wedge Shoes Accessory Design Lu Pan Shenyang, Liaoning, China Graduate Student, Accessory Design

Skeleton Show

Illustration

Cole Pu

Suzhou, China

Graduate Student, Illustration

GARGOYLES

Writing (Nonfiction)

Amanda Brown Linden, North Carolina Senior, Writing and Art History

On the Island of Cuba, at the entrance of a farm, sat a colonial-style house with wood and mosaic floors. With no drinking water or drainage, my Abuela had to rely on a well for the very thing that keeps one alive. There was distance between her and her life source, but no distance between her and her way of life. As she would walk out the door, she would do so with her right foot first to ensure success in the encounters she would have that day, whether it be a job interview or meeting with a boy. On the rest of her walk, she would avoid going under ladders to prevent bad energies from entering her life. With every step she took, she ensured her own safety.

When the Cuban Revolution ended in 1959, the Castro family came into power, and with them, Cuba became a communist country. After years of living under this new government, my Abuela decided she did not want that life for herself or her future family. With a Cuban passport and birth certificate in hand, she walked through the doors that were supposed to lead to her freedom. Instead, they forced her to go to Matanzas. For a year and a half, orange trees and pine trees surrounded her, along with women who cried and soldiers who stood watching over them with rifles. As the days passed, eventually the Lent season fell upon them, and before my Abuela the Blessed Virgin appeared in the sky telling her that if she prayed La Salve she would be safe from further harm. Mother Mary kept her promise until they handed my Abuela a United States visa. The date was August 24, 1969… she had done it… she was free. She was in another country far from home, yet all around she saw her people and spoke her native language. She was in Miami.

When pregnant with my mom, everyone asked my Abuela why she would risk having a second child. Everyone told her to abort the baby girl growing inside her after the complications during my Tío Ray’s birth in 1975. He wasn’t supposed to live after being diagnosed with neurofibromas which didn’t have foundational studies until five years later. But one night, an angel appeared to her in a dream to reassure her that the baby would be healthy. After months of prayers and conversations with God, my mom was born with no complications.

As a teenager, the cheerleaders would try to convince my mom to join the squad. Of course they

wanted her. Her long dark brown hair fell just the right way, her skin was flawless, and the only thing that shone brighter than her eyes was her smile. On top of that, she was like one of those hourglasses that were made for minutes. Everyone wanted her, and many wanted to be her. But those envious thoughts never harmed her because everyone was too busy looking at her jewelry, leaving no time to look in her eyes which would allow the evil wishes to enter the gateway of her soul. On top of keeping the envious thoughts of others from entering her life, she ensured they weren’t present at all by not generating them herself. This act of mental purity was often the more important form of protection since jealousy is like a little green monster inside waiting to multiply within the human mind so that way upon making eye contact, it can corrupt a new mind while still lurking within the original host’s thoughts. These monsters grow within everyone though, and they wait in hiding for a growth spurt to occur. A growth caused when one wishes harm upon or envies another. A growth that doubles the monster in size so that it can attack the host that helped gain its power. So, to protect herself from other’s monsters my mom wore jewelry, but to protect her from her own monster she kept her mind free from jealous thoughts.

My Abuela knew that the unseen world of thoughts and spirits could protect and guide her. My mom knew that they could harm her as well, which seemed to manifest itself into a need to protect the home that her family resided within. On the outside, our house is like any other - red bricks span across two stories until it meets the pitched roof, and a welcome mat greets those who dare to enter. Delicately placed in front of the door sits a baby gargoyle, acting as the guard dog I never had growing up. The poor fella often gets outshined by the much larger indoor pets - grey creatures with sharp claws, pointed teeth, wings with horns on them, muscles and abs more defined than The Rock’s, a face cold as the stone they are made from, and eyes that bear into the soul normally from atop a cathedral. Feeling intimidated, our guests must think we are a real-life version of The Addams Family but still muster the courage to ask what our pets are and why they all look so mean. After looking around, they must have noticed the two picture frames with gargoyles perched around protecting the chubby smiling babies in pastel dresses from the evil spirits lurking around the unseen world, so I’m not sure why the question still gets asked. Maybe my sister and I are just so cute they don’t even notice the frame.

