Underground Journal | Issue 10.1 | IN TRANSIT

Art & Literary Journal Georgia State University

y Georgia State Universit ATLANTA, GA

undergroundjournal.org @undergroundjournal

Cover Art ROSE DEGEFA

Underground is the undergraduate literary journal of Georgia State University.

Production of the journal is funded by student activity fees. Issues are provided for free to all Georgia State Universtiy students, faculty, staff, alumni, and guests.

Underground retains first publication rights for submissions accepted by the journal.

It is our understanding that all rights for the pieces in this issue remain with Underground until they are published, at which point all rights revert to the artist or author. Š Underground 2019 Georgia State University

IN TRANSIT

ISSUE 10.1

Fall 2 0

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Letter from the editor ‫ ًالهس و ًالهأ‬歡迎光臨 ‫ אבה ךורב‬स्वागत ようこそ 안녕하세요 Добродошли We are Georgia State University’s creative collective and biannual publication that’s by our students, for our students, and featuring our students. If you’re a returning passenger, welcome back. You’ll find we turned this organization on both its head and ass simultaneously.

For many years, our staff could be counted on one hand. This semester, more than a dozen GSU students had enough faith in the messy and the unknown to join me on a new mission: for any undergraduate to have the opportunity to create a vibrant journal that exclusively features our fellow students. We wanted to celebrate Downtown Atlanta, and in turn, to celebrate us. Even more impressively, members of our school showed up for our new direction. We set a theme, and undergrads of all majors filled our inbox with inspired content.

When brainstorming the litany of changes over the summer, I worried Fall 2019 would be a tiny little issue. Fortunately, the word got out, and our creative student body rewarded our daring. A collective vision has been activated, and there’s no going back. Underground has been at it for 10 years now*, but I think we’re finally on the map.

To future contributors, volunteers, and staff: turn our ripples into waves. Win some awards. Collaborate with other student orgs whenever possible. You’ll be surprised how many STEM folks have hidden talents.

Undergraduates of Georgia State: this journal is only for you. May it always reflect you. And wherever you find yourself along your transit, take this portal to Atlanta with you.

With cowbells and castanets,

*The only version of “Happy Birthday” we accept is Stevie Wonder’s. Thank you for your cooperation.

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Black in the Future ALExis childress

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epiphany blue CASIE MINOT

I get tired of Wilton’s.

Who could like a corner store who sells you lies $9.99 for 9?

Three intersections up the street and two to the left Next to the community park of naturally-carved cathedrals Where two men play chess like a sermon on Sundays Committed to moving horses and castles in a world of black and white But sometimes even their picnic-checkered board muddles into grey ripples Each piece a stroke to the gold capital sun in the cityscape sky

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NIVIA MEDINA

Strangers Playing a Game of Chess

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But I hate walking to Wilton’s.

Walking past shattered glass castles Among a barren land of broken time and a mega million meals Moving on up. Moving on up!

How far did he go to leave me this far behind?

And all I have to show is an empty notification box and pockets filled with suffocating disappointment But the french fries were still good. Even at $20 a basket.

Anyways.

I despise walking to Wilton’s.

Watching the classmate I never talk to trudge down the street Hopeless eyes averted from the ghosts who lurk among the living city Haunting the body she wishes would evaporate Disappear from a golden today and into tomorrow morn And become the mirror dangling beyond the door As I ring my fingers around the cool Atlanta evening air The kaleidoscopic sunset paints itself into my view The two men fold up their chess set and embrace each other with kind promises and warm arms The receipt kindling in my pocket shoots off like fireworks into the canopy, hateful embers following its path into a world of Green Dream And a shocking hello and smile greets me across the crosswalk, her spirit glimmering against a wick of confidence And I don’t know Anymore

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Hold for Departure CHELISA MACHARIA

Anxiety fills me. I take my seat, not knowing who or what this journey may ensue. Thinking of what I left behind. By accident or on purpose. Only the presence of promise soothing my thoughts.

Airports fascinate me. The possibilities that come from them are endless. I can be transported anywhere I want to go, all from one building; the options are almost too much to bear. But then I look at my ticket.

Only one seat has my name on it. Only one plane will take me where I want—rather, need—to be at this moment. Unless I miss that flight... I can only hope the next one will give me a second chance.

Baggage holds me. Small and large. Heavy and light. It’s surprising how much one can squeeze in a carry-on. You stuff and stuff and trudge through the terminal with the burden on your back. You can never tell what people are packing inside of their own. But then people get cozy, and they might even unload their junk right in front of you. Some people slowly take out each item when they’re ready, others just lay it all on the table until it’s time to stuff it all back in.

