AmLit Fall 2023 by AmLit

AMLIT

fall 2023

Acknowledgements

Letter From The Editors

into a new stage in life. Emma is truly the one to credit for enthusiastically and thoughtfully spearheaded the revamping of the website, as well as for passing it on to the next blog editors with clear direction. She will assuredly bring the same sort of success to future endeavors, in AmLit and in life. Charlotte admires their work and their dedication to work, and believes in them so very much.

AmFam, our beloved,

We would like to begin with a big thank you to our creative directors, the design team, and the copy team for their labors in making this magazine into a piece of art we can hold in our hands. Let us also highlight the cover design composed by Abby St. Jean and featuring her own photography, which is titled “Fifth Ave.” It's beautiful.

We have cried. We have repented. We have struggled. 'Tis the season of giving and it is also the season of trying not to give up (we have been in the trenches and we have seen war). It's all okay though and we can finally know peace…. well not for Emma </3 But we digress, this is a letter to you so that the recesses of our minds may be revealed, mushy entrails and all.

We thank our events coordinator, Emma Geer; our social media manager, Lex Berman; and all of our peers who have made AmLit into a community, rather than just a magazine. This gratitude also extends to Creative Writing Club, who is always sending people our way; to CAS Undergraduate Council for sponsoring our Open Mics; and all of the other Student Media Organizations that are happy to lend an ear or hand.

If you are still reading, we want you to know that this might be the best magazine that any of us have seen in our time at American University. But that might have to do with the fact that AmLit has finally found its footing. This magazine is the product of much behind the scenes collaboration in the form of weekly meetings over the summer, multiple rounds of copy edits, and heightened communication between us and our team. Thank you, AmFam, for your patience while we got our bearings and for your openness in sharing your talents and ideas.

Charlotte would like to thank Emma and Anjoleigh, and Anjoleigh would like to thank Charlotte and Emma, and Emma would like to thank Anjoleigh and Charlotte for their tireless efforts, their valiant attempts, and their midnight meetings with little cut-and-bake cookies. Emma would like to especially thank Anjoleigh and Charlotte for dragging AmLit kicking and screaming into the new age. Though they are on their way out, they leave behind a meaningful legacy. They took on the position when AmLit was in a state of great disorder and missing a magazine. But, under their leadership, structure and order was restored to our ranks, AmLit's website was revamped, and many wonderful, creative people have found their way to AmLit. Without them, AmLit wouldn't be where it is today. And what's more (as Charlotte takes over the typing), AmLit is in incredibly competent and innovative hands as it moves along

We want to extend a thank you to everyone from our team who made this transformation possible and to all of the artists, photographers, and writers who contributed to the magazine this semester. The trust and valor you have shown in sharing your work with us is admirable. You are why we exist and we hope you keep doing your thang <3

We now entrust this love of ours to be received tenderly in your hands and hearts. Love always, Emma, Charlotte, and Anjoleigh

table of contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

Letter from the Editors Acknowledgements Table of Contents Table of Contents Flows, Ginger Matchett My name is Womanhood, Sydney Hsu whatever happened to basic human decency?, Tyler Davis Blooming Elegance, Noelle Sommerville His Majesty the King, Julia Kane Warthog (1975), Bridget Slakas Yes (Content), Charlotte Van Schaack Pieces of Glass, Ginger Matchett Backroads of Hanoi, Luke Lederer My Lover’s Skin, Oread Frias An Ode to August, Lani Khuu Beside the Clouds, Luke Lederer Moving Myself No. 1, Ginger Matchett a miniature, Tyler Davis Where She Went, Anna Rose Steinmeyer Moving Myself No. 2, Ginger Matchett Untitled, Meliha Ural

22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 3

Divya, Molly Stites pond scum, McKenna Casey Journey Across Waves, Emma Sarner Little 1, Anjoleigh Schindler The Creek Fairy, McKenna Casey The Quiet in the Morning Dark, Oread Frias Look at us, Luke Lederer The Mountain Back Home, Benjamin Austin The Stars at Wrightsville Beach, Charlotte Van Schaack skin, Tyler Davis New England Autumn, Luke Lederer Women’s Health, Cara Siebert My Mother’s Hands, Sydney Hsu The Shell, Charlotte Van Schaack Magnolia in Full Bloom, Noelle Sommerville All of our Paths are Connected and Flowing Together, Julia Kane Warm Puppy Rock, CJ Kula Bishop’s Garden, Ava Stern The Hunger, Kendra Papanek Flight School, Lani Khuu Flight School cont.

