Underground Journal | Issue 11.2 | REBIRTH

REBIRTH UNDERGROUND ART & LITERARY JOURNAL

Cover Art by Joanna Kim

Adviser Bryce McNeil, PHD

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 University students, staff, alumni, and guests.

Underground retains first publication rights for submissions accepted by the journal. It is our understanding that all rights for pieces in this issue remain with Underground until they are publishd, at which point all rights revert to the artist or author. © Underground 2021 Georgia State University

Underground.journal@gmail.com undergroundjournal

UNDERGROUND ART & LITERARY JOURNAL

REBIRTH the action of reappearing or starting to flourish or increase after a decline; revival

Letter From Editor I had always tried to prove to myself that I belonged somewhere, somehow. For years I tried to find where I fit in by joining many organizations, clubs, friend groups, most of which I would eventually distance myself from, but I just did not know that the place I would feel the most comfortable in was in a discord voice channel, working alongside some of the most creative minds of Georgia State University, putting together a magazine.

I came in as Editor-in-chief in a moment where everyone was experiencing zoom fatigue. Exhausted from the virtual life, we all just wanted to log in, do our work and stay away from the computer as long as we could.

There were moments this semester where I felt defeated. But I knew I could not give up, not on my first try especially. But slowly the people of GSU showed out, as usual. They did not let me down and I could not let them down either.

I have worked with student publications for years and each semester, I get the same feeling of awe for those who end up on my team. Their ideas, dedication, grit, and creative expression are something that keeps me going on this job every day. I alone would be nothing without the people who make up this magazine. From the creative minds of GSU students, hidden in places and careers you would not think of, to the staff that stayed in meetings for hours, making sure each comma or semicolon was placed precisely where it needed to be, thank you for being the reason Underground Journal exists.

Until the next brainstorm, Paula Valero

C O N T E N TS Page 10-11 -Enter the Cathedral 18.4302° N, 64.4447° W by Susan Berenson -Untitled by Infinity Coleman Page 12-13 -Third Cup by Steven Williams -Channel Surfing by Susan Berenson Page 14-15 -I can no longer sense love by Kayanna Welch Page 16-19 -Like Pink by Layla Ali Amar -Planting Lilacs by Madison Ricci Page 20-21 -These Finger are living by Cyrus Rothenberg -Cake Recipe by Shanice Felix

Page 22-2

Page 42 -43

-Girl Staring at An Apparition by Kennedy Rhiannon

-(Noor) ‫ رون‬by Tamar Levy

-The Funeral by Raphael Jean-Pierre

Page 44-45

Page 24-25

-When a stupid man doesn’t realize

-Bird Friends by Joanna Kim

-(Un)attached by Tracy Dang

Page 46-47

Page 26-27

-We Are Womxn Are Womxn Are Womxn by Abigail Cook

- Covid Rememberance

Page 48-51

Page 28-29 -Untitled by Infinity Coleman Page 30-31 -Melty by Joanna Kim -Me, Incarnate by Nana Yaa Awere Page 32-33 -Lola Two by Madison Ricci Page 34-35 -”Self Portrait” by Taylor Jiles -Jackfruit by Susan Berenson Page 36-37 -Untitled by Noel Austin Page 38-39 -Thank you by Shanice Felix Page 40-41 -Quiet Nights by Elizabeth Bracken -Hypholoma lateritium by Steven Williams

an olive branch is being extended: by Shanice Felix

-Artist Features -Shanice Felix

- Layla Ali Amar

Page 52-53 -Spotify Page 54-55 -Contributor Notes Page 56-57 -Staff Page 58-59 -Production Editor Note

Enter The Cathedral 18.4302° N, 64.4447° W

By Susan Berenson

Poetry

Kaleidoscopic reflections of luciferin ocean, diamond bright white and heavenly love, illuminate the triangular channel.

The warm water invites devotion as lumbering ash grey boulders dwarf the rising sun.