Time captures me. Each face that flashes by has a life story, and I have the privilege to be a part of it. All our lives intertwine for these few fleeting moments. It’s then I remember that I’m a part of the world. The world that I’ve only seen from my front porch. I’m involved with something bigger than I can imagine.

But then—

Then I realize how minuscule my part is, if it even matters at all. If we are all a part of this huge machine, are all the parts necessary? I have taken apart many machines, and each time I’m done sifting through, I come out with missing pieces.

And the machine still works. Each time.

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The Depolymerizing Dance Floor DEDRA MORRIS

Life stills me.

This moving machine didn’t need me on board. I’m not turning gears, simply sitting and taking up space. Space anyone else could fill.

With the same basic elements of a life story. With the contents of their baggage looking oddly similar to the person next door. Not all necessary, but we still carry it. Makes me want to throw it out the window and watch me—it—float down to the ground. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to worry as much.

But then I hear the faint whisper of promise. Yes, promise me this. Promise me I’ll make it to my destination.

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Familiarity noor smadi

I blink.

I’m wearing a fluffy robe.

Life is stressful, but I’m managing.

My tea mug is big and blue, And it matches my water cup, my tapestry, and my crystal.

I drink tea without milk now But with extra honey.

It’s finally warm.

I blink back.

My tea is cold.

I’m turning my three lamps on.

I throw my wet boots in a wide basket that I bought from Goodwill.

I run to the bathroom And reply to my worried mother.

I blink again.

It’s smoky all around me, and I don’t like it.

It’s hot from everyone’s sweat and breath, But I still feel cold all over.

I think this is my fourth, fifth shot?

I dance, and I like only when one person is watching.

She hypes me up.

Everyone else makes me nervous.

Too much is going on.

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I blink back.

I don’t like this shirt.

I need a new phone.

My 30-minute timer goes off, and My veggie alfredo is ready.

I sit down on the orange couch.

I’m watching The Help for the third time now.

I blink ahead.

I’m reading Edward Said, and I love it.

Everything makes sense.

Everything around me is where it’s supposed to be, But I still can’t chill the fuck out.

I blink now.

I see Spanish ads that I don’t understand, But it feels like home.

I feel all the creeps and the stares, And I don’t mind it.

I have a place in the world.

Everything overlaps, but nothing crashes.

Portrait of a portrait KELSEY CARTER

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LEO PENN

1989 Hentai Smoothie.

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LEO PENN

when bunny sees petals.

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From June Onward CARRIE BLANCH

I’m giving myself permission No longer dismissing feelings of discomfort Bout time you take action It’s easier said than done, right I’m learning the difference between attachment settling I’m making myself a priority You gotta rest, Carrie Mae Saying no is not selfish You can care from a distance, remember Whatever you do, do not explain your worth You already enough Keep talking to yourself You’ll be alright Ask yourself who you proving your worth to Because that’s the only thing that matters

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KENDALL BESSENT

blur

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Atlanta Summer Haze

NIVIA MEDINA

BRIY ORDONEZ RAMIREZ

Chasing the MARTA

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On Going Home NOAH BRITTON

By the time I left Vietnam, I had clothes strewn across the country.

I lost a pair of underwear to A fish in a fist fight, A single sock to the stale morning Breath of a sleeping bus, and I Never got back the shirt I bloodied on the bike.

My knuckles have scraped the asphalt of Foreign cities and my ribs have carved out Valleys beneath the clouds and I have felt the rainy season where the tears should be.

And at last, when I Am strapped into the weight of Everything I needed, Minus the sock and the shirt and the underwear, I am thinking about Solange And how going home should be So much easier.

Touring Atlanta ZACHARY FRANCOIS

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Road to Nowhere CaYce tiedemann

My head is spinning from watching the sun come up—and nothing more. Even putting my seat belt on feels strange. Heavy eyes, could be from the ride, more likely from the cigarette smoke. What is this growing day by day? What is courage from another wary baby step? I’ve reviewed the nocturnal blueprints. I’ve buffered my whole way here. What is this clear picture—this road to somewhere that feels like nowhere in particular? What tastes comfortable is seldom fruitful, and my tired teeth have picked through these seeds. Would you like to come along—to chase this buggy in the parking lot, blowing bubbles underwater on a stop-motion throne? Time is on our side here, galloping to the green screen of our choosing. The smells and bells of taking day by day. The scenic route to the same place. The city in my mind.

It’s alright. Baby, it’s alright.

images from Talking Heads, “Road to Nowhere” (1985)

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Kendall Bessent

amour

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shaun

kendall bessent

Dependency and the things I want.

