ZEEN* Issue 1, Spring 23

*A COLLECTIVE OF INDIVIDUALS WHO WISH TO EXPRESS THEIR IDENTITIES THROUGH CREATIVE WORKS. THIS IS THEIR PLATFORM. THE VISION OF ZEEN* HAS ONE GOAL ONLY—TO BRING ABOUT CONVERSATION.

ZEEN* ISSUE No.1 SPRING 23

A message from the team: ZEEN* started out among friends who shared a deep discontent for the lack of true creative platforms around us. We hope this publication can serve as a new place where our works can be shared through our means.

In this first issue you will find all sorts of creative writing, art, photography, along with special interviews. We explore the theme of “elasticity”—rather than change, the identity does not transform into something completely different, but stretches itself into something greater and larger, or the other way around, facing inward.

Why the asterisk in our name? It represents many things we can’t say. The idea of * has always been utilized to call things to attention, point to what’s omitted, or to correct. It aligns with the new but acknowledges what came before.

It gives a voice to the unknown.

Editor-in-chief Tiffany Leong Art Director Annie Church Head of Design Emy Sainbayar Fashion Editor Ivy-Maria Williams Communications Manager Maylee Sexton Photography & Creative Direction Nartay Ualikhan Mentor Monika Lin Sponsor Maria Montoya Contributors & Interviewees Amina Almatova Nur Aksamija Keigan Carpenter Sophia Turek

PHOTO BY NARTAY UALIKHAN TRACK ID: CHROME SPARKS MARIJUANA

白酒

CONFE

S S I O N S

PART ONE

First—just to get this out of the way—I didn’t get into a fight, although I wish I did because it would have made this story a lot cooler. And another thing to preface: —Steph DOESN’T GO OUT OR DRINK (at least she claims she doesn’t)— It was already hard enough to convince her to go out—unless she had a glass of wine in her already. During the summer before every weekend, we’d say, “We’re not going out this weekend. Seriously, we can’t go out this weekend.” Then Friday would be going around and I’d

say something along the lines of “so and so club has so and so event going on….” And she’d say: “Fuck! Mary, we can’t keep doing this!” And then we would be in a Didi 30 minutes later.

I didn’t really want to go out that night.

I really, really, didn’t want to, I had said I didn’t want to go, but—but!— my friends had convinced me (who I am not blaming!)—to go to All. Here’s the thing about All; it’s one of those few alternative places that make you feel like you’re in a rave in some random warehouse back home, but

It’s—

having a good time.

—MUSIC FOR THE PEOPLE. The techno untz untz of the pitch black dance floor makes you forget all your worries. And your phone. I’ve lost my phone two weekends in a row there.

The only complaint I have about it is its poor ventilation but it adds to the indie sleaze. Bitches don’t fuck around. No shitty promoters are outside trying to push their WeChat code in your face, pour fake alcohol down your gullet.

And the best part is that NO ONE IS LOOKING!

BUT THE MUSIC WAS GOOD AND WE COULD HAVE STAYED UNTIL IT GOT HYPE. But a bitch whispers sweet nothings into Steph’s ear and convinces her to walk to Found.

So we were all up in the apartment pregaming, doing hot shit and Steph is doing that thing where she gets real light on her feet and swirls and slurs about. So naturally, I was like, “Tonight’s gonna be a good ass night”. I mean we were going to our favorite club, big sexy was gonna be there, we all looked fucking good, and turns out, SOME FUCKING HOW, this all is a recipe for disaster.

I bought wine from a friend and took it with me to the Didi. I know, it was only wine, but I’m a lightweight. I didn’t feel like I was drunk enough so Steph and I kept passing the bottle of white wine back and forth (should’ve drank it all but whatever). So after forty-something minutes and half the bottle, I’m properly tipsy when we get there. I was a little upset having to pay the cover but at this point, I’m having a good time. I’m assuming everyone else is having a good time. We’re a little bit early so the actual main act hasn’t come yet but I’m

One thing about me—fun fact—I fucking hate Found. If I was ever a serial bomber that’s where I’d hit first. I’ve never gone voluntarily, and I still defend this moment against my own will, when someone brought up the dastard suggestion: “LET’S GO TO FOUND.” Me: No “It’s boring here!”

Me: It’s not even 12 “It’s only a fifteen-minute walk. We’ll come back!”

Me: Eh… Nah, I’m good “We’ll buy you a drink?”

So we went.

God knows I just go with the flow and so does everyone else so we were like fuck it, let’s go I guess. Fun fact: I also hate Found, shit’s grimey as fuck— —YOU’RE LYING IF YOU SAID YOU HAVEN’T ENJOYED A FOUND NIGHT AT LEAST ONCE. The first day I got out of quarantine I headed straight to Found (the only clubbing place I knew at the time) and no exaggeration, it was one of the best nights of my life. It’s all LIGHTS CAMERA ACTION. You bounce club to club, bar to bar, to 3am Homeslice pizza.

Literally party girl heaven. When all else fails, Found is the place to go. It never

So we were walking OH SHIT I forgot to mention I got videos of the whole night because I was working on a project. And yes, I will happily work on a creative school project intoxicated don’t @ me. So we were walking to fucking Found and on the way our friend’s like “Let’s buy some Baijiu at FamilyMart”. We all crowd in there and I’m taking videos and they’re picking the alcohol they want. You know the peach-flavored one. We bought it, step out, and kept walking.

By this point, I’m properly drunk and I take a few swigs of baijiu. Fuck. Maybe that’s what did it.

I needed Steph to act for me. I asked her to dance around and do some cute shit and THIS BITCH GRABS MY FUR AND STARTS MOVING LIKE A HULA DANCER MIXED WITH A TREE IN THE WIND I DON’T KNOW. This is how I knew shorty was drunk. Moving like a damn coconut tree in a hurricane. Anyways, Steph and I caught up—actually, we never caught up.

For some fucking reason we decide to enter Found from the other side, or above, or, that’s how properly drunk I am is because I don’t even remember, but: there’s this solid wall of concrete that circles around the stair entrance of the plaza.