Beautiful Creatures Dining Hall Production Design

Tyler Lowe

Tappan, New York

Senior, Graphic Design and Production Design

Lifeless Life Drawing

Aishwarya Goyal

Chandigarh, India

Freshman, Fashion Design

PEELED GRAPES

Writing (Fiction)

Maia Jansson Narragansett, Rhode Island Junior, Illustration

Sister is gone, I remind myself. Yet there she stands, leaning against the peeling blue wallpaper staring at me with her usual serene expression. Lifting her bony hands, she examines her cracked and bloodied fingernails.

“We didn’t have to go out Wednesday night for that stupid movie, Rue,” she says, “We could have pirated it at home.”

“I know.”

Her brown eyes remain steady, examining me like she did all those nights I came home late from the library. The Canada-shaped bruise on my hip pulsates, another sharp reminder that I am alive. That I have to continue living as Sister’s corpse follows me into hell. The silence dances around me, it’s cold wispy hands wrap around my neck and caress my face. Coldness fills the room Sister and I once shared. A stark contrast to the warm days whenhere Mother cut fruit as we studied: grape skin peeled, apples cut into intricate stars, melon scooped into balls adorned with carvings of hearts.

“Will you stay with me?” I ask, meekly.

“Maybe, I’m not really sure yet.” Her face is blank as she delicately picks at the crimson blood caking her nails.

Sister follows me around town. First, the library where I comfort myself with the sound of turning pages and smell of decade-old covers. She waves at me from the other side of the bookshelf as I grab a copy of Little Women. When my daily trudge through the park is interrupted by a group of classmates hunting me down with words of sympathy, Sister joins me behind a lamp post. By the time I reach the next town, she is gone.

When I get home she is sitting on the edge of my bed. “We should do this again.”

I want her to be angry. To feel the fire of contempt that I so deserve. To watch her revel as I suffocate in this ocean of guilt.

To Mother’s dismay, I cut my hair. Sister watches from behind the shower curtain with pity. When she was alive she would always play with my hair. I don’t know why I am doing it.

“Why? My Little Moon. Why?” Mother asks.

I make eye contact with her for the first time in a week, the starry glow her eyes once held is gone. Silently, we pick up the pieces of shame that ornament the bathroom tiles.

That evening, Mother muffles the sound of her own crying by de-coring apples. She knocks and leaves them on my desk alongside a small bowl of unpeeled grapes. The apples are cut into large wedges that crunch too loudly for my sanity. Sister points at the juice that trickles onto my lap. I reach to tie my hair back only to be reminded of my afternoon project. A sour aftertaste fills my mouth.

At some point I choke down the burning sensation of guilt like the bitter ginseng tea Mother would bring us during flu season. Sister’s presence flickers on and off, I get used to her. Even on the quietest of days, when Mother and I sit in the living room listening to the sound of the refrigerator’s low hum, Sister stands in the door frame. Words etch themselves into my skull, I swallow them bitterly alongside the cold tea Mother places in my hand.

“You should leave this town with Mother,” Sister whispers, as I fall asleep, “Leave me.

At the breakfast table Mother almost reaches for my hand. “My Little Moon. This house has grown too big for the two of us.” She eyes the corner of the kitchen where Sister tries to scrub a wallpaper stain with the sleeve of her bloodied sweater.

“Where will we go?”

“Not far, there’s a listing for a smaller house in Richmond. We can be closer to your grandparents.”

I picture the way Grandmother’s eyes crinkled when she squeezed my shoulder at the funeral. The bitter feeling flushes out of my stomach. “Why not?”

We rummage through our house during the first month of summer break. Mother and I work swiftly, placing the remaining fragments of ourselves into boxes. A scratchy vinyl record plays in the background to drown out our silence. As we dust off photographs of past Disney trips Mother hums the lullaby she once sang to us. I pack Sister’s items into boxes and cram them in the back of the garage.

“Rue, what are you going to do with my things?”

“I don’t know, jiě jiě.”

Sister tries to reply but the sound of Mother frantically undoing my hard work from the garage startles the two of us. When I arrive, Mother is holding Sister’s yellow dress, “Little Moon, you always borrowed this one from her. Take it.”

I look down at the box filled with books and on top, see Sister’s copy of The Iliad. “Take this book and I’ll take the dress.” By the end of the afternoon, the boxes of Sister’s items are sitting amongst the rest of our belongings.