LEO PENN

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On Nietzsche and Other ELIZABETH AUTREY

I’m sure he drank his coffee black, No cream, No sugar.

He was a real man.

He wrote, first about morality, later, suffering.

Though the two may be inextricable, like a woolen scarf and that soft, fragile thread used to sew it.

A creative part, A part created.

One suffers to embellish the other, tangible experiences turning fleetingly into cool, gentle, even affable lessons.

Sculpting us, like tepid hands on obedient clay.

We must be bruised, stretched, roasted; We must be beholden to misery, and ache breathlessly for more.

Without it, he says, life is meaningless, even absurd.

Thrilling, cloying suffering, which trembles and pulses profoundly within us.

He must know that The man who erects facades born to occlude

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To damn those outside to boundlessly suffer He must know The man who rebuffs those who seek refuge referring affectionately to them as lepers in their own right He must recognize the urgent forlorn howl the hollow insignificance the fruitless tree, seedless ground on which we are all frantically probing for context.

He, the part created, looking ceaselessly to the creative part, the divine spectator, ready to devote his dominion to hardening and sculpting the dirt and chaos which besieges him.

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He, like those before him, must know the power of suffering and the allure it beholds Studying the pain with bedroom eyes Yes, he, the man who trumps up new ways to inflict this crucial cruelty with each passing day As those around him tenderly burn reciting mournful ululations of vital anguish He draws a dark, cool bath.

No cream, No sugar.

He is a real man.

LEO PENN

adulthisguycoolt-alone-black-and-white-104655767 (3)

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God’s Poppet SKylar little

To the big man who has my voodoo doll, what will you do next to my worn cloth head?

Is it time for the garbage disposal, or do you prefer me a touch less dead?

Perhaps a pin into my button eye or a twine noose around my twig-like neck or sew my mouth shut with little stitched lies and leave me in a shoebox of neglect.

Can I appeal to your heart, enemy?

All I’ve ever tried to do is my best.

Please, grant me undeserved serenity.

Put my tiny and threadbare doll to rest.

Sever my stuffed head; count all of my scars, and bury me deeply in your backyard.

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Leo penn

A Collection of Ruined Portraits.

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10:22 PM carrie blanch Your body is not just a site for pain All because you’ve been spit up and chewed out I know you’re tired These self help books are just scratching the surface Reclaiming your space ain’t cute It means negotiating between survival mode and vulnerability But you got this You not disposable

Cansit ZACHARY FRANCOIS

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Entropy KOFO DURAJAIYE

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Invasion of the Sidewalk Snatchers HARRISON WAYNE

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Alice benson

Bird Flu

The Creatures that Came From I-Don’t-Know-Where, they came in a flock of corporation planted in gentry —> spread like Bird flu They flourished on digital: Swallow virus—throttle handlebar—ride cents-per-minute Stacked nest upon nest up around your throat left to care for Birds you never asked for, till they push you off your own street peck at your ankles—forcibly migrate cars to collision.

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Intrusive kelsey page

do you like when Mother Nature tells you to slow down? when she’s flashing grins—sparkling teeth—across your line of sight? when she warns “be careful” and holds a knife to your back and cars become belittled cross-country runners? they crawl. do you like when control is held in the palms of your hands and then again, not so much? screeching tires and reaching a destination require much more than sweaty fingers on poorly bound leather. say her name: Heather. just pull over. just pull over. just pull over. raindrops provide enough cover when thunderstorms are your lover. you and her intertwined: fallen branches are twisted limbs, fractured wrists, and crackling cartilage. bruises on lips are cherry red kisses with steering wheels; traffic peels apart cars—parting. soft skin touches against prickly highway bushes and mom’s leather seats— living room leather couch seats and lustful feats. savor chapped lips on sunset cheeks and starry eyelids and velvet fingers as if send-offs are goodbyes.

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dwell in velvet jumpsuits ripped up the side; blue velvet, thick velvet night. blue and red mingle; perhaps it could be pink lipstick. lipstick wanders, blood conjures up a spell: a reminder of the way she throws you from your comfort zone—backs on couch cushions like spines on gravelly asphalt. pain is the same from Nature’s rain as from Conflict’s reign. judgement scrapes like hydroplaned tires; drowning inspires seas of rain, seas of sickeningly sweet blood trickling down storm drains, seas of suburban sprawl, traffic crawl, and seventy-two-hour migraines— blaring sirens and pulsating rhythms of “Why, why, why didn’t you pull over?”