43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66

Under the Dolomites, Luke Lederer Before I was a Girl I was a Wolf, McKenna Casey Luminary, Luke Stowell Illuminating Mechanics, Noelle Sommerville Late Afternoon in April, Julia Kane Courtyard, Bridget Slakas Ancestral Skin, James Skiest Limbs, Hannah Sjovold London, Sophia Nayyar $32.78, Oread Frias Paper Trail, Ava Stern Picco, Luke Lederer House Party, 2am, Hannah Sjovold Midlife Crisis, Cara Siebert Terminal, Ben Ackman Untitled, Meliha Ural Seven Years, CJ Kula Half an Orphan, Kaitlyn Chesleigh

67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84

Reindeer, Ben Ackman Remember Monsoons, Reilly Phelan Aftermath of the Kiss, Oread Frias I Loved, Luke Stowell Talking Phase, James Skiest That Smile, Luke Stowell 4

Chesapeake Serenity I, Noelle Sommerville Chesapeake Serenity II, Noelle Sommerville Sound Check, Sophia Nayyar A Pair Into One (For Shelby), Miriam Yarger August 3rd, Ava Stern Ninh Binh, Luke Lederer I Can’t Stop Talking About Anika, Naomi Skiles Mallory, Molly Stites For Alyrie, Luke Stowell Brussels, Sophia Nayyar Separate Waves, Ginger Matchett The Art of Sharing a Bed, Sydney Hsu Masthead Masthead cont. Staff Bios Staff Bios cont. Artist Bios Artist Bios cont.

My Name is Womanhood Sydney Hsu When they see me pillow fights and pharmaceuticals prescribed to housewives come to mind, blonde hair and blowjobs, legs up to here, puckered lips and big doe eyes that remind them of that girl they had a crush on in middle school.

When they leave me alone, I become someone else; she is left behind for the woman I am supposed to be because Adam isn’t there to tear out my insides for they are his to claim. Pillow fights are replaced with tender conversations under the comforter.

When they hear me, I might as well be invisible; let’s play 20 questions so that all the answers might be yes that is all they ever hear never but, or stop, or no. Vocabulary ends when they no longer know the words. I sometimes wonder what vengeful means before remembering that emotion is girlish.

Flows Ginger Matchett Medium Statement: Oil and acrylic on polypropylene paper

My name is womanhood and I was born from girlhood only we are not the same– she is innocent and untainted by men, and I don’t have a soul anymore. Sometimes I wish they would give it back so that girlhood would be saved from my unfortunate fate.

When they think of me, they think of my body first– thin, but not too small that they might not see ribs delicate and perfectly in place all 12 as Adam gave his so that I might exist to serve, for I have no purpose without the direction he provides, Adam and his apple never blamed but always at fault.

whatever happened to basic human decency? Tyler Davis

on the seventh day, God rested. and wondered when would be the perfect time to evict adam and eve. told them the world was cruel but in truth, he was much crueler. eve gets drunk and holds two mirrors together, searching for the green hue of the reflections falling into each other she makes an obsessive amount of apple tarts, using only granny smiths adam tends to the garden, painstakingly cutting the dead leaves from his lilies brushes the dirt off his jeans and wonders if he will ever again feel clean he already knows the answer in fact, they know the whole truth. they think that God is in Italy, with the sausage and the coffee and particularly sadistic fantasies about giving his lovers everything and leaving them with nothing. eve goes to church every Sunday, while adam can only stomach the Wednesday evenings. both wondering to themselves if they can get back into God's good graces both wondering to themselves if God is even all that good