Free Photography

Anna Byrd Reston, Virginia Junior, Photography

Imagine Photography

Anna Byrd Reston, Virginia Junior, Photography

Typographic Playing Cards

Graphic Design

Anoop Gubbi Virupaksha

Tumakuru, Karnataka, India

Sophomore, Graphic Design

Magic Book

Animation

Ruixuan Pu

Luoyang, Henan, China

Graduate Student, Visual Effects

Botanical Friends - Jellycat

Illustration

Anushua Sinha

Mumbai, Maharashtra

Graduate Student, Illustration

101 Inventions that Shaped the World Graphic Design

Amelia Whittington Scottsdale, Arizona Senior, Graphic Design

I F**king Love Ikea Photography

Dylan Gutierrez Cedar Park, Texas Junior, Graphic Design

EARTH TO ASH

Writing (Poetry) Madeline Marks Wallingford, Pennsylvania Junior, Writing

They’ve been sitting there for days. Two cars, both hoods blown off. Silver charred to urine yellow, Brown, blackened. A sign — Georgia Arson Patrol — has been stomped into dirt. I stare through porch bars; I worry I might blink, bring them closer.

It’s November. Winter threatens even in the South. Day closes. Night suffocates. When I wake up, those cars remind me who I am.

I drink two cups of tea a day, one to bring light to a darkened heart, one to bring calm to a turned stomach. How can I sleep when sun sets three hours after I wake? How can I feel its warmth under three blankets?

4 o’ clock. Sky turns oil spill rainbow over fast food paradise. I decide that looking away from the cars is worse than watching them. When I turn, the left side of my face boils.

Oh, but it doesn’t matter. The cars hang like dead legs, envelope opening to a letter from their earthly material. But they won’t decay like roots or leaves. When winter rolls in, I’ll slip into my bed like a body. They’ll stay. They’ll live. Reminder. Taunt. Omen.

Untitled 6

Mixed Media

Sian Rips

San Antonio, Texas Graduate Student, Illustration

Incantation

Illustration

Deadly Meds

Illustration

Yang Zhou

LanZhou, GanSu, China Graduate Student, Illustration

Melanie Davis Muskego, Wisconsin Junior, Illustration

DESIRE

Writing (Poetry) Tobey Loden Savannah, GA Senior, Film and Television

I walk around the block, talk to others like strangers in line waiting for the post office to open If theres an anecdote to this, its no where I’ve checked, not in the cocktail mixers for a drink we won’t finish before we’ve moved on to the next great thing.

I can’t see the sun rise without wishing it were wholly mine, or that it were my idea alone to bring us here. In fact, I cut our walk home short for the sake of stargazing but the truth is, just wanted everything to be still. I wanted you to appreciate me appreciating something that will never be mine, what I’m trying to say is my life doesn’t even belong to me. and the only dreams i wake up remembering are the completely real, absolutely desirable, and definitely furthest from what i think i deserve. i mean that nothing ever just changes, we couldn’t be that lucky. it’s a long line of falling asleep at eight and cursing your neighbor upstairs before you realize you got exactly what you wanted last tuesday.

i’m thinking about desire, and the kid who’s dad put a two by four through someone’s head while he slept in the next room, and me my home, my friends, and all the godless hours we spent sitting cross legged and stupid, arguing about all the small injustices of the day waiting to feel whatever it is that comes next, and the fact that, the older you get, the more you realize that whatever this is, you’ve known it for a long time.

Force Feed Painting Kenna Steele Mount Pleasant, South Carolina Freshman, Illustration

Madonna Inn Postcard Set Designs

Illustration Mel Petzoldt Evans, GA Senior, Motion Media Design

Oui Yogurt Poster

Illustration Yujie Huang

Shenzhen, China Graduate Student, Illustration

The Frog Prince Illustration

Adrienne Krozack Stevensville, Maryland Senior, Illustration

The Miracles of the Namiya General Store Motion Media Design Bella Shih Taipei, Taiwan Graduate Student, Motion Media Design

LILY

Her eyes were closed and her tiny body stiff. There was no heartbeat, but mine. A broken heartbeat. A melancholic emptiness.

Her sweet face frozen still forever. Burned into my eyes. Impregnated into my soul. An image that will never leave me.

Her dry little nose no longer sniffed. Only the smell of something rotting. A rotting body. And a rotting heart.

Her frail paws will never walk this earth. And I will never see her wagging tail. She will never wet my face with joy, as it’s already wet with pain.