We enter from the side, out of some wet shrubbery, and it’s dark, and right before I step onto the sidewalk, my foot slips, and—

TO BE CONTINUED...

disappoints.

by Tiffany Leong

Last July was soaked in hot oil. We’d sleep during the night with fists clenched. On Mondays we would wake up and eat soggy Eggos while CBS told us all the bad news: T THIS AT LEAST FORTY PEOPLE SHO WEEKEND… SIX CASUALTIES URED OVER A DOZEN CRITICALLY INJ NOW HOSPITALIZED AND NOW FOR TRAFFIC, JIM? RYAN… COMING INBOUND ON THE DAN

Toaster’s smoking. Forgot to unplug it.

Through the day the old couch would groan under our afternoon bodies. I reread the same two books all summer. The venetian blinds became more and more slightly off kilter with each day. In the afternoons we grew hot and lazy and didn’t talk in case the noise got too warm.

In the summer our piano never played right, the heat slowed the keys down too.

FUCK MORNINGS I WAKE UP THRASHING BLANKETS CHEST BURNING WITH THE UGLIEST YEARNING I SWIPE OLD FRIENDS’ STORIES THEM SWIPE MARY JANE EARNINGS I ONLY GOT PART-TIME SHIFTS, ONLY GOT WESTSIDE EARNINGS;

WE GET HUNGRY FASTER WHEN OUR PARENTS AREN’T AROUND CORNER STORE THERE FOR A REASON 24/7 WE LURK ALL SEASON

But when the sun set we raced to put on our sneakers. Dark always turned a switch on us. Shoelaces tied too quickly bits of static sparked from them. Last breath of summer; every teenager in the world opened their mouth wide towards the sun to swallow it.

NOW WE RUN INTO THE HUMID DARK SMOKE/ BOYS/ PARK GIRLS TOO GROWN—TWIRL HAIR, ACT SMART, YOU CRUMBLE THAT GREEN ‘TIL WE’RE TWO INCHES APART. Before things like fear, pain, heartbreak, death, taxes, we knew this taste fresh. Before anything we were full on light.

THIS SUMMER IS REBIRTH. I hold my breath and tangle my hair in your fist. This summer is community pool and broken barbed wire, shaved ice and car-seats broiled to the ass-scorching max.

It’s not love but it’s the same way you can’t hear voices underwater, instead see the salvages of air. We escape the heat on the weekdays at the community center.

Gravel crackles our flip-flops. The pool is barely twenty something yards wide but when we jump into the water the world is YOU ON THE INTERSECTION SOMETHING IN MY CHEST UNFURLS vast, bleached, probably full of kid-piss, but mostly, it is large and unobtainable and NOT THE SLURPEE we stay there. We fight to keep our heads THAT MAKES MY GUT CURL below as long as possible just because we TRY TO HIDE THE STENCH OF A can, or because we can’t. I’m grappling for BLOCK-WIDE AFFECTION your ankle somewhere or maybe you’re TOO LATE, SPILL THE BLUE snatching at my wrist or maybe the water CONFECTION has merged us into one body. I like that FUCK MORNINGS NOT ENOUGH idea; I float in it.

TIME POP TARTS BURNING wish Someone told me if you make a AND YET I REGARD YOU AND come at the deepest part of the sea it’ll SUMMER even true. We try it but the pool doesn’t WITH THE MOST BITTERSWEET e som at go five feet deep. We try it but YEARNING now out point surface breaks. I’m getting dren and freaking ‘cus some fucking chil stole our towels. Looking back: IT’S NOT LOVE BUT GOD DOES IT DO A GOOD JOB. You know the flash of hot when you feel it. You know It’s not love but God, does it do a when hands grip tight and the lines good job. Looking back: of your palm are pinched like you are the first skin someone has ever You, in the water, steals another breath. touched. You know how late summer comes in hurricanes, roaring beneath sewers, down the drain. It’s fast to the brim, these feelings. We don’t feel full when we eat too fast.

classic black! retro chic!

fruits!

ballet core!

pj pj pj!

monster monster high!

SHOT BY NARTAY UALIKHAN

POSTMODERNIST

STYLING THEINGI THANN IN FRAME AISHA ZHANSEIT

When we met again for the second and last time, The spotlight that became my body, the praise, the I was on hunger strike. I got stuck on this idea that concern, the mystery of my meals—my play, my there was simply too much of me—the distortion opera, my show. that was my flesh and bones. To be frank, not ~ eating was quite easy. I flowed seamlessly into my It had been two years at that point since I last saw routine of dancing through the kitchen, empty you, and you just walked into my home as if you had bowl in hand, humming to my melody of calorie always been there. counts. Wheat crackers, 60 calories, four crackers You looked at me as if you had a thousand apologies a serving. A serving of plain cheerios, 100. The trapped within your eyes. Rushing towards me unsweetened almond milk that goes along with you embraced me between arms that felt foreign, it, 30 calories; substitute for unsweetened cashew remarking that I was beautiful after letting out a milk for only 25, you might want to save the other mournful gasp in awe. Maybe it was at this moment five calories for half stick of mint gum later (sugar you first saw me. I was skin on bones, translucent free of course). Broccoli soup, 80 calories in a flesh veiled over a gaunt face; just a whisper of the cup—diluted with a cup of water—still 80 calories, little girl you remembered. The show had to come and you’re twice as full! I was a mathematician in to an end. I couldn’t let you see what crept behind my own sense; quick to subtract, add, and divide the curtain. It’s hard to put on a production like that, out my portions. Those numbers could be easily the glitz and glamor of starvation is incomparable maintained. Now, the scale was a different story. to the reality of its preparation. The cold showers, The scale could tell no lies, and the numbers could the repetition of crunches, the mushed food between not be easily manipulated. The scale knew how my hands, the late night binging, OH GOD—the hard you worked out, and would account for that laxatives! You were too close, and the fourth wall was extra splash of almond milk you put in your cereal broken. that morning. Strip down to just your socks, use We shifted to an alternate reality as you entered: the bathroom beforehand if you can. One foot on Location, grandparents’ living room. Daughter, I the scale at a time, your eyes must not wander am 13-year old daughter. You, single father of three from the dial. The anticipation, the excitement, children, always working. Older sister in college, the anxiety of it all—you’ll be able to exhale once doesn’t talk to father much. Older brother in high those numbers pop up. school, he’s going through a phase right now where If it was lower than the day before I’d throw he wants to be called by a different name. Grandpa, my hands up in the air as if I had completed the out of his freaking gourd—but that’s another story. performance of a lifetime. I’d picture myself on a Grandma, quiet Christian lady, yet to retire from stage, bouquet after bouquet landing beside my doing taxes all day. Mother? Dead. Passed away feet, soaking in the sounds of a standing ovation. years ago. You never talked about her much. That I lived for this performance; the excuses I’d tell awful brown couch I’d rot away on after a binge— to avoid dinner, the way I’d brush off remarks you sat there. I went along, began my improv—AND from classmates as if I wasn’t aware of my figure. SCENE!