Blooming Elegance Noelle Sommerville Medium Statement: Prismacolor colored pencils

Editor's Pick

Warthog (1975) Bridget Slakas with Eric Berg

At the Philadelphia Zoo There is a bronze warthog. Its head snapped around When it heard a twig break Under your tender step. Its tusks are commanding, Curving and hooked. Its hair is slicked to the side And its feet firmly planted. It pierces you with its Stare, waiting for your next Move. Its ears cupped; attentive, Like a child outside the door, Hoping to hear a hint Of the danger to come.

His Majesty the King Julia Kane Medium Statement: Woodcut

out goes the light out goes a sigh sigh a deep breath deep threads in and out threads arms and legs threads get worried in our heads soft and prickling, and to rags to rags to rags

Editor's Pick

Pieces of GlasS Ginger Matchett Medium Statement: Oil and acrylic on polypropylene paper

beds for sleep sleep for rest sleep in for weeks weeks without rest weeks ‘til the next next,

foreheads pressed each ragged yes yes and more yes and yes yes and please yes and yes yes and yes into rest rest on skin rest in sheets curl back the sheets the skin the lips and teeth sweat out the night mind faded from and tight a cord pulls silhouette in the night light easy on eyes and a ways away away we drift away time goes out of breath we rest

Yes (Content)

Charlotte Van Schaack Editor's Pick 11

Editor's Pick

My Lover’s Skin Oread Frias I wear my lover’s skin to sleep. My own I find too warm to keep. Though his does not quite fit my frame, And cannot quench a thirst so deep.

Backroads of HanoI Luke Lederer

For this ill fit I do not blame The lover who I will not name. He carries me from day to day, And knows for him I’d do the same. I do not know who writes today. I only hope they choose to stay. My lover does not hold this pen, And cannot take my hands away. This queer auteur I’ve let them in. A stranger to the world of men. Their kind embrace I cannot keep, And neither can I rest again. I cannot wear my skin to sleep. My lover’s is too tight to keep. I cannot quench a thirst so deep. I cannot quench a thirst so deep.

An Ode to AugusT Lani Khuu We don't remember what it feels like to be in love. But we're not sure

we ever really knew in the first place. The only thing that we ever knew was August. We memorized the rhythmic crash of the waves meeting the shoreline in July. The lilies draped over that bridge in our favorite park in June. The smell of cinnamon and ginger in May. We captured these moments between sticky fingers. Vanilla ice cream, so sweet it made me sick, but not quite sweet enough for you (in the way that nothing ever was), dribbling down our chins. We buried these moments beside the trail near your house, digging underneath the hammocks, which now sway empty in the wind, all in preparation of August.

Beside the CloudS Luke Lederer

She came in quietly, dancing through the front door on her tiptoes. We waited for months, her empty covenant hung over our heads as we bowed over in prayer, hoping that she might just miss us. That she might just dance quietly into September and be buried beneath the golden kiss of Autumn. But August was a rude awakening. August came regardless because August does not care if you do not remember what it feels like to be loved. August does not care if you gave everything, and August does not care that I will spend the rest of my life digging half-mooned crescent nails into the earth, excavating all those memories we buried in July.

Editor's Pick

a miniature Tyler Davis pinholes in your eyes make me seem smarter than you you don’t see everything that i do do cosmos exist in the space between your ribs, expanding when your lungs contract? contract the fever that makes your hands swell, your throat close up

Moving Myself No.1 Ginger Matchett Medium Statement: Acrylic on polypropylene paper Artist Statement: Moving Myself is a celebration of my movement through this season of my life, discovering the ever-long and ever-changing journey of self-expression, growing confidence, exploring femininity, and exercising control of my body. Who controls my movement? Who controls my femininity? Who controls my body? Me. I embrace myself, quite literally, in all that I am. Combining abstract expressionism and figuration, I created Moving Myself by feeling the emotions that music evoked, listening to my instincts as a painter, and acting upon the force to move myself through doubt and joy.