Mother’s Embrace REBECCA BATES

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1937 NOLAN KEOHANE

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NOLAN KEOHANE

Alternative Line

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Creak ROSA WARDLOW

Mary’s body hits the wood chips hard and fast. The swing creaks behind her. Laughing, maybe, as she picks herself up. Unharmed save for dusty knees and a skinned wrist and an ego so bruised already that this barely makes a dent.

She faces the swing again. She knows how it’s supposed to feel.

Leaping off the swing, flying, and landing on her feet. She can see it in her head. The girl flying has her same face, smaller and clearer and boasting an unguarded smile that’s hard to recognize. Mary’s eyes narrow in on the seat and her fists clench and the lines of raw skin across each of her palms sting.

The sweat on the back of her thighs sticks to the seat and she registers, somehow for the first time, that she has more skin on display in public than she’s had in years. Pajama shorts and a tank top with fuzzy socks and tattered converse on her feet. The sun went down hours ago, though, and there’s no one to see her scarred and bumpy body all exposed.

She digs her feet into the ground and relishes in the satisfying burn of her calf muscles as she pushes off the ground and into the air that, though only a meager few feet above where she typically exists, makes her feel like she’s escaped.

It’s when she soars forward that things—things like pretty girls with mean boyfriends and first kisses, and other first things that tasted like hard cider and skin and sort of like pretzels because that’s what they were eating before, watching old episodes of America’s Funniest Home Videos from dusty VHS tapes they dug out from the closet—fall behind her.

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Mary is crashing back again. Her hair, chopped short with kitchen scissors in the middle of the night, pretzel salt still on her tongue, tickles her cheeks as it flies forward. The rush backwards feels like rollercoasters and holding hands before going over the top. Holding hands lots of times after that and pulling them apart before walking into the neighborhood and knowing that was because it meant something.

The furrow of her eyebrows says she’s going to try and jump again. Her speed is picking up, and she’s going higher and higher. Her legs are moving with practiced harmony, lunging her body back and forth.

In the vision of how things were supposed to be, Mary guesses there was probably a boy. Maybe one that looked eerily like a Jonas Brother or something. There were prom dates. Top 40 backing tracks to her entire future and a few close friends. In the reality, the how things are, the where we ended up, they are just fault lines sprawling between her friendships and her family and her future that are threatening to shift.

She’s getting ready. There’s a lurch in her stomach. It knows what’s coming when she starts flying forward again. She goes down first.

Knows she could put her feet to the ground and skim to a stop if she wanted to. Instead, she keeps going. As high as she can.

And she lets go.

At graduation—it’s weird to think that it was just yesterday—the girl’s family—her name is Caroline and Mary hates that her name hurts to even think because that feels stupid and weak—sat in front of her own in the bleachers.

When her whole body is in the air she begs for the time to stop so she can stay there, completely suspended and alone and off the ground, for so much longer than a second.

Mary wonders what it was like for Caroline’s mom to watch her walk across the stage. The girl she banned her daughter from seeing after reading her diary. The girl who kissed her daughter (for the first time in two years) in the bathroom just five minutes before their entire class was told to line up in alphabetical order. Because Caroline was leaving the next day—is leaving today—for a summer program in Italy, and Mary 39

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Retrospect

NINA PALMIERI

doesn’t know when she’s going to see her again because she’s going to college in California and has already decided she won’t be coming back.

She feels like she’s moving in slow motion and it’s kind of suffocating and exhilarating at the same time. Like when she nearly drowned in the foam pit at gymnastics when she was three.

When Mary’s feet hit the ground, the force of her weight following behind them, she can feel the tectonic plates on either side drift. She feels the shocks up her legs, and the pain settles in her ankles and knees.

She’s still upright. The swing flies backwards behind her.

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PAUL BOURLET

Limelight Flux

Ghost along the earth JOSHUA CLEVELAND

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The Green Eyesight

RON EVANS

RON EVANS

The Purple Shock

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Assalamu Alaikum1 noor smadi

I sage my room and my curves every morning and read Quran verses.

I make duaa2 on I-85 with Mos Def. Pray Allah keep my soul and heart clean... Ah-meen.

Pray the same thing again for all my team... Ah-meen.3 I wear my selenite4 crystal to jummah5 But black onyx6 every other day.

I pray alone.

But on Fridays, I pray with my sisters, my mentor, and my plug.

Because I pray on my meditation pillow and at Al-Farooq7 And at coffee shops and bookstores and rush hour.

Translated: peace be upon you; greeting used between Muslims Translated: prayer or request to God 3 Mos Def, “Love�

4 Clear crystal used for spirituality, energy flow, clarity, and connection.

5 Friday prayer: kinda like Sunday church but for Muslims 6 Black crystal used for protection and strength 7 Metropolitan mosque located in Midtown, Atlanta 1 2

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I see God in my bomb ass pb&j, mountains, Lil kids who ask too many damn questions, And everything that makes so much sense in a world that doesn't allow it.

