The Vortex: October 2013

VORTEX October 2013

CONTENTS | October

Fiction :

Poetry :

04 | Finding Someone Else,

06 | Wilted Cherry Hearts,

11 | The Raven and the Sun,

08 | No Encore - No Ending,

18 | Say, Ryan Pennington*

09 | Of Sexuality,

Art :

13 | Childhood,

Wells Thompson

Ryan Pennington

07 | Silver Wonderland,

Taylor Lea Hicks

09 | On the Pond,

Anastassiya Khvan

10 | Bird Baby,

Taylor Lea Hicks

14 | Snowy Standstill,

Taylor Lea Hicks

17 | Hotspots on the Water,

Anastassiya Khvan*

24 | Beauty in the Art,

Anastassiya Khvan

Emily Walter

Sarah Scarbrough

Candace Baker Kayelin Roberts

15 | Zone Into Darkness,

Kayelin Roberts*

16 | Burn/Out,

Sarah Scarbrough

19 | Sonata de Clarinet,

Candace Baker

Scripts : 22 | Kataki-Uchi: Blood Revenge,

Tre Sandlin

26 | “Welcome to Night Vale,” Katelyn Spencer

On the Cover : 20 | Summer Color Play,

Anastassiya Khvan

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* - These pieces were voted Best of Web for this month.

Prose

Staff | October

Fiction Editor / Emily Qualls Poetry Editor / Christopher Hall Fiction Judge / Candace Baker Fiction & Poetry Judge / Emily Walter Fiction Judge / Tabitha Galbraith

Vortex Magazine

of Art and Literature thevortexmagazine.com

Editor-In-Chief / Taylor Lea Hicks Asst. Editor / Kayelin Roberts Layout Editor / Ashley Thomas Asst. Layout Editor / Ernesto Pena Copy Editor / Savannah Moix Asst. Copy Editor / Sara Cervantes PR Consultant / Sheldon Slinkard Faculty Advisor / Garry Craig Powell

Fiction Judge / Alicia Brautigan Poetry Judge / Jeremy Wade Poetry Judge / Jordan Lapio Poetry Judge / Courtney Ragland

Media Media Editor / Michael Tatum

Art Art Editor / Shane Hawkins Art Judge / Anastassiya Khvan Art Judge / Katelyn Spencer Art Judge / Sam Denning Art Judge / Marissa Brantley

Scriptwriting Scriptwriting Editor / Tre Sandlin Scriptwriting Judge / Isabella Evans Scriptwriting Judge / Michael Tatum Scriptwriting Judge / Rachel Glenn

The Vortex is the student-operated literary magazine for the University of Central Arkansas located at 201 Donaghey Avenue Conway, AR 72035.

Non-Fiction Non-fiction Editor / Chase Night Non-fiction Judge / Candace Baker Non-fiction Judge / Elise Williams

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Finding Someone Else Fiction Wells Thompson There’s a Hole in my Heart

There’s a girl walking into Irby, a building on campus adjacent to the fountain, on the other side of which I sit. She has one piece of clothing on, a flowing blue dress made for the glories of summertime. Her legs are long and obvious and her hair is the color brown that I’ve always had a thing for. Though she is half a football field away and just walking in my sight for the time it takes to cross the narrow columns connecting an ostentatious archway to this fountain, she commands my attention until the moment she walks through the door, into the building, and disappears out of frame.

It has been almost a year and a half since I was last madly in love, and the summer, or, as my friend Jacob refers to it, the season of exposed skin, has not helped how acutely aware I am of that fact.

I usually find myself here at this fountain to gather my thoughts and distract myself from my head and heartache. Unfortunately, the weather is forbidding my mind to pay attention to much more than the cute Asian in the black dress by the trees to my left.

She Said She Would Never Come Here

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At the very least, the noise of collapsing water helps to keep out the other complications in my life: the twisted relationships I have with my friends, my ex that plagues the place I ran to to get away from her in the first place, the ingrown toenail I refuse to have checked out by a doctor. The thought sends a jolt of razor wire into my foot – a part of me wants to stand up, hop around, yelp, and make an ass of myself. The part of me that wins votes to stay still and bear it silently.

“This is going nowhere.” I think closely.