up close and personal personally, i wouldn’t put myself in a position to lose lose feeling in your brain as your nose goes numb from all the cocaine if i drilled into your head, where there should be stars, i’d find pinholes instead

where she went Anna Rose Steimeyer She’s not in my room. I had to leave her behind when my parents sold the home and it became a house. She sits in a box in a storage room. She wonders where I went. I think I see her sometimes. On my bookshelf, tucked away between pages left behind. The stories that she devoured. The ones not given away when I decided I no longer loved reading.

moving myself no.2 Ginger Matchett Medium Statement: Acrylic on polypropylene paper Artist Statement: See page 18, "Moving Myself No. 1" for Artist Statement

I am her once in a while. When I hear a song she loved, or cry in my mom's arms. I’m her when I step into a bookstore for the first time in years and walk out with a smile and a stack. I miss her always. Especially when it's late at night and I’m alone in a place she never knew. And I remember that things will never be as they were. But that’s okay. Because I think she would be proud.

Editor's Pick

Anjoleigh Schindler On summer nights, I dream of the creek fairy with her dress made of water and river reeds, cool to the touch as she extends a long arm and offers me a fossil from the bed. Her hair is plastered to the sides of her face, stuck on her pale green lips. When she walks, the minnows trail after her like so many little dogs, silver and glinting in the sandy shallows. I dream of her wings against my skin, of tracing the bluebrown veins with the lightest of touches, her crown of fiddlehead ferns and snail shells, her bare legs freckled with mica. She cups my hands together and guides them to the falls, letting go when they are full. I bring the water to my mouth and when it touches my tongue, I gasp myself awake, still thirsty.

The Creek Fairy McKenna Casey

The Quiet in the Morning Dark Oread Frias Do not let it catch you here. The wicked quiet in the air will gnaw your bones and chew your hair. You must escape to ritual: let noise creep in as light crawls to rest on the bridge of your nose. You should be rushing; chKKa chKKa, tooth brushing. Shower. Scrub and rinse. Find yourself in the keening water, and the whispers of a draining tub. Return. Pull your hair free. Dry and dress. Deodorize, accessorize. Finish the ritual. Hot water steaming, pot screaming breath of life into a ceramic mug. The quiet will not catch you here.

Look at Us Luke Lederer 27

The Stars at Wrightsville Beach Charlotte Van Schaack When you stand at the end of the sandy peninsula, it is impossible to know that there is anything else

in the world beyond darkness and sound. The soft crash of waves is more vocal than violent, serving as a lullaby in the night, shushing the landscape as it washes over the sand–tumbling and turning the beach into a smooth blanket again and again. Footprints that were softly pressed into the sand moments before are quickly made into memories. Even with a full moon to light the landscape, it's difficult to tell where the sand meets the shifting tides, harder still where the ocean touches the sky; it's just an endless swath blanketing the landscape in deep blue. Far above the earth and its invisible intricacies, little fires burn in the heavens, or maybe they're souls, or maybe they're stars. When the earthly world can not be seen, the Milky Way and all of its treasures become more visible than ever. The small specks of light are far away and ignorant of the stories that humans have made up to connect them. Even though they have died millions of miles away, the stars are real because they have been seen and remembered. There is a certain safety that comes from seeing the stars, a sense that there are other things out there in the abyss.

The Mountain Back HomE Benjamin Austin Artist Statement: Duluth, Minnesota is an industrial port town known for both its economic importance in exporting raw materials and its beauty as a city on the shores of Lake Superior. This image plays on the idea of natural beauty instead finding beauty in the export of a good which is arguably damaging the local environment.