I HOPE YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU MAYLEE SEXTON

steering wheel with just one hand and drove as if ~ Within weeks of your return we were set to move you always knew where to turn. out of Florida. I accepted our move with more By the time we reached Colorado, it was the ease than most middle-schoolers would. There was death of another day. Night began at the closure nothing remarkable about Florida to me. The heat, of our travels—I found myself in the presence of the humidity, clouding my memory of it to this day. a house between identical homes whose hues had The water seemed to be suspended in that hot air, faded from vibrant optimism to a muted reality. breathing it in was almost like getting waterboarded. I noticed the singular tree in our front lawn, Most of my time there was spent indoors; I couldn’t leafless, among a sea of desolate lawn trees. Our stand to go outside and bear the war-zone of its home of white walls felt too comfortable the first weather. In the front yard of Grandma’s house, the night, I could have felt content sleeping on the branches of the huge oak hung over in a slant. They floor of my vacant bedroom. We went to Walmart were perfect for climbing on, when I did I’d get stuck scavenging for the best microwaveable-dinner in in it and lay over its branches in defeat. The house fluorescent aisles. Strangers passing by with full was on a culdesac, each lawn on the street had its own shopping carts smiled at us, looked into our eyes overgrown tree. They all formed together; creating as if we were acquainted. a dome of leaves over the street. During hurricane There was this box that sat in the middle of my season, when the power went out, the windows were room for two months before I unpacked it. It of no use for light. The street would be still in an was labeled “Kitchen Supplies” from a previous unworldly darkness, branches like a crowd swarming move, but I couldn’t tell you what was in it. It added a certain feng shui to my room, the beatenin the street. It terrified me.

In Colorado you had pinned down a new job (the up cardboard balanced out the wall’s crisp white only 9-5 I would ever see you work in my life), chose baseboards. Annoyed with the clutter, you made a neighborhood with highly-rated public schools, me unpack it, and as I’ve said I can’t even recall and paid first month’s rent on a four-bedroom, two what was in it. ~ story house. You sent pictures of empty bedrooms, saying I’d get a room bigger than my brothers. You My brother made friends before I did at our new talked about the places we could bike to, the local school. After school I’d find him at the gas station restaurants we could try, the mountains we could across the street like a statue: a speaker in one hand blasting music, a Camel Blue cigarette in the hike.

There was nothing left of the past, only expectations other. Right hip jutted out, his bony figure was of the future—you in the yellow moving truck, contained within a pair of ripped black skinny driving past plains of middle America in the wake jeans. He’d have a satchel embroidered with the of autumn, the static of out of range radio stations, Monster energy drink logo slinged across his only stopping at gas stations for food, we talked shoulder, a drink that made up the majority of about everything yet nothing. I could live and die in his caloric intake. I’d call him king of the misfits; these moments to see once more the way you held a he was the black sheep among classmates, who

PHOTOGRAPHY NARTAY UALIKHAN

knew his name as if he was some deity. hunchback.

When classmates would ask me if I had any -Just be yourself! Let your personal style shine! siblings, I’d say his name to be met with a You expected me to figure out womanhood blank stare. Then I’d mutter, for myself. You gave me some hints, through “Well, he actually likes to be called Dragon depictions of my mother. She apparently loved so you may know him by that.” “Your having short hair, so I always kept mine short.

DRAGON’s sister?— I would’ve never When shopping for school clothes you pointed known! I mean, you’re just not like him at out an army-green jacket on the rack was like all!” one my mother had worn. We bought it and I And I? I was quite meek. I packed the wore it almost everyday, despite that I hated same lunch everyday: 12 baby carrots, green. half a peanut butter sandwich on whole ~ wheat bread, and a cup of unsweetened I still have some difficulty piecing together applesauce. I packed Dragon lunch as well, a timeline of the relationship you had with though he didn’t ask me to. my mother. Uncle Bruce told me the second Dragon would share with me the most he introduced you two he knew it was trouble. intimate details of his life. Honestly, I could Uncle Bruce, who was really your NA sponsor, have gone knowing a lot less. His first didn’t know why he thought this was a good relationship in Colorado was polyamorous; idea. “Introducing two addicts was a mistake he was dating two girls at the same time. on my part—not that you’re a mistake—you’re One with red hair, the other blue—his the ray of sunshine that came out of it!” he’d may have been green at the time. Like a say. proper gentleman, Dragon felt the need “No one ever asks out the pretty girls. People to have dinner with one of his girlfriend’s are too intimidated by them.” The reasoning parents to explain the nature of their three- you’d give me for how you ended up with way relationship. He was kicked out of the someone as attractive as my mom. “Plus I’m household. Heartbroken, he laid his arm a funny guy—girls wanna be around someone over his head on the side of the couch, who is exciting, I’m always a good time. exclaiming how he wished her parents “When your mom died it crushed me. It could’ve been more accepting. You only had been the worst week of my life. I always remarked that you were surprised that believed she’d get better, even after I left. I tried. someone who didn’t brush their teeth I tried everything. Detox centers, reaching out on a regular basis would be able to get a to family, I begged her doctors to stop giving girlfriend, let alone two. her those prescriptions, I even offered to pay ~ them off.”

On a car ride back from the grocery store But you never blamed her for what happened. you pestered me over the details of my “Drugs ruined her life, 100%. Fuck those eighth-grade love life. doctors. Fuck those pill mills. Fuck big “What do you mean you don’t like anyone pharma.” ? Are you a lesbian?” “No! I’m not a lesbian.” When you met her she was a student, working “How would I know! You never talk about a part time job. On your first date she passed any boys.” out, unresponsive, after drinking one beer.