There’s something I’ve felt was missing for a while now: a certain sense of purpose, a feeling of resolution. Stories have a clear beginning and end, don’t they? Exposition and resolution with a clear climax and conflict. Shouldn’t that be real life, too? The story just keeps going; there is never a real end point. I’d be happy with a sad ending, just as long as it ended. I’ve been sitting here waiting for release, resolution, even

one conflict to be solved. I wonder if any of that is coming or if it’s even out there at all.

After All That, Curly, Dark Hair Comes to Haunt Me Again

There’s a dark-haired girl that walks out of Thompson, the Writing Center. Dangerously short, cut-off jeans and a purple t-shirt show off her figure like a sculpture. There are far too many beautiful women on this campus – none of which are single.

None that are worth having. The ones that are don’t like to pay attention. As she passes through the courtyard, I notice that there are still some lingering flowers on the trees and bushes. I’m a nice guy, but that doesn’t count for much, now does it?

I look over toward Thompson again, the brick and beige towering in its own little corner of the world. I admire it for a second then imagine what it would look like burning to the ground. What a beautiful bright flame against a dark night sky painted with shining and observant stars. But that’s my vivid and frightful imagination talking. It is, in fact, daytime.

Rejection’s a Bitch, Isn’t It?

I’ve never liked the look of these buildings, to be fair: the greenish tint on the roofs, the red and black mix of bricks, the beige columns and cornerstones. It looks like a poor attempt to replicate the ugliest part of Tuscany. Perhaps my opinion is biased. I’ve never felt a love for this school, but I don’t have much choice now that I’m here; getting used to that thought will be more challenging than the actual classes. This is what I’ve learned so far.

The colors are nice out today, a vibrant green, a soft pink, a royal red. Watching women pass by never seems like that big of a waste of time. “Careful now,” I remind myself, “these thoughts will tear your brain apart if you’re not careful.”

I Know, but They Are So Much Fun in a Sad Sort of Way

A plagued mind never stops thinking; I can’t help but wonder if there are others that feel this way.

Maybe everyone feels that there is a burden in their skull, an unhealthy lethargy that manifests itself in the haunting indecision and rhythm of the world and its perpetual disappointments. “Namely me,” I say quietly. I catch myself unable to even focus on the girls prancing about in the courtyard. “Why is it that I’m stuck here? A collapsed mind with no sanctuary, but introspection. And stop using such big words, you pompous ass!

It’s No Wonder We Find Ourselves Alone

And for the first time in a while, silence filled my head. The only thing mentioned was the white noise from the fountain. “We?” Yes, that was the low I had sunk to. “We.” I am so sick of this existential bullshit. Why can’t life be as simple as boy meets girl?

Why do I find myself stuck inside my head? I see the girls in the courtyard and know how this normally goes. Compliments, shyly getting to know each other, months spent trying to win her over with personality for fear of rejection. She says no, gets stolen away by some cocky d-bag, and, three months later, she’s crying, wondering why all guys are such jerks. And I feel invisible. Jacob would have something to say about this. He always has something to say.

Remember What He Told You to Ask Yourself?

“What’s so complicated about girls?” he said with his dumb, lanky, and slouched expression.

“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know. It’s not as simple as you make it out to be.”

“The hell it is. I can go out tonight and score myself a fine bitch, if I want.”

“First of all, ‘isn’t’ – ‘The hell it isn’t.’

Second, how can you be such an asshole and get laid so much?”

“I don’t really think about it.”

“That’s all I can do is-”

“Exactly. That’s your problem, bro; you over-think everything and never make a move.”

“Yeah. I guess. I hate that part of me that wants to be a good guy, but I’d feel bad if I made myself the asshole you are.”

“But, wouldn’t you rather be fucking?

“What?”

“You heard me, wouldn’t you rather be fucking?”

“I . . . but-”

“Just say yes.”

“. . . yes.”

Oh, Jacob

“Then cut that shit out. Next time you find yourself in some existential quandary about whether or not toasting bread is ethical or some dumb shit, just ask yourself, “Wouldn’t you rather be fucking?.”

He Had a Point.

Perhaps this was the way to get myself out of my head. I’ve never been that way though. I’ve always believed in love and romance and all the bull you see in movies and TV shows. Sleeping around has never been my strong suit or my preference.

What if It’s Not One Because It’s Not the Other?

“Touché,” I called aloud. “Then what do I do?”

