N°1 // -Ology Journal by -Ology Journal

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quarterly electronic journal of poetry and prose no 1 | january 2015 alethiology

-ology quarterly electronic journal of poetry and prose

NO 1 | JANUARY 2015 ALETHIOLOGY

EXECUTIVE EDITOR AND CREATIVE DIRECTOR

avery myers

MANAGING EDITOR

anthea yang EDITOR

paola bennet EDITOR

samantha sadowsky

CONTRIBUTING EDITOR

makayla madsen COPY EDITOR

nichole dean ART DIRECTOR

adrien mooney WEB DESIGN

lucrezia castelli

-Ology Journal is an independent publication that does not belong to any collective group or association. No part of this electronic journal may be reproduced without permission from the owners of the works contained in the journal.

cover photo: avery myers

FROM THE EDITOR Settle down with this: you are reading a composition of more stories than the ones featured in this publication. You are reading salty tears on skin, written underneath 15-

watt bulbs in the quiet rooms of absolute calm. You are reading succinct settlements on the rocky face of the earth, shouting, calling - and they are speaking to you. This is more than a story, but this story is for you. NÂ° 1 - Alethiology: a careful bundle of truthful interpretation. A way for you to get lost in completion. A way for you to become found again, in deliverance.

To all of our editors, contributors, readers, word-spreaders: this is not a stone-cold, impersonal publication. You have impacted -Ology Journal in a wholesome and truthful way, and for that, thank you.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Avery Myers,

Executive Editor

CONTENTS my name is asia | cheyenne varner 10

eurydice | avery myers 12

MY NAME IS ASIA cheyenne varner

The smoke off the edge of Grandma’s cigarette wisps and curls like flower petals. Grandma likes that when I tell her that; she says go write that down. Grandma likes the idea of a death bouquet, flowers the Grim Reaper gives you as he takes your hand

to die. I tell her that’s not how Death comes for you but she tells me what do I know; I’m not the one closer to it. I think I am. Though maybe not in time.

When I was very young most days were made of me and Grandma and her cigarettes. She would push the pink stroller, flimsy as a baby doll stroller and probably cheaper. I

hated its fabric seat with its fat ugly flowers spread across it like vomitus. Obnoxious and cheap and so feminine it crossed into a realm of mockery. Grandma talked to

people and people ignored me except for my plump, brown cheeks. I crossed my arms

and didn’t smile for anything. Sometimes I could run up and down the street and

that was better. Sometimes I would pretend that someone was calling my name and I

would run down the blocks until Grandma’s distant voice began to shrill and I could turn around and see her arms waving, her mouth shaping curses.

On the bus in the summer I sat on hot leather seats that stuck to my skin or wet with

my sweat as it rolled from under my arm to the sides of my hands. I was a little less

young. I remember my brother sitting behind me, the pressure of his arm on the top of the seat, as he leaned into the bus aisle to see who was coming. He was saving his

seat for a girl with a chipped front tooth and the kind of laugh that made the edges

of your mouth curl up without your knowing it. Then you’d either get a glazed look

about your eyes or deflate entirely. I remember a boy prodding me on the shoulder

once, saying, He your brother? Yeah. Got the same daddy? No. We ain’t got a daddy. Same momma? I just looked at him; my thick little bottom lip hanging away from my teeth, my eyebrows turned down and in.

My name is Asia, like the largest, most populous continent. I don’t know why. I wonder what my mother thought, when in the wake of her pain, she looked at me and called me that. My brother says it was my eyes, stuck closed. It reminded her of

pictures she’d seen of kids from China, but she didn’t want to call me China. I did

not open my eyes until I was five days old, he said, the doctors had to pry them open. Even now, he’d say, swatting me across the back of the head, he felt like he had to pry

my eyes open. Asia, look here, he was often telling me, snapping his fingers in front of

my face. Even at home, before dinner, especially at school, before class. I would doze off. I didn’t get much sleep.

We called momma Cindy until she died, then we didn’t call her anything. She was

thin as a light pole. Her skin was like the floor tiles in my first grade classroom with

speckles all over like paint had been flung all around or like someone had got down hands and knees with a fat-tipped pen and dotted, dotted, dotted. She didn’t come

home much, so we stopped thinking we were home after a while. We were one of the places she came to bringing presents like a sad Christmas. Like a Santa Claus who doesn’t really want you, just feels obligated. When we heard she had died in a car

accident in Colorado I remember wondering if she had another daughter or another

son in Colorado she was visiting. Or was she just there to be there. Or there not to be here.