On the beach, the dark waters rising and falling can only be defined by the starlight they reflect and the occasional white cap caving in on itself. Their dark shapeless forms and small, repeating motions have the power to keep the island's edges constantly changing. Sometimes the waves carry a different sort of light. Sometimes small creatures, luminescent by their own making, ride the current and wash up upon the ever-shifting shoreline. Resting, these microscopic organisms' light goes dark. Pressure from your feet agitates an otherworldly blue-green glow from the tiny creatures that live in the sand. Their lights flicker in and out like your patient breath. Glowing footprints softly pressed into the sand linger behind your every step until the lights go out and the tide sweeps up on the beach to wash away your trace. When you see the tiny glowing lights in the sand, it is an assurance that there is a world through the darkness. Assurance that you exist, making a mark in the sand if only for a moment. The sound of the ocean fills your ears as you continue to walk along the water's edge, its waves creeping up to your feet and into your line of vision before falling back and away from your path. Waters recede back into the depths of the ocean with their sweep of sand and shells. Crash up on the shore. Pull back into the darkness of the night.

skin Tyler Davis ouch. sunburn. backs of legs blossoming a bright red as punishment, perhaps, for my inability to know when to stop. i want to own a beach house with a boat trimmed in pink at the end of the pier. it will always be sunny. i will always be tan. i feel rain in my fingertips and the backs of my knees, God's silent reminder that no matter how much i pray, he will do as he pleases. he makes the water and the sky the same blue, hides the horizon from my view and reminds me that he is someone to be feared and when i don't listen; he burns my skin–

New England Autumn

punishment, for rebellion.

Luke Lederer

devil is my kin. 31

Women's Health Cara Siebert

CW: non-explicit patriarchal violence

Don't wear ponytails, braids, shorts, short skirts, skinny jeans, heels, tight clothes, loose clothes, jewelry, makeup, high heels, tassels, sweatshirts, or belts. Trust the police. Trust no one. Keep your keys between your fingers. Keep your headphones out of your ears. Pay attention. Ignore him. Look like you have somewhere to be. Look crazy. Take the joke, take the compliment, take no shit. Don't be too easy or too hard to get. Don't make him angry. Be sweet, be assertive. Run. Hide. Fight back, but remain very still. Go straight home in zigzags. Go for the groin. Go for the eyes. Go for the armpits. Carry pepper spray. Carry, but not at home. Don't walk alone at night, don't hitchhike, don't rideshare. Don't take a late bus or train. Keep your location on. Turn it off. Don't park in a parking garage. Have fun, loosen up. Stay aware, watch your drink. Trust your instincts. Don't.

My Mother's Hands Sydney Hsu Once, when I was a child, I was so sick that late at night, my mother and I walked into Giant

wearing our pajamas. As we stood in the aisle with brightly colored bottles of Pepto-Bismol and cough syrup, I wondered what I was doing there to begin with. Surely, I had a father at home to take care of me. Fathers, as it happens, are a rare occurrence in most vocabularies. I think I would make a fine father if I was not a mother. If I wasn't already predestined to grow and birth a full human. So, father is not in my vocabulary, but neither is kinetic. I will always be stuck in the position of mother even as a child. As I stood in front of the grocery store flowers, having wandered away from my mother, I reached out to feel the softness of the petals. There, right in front of me, I caught a glimpse of my mother's hands, even though they were just my own. Short and stubby fingers with squared-off nails. I could identify my mother solely based on her thumb, just as she could find me by listening to the sound of my feet against the ground. My mother and I do not have the same hands. My fingers are long and skinny and covered in scars I've accumulated over the years. And yet, sometimes I pretend my hands are mirrors of hers so that I might see her in the lines of my knuckles or the curves of my fingernails. Just as my mother could see her mother in her own. I wonder if I could see my daughter in the straight lines of my hands. If her name is spelled out between the wandering lines of my fingerprint. If she is biologically branded into me before her own existence. I contemplate shaking my own hand so that she might have a proper introduction. “Hello,” I will say, “I'm your mother. We have the same hands.” My mother finds me, donning two bottles of cough syrup, one for the night and one for the morning. She pulls out a sleeve of flowers from the bucket and begins walking towards the sparse lines of grocers at checkout. I follow behind.