A young redhead in long jeans and an oversized hoodie with a shirt too small underneath approaches.

“Can I sit here?” she asks, pointing to the spot next to me on the bench.

“Go ahead.” I smile.

So, What Now?

No thinking, just take your shot and clear your head.

I turn to her.

“Hi.”

And a conversation starts. I can’t tell if this is moral disintegration or a new-found self, but I can’t help but ask myself . . .

God Damn It, Jacob

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Wilted Cherry Hearts Poetry Emily Walter Wilted cherry leaves are full of cyanide— the umbilical between stem and slayed parent assuring said leaves to be time bombs, ready to drop anything that dares to be hungry.

Sweet, sweet, forbidden, lush, untouchable and finely toothed— once a full, beating heart becomes shattered in the abyss of inevitable exodus, unwholeheartedly shaken to stilled eyes, it lies there in its own private cavity, physically unscathed, yet irreparably morphed.

The smell of almonds stains the blood like imprints marking territory, and all the while those wilted cherry hearts struggle to survive as poison invades them with the speed of time passing, bonds crumbling, and leaves falling.

It takes the breath away, hides it, and then holds it hostage inside the lungs, until they finally succumb like stubborn zealots.

It bleeds the heart dry, leaving only a lonely epitaph, a heart that may have loved now starving with the rambling passions of trembling fireflies.

It makes the eyes go cloudy, as if the future, now tentative, is unattainable in the likes of Eden— all due to a simple paradox.

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— The boar roots more for fun than necessity, as he will no doubt be fed at dusk with his paramours. Acorns, walnuts, chestnuts, crushed between his long, narrow teeth out of pure, independent pleasure, his crown of tusks declaring him King of Pastures. But he is a wild animal, and he must follow his inborn instincts until he is sterile and stowed— comes upon a fallen tree and sees the color of his red mother brightly tinted in the leaves— treats with their own taste that speak of, maybe, apples—but no, most likely cherries.

And then his wilted, cherry heart was full of cyanide.

Silver Wonderland Taylor Lea Hicks

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No Encore - No Ending Poetry Sarah Scarbrough Spring brings A paisley path of green The flowers awaken As their buds are shaken By the hooting, howling, hustling wind That traveled far From the North To visit But to only stay a minute As it spins and twirls On a stage of its own making Spinning – Changing much too fast For discerning features But as the music crescendos – fade to black For there is no end to this – Nature's ballet.

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On the Pond

Anastassiya Khvan

Of Sexuality Poetry Candace Baker

Sexuality of the mind is tormenting . . . Mother-donut!

Master murderesses despise men Who’re obsessed . . . mmmmmm, obsessed like beauty in a child.

Their buried secrets creak out by blood and lips; A hangover demon telling of nights with euphoria And big nipples and love.

Love, a nubby happiness Sent by Nanobots, strip the Superb brassiere Of sexuality.

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Bird Baby Taylor Lea Hicks

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The Raven and the Sun Fiction Ryan Pennington

In a hollow beneath a hill lived an ancient raven that feared the sun. He never left his home beneath the ground, and so he sat ever in darkness, waiting for some end of which he knew not.

The hollow once had an entrance, but, one day, when the raven hid to escape the light of the sun, the earth shook beneath him and the rocks overhead fell, sealing away the hollow and letting in no light. There were tiny cracks in the rock, and air flowed through them. A little pool of water collected at one side of the cavern, and worms and bugs of every sort burrowed through and around the dirt. So, it was that the raven had air, and food, and water.

The ground often shook the home of the raven, but never did it shake as badly as the day he lost the light. But, one day, many years later, there came a rumbling and a shaking, and some of the rocks sealing the cave fell away, and a single shaft of sunlight came streaking through the darkness. The raven still hated the sun and he fled from the light, hiding in the deepest reaches of his home.

Anon, he heard a voice saying, “Hello? Does anyone live here?”

The old raven had not heard a voice in many years, for he long ago gave up speaking to himself, and he had thought never to hear another voice, save the voice of the water as it dripped from the ceiling. The sound of the words brought forth a longing within him and it was strong. He longed to converse with another living soul, and the desire for it fought for supremacy over his fear of the light. The struggle was long, but, though his desire did not defeat his fear, still he said, “I am but an old and weary raven. Leave me to my solitude, I beg you.”

But the voice said, “What raven would rather live in the ground than in the air? How can this be?”