Within its secret rock pools, I toss my bikini top.

Tasting the salty fish brine of the sea, I swim toward Devil’s Bay.

Untitled

By Infinity Coleman

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Photography

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Third Cup

By Steven Williams

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Art

Channel Surfing

By Susan Berenson

Poetry

It’s my sixty-first day of confinement filled with endless virtual conferences.

Or, should I say, Hollywood Squares without the cash and the prizes.

Multitasking with no commute in sight, I’m in Jeopardy of wearing professional attire from only the waist up. The walls eavesdrop on my nightly conversations with David Muir. He doesn’t complain when I leave one plate, a single glass, one spork and a knife with a dull blade in the sink. To Tell the Truth, I’m tired of channel-surfing with no commute in sight.

It’s Today, again.

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I Can No Longer Sense Love

By Kayanna Welch

Poetry

I can no longer sense love, my past deceptions have left me blind, to trickery and to fallacies, to purity and to honesty.

I have been countlessly forsaken after tales of interwoven futures & tender confessions from serpents’ tongues.

I have been deemed valuable and, wrapped in the warmth of worth, allowed said value to be depleted.

I’ve allowed myself to be a healer, sowing up wounded hearts with the very string that held mine together.

I have left myself bare many times before, allowing my poor choices to feast upon me, the tough skin, years into its making, so easily peeled away.

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Now, here I stand, alone in a world where I have no bearing, afraid of & unclothed to a danger I can no longer sense, blinded from the signs of its encroaching doom.

But this land, of which I know none, lays completely familiar to you.

In a field where I so desperately seek control, all Power belongs to you.

A mystical guide In my time of stolen sight.

A comforting cloth In my time of shaken strength.

A promising path Of fruits from labors long bared.

A glorious end To a battle well fought.

But I have been taught that joy is fleeting.

That cloth will lose its comfort, that victory seldom lasts; that sight, however clear, will always begin to blur.

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Insert Name Like Pink

By Layla Ali Amar

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Art

Planting Lilacs

By Madison Ricci

The first time Louise met Farah – she hated her.

She didn’t dislike the girl. No, she couldn’t. Not while Louise existed in Mrs. Peterson’s fourth-grade classroom, forcibly lathering her Paper-Mache project with glue from a bright orange stick – fuming and muttering. Her ministrations were ripping the paper under her hands, but this failed to deter her brutality

The table shook. Farah glared. And Louise ignored her.

Louise, in her own opinion, lacked the capacity for disliking.

Louise didn’t dislike knives – she hated them.

Louise didn’t dislike ferrets – she hated them. Louise didn’t dislike her mother – she hated her.

Her mother was her most prominent hatred.

The one that remained on the backburner as new ones were sparked and fueled. Dr. Henry said this hatred was unhealthy, but Louise hated Dr. Henry. So, it was a moot point, really.

“Will you stop?” Farah asked, seated next to her, frowning.

It was Farah’s first day. Farah was from Wyoming – she had told the class. Farah’s favorite color was purple – she had told the class. Farrah had won the spelling bee for three consecutive years at her old school – she had told the class.

Louise swiped her glue stick harshly against the paper again. And then again.

Louise didn’t dislike Farah – she hated her.

Farah huffed, annoyed, but Louise ignored her.

Louise wanted the other girl to be in Wyoming winning some stupid spelling bee – not next to her, staring with round and frustrated eyes.

Prose

“Is this –?” Farah began, folding her hands in her lap, “You know, I didn’t mean to upset you. Earlier.”

“Two houses? I’ve never heard of someone living in two houses. Except in that one cartoon –what’s the name? Oh, I always forget...”

Louise didn’t live in two houses. She just had two parents. With different addresses.

“You’re being…I apologized.”

She had.

It seemed Farah had noticed immediately how quickly Louise’s face had soured. How her lip had curled and how her jaw had clenched – every part of her wound up and tense. Yes, Farah did falter at the sight.