Like one of your worlds meeting another and falling in love.

Like going out to lunch in Ramadan because all y’alls periods are synced up.

Like pride and Eid8 falling on the same weekend.

Like Allah chains in the club.

Like baked mac and cheese without bacon bits.

We do it big, fuck a pig, cook my food with no pork9 Like serenity, peace, and wholesomeness.

And I see God in me.

In discipline. In submission and devotion.

In waking up every morning.

In my everyday resilience.

Muslim religous holiday Dave East, “No Pork”

8 9

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Goodbye, Kell Hall HARRISON WAYNE

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Paper Plane Down

ZACHARY FRANCOIS

dedra morris

Dynein Disco

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Spiraling Out RACHEL ISAZA

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My Mental Illnesses Try to Have A Productive Conversation SHANICE FELIX

I constantly feel like I’m not doing enough. Recovery says, “Go easier on yourself.” Goals beat me out of bed. Anxiety screams, “Do something, anything, before someone notices.” I’m not entirely sure who to listen to. Most days, I just listen to Depression.

He is the calm in me.

He is the quiet when the other voices get too loud—namely Anxiety. Depression mutters, “What’s the point?” He turns on all my favorite shows. He gives me permission to lie in bed and cry and be miserable for hours, and he still loves me. No one’s ever loved me like that.

Recovery agrees with the calm he gives me but not his methods.

She is a quiet voice. She is a gentle friend. She takes my hand and whispers, “Try being okay with where you are first.” But Goals can’t stand her.

They are not quiet. They are enraged and desperate. They want more from me—of me—by me.

Don’t I want that too?

“Complacency is the death of dreams.” They carve into the walls, into my head. It’s my own voice I hear screaming it. Anxiety agrees.

Damn her, she is the restlessness in me. She’s always looking over my shoulder for who’s watching—noticing—judging. She’s the sound of a ticking clock counting down the seconds to nothing, but always counting.

Twitching.

Aching.

Flinching.

“We’re missing something, aren’t we?”

Depression shuts her up in a way no one else can. I don’t know how he does it. He shuts up a lot of people. Hunger. Obligations. Well56

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The Constant Stream of Impossible Thoughts in a Modern World

DEDRA MORRIS

being. He just has this way about him that makes nothing else seem to matter. You know, now that I think about it, he sounds a lot like Recovery.

He tells me, “It’s okay to be a failure. It’s okay to be everything you always knew you were,” and it almost sounds like Mercy.

Recovery doesn’t agree. “Just breathe,” she says.

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CAY CE T

Ebr

IED

ik T EMANN rib uta r

ies

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But I tell her, “That’s hard.” I tell her, “Everything is hard, and I don’t know who to listen to.”

“You know, you can listen to yourself,” she tells me.

She’ll never get it. I don’t even know who I am, or what I sound like anymore. Sometimes I sound like her. Or Anxiety. Or Depression.

Or Goals. I’m just a parrot. I regurgitate their words, give into their fears, repeat their mistakes, and then call that a life. My life. But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe it feels so wrong to mimic them because in the silence, in the quiet, when they all shut up, and I shut up, and I stop getting in my own way, that’s me.

“I’m nothing,” I say.

I’m Nothing.

But she shakes her head. “No, you’re Peace.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

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Package Clara bernard

I’m a soul wandering among other souls more lost and alone than I’ve ever felt. We’re all transiting towards destinations unknown—never truly satisfied with simply being on our way. Many of us spend our lives wondering why our souls tug at us so viciously and throw us into raging messes of anxiety. Everyone spends time in transit. Some never stop feeling lost even at the edge of death, but there is hope. Someday the lonely souls will find a home: a home that accepts, a home that awaits, a home that they can call their final destination. A place that softly whispers “delivered.”

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Falling from the Wall TAMAR LEVY

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Resistance/Survival noor smadi

I’m boiling sage to drink, I’m realizing that America comes from my people.

But this poem isn’t gonna unfold to make you believe that my brown skin and dark hair is finally “American” enough To make you believe that my hips have uncurved, or My skin has bleached, or My tongue has forgot its mother As I can tell you, that I’ve tried...

KOFO DUROJAYE

Existentialism

But I will not run away from where I come from And I will not tell you stories about Little Syria as the origin of the World Trade Center in Manhattan To convince you Or anybody else, that I deserve to exist in the same place where I was conceived

Instead, I will speak my mother tongue at Walmart I will wear my keffiyeh around the same streets Where my mother would be called a raghead And I will remind myself to exist loudly Not exist but survive, prosper, and roar.