“And what do you know of ravens, to speak so of them?”

“Why, I am a raven myself,” said the voice, “and I speak as one who lives in the air and in the light of the sun.”

“The sun is cruel,” said the old raven, “and in its shining it burns away all secrets. There is no hiding from the light of the sun.”

The voice laughed. “But why should you hide?

Come with me, and fly in the sun, and know that you are free.”

The old raven sat long in his hill, thinking hard about the other raven’s words. His fear still festered like a wound in his soul, but the words he spoke kindled in him a new desire to flee this place for he was lonely and wanted company. So, he said, “I would come with you. But the rocks are heavy, and I am old, and I cannot fit through that tiny hole wherefrom your voice comes.”

“That is no problem at all, my friend! Come closer and push on the rocks while I pull on them, and you shall soon be free.”

The old raven did as he was bidden, and not a long time later, he stood in the light of the sun. It hurt his eyes for he had not looked on light for many years.

It took time for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight, but they did slowly, and he looked upon the raven who had freed him. He was a young raven, strong of body, not withered by time and solitude.

“What now?” asked the old raven.

“Now? Now we fly. Come, stretch your wings!

Know the joy of life in the sun!”

For the first time in an age, the old raven spread his wings. Sore from disuse, still his muscles felt better for the movement. Slowly, he flapped and then he flapped again. Again and again, and then he was in the air.

“You’re doing it,” shouted the young raven.

“Look at you! You’re flying!”

But the old raven was still weary and he came to the ground heavily, saying, “And yet I cannot fly far.

I am too old.”

“Nonsense. You just need time. The day is young; let us wait here for a time and then we will try again.”

So, they waited until dusk neared, and then the young raven said, “Are you ready to try again?”

The old raven stretched his wings and he felt an old strength returning. “I have borne the accursed light of the sun, and I feel that as its strength wanes, mine waxes.” He flapped once, and again, and, as the sun fell below the horizon, the old raven took to the sky. He flew high over the land, and in him was a joy long forgotten in the world beneath the earth.

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The stars appeared, shining in the skies. Up came the young raven to soar beneath the wings of the old.

“You have done it,” he cried. “I knew you could.”

“Thank you. You have brought to these old bones a contentment I have not known in many an age.”

“No raven should be without the sun or sky.”

“And yet I shall. I will never again fly beneath the sun. But the light of the stars I may bear, and, under them, I will soar for all the rest of my days.”

The old raven kept his word. Ever after, he spoke to his friend in the time when night fell and when the young raven was weary from the work of the day. But he flew beneath the stars, and the gentle light of them was as the caress of wind on his feathers. And he was happy.

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Childhood Poetry Kayelin Roberts

Afraid to open the door Yet so ready to pour Out the stuffed animals That hide in cracks, Ready to play And giggle.

But the blankets cover The flashlight's glare Opening a book Whose rusted cover Barely protects the pages.

Inked words Attempt to reveal The secrets hard to whisper.

Still you try to read And forget to listen Understanding only verbs Spoken through clenched teeth.

You forget to wait For the plot to unfold, Jumping too soon So that the wobbly fort Falls onto the head Of the one who won’t stop moving.

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Snowy Standstill Taylor Lea Hicks 14

Zone Into Darkness

Best of Web October 2013: Poetry Kayelin Roberts Time on his wrist, Walking the cobbled streets, Searching for love.

He opens a door to find a collection Reminding him of his youth, The world spins.

He drinks an ocean, gulps, The taste of salt on his tongue.

Will he peer upon the coral reef, Joining the tropical undertow?

His heart pounding, Like the ground under the team, Crickets screaming their tune As a wrathful breeze blows.

Death circles above— He knows that he is weak.

He counts lemons, Sweating a thousand rivers, He can hear the voice of Grim.

What lives within one’s soul Will soon venture out to the world, Traveling under Cerberus’s guard.

In horror flames lick the dying ridges– He is lost in the wood of sorrows, Pausing to linger over notes of oak.

A crimson pool under a man’s head, Buried six feet under.

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Burn/Out

Poetry Sarah Scarbrough If I saw you tomorrow As I see you today I would ask myself Is this the way?

To go unchanging With each passing night And wake each morning To the sun's constant light But what if, one night, I looked to the sky And just for an instant A shooting star flew by?