Rebirth And Regeneration: Composition 2 Fibers

Saira Mary Netto Ernakulam, Kerala, India Senior, Fibers

Writing (Poetry) Sasha Tishman Grey Guadalajara, Mexico Freshman, Film and Television

The Wizard of Oz Illustration

Yujie Huang

Shenzhen, China

Graduate Student, Illustration

DISCONNECT Painting

Delenn Huffman Orange City, Iowa Junior, Illustration

Solitude Painting

Soo Hyun Namkoong Chungcheongnam-do, Korea Senior, Painting

UNDECIDED Photography

Aaron Williams Cookeville, Tennessee Senior, Photography

Maybe You Don’t Know Painting

Maya Pegues Montgomery, Alabama Senior, Painting

DRIVING BY MOONLIGHT

Writing (Poetry) Samuel Esterline Hampton, Georgia Senior, Photography

do you remember the night I drove four hours just to get the perfect picture of the stars?

the drive should’ve only been three, but I forgot my camera and had to turn around halfway there I didn’t say where I was going you didn’t ask it seems when I get it in my head to do something you always understand.

the truth is there wasn’t much to see out beyond the permanence of the city clouds of smoke hung in the air blocked out the planets broke my connection concealed the light

where was I going with this? that the silence of that open field was the closest I’ve felt to death? that the stillness of driving 90 was the slowest I’ve ever moved?

I know this: I do not regret that night. I do not regret going alone, into the abyssal dark standing among weeds higher than my head cold spray down my vertebrae with every sound around me peering up into a space I couldn’t see and listening for a time I couldn’t ever take back.

I think that drive was supposed to take me. maybe next time it will.

Ella Mitchell Destin, Florida Senior, Illustration

Piu Restaurant, An Elevated Italian Dinning Experience

Interior Design

Bianka Pineda

Tegucigalpa, Honduras

Junior, Interior Design

Unboxing Drawing

Aishwarya Goyal

Chandigarh, India

Freshman, Fashion Design

WHERE DID THE WORLD GO?

Writing (Poetry)

Hannah Ryder Roscommon, Michigan Graduate Student, Writing

Tell me where the word went How the earth changed under your feet

Overnight

Knowing that your life and The earth

Will never be what it once was.

Tell me the story

Vibrant technicolor in your eyes

A hog slaughtered with A German pistol Necessity and growing up.

Tell me where the world went And how fast it moves

When you realize time never Stands still No matter how many times it feels as though It does.

Tell me about the horses Kept decades ago in the leaf-coated barn Red and stately and full of Memories and unused tools

When was the last time you were Strong enough To walk out and Remember

Your old life?

HanHong Love Charity Foundation Motion Media Design Jun Zhou Zhejiang, China Graduate Student, Illustration

Tell me the pain you feel each time You inhale the amber fall And remember earlier days When your body Did not betray you.

Tell me the hopes you have To walk unassisted Not to be regaled to A dark basement Where you soon come to terms with Where the world went I can imagine you saying In a muffled, sad, tired, hopeful voice Oh, it went Away, away.

Tell me where the world went Draw me a map

Detailed with a once-strong hand And I will do all I can To harness it Wrestle with its injustices And get it back.

Ghost Bus Illustration

Jasper Thomas Mebane, North Carolina Senior, Sequential Art

Journey Motion Media Design

Di Wang Hangzhou, Zhejiang, China Graduate Student, Illustration

MAY AMNESIA NEVER KISS US

Writing (Poetry) Daniel Rivera-Aponte Ponce, Puerto Rico Senior, Production Design

one

i compose myself on a still life that features packaged tears over notebooks that serve as evidence to the impossible perfection i’ll never achieve

i will keep you intact in them

two is it possible to carve your name in capital letters over my eardrums like paint adorned caves that call you as they patiently wait for the deafness soaked in your arrival

three

five i hold my breath so i don’t disturb you six i still don’t understand why i get so sad when you’re around

seven i’ve avoided your name i can’t accept the letters which confuse their order to attempt and erase any synonym of you

our hands get lost in the constellations

our hands get lost in the constellations when we stretch them out to the sky and i think god tried to be pollock when he put freckles on your face because ive found more of heaven on your pillowcase than kneeled in front of an altar

four

i only know of the bioluminescence as an escape of what you had for some time in the era before the ruins and the battalions, when sailors would exchange your name for “ocean” i wanted to know about your lungs and all the different ways i could drown in between your fingers

eight tomorrow you won’t come back my phone accepts its new role of being a cemetery for your absence so i can try and get drunk on the memory of your heartbeats lay down on your voice and let it seep through my skin hoping it’ll fill the cracks that made you leave

nine if you need me i will go with you to the shore of that cup i will fish for bubbles and i will sow them in between our tongues so that we can swallow a new language every time we kiss