Editor's Pick

I could only deny you mine linguistic asphyxiation & ignorance to your pain: I never told you I love you too.

We only got coffee, and almond croissants as sticky as the late May air. She paid for herself before an awkward hug goodbye. She was baptized in Beirut and already flew back, coffee break broke bread, she turned away instead the weekend past. This I told you in good faith. You only had two shots when the stool beside you grew organs and appendages— he bought the drinks for you before you fucked him. He tasted like bar food and almost blew out your back, suddenly stopping you said you did this in memory of me? You let it slip out

how soft you were when you struck me, again and again, ignorant to the pain when you hid your loving hands… at least you used them. My idle hands were the people's playthings too late to assert myself. Defined by others, not by us. We were never dating. we were just talking

That Smile Luke Stowell When you're forty, if you're lucky enough to be forty, that smile will be all that's left of you; after your hair has gone by stress or by recession, when your metabolism grinds to an untoward halt, your smile (jovial, snickering, and unconcerned, with the swagger of virility but without an ounce of life, which mocks its prey relentlessly and feasts on the same simplicity it must replicate to compel) will be all that's left of you.

past each other.

in guilt and confusion. You were never contrite for confession. Your catholic emancipation included everyone but me. What right do you have to deny me, suffocating on your force fed words, your faults, your faults, your most grievous faults?

Chesapeake Serenity II Noelle Sommerville

Chesapeake Serenity I Noelle Sommerville

A Pair Into One (for Shelby) Miriam Yarger

Sound Check Sophia Nayyar

Artist statement: The poem "A Pair Into One (for Shelby)" is a cento or "collage poem" comprised of lines of poems by Emily Dickinson and Mary Oliver.

The flighty sweetness of rhyme makes us think of what we had. This is what I have: the blush of my heart on the damp grass a ribbon at a time. The love you offer carried me away. The violets and the roses keep singing to justify the dream. They ask but our delight and dwell a little everywhere. Remember, beloved, were you lost, I would be. How desperate I would be to the immortal tune as though it were you. There's a pair of us, each one like a poem, ticked softly into one.

august 3rd Ava Stern I often start dreaming on paper until I wake up. Walking down Woodley Road, crisp wind kisses my ear, candles at the windowsills.

Ninh Binh

Guardless girl spins around the imported dining table, her parents’ laughs echo across to me.

Luke Lederer

Looking in, separated by sidewalks glazed with summer sunsets. Jealous, I try to go back to peony pink curtains trimmed with lace, next to the gold jewelry box nestled in the corner. I am back walking up Junction Road, light rain soaks my brow, almost silence.