Yet even after apologizing, Farah’s remorse evident, Louise’s curled lip and clenched jaw still lingered.

Louise felt no need to alleviate the other girl’s guilt.

Farah seemed to realize this because she gave up after her third attempt of trying to get Louise’s attention. She sat by Brittany Howard and Yolanda Smith the next day and the day after.

She didn’t approach Louise at lunch or recess. Nor did she sign her yearbook at the end of their fourth-grade year.

They didn’t interact during the entirety of fifth grade either. And not even when the pair reached middle school had the two spoken a word between them.

The hands of a clock crept in circles, and Louise started high school – just as angry and stubborn as she was born. But Farah did not.

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Farah moved. Apparently, her mother got a better job – a well-paying one that allowed three weeks of vacation and an office with a view. At least, that’s what Brittney Howard told Louise at gym class, sulking, as they walked behind the other students jogging in front of them.

Louise waited for satisfaction to curl in her chest and frowned when it never came. She only felt misplaced. Her and her hatred with a missing muse. This disparity made her cold, so she thought of her mother instead to warm up.

Louise still hated her mother – just as she did in the fourth grade. She nurtured that illfeeling all throughout high school until one day, in Louise’s senior year, her father took her out of school early. She was beaming. Louise thought they were going to catch a movie, but her father was crying in the driver’s seat of their clunky Honda Civic.

He sobbed for about an hour in that school parking lot. Louise didn’t.

No movies were watched that day.

Days later, Louise wished she could hate funerals. Yet even as she clutched her right hand in her father’s and her left on a wooden pew, Louise realized she could not muster her most coveted emotion. So, instead, she shook her head and planted lilacs.

Its leaves were proving to be delicate and limp. By June, the purple petals had already begun to shed and clutter on the soil below. But even as the flowers began to fade along with Spring, they still remained beautiful.

Her father stood next to her, smiling at the loose petals. He probably remembered when a flower girl was spreading them across an aisle that led to the only woman he had ever loved. He frowned suddenly as if remembering he would never see that woman again. A sudden urge to rip the lilacs up from its roots flashed, but Louise refrained.

After high school, Louise kept gardening.

She gardened so much that working at Lily’s Blooming Lilies was the only thing that made sense when she reached 23 years and 5 feet.

What didn’t make sense was Farah walking into the petite flower shop with bright eyes and a purple jumper on a lazy afternoon.

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She wanted peonies, apparently.

And the next week, marigolds. Tulips – for the one after.

They looked everywhere but each other. Until two months in, when Louise’s fingers brushed against Farah’s as she handed her a neat bouquet of daffodils.

Farah blushed and Louise smiled, charmed, but then remembered Louise was Louise and Farah was Farah. Louise was not supposed to be charmed

by Farah.

But she was, so the smile stayed.

Louise didn’t wait for any hatred to ignite when Farah asked her how she was. Louise didn’t curl her lip when Farah made a joke about her mother who required weekly flowers now that she was retired and idle. Louise didn’t clench her jaw when they met at a café a few blocks from the flower shop a week later.

No. Louise couldn’t hate Farah.

So, she decided to plant some lilacs and fall in love with her instead.

“But even as the flowers began to fade along with Spring, they still remained beautiful.”

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These Fingers Are Living

By Cyrus Rothenberg

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Photography

Cake Recipe

By Shanice Felix

Poetry

A cake doesn’t taste like its parts: flour, milk, eggs, sugar…

But it possesses their qualities: softness, smoothness, gentleness, sweetness…

Still, those qualities don’t define a cake.

I could be talking about a cookie Or jello Or a particularly kind chef It’s the same with an abusive partner He didn’t taste like the red flags he was raising.

Not of gaslighting or stonewalling Not of record-keeping or blame-shifting.

All I knew was that I felt like I was choking on a pile of raw flour that he was calling a cake.

But where was the milk?

The eggs?

The sugar—

Be grateful for my love.

When have you ever gotten more?