One day I tried one of Grandma’s cigarettes. Did something wrong and vomited all over the living room rug. She beat me so badly I had welts and bruises across

my legs and arms. In the mirror I looked at myself that night, the marks as large and disproportionate and tough as Asia on the topographic map I’d one day wearily

watched my teacher strain to staple to the classroom wall. I stood just in my soft

white tank top and pale pink panties. The wooden frame of the mirror was a frame, the reflective sheet inside a canvas. A map is a form of artwork, isn’t it? I didn’t know. But when my brother opened up the door to tell me dinner was ready his eyes filled up so heavy I know I thought I could die.

EURYDICE

avery myers imagine so: the tale of maiden brides always ends in thorns and thrones; silks of white and crimson heels, a silver circlet, a golden dance.

more than death itself can kill the bride:

lovely, the game of serpents has no rules, no bounds & no conquests;

we are forever the places we go. with your calligraphy hair: the seedlings of the broken, your feet the footprints of the lost,

and not even unsettled and unrivaled ache can return a cimmerian child from the gates of ardency. we are forever the places we will look to,

and we are forever the things we will find.

OBITUARY FOR THE PRINCESS WHO FORGOT TO BE A FAIRYTALE elisabeth hewer

They sent a knight to save you once

and found you curled up with the dragon. Crown askew, skirts singed. They tried marrying you—

couldn’t hack it. Went home instead. You liked the acoustics much better in empty castles.

(The dragon was teaching you to roar.) Six wars they waged against you; those disgruntled princes and their silent knights.

Blood in the fields, in the water, on the snow. On their crowns, when you added them to your collection.

Rare smiles, laughter only with the dragon.

You looked so often over your shoulder you almost forgot to watch ahead.

Here’s the secret you took to your grave: you were holding whole kingdoms

but your palms were made of sand.

OVERCOOKED AFFECTION margaret zhang

We’re standing in the choral room,

mouths in O’s and lips stained rosy, when I find myself misplaced among

quarter notes and bar lines I don’t recognize, and so I purse together my lips

like closure and ask, Where did we start? You gesture to a note the same

shape as your unguarded lips, but

the minute you pull away, I forget which is which. And if my flowering vessels forgot what it meant to slumber, I would

ask you these questions until my lungs gave out, until my windpipe ached with cavities and soot.

Some days, your perspiration

smells of rain and the lime-smeared

bloom beneath your cardboard skin,

and as we trod up and down the hummocks of this overcooked town, weave left and right through powdery houses we used to know, I want to ask you, Where did we start? When we grow wrinkled, iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll unlatch my wrists from the shackles of your squeaking

ribcage, let myself become my own, for I have never gnawed on endings, only aftermath.

photo: paolo nacpil

AWAKENING paola bennet

today my father called me a wolf;

the kind that slips solitary through shadow and refuses to howl

even under the saffron ball sky. today my sister called me a mouse;

content with cracks in the same old floorboards, my ventures measured only in seconds before my homehole beckons again. today i realized they are both right. i am brave enough for the woods but never to bare my teeth;

safe enough where itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s warm but never enough to sleep.

today i named myself Proud and Afraid in the same breath,

and then reached out both sets of paws for a lifeline.

LAVENDER BEHIND MY EYES makayla madsen

I. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m still learning how to breathe when the days are grey. II. I was drawn to the foliage-green of your voice, but I stay for the lavender of your words.

III. Your efforts are the glow of my favorite candle; a sticky honey color that sweetens the tips of my fingers.

IV. My chest feels steel grey when it rises and falls. Yours pulsates a sleepy sort of Wisteria that reminds me of home. V. Your arms are amber. VI. Silence is a different kind of white when Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m near you. Our blood adds a rose tint to the blank space; so warm in comparison to the industrial brightness that keeps me up tonight.

VII. Nothing is black with you. VIII. You have your fingers (that mimic fire) wrapped around mine (of chilled, glimmering ice).

