RETROGRADE by The Teller Magazine

LetterFromTheEditor

Welcome back, The Teller Magazine enthusiasts! I hope everyone is having a lovely semester I cannot believe Retrograde will be the first issue handcrafted by myself and my wonderful editorial board. I vividly remember that chilly February morning when Fynn popped the question: "do you want to be editor-in-chief?" I had to play it cool, although I already had an entire folder on my laptop dedicated to my ideas, hopes, dreams and visions for the future of The Teller.

So with blood, sweat, tears and mounds of joy, I present to you our October 2025 issue, Retrograde!

Cassidy Brock Editor-in-Chief

F e a t u r e d C o n t r i b u t o r s

Peyton Waszkiewiczz Peyton Waszkiewiczz

Cyrus Jones Cyrus Jones

Adolescent English education major / creative writing minor. Sophomore

Adolescent English education major / creative minor

Sophomore Night Bloom, Journal Entry, Vernooy

Contributions: Night Bloom, Journal Entry, Vernooy Falls

Janeva Mazil Janeva Mazil

English Major conc in creative writing theatre arts minor Freshman

English Major / conc. in creative writing / theatre arts minor Freshman

Contributions: Write me a Lie, Fall Reviews

Contributions: Write me a Lie, Fall Book Reviews

English major conc creative writing and film studies minor

English major / conc. in creative writing / WGSS and film studies minor

Junior

Contributions: The Ballad of a People

Pleaser, A Queer Trans Man, Letterboxd Top Four

Journey Fleming Journey Fleming

English Major conc in creative writing film and video studies minor

English Major / conc. in creative writing / film and video studies minor

Junior

Contributions: Nature Transforming Fashion

Katherine Cross Katherine Cross Katie Ondris Katie Ondris

Journalism majorFreshman

Journalism major Freshman

Contributions: Sun Sick House,

Memories of Swallows, Autumnal Album Review

Contributions: Sun Sick House, Memories of Swallows, Autumnal Album Review

Journalism Major / chemistry minor

Journalism Major / chemistry

Senior

Contributions: A Letter I will Never Send

Contributions: will Send

VENTURE CULTURE

Fashion and Beauty

Quicksights,ordinarythingsandsimple photosinfluencingourcreativity.

Color palettes and patterns

Miscellaneous

Cyrus Jones

Autumnal Album Review

Kate Cross

As we settle into fall and all the wonderful things that come with it, there are five albums that I find provide the perfect back track for your autumnal experience. Whether you seek comfort or reflection this year, these albums provide the perfect soundtrack.

When the Pawn - Fiona Apple

When the Pawn by Fiona Apple is one of the most fabulously emotional and ferocious albums that you could dive into this fall While it is by no means underrated, it always deserves more love This ten track album can guide you through any heart break, anger, or unsettled emotion. Fiona Apple's raspy yet equally smooth poetry blends right in with the changing seasons. Something about ladies of the 90’s will make you feel fall every time.

Notable tracks include (but are not limited to) the following:

Get Gone:

Fiona Apple brings you an angry anthem about loving that completely unavailable person. If you are tired of a relationship in your life in which you’re putting in 1000% times more effort, this is the song for you. Apple’s voice is dripping with bitterness and her lyrics hit too close to home. Get Gone is a masterpiece of emotion.

Fast As You Can:

Do you fear that you may be the problem? Are you a tempestuous soul with a love for picking a fight? Fast as you can is chaotic and genius. It’s chalk full of gut wrenching lyrics over a fast paced beat. If you are the problem in someone's life, Fast As You Can is sure to resonate with you.

Paper Bag:

Praise for this particular song is nothing new, and it’s popular for a reason. Paper Bag is a well loved song that evokes such a dull ache with each listen. It is a song that can be weeped to in bed or screamed while speeding through your favorite back roads. Paper Bag is both heartache itself and somehow also healing.

Toys in the Attic - Aerosmith Toys in the Attic by Aerosmith is arguably the band's best album and a classic record for any time of the year really. While a very different style from When The Pawn, it keeps up the intense energy that Apple started us off with. Toys in the Attic is perfect for fall because it feels like the start of high school, like late drives, and bonfires on chilly nights. In its own magical way, Toy’s in the Attic feels like your first ever sip of beer and lying to your parents The album is a blend of raunchy double entendres and coming of age

Three must listens from the album are:

Adams Apple:

Adams' apple is immediately right in your face with a distinct guitar riff and biblical lyricism that may be about creation stories… or is it? This song is a classic example of hard rock presenting you with salacious lyrics hidden not so subtly within a rock anthem.