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Girl Staring at An Apparition

By Kennedy Rhiannon 22 UNDERGROUND

Art

The Funeral

By Raphael Jean-Pierre

The news of Madame George’s death didn’t come as any shock, for I barely knew the woman. We were driven to Spring Valley, New York by our parents to attend her funeral service at Uncle Pierre’s Funeral Home. The maroon wallpaper with golden-shaped diamonds covered the entire room with its company in black suits for the males and black dresses for the females. An all black occasion, obviously. The scent of burnt incense filled the room; a tastelessness of how it feels to be on the other side of the universe. Madame George laid in the casket in a quiet repose. The organ played hymns of lament but it didn’t quite fit the attitudes of the folks who were supposed to pay their respects.

For those who don’t know, Spring Valley used to be a Jewish Neighborhood before it was taken over by Haitian immigrants and other West Indian cultures. Since then, businesses saw a significant drop in sales; the political climate shifted towards greedy self-profiteering; and the quality of life quickly diminished. Seeing old faces and a few new ones came as no startlement. “Dimitri, koman ou grandi! Ou se yon gwo nèg!” This remark came from parents that used to chastise or whip their kids that were now way in the back, hosting a private club; discussing the debts to pay, the values of merchandise ascertained; no doubt they picked the correct occasion to go over such trivialities.

Prose

So it was no surprise to discover that the boys and girls of years past, who were now either robust men or curvaceous ladies, were the greatest swindlers of this holy gathering. They gossiped throughout the entire service as if it was chic or a la monde; a cackling of laughter from a wellknown slut (you can tell by the laugh) at a guy’s joke that you could bet wasn’t funny; or the posing for photos taken next to trays of food, with men throwing gang signs. The parents idly watched as this took place, as if it was natural that these were the disciples of Christ they had raised.

Meanwhile, the utter disrespect and abomination of the sacred was almost too much to bear. Reverend Latouche cited his eulogy at the end with everyone standing around the corpse of someone who left this world to a lost generation. Someone needed to make a difference. Who would it be?

Growing up, our family was always considered outsiders in the scheme of things, in relation to the church’s affairs. Other families would enjoy the gratification of status, along with their kids, in being a vital part of the community.

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Bird Friends

By Joanna Kim

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Art

(un)attached

By Tracy Dang

Poetry

Wake up from a monotonous ringing, from an indecipherable dream into the unknown day.

Brush the silver whites and swivel mouthwash, letting it burn a bit longer because it feels right. Spit it out.

Copy the everyday attire in a different color.

Read and write. Smile and repeat into a camera, connecting you to someone on the other end.

Bathroom break number 3 at 1, followed by number 2 at 4.

Make a daily appearance outside of the room.

Examine the fridge’s insides and close it without reason. Repeat until adequately caffeinated, consuming a microwaveable meal and half-finished episodes.

Return to the desk, absorbing and observing to pay the rent of existing with short-term knowledge.

Eat again to survive. Again out of boredom.

Rinse, lather, and wash from head to toe. Lay in bed scrolling from posts to headlines till the eyes give out, or a reminder appears.

Live in yesterday’s mistakes, imagine the future—a better you.

Reach the point of mental discomfort, where the lids shutter and logic blurs, and leave behind thoughts that become vague memories when the sun returns.

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26 UNDERGROUND

Remembering the lives lost to Covid

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Untitled

By Infinity Coleman

Photography

29

Melty

By Joanna Kim 30 UNDERGROUND

Art

Me,Incarnate

By Nana Yaa Awere

Poetry

What life is this?

My second, third, or fourth?

A cat, a tree, a cloud my imagination runs wild Wondering where I will go how I will change Perhaps things will stay the same.

Is this life another chance to realize who I am?

But What am I? Where am I headed?

A year-long rumination a time of empty lamentation A hexadic breadth observed in common space isolated in my location below the gypsum sky above.

I’m drifting here Stop.