Would I make a wish And go wait for the day Or ask myself Is this the way?

Only for a moment It burned so bright But, unlike the sun, It quickly burned out Of sight Cease or exist?

Constant or bright?

Show me one person Who's puzzled out this plight

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Hotspots on the Water Best of Web October 2013 Anastassiya Khvan

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Say Best of Web October 2013: Fiction Ryan Pennington

What do I say, what do I say? It has to be good; the beginning is the most important part. If I ruin it, I ruin everything after. A strange word – ruin – but one of my favorites. I’d best not use it though. Best not to use any of my favorite words: extirpate, inexorable, annihilate, obliterate, desecrate; those aren’t very useful in this situation. Rack the brain, rack the brain. I’ve always hated that expression. A rack was a medieval torture device, so why would anyone want to use that with his brain?

Turning, she’s turning! I know what to say; I know I do. I’ve been thinking about this for months. Hmm . . . that might be a bad thing. In fact, it might be indicative of No! Mustn’t think about that. If I start chasing rabbit trails, I’ll get lost in the woods and then I’ll look like a deer stumbling in front of a car. Damn, I’ve already started doing it. I suppose it’s forgivable. Just look at her. The blonde hair that flows halfway down her back, the blue eyes speckled with flecks of white-like glacier ice glinting in the sun – beauty to make the heart tremble.

This is idiocy, insanity. Mortals do not reach to touch gods lest they be burned for it. I am a fool. I’ll make some excuse, walk away, and turn my eyes nearer to the earth.

No, no, this is a different age; even I can reach this high. What then? She’s looking at me. I have to do something. It doesn’t matter anymore, just do it! Say, say, say!

“Hi.”

Say, say, say.

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Sonata de Clarinet Poetry Candace Baker Forte, flopping phalanges to fill the formed holes.

Rhythms and runs come from the reed, rocking and penetrating The room around you. Lurid and legato; The ligature closing to make screeches from stanzas and Scales move out the bell, the buzzing beat booms to a stop simply To start again, when it’s time.

Mezzo melodies dance down during the duet; Spit slides from the bell in slivers during the slur When you create enough.

Quick maneuvering; your fingers working, Slithering down the slick body of black or burnt brown or tan (when it was mine).

The tempo taken by the tip of your foot, ‘Pitter Patter’ takes over The toneless breaks, When you do it right.

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Summer Color Play Anastassiya Khvan

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Kataki-Uchi: Blood Revenge Screenplay Tre Sandlin FADE IN: EXT. - MURAMACHI PERIOD, JAPAN BRIDGE SUNSET HIRO, a middle-aged man in ragged clothing, is standing on one end of the bridge and facing the other. The sun is setting in front of him. His face is worn and squinting, and he is shivering violently because of the harsh, bitter wind, which is blowing against him.

He has a beard, which is grown and rugged.

Hiro’s left hand grips a makeshift bamboo spear.

Hiro’s right hand grips a battered katana with a handle that is frayed and a pommel, which is rusted.

A Japanese character on the base of the pommel can barely be made out, at which point subtitles display the number 3.

INT. - OFFICE OF KATAKI-UCHI - DAYTIME Hiro sits alone in a room. His face is clean-shaven, his expression worried, and his eyes are worn from obvious large amounts of crying. His clothes are the same except they are clean.

A well-groomed man slides open the door to the room.

He is wearing a black helm, black and white clothing, and he has a katana strapped to his hip. He enters carrying a sword and a scroll, which he places in front of Hiro. He looks down at Hiro with a worried but genuine smile.

Hiro watches him hopefully as the man leaves the room. Hiro looks down and picks up the scroll. He removes the binding hurriedly and reveals the Japanese writing. Subtitles display: THIS WRIT OF THE STATE HEREBY APPROVES ONE, HIRO ICHIGAWA, FOR THE JUST AND APPROPRIATE RITE OF BLOOD REVENGE AGAINST ONE, MUSUI NISHIMURA, FOR CRIMES AGAINST HIS CLAN.

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Hiro cries with a smile as he holds the scroll close to his chest. He places the scroll within his shirt and gazes down upon the sword. It is clearly old, and the sheath, battered. He picks up the frayed pommel and observes its base. After rubbing the bottom with his thumb for a moment, he squints at the rusty character embedded there. Subtitles read the number 3.