There is no doubt that since its inception, This country hates me.

I have known this way too early But maybe, it started at home.

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For me to pinpoint a day or an event.

Maybe, it started with my grandmother telling me I was too dark And trust me, I know my light skin ass should shut up and accept the free drinks at the bar from lonely men with internalized racism. But It’s all up to context, because with my blue-eyed granddaddy, and My green-eyed Loving Sweet Tender mother I am the sandy.

She would buy me bleaching creams, and Tell me to stay out of the sun The truth is, I am a brown Muslim Queer Woman In America, and my resistance is the only way for survival

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I don’t know a lot, and I don’t got a lot, but I know what I got I got my pride, and I got my fight, and Imma use it till these colors Run Out I’ll remind myself that I deserve To let the light in To let the love in

Efferi KOFO DUROJAIYE

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artificial emotion . ebone harris

i looked at your story for inspiration only to see the ​worst ​​saddest most relatable parts of myself . now i’m watching a movie . my vision’s blurred but your audio tastes good . you pressed rewind to try and find the ɘᴙᴙoᴙ. the tape is blank . . . . . it’s always been . everything is sublime . everything is s u b l i m ​ e ​i n a l . . .

* c o n n e c t i o n

l o s t

*

Eb00001 EBONE HARRIS

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NIVIA MEDINA

Urban Alley Way

Support Your Local Atlanta Businesses NIVIA MEDINA

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Your depression kit noor smadi

This is for me, primarily, and everybody who knows what I'm talking about.

This is a list of everything that will get you through the next couple of days, because they’ll be bad, but you will get through it.

You might not get up right now and get any of this because damn your body is disconnected from your brain now, and your brain is simultaneously coming up with excuses not to move for the next 48 hours because your depression loves holding you down. It likes to settle with you and grow on you, maybe its goal is to consume you, who knows?

1A. Leggings.

I know I'm not fooling anyone. I’m practically not wearing pants.

I can see you staring at my bare ass, but the attention keeps me going. I feel like plopping on my couch, but no. I’m present through cold mornings, through hot free coffee, through familiar kind faces, through stability and familiarity. I am confident.

1B. Activewear or exercise shit.

DO NOT BUY. Remember that little annoying voice in your head that keeps nagging and does not shut the fuck up. Yeah, he will come to life every time you look at them.

TAMAR LEVY

Crash

2. A good vibrator.

More stimuli for your brain to take it out of numb-mode. This will prevent you from a lot of bad decisions. Reclaim your body. You got this.

You don’t need them. You are growing every day and learning how your body functions. You are a friend of your body. You will grow to reclaim it.

I am powerful.

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3. Coffee.

It’s your culture and your roots breathing at you. Make some coffee. It will give you the rush to finish some readings. Plus, it smells like home. It’s alive. You are alive. I am alive.

4. Plants.

Hear me out. When you look at your plants, you see love. You realize that love is the only way you get by. Love can be annoying though, but you don’t mind. It it will give you a reason to get out of bed in the morning, or at noon. I am a lover.

5. Art supplies.

These are for when you feel like you’re unable to be heard, unable to talk, unable to feel. Well, now you can see all of that unraveling in front of you. You are a creator. You have the direct power over something.

I am a creator.

6. A good book.

It will give you a brea, but if you don't have the energy, then just read a small one. You’ll be glad that you did once you’ve finished it. You’ll live in another world for a little bit, and that can be relieving. You’ll catch the break that you need. You’ll feel a sense of pride. I am proud.

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Goggles

TAMAR LEVY

7. Weed.

You know how some days the coffee you normally love tastes like nothing? How everything and everybody are so dull yet doing too much?

How you can’t take a breath? Well, this can help you feel and sense shit.

It could save you. I am saved.

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Silhouettes on the Hill ashLiN Gopichund

Mother told me never to look outside. She said she would always protect me. She cries when I ask her about the outside. She cries when I ask her about the birds. She cries when I ask her about a sister. She gifted me silver bracelets when I first came to her. In the mornings, they’re connected to Mother, and at night they’re connected to the pipe. She told me they’re special because she’ll never lose me. I always thought the bracelets kept me safe, especially from the outside world. But today, I don’t feel safe with them at all. The pipe struggles to contain me, and I peek through a tear in the curtains. The silhouettes of toy soldier monsters are outside. They’re outside galloping on the hills—hills I never knew existed until now. There are dozens of them, maybe even a hundred. All of them turned towards us.

Pop! Pop! Pop! The toy soldiers are in my house. I think they’re here for me.