Stationary, I gaze out and see Across empty homes and through sprouting leaves no face, no name an entity A hope to grow, consent to change I am born again ‘twas time well spent newfound intent?

Hello!

It’s me, incarnate.

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Lola Two

By Madison Ricci

Henry noticed that his daughter tended to quote her mother excessively.

“Mommy told me eating with your mouth open lets in ghosts.”

“Mommy told me a lack of stretching leads to a lack of living.”

“Mommy told me math is the most important language to know.”

Apparently, Sarah’s mother told Sarah many, many things. Yet seeing as Sarah was nine years old, and this was the first time Henry was meeting her – apparently, Sarah’s mother did not tell Henry many, many things.

Henry was angry – then sad. A head-on collision with a Ford SUV left him with no one to confront and a constant sinking sensation in his stomach. So, here he was, meeting Sarah with her hands folded on a coffee table and her back straight as a pole. The scene felt reminiscent of a job interview – if only Henry’s “interviewer” was not a nine-year-old girl wearing a princess Elsa dress.

“Mommy told me you should wear whatever you want as a kid before you become endure as an adult.”

Henry asked her if she meant ‘insecure,’ but he was ignored.

The rest of their meeting involved Henry squirming in his seat, trying to get to know his daughter but instead learning about her mother through pocket-sized anecdotes. It seemed she really did tell Sarah many, many things.

Now, Henry knew you told kids certain things. You told them Santa was real, and broccoli was important, and that people went to farms because just like there were things you said – there were also things you didn’t. Yet despite this, Sarah was under no pretense her mother was at a farm.

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Prose

“Do you think Mommy minds being dead?”

She asked one day while he picked her up from school.

She got a 100 on her math quiz and saw a spider give birth during recess. She said it was the most disgusting thing she had ever seen yet went into elaborate detail about the delivery regardless.

The father and daughter were going through a trial run – or, at least, that’s what Susan, Sarah’s aunt, called it. Henry shrank in his seat when she told him that – it reminded him of being in school. And seeing as he was a high school dropout, he was not reassured.

“Oh, well.” Henry kept his eyes on the road determinedly. “I don’t – That’s a good question. It’s not really...something I can answer.”

Henry prepared himself for disappointment but steadied when he received none.

“Mommy told me good questions never have good answers,” Sarah sighed, resigned. “I only thought – she told me if she...she said it would be peaceful, and there would be lovely music, and she would be in a better place.”

“Well, then she is.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s what she told you, right?” Henry asked.

“So – uh, why wouldn’t she be?”

Henry lied in bed for hours after that conversation, wondering if that was the right thing to say. He even thought about it a few weeks later when they visited her mother’s plot on Sarah’s birthday. At one point, Sarah shooed him away so she could talk to her mother in private. He walked towards a bench a few yards away and didn’t see Sarah’s mouth move – yet caught when she lowered her face.

By the time he realized she was crying, Henry purposely faced the opposite direction, deciding instead to peer at an oak tree a few plots ahead.

It was evident Sarah didn’t want Henry to watch her cry, so Henry didn’t. Even after forty minutes of watching a squirrel scurry back and forth from the branch to branch – he still did not turn around. When Sarah finally did join Henry, she was standing next to him with red but dry eyes.

They were both staring at the oak tree now, and Henry realized, in that precise moment, he had not said the right thing all those weeks ago, and he never would.

They got ice cream afterward.

Henry received a large paper bowl, so they mixed her mint with his lemon. It was a disgusting melted mess after an hour, but Sarah’s face was red with laughter when he began his overdramatic impression of a stuffy food critic.

“Madam,” He curled his lip with faux haughtiness. “Cease your laughter. This –! This multicolored...soup...is an affront to cuisine! No! More than an affront! A crime!”

She giggled relentlessly, and the needled worry in his chest eased slightly.

Fall came and gone – and so did the trial run.