Sweet Emotion:

Sweet Emotion is one of the band's most popular songs and for good reason; it is catchy beyond all measure. My love for this song began with the movie Dazed and Confused and when the gorgeous Randel Floyd said, “me and my loser friends are gonna head out to buy Aerosmith tickets. Top priority of the summer,” I knew that Aerosmith was for me. Despite the summer reference, Sweet Emotion is what I always imagined the start of school in the 70’s to feel like, something like a Friday night in late September.

Tapestry

- Carol King

Saving the best for last, we have Tapestry by Carol King Tapestry is absolutely one of the best fall albums of all time, even further than that, simply one of the greatest albums of all time. Carol King embodies fall in a way that no other artist could. Where You Lead being featured as the Gilmore Girls theme song only proves how fall this album truly is. Tapestry feels like family gatherings and home cooked meals, like fireplaces and cozy days on your couch. Tapestry is meant to be enjoyed with a cup of tea and a cable knit sweater.

Some Highlights from Tapestry:

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?:

Melancholy and warm, Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? is a comforting blanket of nostalgia. The song is popularly known for its rendition by Amy Winehouse, but the original version is a masterpiece. It brings on feelings of cool air and new love, which is a classic combination. The lyrics of gentle uncertainty are perfect for the change in the air that comes about this time of year.

I Feel The Earth Move:

This song is strong and sturdy and sung with confidence. The piano riff that accompanies the song also exudes a certain feeling of strength. It was meant for dancing in your kitchen on sunny mornings and cozy nights. It is hair down music, made for tossing your head about as you dance and sing along. Carol King’s voice is wonderfully unique and makes you feel like you're drinking hot apple cider, warm in your chest with a little sharpness to it.

It’s Too Late:

Much like I Feel The Earth Move, there is a wonderful confidence in King’s singing. It’s Too Late brings on a vulnerability as well as an emotional maturity Carol King’s words feel like sound advice from an older sister. This fall, let Carol King advise you through your friendships and relationships; there is a lot of wisdom in her words.

Home Again:

Home Again is the perfect song for missing your family and hometown while you eat terrible dining hall food and mindlessly work in your dorm. It feels like the train ride to your house before Thanksgiving. It is soft and sweet and gently sad and it will comfort you through homesickness and probably also make it worse. After all, fall is for yearning!

BOOK REVIEWS Janeva Mazil

We Have Always Lived in the Castle

by Shirley Jackson

Shirley Jackson's beloved gothic tale of a peculiar girl named Merricat and her family's dark secret.

Taking readers deep into a labyrinth of dark neurosis, We Have Always Lived in the Castle is a deliciously unsettling novel about a perverse, isolated and possibly murderous family and the struggle that ensues when a cousin arrives at their estate.

Review: The Castle is more of an embodiment of isolation for the main character, Merricat, a girl once descended from an immense lineage, now blamed for their simultaneous deaths. An everlasting mystery where the ending will leave you speechless

Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil

By V.E. Schwab

This is a story about hunger.

This is a story about love.

This is a story about rage.

This is a story about life how it ends, and how it starts

Review: V E Schwab’s writing is nothing less than inspiring This Book spans across continents and time, yet maintains the balance between the various women, each with such a distinctive voice and struggle. Half the time, I forgot I was reading about vampires because any cliches you could conjure are overshadowed After all, at its core, this book is fueled by authenticity and female rage.

My Darling Dreadful Thing

by Johanna van Veen

Spirits are drawn to salt, be it blood or tears. Roos Beckman has a spirit companion that only she can see Ruth strange, corpse-like and dead for centuries is the light of Roos' life That is, until the wealthy young widow Agnes Knoop visits one of Roos' backroom seances, and the two strike up a connection. Soon, Roos is whisked away to the crumbling estate Agnes inherited upon the death of her husband, where an ill woman haunts the halls, strange smells drift through the air, and mysterious stone statues reside in the family chapel Something dreadful festers in the manor Then, someone is murdered

Review: Perfect book for late October, My Darling Dreadful Thing is a beautifully grotesque exploration of love and loss, wrapped in a gothic horror package. It’s a book that will haunt your thoughts and stir your emotions, making it a standout in contemporary gothic fiction

The Lamb by Lucy Rose

Margot and Mama have lived by the forest since Margot can remember When Margot isn't at school, they spend quiet days together in their cottage, waiting for strangers to knock on their door Strays, Mama calls them. Mama loves the strays. She feeds them wine, keeps them warm. Then she satisfies her burning appetite by picking apart their bodies.