I Can't Stop Talking About Anika

Editor's Pick

Naomi Skiles I

f I closed my eyes I would be asleep here in an instant. The buttered popcorn scent lingers in the fibers of this rug and on the pads of my fingers, the rug we bought before we had met off of “rugs. com.” Your sister said we should go with this one, it has minimal fluff and not too bold of colors, but will liven up the dreary and drab room we will be confined to together. We laid it out about three days after we moved in and about a month later I woke up to find myself and you sprawled out, asleep right there as Scooby Doo continued to play with ambient sounds of a halloween mystery special in the background. The next time we're here together we listen to music; the red haze of an ambulance light coming inside to light up our ceiling, your piercing and soft blue eyes are a sight of relief in this lighting. “Would you maybe like to live with each other again next year?” “Yes, I've been so scared to ask!” A year later and I'm begging you inside my head, “You're not going to leave me right?” You were struggling and it was getting dim. Your life outside this place will be floodlit and though I cannot keep you from that, my life here will feel desolate. “Anika?” no response, she fell asleep knitting once again. I snuck over to your side to turn out the light, you have your glasses on, cheek in hand, turned upwards by the sweetest and softest smile I am bound to never see, anywhere else, ever again. Your infectious giggle, it's cyclical and never-ending, like a broken record I'd rather not fix. “What's so funny?” You push out from under the desk, join me on the floor and suddenly it's four in the morning, we make each other insomniacs. Anybody else awake at this hour is confronted with the shining twins, robotic and haunting underneath the fluorescents, toothbrushes in hand, our accidental matching pajama sets on; we started off at the same height, though somewhere in between then and now she shrunk by about an inch. Through eyes opened the width of a hair, I notice above the stark white bowl of the communal bathroom sink there is a girl smiling back at me, face sunken and pale, hair weaved in an array of knots, toothpaste encrusted at the corners of her upturned lips, buttery breath and a microwaved mind. Beside her, her friend, her roommate, her entire college experience, wrapped up in the body of a girl with ceramic skin, a crown of golden and wild hair, tanned skin and stiff bones that envelop you in a hug so tight it comes with all the good force of the world telling you that in that moment you are at home. Now we are separated by only a wall, I can only imagine what happens in your dreams. You used to tell me in the middle of the night, while still asleep, with such urgency and excitement that made me feel chosen. When your dreamworld becomes so enthralling, perhaps you face the wall and still talk to me, I'll always be listening. At a quarter past three on a random Tuesday next spring, we will be countries apart, and when I move back I'll be returning to an apartment that's missing my home because you will likely still be overseas. But everywhere I go you are with me: in the way that I talk, in the patterns that I think, in the experiences I encounter and eagerly wait to relay, you are there and I hope you know that you will never leave. 73

Medium Statement: Shot on 35 mm film, developed and processed by hand in dark room.

Mallory Molly Stites

Editor's Pick 74

For Alyrie Luke Stowell Here is something innocent and wild, something of the human animal, something lovesick and devised, something of a flavor unmistakable: The peopling of her life was by erosion, as a canyon; her person is the rock the river could not breach. It is with high patronage that she offers her respect; but she reveres works of art with a binding penitence. Surely you will hear her trumpet sound from very far; surely it will play a sweet song you have not heard before. Certainly her world is more colorful than mine; certainly her yellows are brighter than mine always. She could not belong elsewhere; I have seen her half-rabid spilling out of herself onto the masses before her. For she is one of us – it makes her crazy to be unsure and she handles broken things with the care of fine objects.

Brussels Sophia Nayyar 75

The Art of Sharing a Bed Sydney Hsu Between my freshman and sophomore year of high school, my friend Leah invited me to go to the beach

with her. For a time, Leah was my best friend. Out of everyone in The Real Housewives of Urbana—what we called our friend group—Leah and I got along the best. It was during this time, when we were apart from the rest of the world, when she would walk me to the dentist after school, or we would make each other lanyards, that I felt like Leah and I understood each other best. It was an easy kind of friendship, where we talked about movies and books and never quite got bored of each other. I was 15, and while I wouldn't have admitted it, I was slightly in love with her. Whatever “in love” meant in the mind of a teenager repressing her sexuality. The issue was, and continues to be: I'm not a lesbian, but I like kissing girls more than kissing guys. And I'm not a lesbian, but I don't think I'll ever have an emotional connection with a man, not in the same way I do with women. And I'm not a lesbian, but I wish I was instead of this half-in-between. But, at the same time, constantly: I'm not straight, but men are more approachable because at least I know what I'm getting. And I'm not straight, but sometimes I fear that I am and that I've just been lying to myself this whole time. And I'm not straight and I don't believe in God, but the prospect of eternal damnation still flickers in my mind every time I dream about a girl. The vacation to New Jersey wasn't the first time Leah and I shared a bed. The Housewives had sleepovers semi-regularly. Our friend Grace would force us into a “truth circle” where she would make us divulge our secrets and in return, we would be allowed to go to sleep. And, once we'd paid up, Leah and I would inevitably end up squished up against each other in the guest bed of Grace's basement. There was something so innocent about lifting the covers and curling next to each other.