IX. You fill my days with yellow. You burn out the grey.

175 PARAGRAPHS quinn jackson

Look at me, look at my skeleton, look at this mess of bones pretending to be human. Why don’t you take a hammer to my ribcage, why don’t you call my collarbone a space and dig a grave for my heart

because no one wants to see that, that’s disgusting,

that’s abnormal, and saying it aloud will only make it dirtier. Spit my name like a

curse word and bury it too, strip away my sanity and my virtue and my love like flesh

off bone and shove me into the lineup. Faceless girls putting on a show, faceless boys buried in the backyard.

Holes in the ground, holes in my heart, holes in my friends’ bodies where the lions live. She tore through the worms and the dirt and asked me if I’d met any boys or girls down there, and I don’t think I’ve ever loved her more. For a moment, when she

absolves me of sin, we can be creatures of the sunbeams. We can transcend our bones. We can claw our way up these mountains and be giants at the dawn of tomorrow.

I know this is new, I know our divinity is fleeting, I

know there’s no string to lead me round the labyrinth, but please, let me call you Ariadne, please tell me I’m not the monster in the middle of the maze.

There’s still a film of filth covering skin. I’m still searching crowds and turning up

the volume, waking up in every pinpoint of time. I can be an atom, I can be a giant, but I don’t know how to learn to feel human when every day is a Holocaust, when

people like me are found broken on the bedroom floor, slammed into small spaces and tracing train tracks on their thighs.

I am brittle, I am bone. Most of all, I am tired. I

can’t watch it happen again, it’s too much. Have you not taken enough? We’ve given

you everything, look at it lying at your feet. We’ve carried your crosses, we’ve done

our time, you have taken our names and our freedom and our humanity. So why are our stories still buried under two thousand years of silence?

Let’s talk about the two men with their hands clasped at the edge of death. Let’s

talk about the thighs, the knobs of their spines. Let’s talk about the woman who loved a woman who was a number - let’s talk about the words shoved back down her

throat, about each agonizing step, about the strangled crack her spine made when she couldn’t lift another one of your goddamn stones. It makes you squirm where you sit. Good. We refuse to be irrelevant. We will climb one more mountain, story upon

story. We will see your words and your hurled fire and your averted eyes, and we will be holy in the face of hatred.

I am tired of trying to claw my way into/out of this body. I will inhale the salt

they left behind, and I will be human.

photo: paolo nacpil

THERE AND BACK AGAIN nora m. hill

i want a word for the almost-home. that point where the highway’s monotony becomes familiar

that subway stop whose name will always wake you from day’s-end dozing that first glimpse of the skyline

that you never loved until you left it behind. what do you call the exit sign you see even in your dreams? is there a name for the airport terminal you come back to, comfortably exhausted?

i need a word for rounding your corner onto your street, for seeing your city on the horizon,

for flying homewards down your highway. give me a word for the boundary

between the world you went to see

and the small one you call your own. i want a word for the moment you know you’re almost home.

AN ANCIENT LANGUAGE anthea yang

the language of bodies consists entirely without words. there is only an unheard rhythm, a secret dance that can be discovered in the most simplest of ways: two pairs of hands collapsing into each other, eyes tracing the galaxies of skin, mouths exploring silence hidden under tongues. here, words have become extinct. here, lies the answers of quiet listenings, of secrets undressed.

CIRCE II

avery myers To the girl who set her ex-lover’s home on fire (story 6B, published on December

14th): it burned to the foundation - I can empathize. There is something defining about the words “ex-lover”. It nestles on your tongue like dead charisma and plumes of something unlost. You’re a wreck of thorns, but you start fires because you can.

I’ve pondered on arson for a sleek and silver time, but I never knew if he wanted

ashes or coffins. We talked graves, and worms, and unopened cenotaphs, but never ashes and never coffins. To the girl who set her ex-lover’s home on fire: I knew the mythology behind him, and he knew the hollow crowns I set on my shelves.

When he first visited home, he wondered at the mercurial menageries: wolves, lions

- the fierce and the fiery. To the girl: he called me “nice” and “open-armed and unaware”. Instead of fire, I built him a cage and I kept him inside - this may be a metaphor, and so you decide. Bodies are skeletal cages of their own design.