Review: The novel unfurls like a dark fairytale with a suffocating sense of dread Every page vibrates with unease The novel is lush and disturbing, but more importantly, utterly devastating and soul-crushing I felt breathless while I read the final chapters. Truly terrifying.

Arts and Literature Arts and Literature

The Ballad of a People Pleaser

Cyrus Jones

I crumble my boundaries, worried you’ll hate me. Am I good, or am I bad? What needs to be fixed? Do you hate me? Are you mad? The soundtrack of my life. Reduce myself to nothingness if it means you’ll stay.

Wishful Thinking at the Drop of a Hat

Kiely Caulfield

There is a zoetrope on my ceiling that spins up all the shadows and light dust motes and sun-warmed air, old stuffed animals and unmade comforters, scattering their image into something more

Sometimes I will give it things pens and printer paper, mismatched pairs of socks and an old enamel tea mug, a small dragon figuring, guarding a chunk of pyrite, freshly washed hands with sour apple soap, backdropped by the dusky orange glow of a 3D printed moon

There is a winding frugality to this mix of ingredients, some might even call it foolish, ideologically idiosyncratic I myself like to imagine it as a swindle-struck magnum opus, made of flashpaper eurekas and parlor-trick wishful thinking.

Sometimes I will spin it quick cleverly disguised as my hopes and dreams, just to watch them bounce and ricochet off my walls, just to watch them dance across my ceiling

I do this to remind myself that I could take all these throwaway trains-of-thought, stutter-stop ideas and cheap two-bit epiphanies and let them choke out Rayleigh’s star scattered sky a false aurora borealis to be proud of

FlamingKaty

Dimitri Ramirez

for that. I wouldn’t want her to know she’s been breathing city air, or drinking water from rusty old pipes.

Katy’s seen it all–well, not literally.

She was there when dad wrestled mom to the ground while she clutched his second cellphone, only to be launched at his head as he scampered out the door like a rat. But Katy only managed to graze his scalp, and smashed into a mess of dirt and fire and roots across the patio.

She was there when I almost choked to death on an apple slice with too much peanut butter, and I threw myself against the dining room table, which cracked one of my ribs, but I lived.

And she was obviously there when Louie chomped at her luscious curls, which reserved her a

When she was a seedling, mom would joke that Katy is lucky she’ll never need to find a man because all of them cheat anyway. I’d force a laugh, but that joke always made my stomach churn.

Still, the more I get to know Katy, the more I realize we ’ re the same. If you were to crack her open you’d notice how her roots resemble the neurons of a brain. She can’t think, but thoughts wouldn’t help her grow taller anyway.

Katy had her own funny way of telling us she was thirsty; she’d droop a little bit, and a few petals would dwindle onto the floor. “Take care of that fucking plant you made me buy! I have no money!” mom would scream, and I’d get to it right away.

Not too long ago, I noticed Katy’s posture had weakened. Her emerald limbs, her red folds of fortitude, they drooped downward as the color left her body. The joyous pinwheels had slowed.

By evening she was dead and Louie was nibbling on the grey flaky remains that dangled from

If only I had changed her pot … If only I had changed that damn pot …

I stared at the empty sunroom windowsill, the old white paint flaking like Katy. It stared back, not mad, just disappointed. Like how could you let this happen? You saw her everyday.

Its voice could be heard down the hall from my bedroom until I fell asleep for who knows how long. No dreaming, just nothing.

The coma was all I knew … until the sound of my Seinfeld ringtone jumpstarted my entire body, and I flung my duvet at my crowded desk.

It was the old Norwegian couple next door. I answered, but my eyes shut again.

Hallo hallo … Don’t drink … Lead in the water… No boiling …

… How could I have known?

I understand now that the Kalanchoe Blossfeldiana potted high up on the sunroom windowsill had no preferences or opinions. No desires or aspirations. Just instincts that were conceived before man walked the earth.

Furthermore, it’ll never know about 9/11, or sliced bread, or that the sun sets in the west. It’ll never realize that it's twenty years old and should probably learn how to drive. It’ll never have to turn its own mother on her side as she sleeps, and it’ll never know that it is Flaming Katy.

Though I never knew the Kalanchoe Blossfeldiana, I hope it loved me in its own way, even if I never understood. At least I can say with certainty that I loved Flaming Katy and Flaming Katy loved me back.

I keep telling myself it was out of my hands, and I hope to god she knows that.