EXT. - SIDE SHOP - SUNSET MUSUI, a well-dressed man with two elaborate swords attached to his hip, rests at a bar on the side of a street with a sake jug and a cup in front of him. On Musui’s neck is a tattoo bearing the characters of his name. Musui looks to his side to see the sunset. A gust of cold wind blows against his face as he turns back to the bar. He pours the last of the sake into his cup and downs the shot. As he turns to walk away, he places five large golden coins onto the bar.

The stall attendant appears and eyes the coins with a greedy gaze. He snatches the coins up and bows many times in succession to Musui.

Musui starts to walk with his hands folded into his jacket down the otherwise isolated street. He pulls his sturdy, woven hat over his face. The sun and the frigid wind are at his back.

The longer of Musui’s swords has an elaborate pommel with a golden, engraved character at its base. The subtitle reads the number 5.

EXT. - BRIDGE - SUNSET Musui approaches the bridge where Hiro is waiting.

As Musui comes to the start of the bridge, he pauses when he spots Hiro.

Hiro, upon seeing Musui, stands more upright and grips the sword and spear fervently. Hiro starts to shed a tear as he stares down at Musui. A flashback begins.

EXT. - VILLAGE - SUNRISE Hiro, now clean-shaven, kneels before a house, a guard on either side of him have subdued him with their spears. Hiro forces his gaze upward toward an extravagant carriage.

In the carriage is an obese man with two women at his side. His banners are up all over his cart. Subtitles read NOBU, THE GAMBLING KING. Nobu signals to his line of soldiers, and one of the men steps forward. Musui approaches Nobu. Nobu signals Musui toward the house.

Musui looks down at Hiro for a moment. Hiro returns his glance with his teary face. Musui turns toward the house and approaches the door.

INT. - HIRO’S HOUSE - SUNRISE A woman and a child are huddled in a dark kitchen.

The woman is holding a cooking knife while the young child is embracing the woman for shelter.

Musui enters through the doorway and draws his sword. The woman sets the child against the wall, kisses the child on the forehead, and stands to face Musui. Musui slowly approaches.

As Musui draws near, the woman lunges at him with the knife. Musui deftly side-steps and cuts the knife in half with his katana. Musui then cuts the woman down.

In a moment of clarity, Hiro pulls himself to his knees.

He slams his fists to the ground as he glares to the west. The sun is at his back.

EXT. - BRIDGE - SUNSET Musui draws his katana and slowly approaches Hiro.

Hiro looks upward for a moment, then back at Musui.

As Musui draws near, Hiro lunges at him with the bamboo spear. Musui side-steps and strikes down on the makeshift weapon.

The tip of the spear strikes the ground from the force of Musui’s cut. To Musui’s surprise, the katana was unable to fully penetrate the bamboo and instead remained sunk within the shaft. Hiro takes this opportunity and yanks on the spear, disarming Musui’s katana. In Musui’s shock, Hiro stabs him in the abdomen and twists the sword. Hiro withdraws the blade as Musui falls to the ground, mortally wounded.

As Musui stares up at Hiro in disbelief, Hiro takes the spear and finishes the deep cut Musui made in the shaft. As the cut is completed, Hiro rips the top of the damaged spear off and reveals the sheath of his sword, which is concealed within the bamboo.

Musui gives a bloody grin towards Hiro and then dies.

FADE OUT.

The child looks on in terror as Musui turns his attention toward them.

EXT. - VILLAGE - MORNING Musui exits the house, sword in hand. He retrieves a rag from his jacket and wipes his blade clean of the blood as he passes by Nobu’s carriage.

Hiro’s frantic balling stare beams at Musui, who doesn’t return the look. Nobu smiles with satisfaction as one of his guards shuts the door to the carriage.

Nobu’s caravan leaves and the two guards retaining Hiro release their spears and kick him to the ground.

As the caravan moves out of sight, Hiro remains lying on the ground, holding his gut. His gaze then peers at his house as he cries uncontrollably.

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Beauty in the Art

Anastassiya Khvan

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"Welcome to Night Vale" Katelyn Spencer 26

Colophon Vortex was created on a pimped-out, custom-built PC using InDesign CS6 and Photoshop CS6. Theme fonts are Marchesa, Regencie Light Alt, and Georgia.

Design by Ashley Thomas.

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