To the girl who started fires: I send my men to hell. There is nothing about incandescent fame that can make them stay; that’s the thing about fire and darkness. They love

you back, when you invest in them, and isn’t that the whole point? To be deemed interesting to something powerful and something manageable? (I met unmanageable things in unfamiliar places: boy soldiers, girls with robotic sons. To the girl: you and

I have the same choices, and yours are your own and mine stay as mine. Things will bruise and ache until the end of the moon and sun, and these are the things we let go of without a fight.)

You will find yourself in a family of transparent and elliptical strangers, those who

never say the word “lost,” because it implies irresponsibility and injustice. With this melancholia, you could kill billions, and you very well may, because you can.

To the girl: He called himself Ulysses - like a scholar - and I called myself Circe. They were atrocious masks that cracked and swallowed; something so childishly glued and emblematic. We were unlovely blurs to one another.

This is the part of the story where you realize that life is about time, and we’ve nearly run out of it. Existence is about triumph that becomes sweetly feral, because if you bring yourself back from the dead, you curdle yourself sour in time. We might as well

put up a sign that aches and cries: wants to be hung from the terrace window; has

own noose and nails.

We don’t forgive the tones that spew from our lips, and we festoon the world with our

chipped bones and our broken teeth. But the faces we craft to the people of the earth…they have dominion throned in the shoulders and salty ash tattooed in the

eyes. These are the women we are not; silver girls never launched this many ships. We can metal-make bronze girls of breakneck curiosity, but there is no mask like the viscerally awful face of an unworthy and hideous princess.

Laden yourself with exquisite and carnivorous magic: in your lips, your teeth, and

your death. Tell your spells what you’d die and do for love - call yourself a prophet who is not kind, because you are a product of a life that is not kind. To the west, is a wind that will set you in nothingness and flame; to you, you are false honey. He offered me so many choices of excuse: “this is something I have to do.” You turn into something like this: (The roars of lions that refuse the chain,

The grunts of bristled boars, and groans of bears,

And herds of howling wolves that stun the sailors’ ears.) You are a home he’ll never go back to; you were the first of many familiar shores. Give him the soles of your feet and the hollow rooms behind your ribs, and he will desecrate and defile your hospitality - this is the nature of the restless who yearn to

pass. The river must breathe into the sea, and the sea into the waters beyond the edge

of the world. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve pulled apart those dingy menageries, like lions and wolves were ever going to fight for those shatters and tatters in my lungs. And to the girl: Remember that it never goes away. No peacocking or acrobatics can write a poem about how your light wisps away inside. There are only the simple, bold, and defying words on your tongue, because

you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t carve a dirty horizon or a grave into his throat. On the edge of your eyesight

- darkness. I know the yearn to burn bones, but the ache when you always seem to let them go; the water syphons and twists them into ships.

To the girl, the gods are this good: they have led you far from destruction, just to destroy you again. Must it be? Maybe so.

You go to the rocky waters: wants to drown; has body.

STORMBEAT paola bennet

On Prince Street, I hear a girl’s ribs crack. Her words hum brokenly

through an empty-bottle windpipe, hollow hiss:

“You put yourself ahead of this.” Apologies come to my lips, not mine to give.

The storm-weary stand on corners, staring out at fatal sheets. I have to put this to bed and their eyes to rest —

there’s blood and bellows in my ears, so what else aren’t they hearing?

The whole damn city is crying out prayers, and they just bat their lids. I am sick of running

from the pulse drumming on the concrete. It’s not something they can read, but I will bend my knees

and my ear to the ground, because this may just be my saving grace come humming down.

MOONWIND & AMBULATORY STARS sydney shavalier

my eyes are swimming in darkness, the softness of may in the warm, gentle earth. the wind sings the eulogy of who knows what, bodies plucked wriggling from makeshift homes. my mind and body ache separately, one of weakness and the other of monotony. i pitch a tent among the moonwind and ambulatory stars, watching the trees dress themselves in the pre-dawn fog. the air settles like cream and china - rather cleanly and innocently. there is a little dog in my head who watches the passing stars, ceaselessly and innocently, drinking the tenderness that lights their way back home.

we each have our own:

mine the blunt words, cruel but fair hair, red lips

yours the oiled, practiced omission: careful not to spill,

the edge brimming oh a single drop falling, slow drip,

slow horror and slack jaw.