I was the kind of girl that would crumble You thought she was overworking herself; you when I found out in my eighth grade crush, couldn’t have known that she had probably a boy with curly hair and a crooked smile taken Xanax beforehand. She never went on who I had never spoken a word to before, family trips out of fear she’d run out of her said he’d only date me if I wasn’t so skinny. prescriptions. You told me there was a point I wanted so desperately to be the girl boys in your marriage when you’d wake up to go ogled over; they seemed to show pretty girls to work and she’d just be coming home after more respect. I scoured the internet with being out all night with her friends. She’d questions like: “how to be pretty”, “how to pick the kids up from school, drop them off be more attractive,” “how to make boys like at Grandma’s, and go back out. The Christmas you”. I crafted my own guide, writing down before I was born she once threw out all of on flashcards the most favorable traits I my brother and sister’s gifts in a drug-induced aspired to have. Every night I’d test myself, rage. She forced you guys to move out for two flipping through the cards in a rapid fire weeks and you spent Christmas with the kids manner: playing board games at the beach.

-When you laugh cover your mouth with “How could you even make up with her your had just in case you have bad breath. after something like that?” “She apologized, -Focus on good posture! No one wants a I’m sure she felt bad. I knew how it was to go

through addiction, I’d been a pill-head for two with her neck held high as I changed years. I just knew it wasn’t her.” into pajamas remarking, “You know if Your last straw was when she crashed your this was the 1800s, you’d be considered new Range Rover. To this day we don’t even obese.” know how she did it. You were at home when She’d kick me out of the room when you heard the car alarm blaring from down she hung out with friends, and I’d always the street getting louder as it approached the tried to spy on her. Putting my ear up to house. She burst through the garage door and the door, I wanted to catch them using immediately passed out on the couch in front cuss words. She had built up such a grand of you. Running into the garage you saw the car wall, exiling me from the wonders of parked in a slant, the shine of its sleek exterior what it was like to be a teenage girl. She distracted by the dented left side, completely never shared anything other than what crushed in. When you opened the driver’s side I was already able to gather from the door my brother, 4 at the time, in the backseat room. The alcohol bottles she hid under shaken up. If he’d been on the other side of the her bed, the bag of makeup samples car, he would’ve died. In the best-case scenario she’d use to get ready in the morning, the he would’ve had severe brain damage. Would Cosmopolitan magazine and condoms she have even noticed? Would she have driven she kept in her bedside drawer; it was a home with a dead toddler in the back of her secret society and I wanted in! car? I will never know.

We fought like any other sisters. She So you would tell me that, and all I had left to hated it when I looked at this picture say was how could you still love someone who book I had of my mother. “Oh stop would do such terrible things? that— put it away, you’re just gonna end “She had the same humor I did, we’d laugh at up crying over it.” I’d snap back at her the same jokes.” You’d testify. with, “Well I’m sorry I actually miss my One of the only pictures I’ve seen of you mom.” She never had a thing to say about together was the one of you two sitting in lawn her own mother. It baffled me how she chairs next to one another on Uncle Bruce’s went about life like she didn’t even have lawn. She was wearing denim bell bottom one. Chloe’s unicorn beanie baby was jeans, wedge sandals and a pink blouse that her only evidence of having a mother. rested below her shoulders. Cigarette in hand, She kept it on her person 24/7— even as smiling, looking down at the ground. You were a teenager. wearing a gray tank top, some baggy jeans, and The stories she’d tell of my mom made high-rise Nikes. You also had that weird goatee her sound like the evil step-mother, a you grew out for her because her favorite witch. I was only four when my mother country singer had one. Your eyes laser- passed, so there wasn’t anything I could beamed towards her face. The smile you had remember to prove her wrong. But to get wasn’t like the bent one you’d put on for family a rise out of Chloe I’d tell her my mom photos. They say I have the same smile as her. wasn’t in my life because she passed “I will never blame her. It will never be her away, while her mother chose to leave fault. Just some pills fucked up her life. Some her. She’d quickly turn off the lamp and things just ended up taking control over our pull the covers over her head in response. direction. We made trouble together. I miss Her body would shake under them. her, always. I hope you know I love her. ~ Forever.”

I lived with your mother, my ~ grandmother, those two years you were My sister and brother had come from a gone. She was a Southern lady born in different mother. Chloe, 6 years older, couldn’t the Great Depression, called the toilet seem to drop the fact that she was in fact my the “commode”, wore the same shirts in half sister. We consistently shared the same rotation, and ate biscuits everyday for room growing up. When we shared the same breakfast. Once she had tried to curl bed she implemented a wad of rolled up sheets my hair for picture day in 6th grade dividing the queen sized bed in halves, calling but didn’t know with a heated curling it the “line”. This was to prevent me from iron so she used hair rollers. Under the touching her in my sleep. Eventually she had fluorescent lights of our bathroom, I moved to the floor, as I would always knock grew upset with her, selfishly yelling “I’ll the line out of place. When we moved into an just do it myself!” Grandma was in her apartment that had room for our own beds, late 70s—though still worked a 40 hour I was prey; her hawk-like stare would scowl work week. She would come home a few at me from across the room. She’d sit there hours after I returned from school, sit

on the recliner in front of the TV, make dinner depending on how worn down she was from the day, and around 8 pm after an episode of her favorite TV game show “Jeopardy!”, she’d see herself off to bed. Sometimes I’d sit beside her and try to guess the game show answers. Whenever I got one right, she’d say, “Oh my granddaughter is so smart, one day I’ll be watching you on the TV.” I had gotten us a gift card for her birthday so we could go watch a movie together someday. Two years passed and we never used it. I would be too “busy” or she would be too tired.