RACHEL iSAZA

Idle Eye

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TAMAR LEVY

Dark Star

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UNDERGROUND

ZACHARY FRANCOIS

Mason Veil

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KENDALL BESSENT

focus

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ebonee

KENDALL BESSENT

The Gold Line Paola hernandez Every day I take this golden line On the first of many stops Going south.

Every day I see the same people.

The man from Chamblee Station, Who wears the same work attire— A white button-down, navy pants, And a pair of brown leather shoes Heading to his 9-5 at Georgia Pacific.

The woman from Lindbergh station Who always sits by the window and Soaks in that warm southern sun.

What’s troubling her?

Perhaps she hasn’t had any sleep.

Maybe she hasn’t had a moment to breathe.

Either way, life hasn’t given her the chance to live, And I can feel the fear she carries with her.

There are too many people going south: The couple on the right losing each other through their touch, The old woman standing over the school kids As they laugh over a test they’ve flunked.

There’s not enough room on this train, But we can’t stop and think about that now.

We’re arriving, And we only have a second before the doors close.

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UNDERGROUND

NOOR SMADI

Roots

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Blackness micah scott

There are people unlike me watching, judging. I cannot breathe. They hear the way

always wear a durag? Must I smoke weed? Is bumping trap music a prerequisite

I speak and remark: You don’t sound like you’re from Atlanta. What do they mean? They mean I speak

to full blackness? Is blackness living in the hood, getting arrested, and being harassed by the police?

proper English, don’t sound ghetto.

This is not a compliment.

He is saying that black people

Does being well-read make me white?

My identity as a black person is what I decide it is.

from Atlanta are ignorant. I walk away. He didn’t mean it like that. You just don’t sound like you’re from Atlanta.

He is saying white people are the only people who speak properly.

Then he walks away.

And I think about what it means to be black. Do I have to

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UNDERGROUND

CAYCE TIEDEMANN

Westbound Apex

81

RE

Throat of Peachtree ALICE BENSON Swallow me, city, down the unending Peachtree steps of your esophagus: a chicken bone local caught in the turnstile, I’ll pay $2.50 and run along your veins from Indian Creek to Hamilton Holmes. Traffic sits as still as slime.

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UNDERGROUND

BEC

CA

BA TE

S

PAUL BOURLET

Lost and Found

No Return CJ KADJIDJA

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ELIZABETH AUTREY is originally from Houston, Texas, but she has been in Atlanta for the last six years. She is a philosophy major with a concentration in pre-law. She graduates in December and plans on attending law school shortly thereafter.

KENDALL BESSENT is a 19-year-old photographer from Atlanta. He got his start in photography in high school, but he was ultimately pushed into it by his love of fashion. Today, he takes pride in his work for showing the purest form of beauty in his people and culture.

CARRIE BLANCH is a Sociology undergraduate from Decatur with a minor in Anthropology and Nonprofit Leadership. Their work explores the relationship between reparenting one’s self and pleasure as a source of power. They refer to their younger self by Yvonne, which is Carrie’s middle name, and Carrie Mae as her future self. The dialogue between Yvonne, Carrie, and Carrie Mae symbolize the ongoing dialogue needed to break cycles of codependency.

PAUL BOURLET is from Tallulah Falls, Georgia, where there is no public transportation to be found. When he moved to Atlanta to become a media entrepreneurship major, Paul was forced to use the Marta and subsequently became fascinated by it’s inhabitants. Paul also enjoys taking photos of his friend Kevin, a skateboarder.

NOAH BRITTON is a senior journalism major from Cornelia, Georgia.

KELSEY CARTER, also known as Kelsey J, is an artist in South Atlanta who created a self-portrait relief sculpture. Her medium is oil and she is an art major.

ALEXIS CHILDRESS is a photographer who is an anticipated BFA Photography graduate in Spring 2020. Alexis is originally from Illinois and moved to Atlanta over five years ago. Her current work explores her broad range of experiences from growing up in the Midwest to currently living in the South, touching on culture, afrofuturism, social transition and self-identity.

JOSHUA CLEVELAND is a film and media major from Atlanta and desires to create art that is honest. The fuel behind his creative voice is to call for individuals to be introspective of their own identity. His goal is to allow them to challenge the world around them and conventional ideas.

KOFO DUROJAIYE is a Nigerian-born artist who spent her childhood in Ireland and came to the US a decade ago. She is a senior and her major is media entrepreneurship. She works with many creatives across the city and enjoys collaboration. She is also currently working on her third painting series.

RON EVANS is from Benton Harbor, Michigan and currently resides in Atlanta. His concentration is in photography.