- r.c.

photo: paolo nacpil

JANIYA

cheyenne varner We found Janiya where they said we would find her. On a blanket by the river, her

son stomping in the shallow of the water. A scarred, blue bicycle lay on its side a

foot behind her, the airborne wheel still revolving, as slow and steadfast as you might

imagine the earth turns in the eyes of God. Upon sight you are struck by her beauty,

and her tattoos, and her piercings. Upon shaking her hand you are struck by her

lightness. You suddenly realize how slight she is. Almost child-size. Upon speaking

you are thrilled by how soft she is, yet how weighty is her voice, how it carries itself

effortlessly, how it roots in your mind and draws your eyes to stay on hers.

My name is Janiya. Many people call me Janie. No one calls me Jan and gets away with it.

I don’t know why I write, she said. It’s a bad habit, she laughed.

When my mother was my age, right after she had me, she picked up a cigarette. Three years ago, at that same age, after I had my son, I picked up a pen.

Listen to the breathing of the buildings. They are heaving. Deep

breaths that fall on me as I walk underneath. It blocks the sun. Leaves my son and I in some kind of darkness.

We handclap on the bus. Sing, pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man,

bake me a cake as fast as you can, pat it, and roll it, and mark it with

a B, put it in the oven, and then either he loses interest and turns his

eyes out the window or he shouts LUCAS AND ME. He skips over the for every time.

I do not correct him. He is Lucas. He is me. The song is not for grammar. The song is for him.

I never kept diaries as a girl. I had an aunt who encouraged me to. But I could never

be consistent. Every diary I ever had I just filled the first few pages of and left the rest empty. And what I did write was always vague and cryptic. I was very aware of the danger of snoops.

I think a part of why I love to write is rooted in my disagreement — lack of understanding of the priorities of our larger culture. There are things that people

talk about all the time, that I don’t understand — why? Why we are so preoccupied

with what’s going on with this celebrity, or these people on television, or that show, or that new fashion or new app that just came out. She shrugs. I don’t get the hype. Writing is a way for me to dismiss all of that — just provides me an outlet to dig into the things that I do find important, or intriguing, thought provoking.

I look out of my window and I see a vine is growing on my fire escape. How did that get there? That’s beautiful. I go pick up my pen.

Reach through concrete. I said reach. Try, at least. Try to reach. Look up. There’s a great lot above. A great beautiful, touchable lot for you. If you do. Try to reach it.

Or you know, I go to a museum and I see a piece of art. I saw a piece called Dark Blue

Boy once. That one really struck me.

I am the mother of a dark blue boy. With a ripe, red heart, shaped not like a schoolgirl’s scrawls but much more intricate, with veins and ventricles, and atriums.

In Rome, you may have heard, an atrium was a ceilingless room, with a pool full of rain. In my son, I am told, it is a chamber of his beautiful heart, full of blood.

My son came to me last night. Why am I so dark, he asked.

You were born very late at night, I said. At the darkest time of day.

He thought. Then he said. Were you born in the middle of the day?

Baby, I laughed. You are dark because your father was dark. And you are beautiful.

He thought. So I wasn’t born at the darkest time?

No, baby. You were born in the morning, when the sun was rising. And you weren’t born at the middle time? No, baby.

Oh. He thought. Okay. And walked away.

If I could have chosen, I would have chosen the darkest bluest time of day.

I think I would like to live in a bookish house one day with French doors. What’s a bookish house? You know, I don’t know! I guess I’ll know what it is when I

see it. I guess it’s the kind of house with lots of nooks and corners to sit in with a book. It’s the kind of house that won’t distract from a book when you have one in

your hands. The place I have now is full of that. Every corner has it’s own certain

little noise or discomfort about it that makes it impossible to hold a book for more

than five minutes and really get into it. That’s actually what I do miss about school, was when we had quiet time at the end of my English class and all we had to do was read.

I would pass notes to my friends during that time. I didn’t know what I had, she laughed.

I am going to go back and get my GED, she said. Not this year, but I will. I just can’t right now. It makes me feel better when I write and people understand and empathize, and they reach out and they tell me so. It reminds me that I am intelligent and

understandable. Which might even be more important than intelligent. I mean, what’s the use of intelligence if you can’t be understood? But I know I have both, even without the degree.