The summer I starved myself didn’t change that either. She’d wake up at the crack of dawn, go to work. I’d wake up, plan out my only meal for the day and spend hours doing laps around our pool. When she’d get home she’d ask, “How was your day, what did you eat?” I was pretty good at conjuring up a lie that was enough to satisfy her, and she’d turn back to the TV, per usual. Once, though, my “a few slices of pizza” response didn’t do the trick— “I know you’re fibbin me. I barely see you eat anymore.” Caught off guard, I was enraged. How dare she question my lie! It was an insult to my great acting skills. Standing there frozen, shorts sliding off my hip bones as I bolted to the trash can and rummaged for the pizza box my brother had thrown out earlier. Gripping the greasy borders of the pizza box so hard my fingers almost pierced through it, I held it out in front of her face smugly, “You really think I’m lying?

Why don’t you trust me!” I ran to my room and slammed my door before she could even think to respond. “Now you know it’s not that I don’t trust you. You’re my baby, I’m always worried about you!” she wailed outside my door. I couldn’t stand her crying, it fueled my rage and choked me up in guilt all at the same time. To stop her sobs, I let out, reluctantly, “I love you Grandma, but please just go away— please just leave me alone.” She stood by the door for a moment before walking away. After that she refrained from inquiring over my eating habits. When I walked past her she’d simply look over, tell me she loved me, and go back to watching TV. ~ I’d wait for you by the front door like an eager dog when you got home from work. All this improv became quite natural to me. You really out did yourself with that performance, you were the textbook definition of a father when we first moved to Colorado. You’d complain about the dishes not being done, make dinner, force Dragon and I to sit at the table and engage in conversation.

How could I have not fallen in love? It couldn’t have been an act—it felt all too real.

Some Tuesdays we would treat ourselves to discount movie nights at the local theater, one of my favorite outings. I’d get ready as if it were a Friday night, holding my chin high as we walked

up to the concession stand; all on the off chance that if someone were to see me with you, they’d see what a lovely father-daughter pairing we’d make.

So that my appearance reflected just how special it was to spend time with you on a Tuesday night.

On trips to the grocery store, my cheeks were left sore from the smile you left on my face. We’d play this game where we’d push each other into the displays around the grocery store, running away laughing after knocking down a stack of soup cans like annoying teenage boys. When school got canceled on snow days, we’d set out to find the greatest hill to sled down, feeling accomplished once we tumbled over from the sheer speed of our sled. I was your snow angel and you were my snowman; you felt like Christmas time.

Dragon had a hard time buying into it. The only interest you both shared was your love for biking.

You’d go out together to skate parks and practice your BMX tricks together. I wondered what you guys talked about. Fundamentally opposite, trying to understand one another often created animosity between you two. For one, you were a total clean freak, and probably had OCD; the hangers in your closet were the same color, shape and size. You swept every day, mopped every other, and washed your car by hand once a week.

Dragon’s room was littered in dirty laundry and held the stench of barbeque chicken, burnt joint papers, and old socks. There was a point where you gave up on him, allowing him to smoke in the garage. He wouldn’t let you help him at all; he was so caught up on being “self-made”, any suggestion you would have given him was outlandish .

“You don’t know the things I know about him,” Dragon would tell me. “You can’t trust him. He’s a manipulator, a sociopathic narcissist. He could only ever care about himself.” His words felt like an extreme conspiracy, some form of rebellion.

You weren’t perfect but you were making up for it. I remember being six and asking you to tuck me in, but somehow you always forgot. So I’d wait for you, hiding under my covers, stacking another layer on top whenever I got scared, even if it meant suffocating. The door never opened and I’d wake up in my own sweat. I couldn’t let this be true, and I still could never hate you. ~ I tried to ignore the frivolity of our lifestyle, though as time went on it became harder to do.

Counting hundred dollar bills at stop lights on the way to dinner became a part of our routine; you couldn’t count when you had both your hands on the steering wheel. I was the new girl at school who had worn the same two jackets, and by the end of winter was dressed in designer trench coats. What we did with all that money didn’t matter—and we treated it as such. Being the drug dealer’s daughter was all play, it was all show. Shiny shoes, luxury perfume, and leather handbags; my favorite props.

Before school I’d sneak into your room and steal a few hundreds off your nightside table to go on shopping sprees after school. I’d take friends out to our fancy dinners, though they’d often stick to ordering a soup or salad, put off by our displays of wealth.

You took pride in your work. The way you expanded your clientele in just a few months time was quite impressive, I’ll admit. And I have no guilt saying I’m proud of how well you ran your business. You weren’t destroying lives—well, just ours—but that’s besides the point. You sold green, a lot of it, and it was peaceful. No guns, no gangs, none of that fentanyl-laced bullshit. You made a vow you’d never sell anything other than Mary Jane, and you stuck by it.

Drug dealers never get a happy ending, or at least the ones they tell stories about. What made you think we’d have one? Our home-made meals at six o’clock turned into ten o’clock dinners at a bistro; afternoon hikes turned into hours wasted away at some mall. I started to feel embarrassed when we’d be checking out at the grocery store and you’d pull out your wad of hundreds, it just didn’t have the same shock value anymore. Eventually you just run out of things to buy, things to do. There was almost nothing to look forward to. The shopping bags that formed in clusters on my bedroom floor just didn’t feel the same as that cardboard box did. ~ One of the last times our family was together was just two days after you got shot. That’s was the story: someone tried to rob the house and shot you, I called 911, and when the cops came, they found all that shit in the basement.

“Those greedy fucks,” you’d say. “If people weren’t so fucking lazy and had some of their own ambition they wouldn’t have tried to rob us.”

Chloe had dropped out of college just a year prior, and came all the way to Colorado to help clean up your mess. We had gone to a chain restaurant to meet up with Dragon and Chloe’s mom, who Dragon decided to move in with shortly after the incident.

So there we were crammed into a corner booth of a family restaurant while you proceeded to get shit-faced drunk. “I’M IMMORTAL! I’M IMMORTAL!” You cried out. You had come to this conclusion, since you had gotten shot in the stomach a decade before this and also survived.

When the waitress came over, my sister explained our situation to avoid us getting kicked out. She felt bad and brought you another round of drinks.

This only fueled your delusions. You kept lifting up your shirt pointing at your fresh bullet wounds and bloody bandages, like a kid with a broken arm who wanted to show off his cast. “Put your shirt down Norman.” Dragon’s mother hissed . “Are you on something right now?” Slurring, you said, “Please Destiny, we got married off a tab of acid,

don’t act like you have the right to patrol me.”