Ripple Painting

Maris O’Brien

Smithtown, New York

Freshman, Painting

Presentation of the Artifacts Painting

Mike Walker

Gainesville, Florida Graduate Student, Painting

ONOMATOLOGY

Writing (Fiction)

Madelyn Buchmann Milwaukee, Wisconsin Sophomore, Writing

The clouds outside the coffee shop windows drooped low enough to obscure the tops of the skyscrapers. It was going to rain, and I didn’t have an umbrella.

“Morning, Adaliah,” the barista said.

I wrenched my attention from the window and realized I was next in line. “Good morning, Sam.”

“The usual?” Sam asked, already sharpie-ing my name on the cup.

“Yes, thank you.”

She passed the cup to her coworker whose name slipped my mind and tapped on the computer screen, reciting my order as she went. “Large cappuccino… with extra foam and... caramel. That’ll be four o’ five.”

The cash was ready in my pocket, but a leather-gloved hand reached over my shoulder and tapped a matte black credit card on the counter.

“Make that two,” a man said.

I glanced over my shoulder.

My coffee patron was incredibly handsome with a wide, charming smile that crinkled his eyes and deep-set dimples. He wore a dark suit— fully tailored with a matching wool overcoat.

I squeaked out a greeting I couldn’t even remember. Hopefully, it was something intelligible. Or at least something simple and unawkward. Hello, maybe?

He chuckled, a sound so rich and sweet, and I panicked, thinking I had said something more along the lines of, you’re coffee, thanks for the cute.

Sam coughed, a half-hidden smile on her face.

He looked away to retrieve his card, and I immediately wished that he would’ve stared at me for a minute longer.

I blushed at the thought, shaming myself as I walked to the end of the counter to pick up my drink. You just met the guy, I scolded myself. You don’t even know his name. That didn’t stop me from facing him with more confidence than I’d managed to conjure in the last year.

“I can’t imagine you’re the type of guy who enjoys his coffee on the sweeter side,” I said. “What do you usually order?”

“Bold of you to assume this isn’t my usual order. And maybe a little insulting.” For a moment, he stared at me with an irritating smirk, clearly enjoying as I shifted under his gaze, confidence reduced to that of a mouse.

“I— I only meant that…” I wasn’t sure what I had meant. Or maybe I was, and I was too ashamed of my internalized misogyny to admit it.

Sam tossed me a life preserver in my sea of embarrassment. “Two caramel cappuccinos with extra foam.” She placed them side by side, names facing outward.

I snatched my cappuccino from the counter and read the messy script on the cup opposite mine.

Nathan.

“The name suits you,” I said.

The corner of his mouth ticked upward. “It’s a nickname, actually. Do you have one? Or will I have to suffer all the way through Adaliah each time I want to get your attention?”

I took another sip of my coffee, hoping to hide the blush creeping across my cheeks. I wanted him to say my name again, say it a thousand times more. “Unfortunately, you’ll have to suffer.”

Nathan held the door on our way out of the coffee shop. I thanked him for the coffee. I took a left and was pleasantly surprised when he turned the same way.

“Where’re you headed?” I asked.

“Nowhere in particular,” he said, his dark eyes scanning the street. He was looking for something, though I wasn’t sure what.

“So you’re following me, then?”

He feigned offense. “We were having a conversation.”

“I’m sure you have somewhere you need to be,” I said, not wanting him to leave but certainly interested in learning more about him.

“I don’t, actually.”

A single drop of water landed on my face. I elected to ignore it as if that would postpone the ones surely to follow.

It didn’t.

The downpour started abruptly, rain slicing from the sky in cold, hard sheets.

Nathan and I ducked under the green awning of the nearest deli, and I checked my watch. I was still two blocks away from work and it was already 8:56 a.m. I could brave the rain and risk my presentation getting wet or wait out the rain and be late. The latter wasn’t really an option. A wet presentation was better than missing the whole thing.

Nathan caught my arm before I could leave the safety of the awning, pulling a black umbrella out of his coat. “Can I escort you to wherever you’re headed?”

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