Sarah moved into Henry’s apartment a few days before Christmas. By New Years, she was riding in a shopping cart with him as they raided Home Depot for plants. Sarah thought Henry’s apartment was lifeless, and Henry agreed internally while disagreeing verbally.

“Mommy told me you shouldn’t trust anyone who doesn’t have anything alive in their home beside themselves.”

“Well, I don’t trust anyone who bases trust off of items that cost less than ten dollars.”

“Hm,” Sarah hummed. “Toot May.”

Henry decided he would correct her later.

They got a plant. Sarah named it Lola.

New faded into old, and spontaneity retired into routine. Henry picked her up from school on weekday afternoons and dropped her off at ballet class on Thursdays. They got ice-cream on Sundays and always ate dinner with Sarah’s aunt beforehand.

Their plant died, and so did Henry’s life before Sarah – but he was content with what grew in its place.

Right after Lola’s untimely death, Sarah became adamant that a puppy would exponentially improve the duo’s quality of life. Henry was adamant it would not.

“But – but...” Sarah grasped for words.

“Mommy told me you shouldn’t trust anyone who doesn’t have anything alive in their home besides –“

“Sarah, we can’t –“

“– themselves, and you told me not to base trust off of items that cost less than ten dollars– puppies cost more than ten dollars.”

Henry blinked.

“Yes, I – I guess I did tell you that.”

They named the puppy Lola Two.

“Mommy told me you shouldn’t trust anyone who doesn’t have anything alive in their home beside themselves”

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“Self Portrait”

By Taylor Jiles

Art

Jackfruit

By Susan Berenson

Poetry

In my reflection, I see my father. Angry. Demanding. Needy. Childish.

Filled with a sticky white resin that stains anyone who comes near.

In my reflection, I see myself. Requiring little water to thrive. I am doubt and pest resistant. Yet, I cannot deny, I am his tree-borne fruit.

35

Untitled

By Noel Austin

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Photography

37

“I’m used to telling myself things I don’t want to hear, but I can’t take back what I’ve written.”

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Thank You

By Shanice Felix

Poetry

My grandma is getting old in the way that stops making people happy. The same goes for my dog. I’m afraid that, by mentioning this, I’ll have to look back one day and have this work remind me of them. Of losing them. Of missing them. I’m used to telling myself things I don’t want to hear, but I can’t take back what I’ve written.

Maybe I shouldn’t write anything?

I’m sitting in a screenwriting class, and my professor tells me to imagine my character’s whole life. Right then. Right there.

I’m supposed to just know everything that’s going to happen to them and why, but I don’t.

If I were to die right now, what would be the beginning, middle, and end of my story? Would it be worth listening to, or would my professor lean on the back of her heels, click her tongue, and say, “That’s it? Hm… Needs work.”

At what point can I argue, “No, that’s enough.”

39

Quiet Nights

By Elizabeth Bracken

Poetry

It was quieter when I was a child.

None of this buzz, hiss, static beep noise.

Dishwashers did not drown out conversation unless you counted the arguments over whose turn it was. Why was it always mine to wash?

Open windows at night. Trains whistled in the distance going west to Iowa or Nebraska where it was quieter still.

Maybe the trains took the crickets, rubbing their wings together, chirping for a date, to Iowa where they hopped off like hobos.

I would like to ride a freight train to quiet nights where stars by the thousands still shine and all the dishes have been washed and dried.

Hypholoma lateritium

By Steven Williams

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Art

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(Noor)‫ر‬

By Tamar Levy

Art

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When a stupid man doesn’t realize an olive branch is being extended:

By Shanice Felix

Stupid man,

That was your olive branch.

Or should I say, that was the last piece of the back I broke for you. Forgive the indentations— the chips and scuff marks—from all the knives you stabbed in my back. Flattened from all the people who walked all over me before you, who I mistook for friends in need.

A friend in need is a friend indeed.

Until they’ve got no more use for you.

Do you think you were the first to stretch me thin into a tightrope?