Dragon rolled his eyes; Chloe looked over at me and whispered: “Wanna go for a walk?”

We cruised around the lot as I cried over, well, all of it. The future was uncertain—you were probably gonna go to prison—if you somehow managed to get out of that, we had to move back to Florida anyway. I asked her, “How does someone recover from this, when will things ever be normal?”

“You have two options: now is the moment you either decide to drown in your grief or to simply grow and move forward. Some people will spend their entire lives stuck in grief.” her consoling remarks.

I clenched my jaw and swallowed my tears as she said that, this truth was upsetting of course, but you were certainly in no condition to help either.

The show must go on, as always; my solo act. ~ Your performance of fatherhood, those paranormal instances, can be explained perhaps through means of divine intervention. A version of you that was the kind of father who remembered to tuck his 6-year-old in at night materialized in those parallel timelines; my savior in that moment of reunion. I loved you then and I love you now, though he was the sun and you are the moon. But the soft light you emit is an illusion of warmth; I hide away from the drooping flowers and all that freezes over in the night. Decomposing within the frame of my bed, tucked under my covers, I wait to reunite with him as he exists somewhere else — I wait for him to tuck me in.

We sat down with students who have been living in Shanghai for the past year and asked them about their tattoo journeys.

“I’m really impulsive with my tattoos. I’ll make a decision for a few minutes like— oh, I love this. I’m going to get this. You saw my cupid bow here—I went to the tattoo studio with my friend to get his first one. I was just gonna hang out there, and then I was like, ‘oh, I want a tiny little red heart in the back of my arm.’ It escalated into a massive cupid

Nur: Name in Arabic Nur: Cupid Bow

“It’s my name in the original Arabic script. Because of my name, I kind of grew up with a negative view of it. It’s not really a traditional American name. So I got made fun of like a lot when I was younger.

And so to have it in like the original script, means a lot to me.”

INTERVIEWER MAYLEE SEXTON

bow. People told me ‘you might regret it. Stop being so impulsive with them.’

But I trust myself.

All my tattoos are very certain style and I just want to cover my body with art, you know?

Even if you regret a tattoo in the future, it still honors a part of your life. So for me personally, it’s impossible to regret one.”

- Nur Sakamija, Class of 2026

Annie & Emy : Lover and Butterfly

- Annie Church & Emy Sainbayar, Class of 2025

I: What do you have to say to critics of matching tattoos?

E: I’d say, you know, it’s cute. And it’s not like we’re getting each other’s names tattooed on our asses or some shit, you know?

A: Regardless of whether my tattoo is matching with somebody, it’s like a piece of time frozen. It’s me in that headspace thinking like, oh, what a wonderful thing for me to have forever.

E: Some of these [tattoos] we didn’t even plan on being matching and it was just like, oh, I like the design. She likes the design. We’re going to do it together and we’re going to do it differently.

A: I think that people put too much weight on matching tattoos. Like if you’re not going to be with that person for the rest of your life or like you’re not going to be their best friend forever, you can’t do it. But I don’t think that’s exactly true.

Keigan: Crane

“All of my tattoos are actually my previous sketches. So I personally design both the art and placement of each of my tattoos.... Since I grew up around people who had multiple tattoos I fell in love with the process as well, so designing my own tattoos was always my dream.”

“In Shanghai I really had the opportunity to connect with an artist who combines well with my style and is gracious enough to help me make my visions and sketches come to life… …the crane tattoo is around 20 cm and is central to my right knee. [It is one of] my largest and by far my favorites.”

- Keigan Carpenter, Class of 2025

“I USED TO BE SUPER ANXIOUS AND SUPER INSECURE, I THINK VERY INTIMIDATED… DRESSING UP BECAME LIKE A SHIELD.” I: What’s your style? How would you describe it?

A: Like a five year old that gained access to their mom’s closet! I stole a whole bunch of my mom’s clothes from when she was young. And this is my favorite jacket ever. My dad bought it in Italy when he was young. He treasures it so much, and I stole it from him, so now I treasure it. Getting a lot of my parents’ old clothes was a part of self-acceptance because I’m mixed. I used to feel ashamed of a lot of parts of my culture. But then when I started dressing up in my parents’ clothes—I would get a lot of my mom’s jewelry and she’s from Central Asia, so she has a lot of traditional jewelry. I just felt a little more connected to my past; I can actually learn more about my past instead of

AMINA

ALMATOVA

rejecting it and trying to fit in I also see it as an act of resistance. somewhere. It’s okay if people A lot of fashion influences that don’t accept me, then I don’t go mainstream come from belong there. ostracized communities. When I: Obviously there’s the idea you decide, you know, I’m that fashion is a form of self- not going to follow the norm expression, but what is that/is and I’m not going to let these there more to it for you? people tell me how I should just A: It’s not even just self- how I should be, I think you’re expression. It’s putting myself resisting. You’re protesting out into the world, taking that against that. leap of faith that I can express I: How has the way you want myself through clothes. people to perceive you Some sort of message will be changed since coming to received on the other end. Like Shanghai? if you were talking to aliens and A: New York actually felt very then you were trying to convey small to me. It’s a huge city, something about yourself— obviously. I think people grow clothes would be so perfect up way too fast in New York. to do that. They represent Everybody has a thing they’re different areas or represent chasing and doing, and I think different cultures. I also think you’re always kind of trying to it has a lot of push and pull, of catch up to them. There’s always struggles you feel. Like if you this sense of competition and felt rejected at any point, and you’re like, ‘I want to be seen then transformed that anger as the best’. But since coming against the world or into how here, I just feel more peaceful; I you want to dress and protect don’t feel like I have to compete yourself. You feel so much with anyone. I gained so much stronger. You feel like, you more appreciation for the know what? I can be myself. different varieties of people that

PHOTOGRAPHER NARTAY UALIKHAN INTERVIEWER IVY-MARIA WILLIAMS

exist and like how they present themselves and not really viewing anything instead of that.

I: If you were to give someone advice to get out of their comfort zone, what would you say?