I am very quiet. This is odd for me to speak this much. Most people don’t get to hear my voice this much. Even my son tells me I’m too quiet. And with him I’m the

loudest. But when I’m going about my day I’m mostly in a state of inhaling. You don’t speak when you inhale. You just breathe.

CONTRIBUTORS anthea yang, western australia, australia

Anthea is an 18 year old student residing in the Western State of Australia. She is a

space enthusiast and an observer of the world who finds comfort in the written word. She is currently studying Creative Writing and Literary & Cultural Studies, and hopes to one day pack her life in a backpack and become a full-time traveller.

avery myers, orlando, florida, usa

Born and raised in a perpetual Indian summer, Avery Myers is a writer, almost-

filmmaker, and restless traveler who works and plays on the East Coast of the U.S.A. Say it this way: likes the feeling of saltwater on her skin; tries to break old souls into

prose; is elegantly rough-and-tumble.

cheyenne varner, richmond, virginia, usa

Cheyenne Varner is twenty-three years old, a writer and a designer. She works in

communications and development for a nonprofit in beautiful Richmond, Virginia.

Imagine yourself at a large event, a chill dreamy gathering of some sort by a river or

in a field. You see a person there who catches your interest — you see her in passing all night — you try to catch her a few times, but you never get to. You just manage to

overhear her name and meet a few people who know her. That kind of introduction, that kind of curiosity, that kind of beginning to become acquainted with — that’s what she hopes to give her readers in her pieces.

elisabeth hewer, southwest uk

Elisabeth Hewer is in her early twenties and currently resides in the rainy SouthWest UK. She likes winter and dogs and white wine and wastes a great deal of time thinking about space.

makayla madsen, seattle, washington, usa

Makayla Madsen is a nature enthusiast who lives and thrives in Seattle, Washington. She’s an avid learner of all things, but her predominate interests include psychology, poetry, and art history.

margaret zhang, saratoga, california, usa

Margaret Zhang didn’t always love to write—in preschool, her teacher told her to

write about the weekends, and this is what she came up with: “On Monday, I go to school. On Tuesday, I go to school. On Wednesday, I go to school. On Thursday, I go

to school. On Friday, I go to school.” (She didn’t know what a weekend was.) It was

the belief that she had superpowers which first sparked her interest in storytelling, and her life has revolved around creative writing ever since. She has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and The Poetry Society, and her work

appears in Creative Kids, Parallel Ink, and a few smaller and local publications. At this point in her life, she is a Holden Caulfield trying to be an Atticus Finch.

nora hill, boston, massachusetts, usa

Nora M. Hill is a student, writer, photographer, and baked good enthusiast from the

Northeastern United States. Her work has been published on The Equals Record and in school literary magazines, in addition to her personal blog. She was a winner of the West Roxbury Library’s Intergenerational Poetry Contest in 2003, with a thrilling composition entitled There’s Lots of Nature At the Zoo.

paola bennet, new york city, usa | paris, france

Paola Bennet is a New England native, a New York transplant, and a French expat.

Her work has appeared in school literary magazines, and she is currently studying Storytelling & Media (no, really). In addition to poetry, her other story-spinnings include composing, novel-penning, and attempted sketches.

She is gathering

the artistic arsenal to become a 21st-century Renaissance woman or a traveling troubadour, or both.

paolo nacpil, central florida, usa

Paolo Nacpil is a landscape, nature, and travel photographer. He specializes in long

exposures and usually ends up losing himself for hours on end when heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s out shooting.

quinn jackson, vancouver, canada

Quinn is a student in Vancouver, Canada, currently drowning worries about the future in slam poetry, short stories, and history coursework. She would like to thank -Ology Journal for their pioneering work, while everyone around her would like to curse -Ology Journal for sparking the incessant rambling about youth-directed arts.

rebecca chen, california, usa

Rebecca Chen is a poet-musician-science-enthusiast from California.

She is

currently learning as much as she can about all disciplines, although she is particularly fascinated by space, jazz piano, and the brain. She is continuously inspired by the night sky and the spirit of the flaneur.

sydney shavalier, michigan, usa

Sydney Shavalier. XIX. She hails from Michigan and is currently studying chemistry. Also a poet, an amateur artist, an introvert, and not nearly as refined as she sounds.

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