A Man Sees A Ghost

Monica Maisonet

Are ghosts real? That is what I said to myself as the unsettling image looking back at me startled my heart back to life. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Her ghastly look burned my irises, so I shut my eyes as fast as I could I heard her cries speak out to me, so I put my hands over my ears. I was dripping with sweat all over my body. It looked as though I had taken a dip in the lake I couldn't catch my breath“I may be hallucinating,” I said to myself As I exhaled a quick breath, I could still taste the bitter beer left on my tongue.

Moments before I decided to go back to the house, I went to get shit-faced at a bar just like I did about every night for the last month. I’d get up around six a.m., do some writing until about five pm, then hit the bar and stay there until it closed Before I leave to go back to my hotel room, I look at my left hand. I’d stare at my ring and contemplate my decision. Matrimony was wrapped around my finger, along with my doubts That was my daily ritual, but something felt different tonight The crescent moon floating beneath the midnight sky made me feel unusual. An All Hallows’ Eve night can do that to you. The night that everyone commemorates fear. I should know because I’ve written a few books in that genre A bestseller, in fact, about my childhood home, which I grew up in. I thought a lot about that house, especially on a Hallow night. I was waiting for numerous calls from my sister, per usual, on this day every year, so I looked at my phone I was surprised to see I hadn't gotten a call from her. I checked my call log and saw that she had called me eleven times about three days ago, but I didn’t want to pick up Her howls irritated my soul, as I couldn't hear any more of her problems. She told me a few months ago that she kept seeing the lady in the mirror, but I didn’t believe her. In my life, I have felt like an outsider in my family. In a way, I deem myself lucky for not ever seeing any ghosts I don't really believe in them Ghosts are just an excuse for mental distress. My mother saw ghosts, too. I am a fraud because I have taken my family’s suffering and pain and turned them into horror stories just so that I could soak in my wealth Their disease of fear has made me a very wealthy man. If reaching wealth was my main prize, then why am I filled with such anger? Was it my failing marriage? Or was it my last book that was deemed mundane by the critics? I was failing at my creativity, which made me hear the screams of my deceased father. He isn't there, he was never really there. He disappeared after that summer when we escaped the house, trapped with mental illness that took my mother along with it “It’s the house,” that house is why I can't escape my misery. “I'm going to burn down this god forsaken house that has destroyed my family, then I will feel much better” I took a quick sip of my last drink and headed to the nearest gas station to fill up two big cans of gasoline.

I arrived at the house a little bit after midnight. As I walked into the house, I saw how old, dark, and rustic it had become from years of just sitting and not being cared for. The railing I used to slide down on as a kid was now salvaged wood wrapped in vines The blood red carpet was now a mahogany color. The house felt like a person, as I could hear the walls breathing. My nostrils enlarged as the strong aroma in the house smelled like fire and death There was something malevolent about this place that brought out an uncontrollable anger in me. I started to pour the gasoline violently around the house, first on the carpet, then all over the walls As I reached the corridor, I started soaking the floor with my anger. I only saw red, that is, until I got to the end of the hallway and looked in the mirror. I finally saw the haunting that corrupted his family for years Only it wasn't the lady in the mirror, it was my sister The unsettling fear and panic I wrote about seeing a ghost for the first time in my novels was a false narrative. I was shocked at first, but I didn't feel scared when I saw my sister as a ghost My soul only felt sadness, grief, and pain I began to weep, realizing my selfish acts of behavior had wronged the people in my life. After my outburst of sorrow, I smiled, realizing that I wasn't running from my past; I was just coming home

oceanic ophthalmology

Linsey Itak

slightcoastinginthetidesofsummertime–electricemeraldsswayamidstwhirlpoolsglimmering gold,brightnessmutedbyacharcoalcoralreeflayingbelow schoolsofclownfishscurryfrom impendingdoom:bluetangs,lionfish,andmoorishidolsflitterabouttheurchins.myhandsshakeeverytimeyoublink. herlashesflutter,pupilsrollingdelicatelyhiddenbythearmyofmascaracoatedsoldiers aslightshakingofonyxsendsshedsonbellflower cheeks,highcheekbonesstainedbymyincessantrubbing fingerstremblestaccatoviewingthewargroundofflushedsalmonshiftobsidian, micromillionsofash-coatedarmymendashforwardwithmorningstarsandbayonets.gunpowderreeks!butit’stemptingasrotwaftsfrom yourskin,nolongerpungentwiththestinkofdeath,ratheramixingpotofcreampuffmoltenregret

slight coasting in the tides of summertime–electric emeralds sway amidst whirlpools glimmering gold, brightness muted by a charcoal coral reef laying below. schools of clownfish scurry from impending doom: blue tangs, lionfish, and moorish idols flitter about the urchins. my hands shake every time you blink. her lashes flutter, pupils rolling delicately hidden by the army of mascara coated soldiers. a slight shaking of onyx sends sheds on bellflower cheeks, high cheekbones stained by my incessant rubbing. fingers tremble staccato viewing the war ground of flushed salmon shift obsidian, micro millions of ash-coated army men dash forward with morning stars and bayonets. gunpowder reeks! but it’s tempting as rot wafts from your skin, no longer pungent with the stink of death, rather a mixing pot of cream puff molten regret.