A: That’s a hard question because I think it takes time. You just have to let it explode.

You can’t just. Keep trying to withhold yourself. Yeah. Like just being honest and fully yourself out in the world. Because I think when you do that, you’ll attract like, what is meant to be for you.

The main main thing is not to compare yourself to anybody, especially in the clothes that you wear. I think it’s just like if it’s not you, it’s just not you. Especially like if you see someone you think is so cool and you just want to be like them, it’s not worth it. You’re just going to end up losing yourself and losing something that makes you special just to become a replica of somebody else.

Living in New York, you see a lot of black everywhere. Especially in autumn. And it’s just so. Depressing. I was like, Oh, I have to wear this. I’d wear black ‘cus it makes you look slimmer and I would wear it all the time just to kind of not stand out. And then I realized I really love colors. I love maximalism. I cannot not layer.

And I think just then you kind of get all of these ideas. Sometimes I’ll be dreaming and I’ll see an outfit and I’ll be like, oh my God, I need to try this now. And so I think that, like, that’s how it evolved. It started with small steps trying to push myself out there.

“Do you see this? Do you see the potential? Do you see this? See my vision right now?’ And you just have to trust your vision. You go for it and slowly.

You get to the point where you kind of feel more solidified and, you know, or this is what I like, this is what I don’t like.”

“If you don’t feel comfortable doing something, you don’t have to do it. You don’t have to keep pushing yourself to reach this ideal spot you think is going to bring happiness—you cannot hate yourself into a version of yourself that you actually like.”

PHOTO CREDIT NARTAY UALIKHAN

an excerpt from

a descent into all-encompassing sadness written by emy sainbayar

EXT. LAKESIDE - THE PRESENT Dawn. The light is coming in. RIVER and BROOKLYN sit in silence, on one of the benches, but the silence is comforting.

They lock eyes. River finds himself wanting to lean in closer to her, but knows that he shouldn't.

RIVER (V.O) Meeting Brooklyn animated me.

The sounds of a typewriter.

TITLE: "HER EYES, THEY LULLED ME INTO COMPLACENCY." INT. HOSPITAL - MATERNITY WARD - NIGHT CONTINUOUS POPS of joyous and teary-eyed faces of mothers, holding their babies. Then, a mother, 40s, empty-handed.

Crying.

RIVER (V.O) Her birth was a miracle.

INT. BROOKLYN'S HOUSE - DINING ROOM - DAY. Seated at the table are Brooklyn and GRACE, her mother.

They're having breakfast.

RIVER (V.O) Her mother is a Buddhist and interprets dreams as the language of the universe.

GRACE You're not going to ride a bike today, are you Brooklyn?

No. Why?

BROOKLYN

GRACE Don't. I had a dream last night – you in a bike accident.

EXT. PARK - DAY Brooklyn is biking with a friend, 15. Laughter.

RIVER (V.O) But she never believed her.

2.

RIVER (V.O) (CONT'D) She also believed that academic excellence alone wasn't enough to succeed in life.

INT. BROOKLYN'S HOUSE - BROOKLYN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT Brooklyn plays Tchaikovsky's June: Barcarolle on piano.

RIVER (V.O) So, she studied music.

INT. SWIMMING POOL - DAY Brooklyn takes off her goggles as she finishes her lap.

RIVER (V.O) And sports.

INT. PUBLIC LIBRARY - DAY French textbooks piled on the table. Brooklyn yawns.

RIVER (V.O) Other languages.

INT. AIRPORT - DEPARTURE AREA - DAY FRANK, Brooklyn's father, mid 50s and ex-military. He waves goodbye as the crowd drowns him in their rush.

A plane takes off.

RIVER (V.O) Her parents lived separately, but weren't divorced. She spends the summers here, in Rubermiles, with her mom.

Establishing shot of Rubermiles.

EXT. BROOKLYN'S HOUSE - BACKYARD - DAY Sunshine. Brooklyn is wearing shades and a red swimsuit. She reads Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. Her mother drinks wine.

She then offers it to Brooklyn.

Have some.

GRACE

3.

BROOKLYN (hesitates) I shouldn't.

But Grace insists. Brooklyn takes it. Sips.

Her mimics reveal that the taste of wine is new to her.

Really, she has been drinking alcohol for some time now.

RIVER (V.O) When she found out that her father was cheating...

INT. FRANK'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT Brooklyn moves to her window, looks down to find her father near his car. And a woman, early 30s. A swift, passionate kiss is shared.

RIVER (V.O) ...she changed.

INT. A HOUSE PARTY - NIGHT Brooklyn dancing midst crowd. Sketchy guys. One familiar face, her friend, VIOLET, 15. Troublesome. She smiles.

A sketchy guy passed out on the couch. Brooklyn and friends write "Rookie" on his forehead. Doesn't look good.

RIVER (V.O) She ate coffee beans when drunk...

INT. A HOUSE PARTY - BATHROOM - NIGHT Brooklyn eats coffee beans. Disgusted face. She hates it.

RIVER (V.O) ...to cover her traces of alcohol.

INT. BROOKLYN'S HOUSE – LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Brooklyn gives Grace a kiss. They cuddle and watch TV together.

RIVER (V.O) She wants to go to Harvard.

And work in Silicon Valley.

VISUALS SHOTS OF: HARVARD CAMPUS, OFFICE INTERIOR, SILICON VALLEY.

4.

INT. SUPERMARKET - NIGHT A toddler enjoys a chocolate bar. From across the table, Brooklyn stares blankly.

RIVER (V.O) And she never liked chocolate.

EXT. LAKESIDE - THE PRESENT River is sitting on the cement ground. His hands have covered his face. He trembles. One can assume that he is crying.

THE END.

RIVER (V.O) But behind it all, she still remained a mystery. A mystery that was my descent into an allencompassing sadness.

Sophia Turek now resides in Los Angeles, California. Some of her artwork have been featured in state-of-the-art institutions, such as Jennifer Lawrence’s bathroom.