SHANICE FELIX is a junior who loves making her audience feel a rollercoaster of emotions in a natural, authentic way. She is a creative writer from Georgia, and her works range from full-length novels to free verse poems.

ZACHARY FRANCOIS produces work in portrait photography. He is from Sandy Springs and is majoring in journalism. He likes to create the extraordinary through the ordinary when it comes to his images.

EBONE HARRIS is from Decatur. She is currently enrolled as a sophomore and is pursuing a degree in Fine Arts.

RACHEL ISAZA is a Latin American artist who uses their art as a personal outlet for subconscious expression. They study psychology and are fascinated by the link between artistic expression and cognitive brain functions. They use their medium (mostly pen) as a way to physically manifest an idea or feeling. They often do this by drawing whatever comes to mind with no clear plan and feel that their pieces explore topics of mental illness, personal ethnicity, and gender identity.

CJ KADJIDJA is 22 years old and a senior psychology major. He has always been passionate about film photography and set design. He wants to work in a photography studio and one day have his own art exhibit.

NOLAN KEOHANE, also known as Opi, is an Applied Linguistics major from roughly two hours south of Atlanta. They work in a variety of mediums and frequently experiment with new forms of art. Ultimately, they believe art is visual storytelling which is reflected in their work, all of which tells stories.

TAMAR LEVY is an art student who does sculpture, drawing, painting, and many other crafts. They aspire to be a tattoo artist. They love to hang out with their pet cat, Yams.

SKYLAR LITTLE is a journalism major with a public relations concentration and an English minor. She is currently a junior, but she will be graduating in the spring of 2020.

CHELISA MACHARIA is a psychology major that has a love for philosophy and the arts. When not writing, they’re probably thinking about stories or reading them. Or bopping out to their favorite broadway tunes.

NIVIA MEDINA is a Public Health major with aspirations to be a physician assistant. When she isn’t drowning in schoolwork, she’s shooting photography. She primarily shoots with film, and she aims to capture the essence of Atlanta and its people. She is rarely without her camera, especially on campus.

CASIE SHIRLEY MINOT was born in Tallahassee, Florida, but now calls Forsyth County and Downtown Atlanta home. She is an English major with a current interest in literary studies.

DEDRA MORRIS is an Atlanta Native who returned to college after a career in a creative field. She is a studio art major who is as passionate about science as she is about art.

BRIY ORDONEZ-RAMIREZ is from Norcross. He is majoring in film and media.

KELSEY PAGE is a freshman originally from Marietta. She is studying psychology with a minor in English. Her main hobby is writing poetry and prose, and she hopes to make a career out of it one day.

NINA PALMIERI is from Cumming. She is currently a junior majoring in Film and Media and minoring in Journalism and Marketing. She enjoys photography, music, and making art in her free time.

LEO PENN III is a first year transfer student from Gwinnett. His current field of study is in international affairs and philosophy. He would describe himself as an amateur art digital collagist whose inspiration stems from existential despair, White Claw, and boredom. If other artists are looking to collab you can find him on his Instagram @ leo.for.sure.

NOOR SMADI is a student, painter, and writer. She is a senior studying Political Science and Women’s Studies. She is influenced by philanthropists and artists like Angela Davis, Audre Lorde, Edward Said, and Khalil Gibran.

ROSA WARDLOW is a third year film and media student from Decatur.

She spends most of her time reading, watching TV, and making her friends listen to her talk about Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

CAYCE TIEDEMANN s left on my “I’ve two ride .”

MARTA card

EDITOR IN CHIEF “The wavelengths of recovery aren’t linear.”

POETRY EDITOR

ALICE BENSO

N

ARLY SALINAS “A surprisingly productive hermit.”

“I don’t do intro

ductions.”

ASH GOPICHUND

THANK YOU FOR INFINITY COLEMAN

ILLUSTRATOR

“Lawd have mercy.”

“Try. There’s never the right moment.”

NISE JONES

“Pero like pourquoi?”

PAOLA HERN A

NDEZ

PROSE EDITOR

HARRISON WAYNE ART EDITOR

“A whole mess and

“Wanting for the right words.”

a half.”

RD

RNA

BE LARA

C

S

HARD

RIC OLAS

NICH “Like all things, it wil l pass.”

RIDING WITH US MICAH SCOTT “Curiosity doesn’t need a reason.”

ROSE DEGEFA COVER ARTIST “I’m just trying to catch the vibe.”

REBECCA BATES PRODUCTION EDITOR

love’s table when “Leave the ng served.” bei no longer

PRODUCTION ASSISTANT

PAULA VALERO

“Bold of you to assume I’m not stressed.”