i pinch your cheeks, a yelp of surprise escapes you—deterred in the eye of intimacy. lips purse, pearls in the ethereal clam of endless wonder that I'm dying to pick—a yearning to savor.

you pout like you just discovered how dostoyevsky rolls around in his grave when the populous deems crime and punishment inequivalent—a quadratic formula chalk full of mental gymasticesque variables in what is attractively corrupt as x and the bashfully ignorant y. x = (-b ± √(b2 - 4ac)) / 2a could easily be you and me, enveloped by a nautical sheen.

youpoutlikeyoujustdiscoveredhowdostoyevskyrollsaroundinhisgravewhenthepopulous deemscrimeandpunishmentinequivalent aquadraticformulachalkfullofmental gymasticesquevariablesinwhatisattractivelycorruptasxandthebashfullyignoranty x=(-b±√(b2-4ac))/2acouldeasilybeyouandme, envelopedbyanauticalsheen.

aonewandarmedbattalionshiversblackinthesunlight herbreathsboommezzopianoover theseas’pleas.molecularblacknessdesperatelyclingsontoanemptyvoidofpromiseformore.

a one wand armed battalion shivers black in the sunlight—her breaths boom mezzo piano over the seas’ pleas. molecular blackness desperately clings onto an empty void of promise for more. ipinchyourcheeks,ayelpofsurpriseescapesyou deterredintheeyeofintimacy lipspurse,pearlsintheetherealclamofendlesswonderthatI'mdyingtopick a yearningtosavor

Waiting

Peyton Grace

There's a stack of books on my desk

Waiting desperately to be read

A grocery list of thoughts

Just itching to be said

The guitar over there sits patient

Only wishing to be strummed

Oh, poems my old friend

Left sitting in the back of my head

And time for just me

Avoided for passing times

When did life begin to fall

Fast in tempo, slow and stalled

Of passions left forgotten

Or a thought that just passes through

Leftovers for priorities first pursued

Take me back to when this was not true

Night Bloom

Peyton Grace

Night-Blooming, nocturnal like a cage hanging from a chain of thick brown bark and long cacti stems, thin magenta bars locking, trapping it in suspended, suppressed Cereus–beauty is known to little stuck in an embrace of tendrils bounded by the day, only to arise at night awakened by the pearly moon white petals of purity open with the stars a symbol of Impermanence hidden secret from the world once only will it spread silent wisdom to be held its short lived beauty locked in a magenta cage

The impermanence of life is what makes it so beautiful, that is what I feel I have learned Throughout my life, I have tried to hang on to wilting things– to fix them, to savor them and to feel them just a second longer– yet that is not how the world works. No matter how much we may try, what is meant to happen will happen In Annie Dillard’s essay “Seeing,” she goes into depth about the desire to see every part of our beautiful Earth in totality. Despite her many attempts, her writing is futile to the reality that searching does not equal or result in seeing; seeing is letting those flashes of life appear to you when you are meant to see it I have experienced just this: the heart stopping, awe-inspiring, captivating moment where nature reveals itself to you in the most unexpected way. Earlier that Tuesday, I learned the Night-Blooming Cereus, the one I previously wrote about, will only bloom once in its lifetime before it wilts away. Once I saw the pictures of its beautiful white petals and alluring lion-like shape, even before it blooms, the magenta and green interwoven tendrils draw your eye. I left class that day wondering if I would ever be able to see that event Later that night, I walked past the Greenhouse with a friend We were on our way to a club meeting when out of the corner of my eye, something struck me. When I glanced in the direction that the flower had sat, I was filled with the uninterrupted joy that it seemed only a child could feel. There it was, Selenicereus Grandiflorus basking in the light of the moon Not fully opened, but enough to make sense of its unmatched beauty. It says it in the name. Grand. I felt honored, y’know. Like for some reason, it bloomed for just me. That somehow, I was put in the right place at the right time to experience the moment of this flower's life The next day I passed, and it was done–wilted, withered And yet it didn’t make me sad. Nothing will be here forever. We are all impermanent. It is what we make of life, though, that makes it worth living. It makes each day more special knowing that it will not last forever.