“Something I Did in High School” Sophia Turek, 2018

C 白O 酒 NF E S S I O N S

part two

We enter from the side, out of some wet shrubbery, and it’s dark, and right before I step onto the sidewalk, my foot slips, and— —THIS HAPPENS IN SLOW MOTION OKAY IMAGINE IT IN SLOW MOTION BECAUSE I’M RIGHT BEHIND HER: Steph JUMPS OFF THE EDGE BECAUSE SHE FUCKING FORGETS IT’S THERE AND SHE LURCHES FORWARD, SUPERMAN-FLYING-ON-HIS-STOMACH TYPE SHIT AND SMASHES LITERALLY ONLY HER FACE NOTHING ELSE INTO A PINK CONCRETE WALL. I was speechless. It was like the world paused for a whole 3 minutes but it was 3 seconds. She lay there for a second and I ran over to her as she rolled over. I roll over and Celene is hovering over me. I feel something wrong with my mouth, but I’m too scared to know. ‘Is it bad?’ I asked. I grimaced and gathered all the confidence I could muster to say “It’s not that bad”. She looked at me and—I burst into tears.

Earlier that afternoon, Kat and I were driving the bike home from picking up groceries, or some other gay shit. I was telling Ocean about this dream that I was having, where I was losing my teeth. I was getting really anxious driving on the bike because so many people had crashed earlier that week. And I was convinced that we were going to fall and my two front teeth would get knocked out.

And whenever I told her, something seemed to click and we took a pause and slowed down driving.

I had seen Steph earlier that day, she had already showered and was hell-bent on not going out. I headed home. Then it was past ten and I got a text in one of the group chats.

Steph said that she was waiting outside or some other shit, but it was pretty obvious that she was going out. And when I tell you, I got the weirdest feeling in my gut, like something really bad, and when I say bad, I mean like Final Destination kinda bad, I’m not lying. Cut to midnight— —We were already in bed that night watching Avatar when— —I felt my phone blow up: ‘12:31 am’ Steph: “I canf” “I wiill kms” “ I vanf” “I don’t deserve it” “I don’t” I messaged Celene because I’d never seen her talk like that. It was either that she was just too drunk or something really bad happened. It was both. “Well, what do you mean she fell into a wall? How does that even happen?” “It’s a lot to explain right now but she’ll be fine, Kat and Ocean are gonna

come pick her up.”

did not conceal her puffy eyes. She was still dancing though. AND THE FINAL REVEAL: Steph starts wailing about how she’s dying HER CHIPPED TEETH. It was actually kind and ugly. I’m looking at this girl like you’re of disappointing. It was only like a small gap dumb as fuck we can get it fixed, you’re really between her two front teeth. Like, chill Steph. hot, and pain is temporary. Usually, Steph is the only other person who understands this They walked her off, and that was the end kind of logic but she didn’t get it this time and of my night with Steph. I hate tequila with all I could do was tell her she was beautiful everything in me but those events were and offer my fur for her to wipe her blood, enough for me to throw two shots back. snot, and tears in. And it really wasn’t THAT bad. Her lips were cut, and there was a cute After a while, we got a Didi (A fucking sixgap where her two front teeth met in the seater, like what are the chances). Steph middle. was in and out of consciousness during the ride. We booked an appointment the next We decided to call Celene, and when she morning, called the insurance company, picked up there was so much noise in the and got the GOP and everything. Shoutout to background that we couldn’t hear anything our friend Gretchen, who went through the clearly. Steph was crying and Celene was entire Geoblue PDF to make sure Geoblue audibly panicking. From the way Celene would cover it. She would wake up every described it, we thought both her front teeth five minutes or something, and ask us what were fully gone, and she told us that Steph happened. And she would doze off again. And was losing her shit. We couldn’t figure out then, she’d wake up again and ask the same what Steph needed at that moment, so like questions. We had the same conversation the gay moms we are, we sprang into action about five times. and threw on the half-dirty clothes we could find and scrambled into the hallway.

When we finally got her to bed, she asked us why we were even in her apartment. We I don’t even know why but I was so fucking explained again that Ocean would take her to anxious. I was so anxious that my butt cheeks an appointment in the morning and that her were even shaking. It was like a call to action, alarms were set and the GOP was secure. one of our friends got herself into something She went to bed and we left in the elevator, really bad, and we needed to figure out a way cackling all the way down from the 17th floor to be there and pick up the pieces (I mean about what a fucking circus the night had literally Steph was scouring the floor for the been. broken-off pieces of her teeth). We rushed out of the building and ran into some of After I was asking around trying to get a full our friends. Oh boy, were they happy to see picture of what really went down because us. With a bottle of wine, they yelled “Kat!” the dynamics of it didn’t really make sense “Ocean!”. Honestly, I was a little offended that to me. Did she trip and fall on a rock? Down they thought we were going clubbing wearing the stairs? Lean against the wall too hard? whatever the fuck we were wearing.

The next morning when she woke up (we’re roommates) I was real silent.

The whole ride I was just tracking how long it would take us to get to where they were. The next morning I woke up to a 7am alarm.

When we pulled up I was on a mission. I I don’t set alarms. WAKE UP DOCTOR’S ran right past the entrance to FOUND, we APPOINTMENT DENTIST NOW it reads. Fuck scanned in, and I remember getting a blip in me, fuck my life, and I owe Kat and Ocean one my head that it might turn our codes red if for talking to insurance over the phone while there were any cases found there that night, I was wailing in the background. but it didn’t even matter. The stakes were higher than Shanghai quarantine.

Her lips were so swollen. She looked like that one character from Monsters Inc. that got At some point, I stopped crying and went to their lips suctioned by that torture machine Boteco to dance anyway. thing. She opened her mouth to talk and it looked like there was a clear hole drilled in Steph is a down bitch so she still sad-twerked between her two front teeth. on the dance floor in Boteco until Ocean and Kat came to take care of her (by this time I I get up, don’t even shower, and show up to was very drunk and useless). the hospital reeking of booze. I get that shit fixed and head to Saturday class.

We eyeballed each and every corner until we found our friends. Celene was swinging back and forth, holding a cigarette, and even (END) offered me a hit. Steph was wearing a mask and shades. But even a mask and shades

CREATORS A.C. E.S. I.W. M.S. N.U. T.L. SPECIAL THANKS TO MONIKA LIN

COVER PHOTOGRAPHY NARTAY UALIKHAN