Yes, I am a tightrope.

Watch me bob and weave from all the heavy steps I’ve had to bear alone, and if you fall from my shoulders that you perched yourself on without my permission, it’ll be my fault, right?

So lean on me.

And when the inevitable crash happens—

Lean by me.

And when there’s blame to be had—

Lean it on me.

Even though you know I can’t support it by myself.

Strike me.

Because I am a match in everyone’s pocket except my own. Dragged against my will, against a rock and a hard place.

Some days I am the rock.

Some days I am the hard place.

And the empty promises, and the missing people in my life who I’ve used my heart, and blood, and bones like fuel to keep something alive with.

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Prose

Which is to say,

I am firewood.

Not quite wood anymore. Not quite fire.

I am that tricky point in between something becoming something else, and you don’t know what you’re looking at anymore in the mirror.

“I am a match in everyone’s pocket except my own. Dragged against my will, against a rock and a hard place”

Answer this: When does your meal become trash?

Become disposable?

Become unappetizing?

Is it when there’s no longer anything else to consume—nothing left to take?

Is it when it’s done, or is it just when YOU’RE done with it?

There are no more bites you plan on taking out of me, right? No more places to step. No more shoulders to bear. No more olive branches left to burn. Just a bridge that’s still standing.

Somehow.

Only because I can never let go.

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We Are Womxn Are Womxn Are Womxn

By Abigail Cook

Art 47

Featured Artists

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Shanice Felix How did this passion begin?

As a child, people always said I talk too much and I’m living in a different world, so I spent a lot of time getting lost in animated fantasy shows. I loved the artwork, but it was the words that stuck with me in my day to day life when I was away from the screen. I started wanting to change those words, though, rearrange them to suit my taste better. There were worlds within me, paracosms, that I found as interesting as reality sometimes, and I wanted to tell people about them. I wanted to invite people into that lonely place inside my head.

What do you hope to accomplish through your art ?

Tell us about your artistic process.

Whenever something makes me laugh or cry— or pisses me off—I try to put the reason why into words. But when I speak literally, people usually have a hard time understanding me, so I use metaphors. This has turned into my craft. I use pencil, paper, and a whole lot of (numbered) side notes because I don’t think linearly. I get to the punchline before the joke.

What inspires you to make art?

My literary works usually write themselves once I get the inspiration for them. The trick to getting it: living consciously. So many things happen to us on a daily basis.

So many ideas are presented to us as “just the way the world works,” but if we question these things, we can find new ways of looking at them, defining them, and defining ourselves—or undefining ourselves. What is the difference between a hot dog and a sandwich? Can you put it into words? I’ll wait.

I hope to serve underserved communities in the media with my art. Some people’s stories aren’t being told enough–or authentically. In a world of imagination, we should all be able to see ourselves.

“Some days I am the hard place.””

When a stupid man doesn’t realize an olive branch is being extended:

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Layla Ali Amar Tell us about your artistic process.

It usually begins with a strong urge to try and convey an emotion that I don’t understand. I rarely go in with a specific idea or end goal, but the entire time I am creating, I come back to “How can I make this piece as intense as possible?”

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What inspires you to make art?

Communication with myself. It is difficult for me to tell how I feel; when I began to create art, I found that my self-awareness was growing. I am always inspired to get to know myself better.

How did this passion begin?

About a year ago, right before Covid-19. I was creating for fun but realized I loved it and never wanted to stop. I didn’t know or feel comfortable calling myself an artist until about early October of 2020.

What do you hope to accomplish through your art ?

I’m not entirely sure yet. Creating abstract art is still so new to me! I hope always, to have it in my life.

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52 UNDERGROUND

SPOTIFY The Underground team gifts you this playlist combined of tunes inspired by our theme, Rebirth.

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Contributor Notes Susan Berenson desire to express her own voice prompted her to start writing poetry for her visual art. Slowly, the arrangement of words and their emotive nature became her primary mode of creative expression. Susan is a Senior at Georgia State University.

Steven Williams is a Senior at GSU who spends much of his time in the Atlanta writing scene. He has two dogs, and all three of them have too much grey hair.

Kayanna Welch “Without dark, there’d be no light.”

Layla Amar is a self-taught Palestinian American artist focused on exploring communication with the self immediately after extended dissociated states. My work details the process of articulating experiences within the traumatized brain while working through the inability to label intense sensations. Overall, my mixed-media art investigates the relationship between my inherited trauma from my Palestinian ancestry and my individual trauma.

Madison Ricci is a sophomore at GSU and is addicted to all things related to reading and writing.

Cyrus Rothenberg is a photographer and digital artist from Atlanta, Georgia, specializing in how identity intersects with media, and how the digital shapes our view of the natural.

Shanice Felix is a senior Film major and Japanese language minor. She loves writing works that put people through a rollercoaster of emotions. The objective is always to allow people to see from another’s perspective—to truly understand them. See more of her works on Wattpad or Quotev @FallingIn .

Kennedy Rhiannon is an Atlanta-based book artist and illustrator currently studying for a BFA in Drawing, Painting, and Printmaking from Georgia State University. Her work seeks to visualize a confusing narrative through the lens of her own biases. She was recently published in Under the Bridge’s Mediums series within the Printmaking volume.

Raphael Jean-Pierre is a sophomore at GSU, majoring in English with a concentration in creative writing: fiction. Raphael loves to read, listen to music, Asian-Pacific Islander food, and watch films as well as television. With the gift of metacognition, Raphael hopes to publish a book or two, one day.

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Tracy Dang is currently a 3rd year English major with a concentration in creative writing.

Nana Yaa Awere is a sophomore majoring in Sociology and Philosophy at Georgia State University. She spends most of her time reading and writing essays for class, but in her free time, she enjoys playing piano, going on nature walks, and listening to podcasts.

Taylor Jiles is a 21 year old full time student and full time artist.

Tamar Levy is a Jewish non-binary multi-media artist who enjoys painting, welding, sewing, and many other crafts. They love to express their gender and use bright colors in their clothing and art. When they aren’t doing art you can find them hanging out with their pet cat Yams.

Elizabeth (Liz) Bracken returned to college in 2016 as a GSU-62 student to finish an English degree she began when she started college in 1970. She graduated Summa Cum Laude in May, 2021, proving (to herself) that age is no obstacle to learning. In 2019, Liz won her first poetry contest, the Natasha Trethewey Poetry Award, with a poem composed in Dr. Pearl McHaney’s class. She plans to write more poetry, read lots of books, and enjoy retirement.

Joanna Kim is 20 years old and currently pursuing a career in art. Joanna has done art all my her life and never imagined doing anything else career wise. Joanna’s fascination with horror has been the main inspiration for her artworks and getting to explore that is very fulfilling.

Abigail Cook is an artist and activist based in Atlanta who is focused on Women’s Rights and criminal justice reform. She seeks to incite meaningful conversations by pushing the boundaries and introducing innovative concepts to established disciplines.

Noel Austin

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STAFF

PAULA VALERO, EDITOR IN CHIEF “Plant kindness, gather love”

INFINITY COLEMAN, PRODUCTION EDITOR “Change begins at the end of your comfort zone” -Roy T. Bennet

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PAOLA HERNANDEZ, LITERARY EDITOR “it’s all happening...”

ROSE DEGEFA “laughs at everything.”

CASIE MINOT “cherishes her family and two cats.”

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Production Editor Notes Putting together this journal was a honor and allowed me to utilize my graphic design skills that I’ve learned over the years. I hope my design choices have showcased each and every one of the amazing submitters work. I look foward to putting a piece of myself into the underground journal for future issues.

Your Production Editor, Infinity Coleman

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“ You can’t always get what you want But if you try sometimes Well, you might find You get what you need.”

-The Rolling Stones