Separate Waves Ginger Matchett Medium Statement: Oil and acrylic on polypropylene paper 77

In New Jersey, I'm vomiting in the bathroom at a boardwalk. Leah is waiting outside. “Are you okay?” she asked. I laughed it off, telling her it was perfectly normal for me, that “Oh yeah, totally fine. I throw up when I get excited. Like a dog. Or is it cats that do that? Either way, no need to worry.” That night, after I stare at myself in the mirror, contemplating walking all the way home from here, I will sleep on the edge of her bed as she sleeps against the wall. I will silently stare at the darkness of the room in front of me as I try to remain conscious of my body. My legs will remain stiff and unmoving, even when she flips over and her hands press into my back. Young queer girls often have a sentimental homoerotic friendship where they become slightly too close and burn each other alive. That didn't happen for us. I didn't let it. By the beginning of junior year, I stopped talking to her, and the Housewives split off in a dramatic breakup only reminiscent of One Direction in 2015. We don't know each other anymore, I don't remember her birthday or what her favorite color is, but sometimes I pretend I still know her. I know a version of her that is perpetually 15, just as she will always see me as some half version of myself. Half realized. Half out. On Instagram, she posts pictures with a boyfriend whom I will never meet, but I still hope he's kind to her because I know how men are, and how they take and want and ask for more. She will always be 15, and she will always deserve better.

Masthead

Editors-in-Chief Anjoleigh Schindler Charlotte Van Schaack Emma DiValentino

Creative Directors Abby St. Jean Kendall Spink

Poetry Editors Oread Frias McKenna Casey

Poetry Assistants Abby Tredway Franky Rodriguez Noah Gocial

Design Assistants Grace Hill Hope Hamerslough Isabel Chaparro

Copy Editors Hope Jorgensen Ruth Odin

Copy Assistants CJ Kula Grace Weinberg Susie Carns

Prose Editors Ava Stern Sydney Hsu

Prose Assistants Thomas Weaverling Tyler Davis

Art and Photo Editors Alexis Frorup Ava Bagdasarian

Art Assistants Mary Luz Tagorda

Blog Editors Emily Barnes Peyton Dortch

Social Media Director Alexa Berman

Blog Assistants Mary Rust Sophia Casey Page Murrell

Event Coordinator Emma Geer

Staff Bios Abby St. Jean is overly caffeinated, persistently anxious, and incredibly thrilled with how this magazine has turned out; she thanks the other design team members for their beautiful work! Abby Tredway is a writer that gets too anxious to write anything, which she finds incredibly conflicting with her Literature and Art History majors!

Hope Jorgensen is a lover of period dramas with Kiera Kneightly and rereading childhood comfort books. Isabel Chaparro is your local latte addicted SIS major who you can probably find reading in a random corner of campus.

Alexa Berman has had far too many Redbulls.

Kendall Spink is tired but enthusiastic about graphic design. She had a beautiful time putting this edition together with some beautiful people!

Alexis Frorup spends too much money on coffee! She is a Studio Art major with minors in Creative Writing and Art History.

Mary Luz Tagorda is a double major in Marketing and Studio Art. In their free time they invest time in theater, dancing, yoga, and all things artistic. They also love to cuddle their cat and overanalyze Shakespeare.

Anjoleigh Schindler is a senior studying Journalism and International Relations.

Mary Rust .

Ava Bagdasarian is a Communication Studies major and Creative Writing minor, ecstatic to be experiencing being alive for the first time!

McKenna Casey is battling demons (afternoon sleepiness).

Ava Stern owns three pairs of black boots and looks like she'd drink black coffee, but doesn't.

Noah Gocial spends his time trying to figure out what to read more than reading.

Charlotte Van Schaack is finding her place in the family of things—

Oread Frias is stressed and tired, but also incredibly grateful that they get to crawl around in dirt (poems) and look for cool rocks (my favorite poems).

CJ Kula is an Environmental Studies major who thrives in the woods without cell service or plumbing.

Page Murrell is a prolifically passionate reader paying the price of being unable to read.

Emily Barnes is exceptional at pondering and yearning… other talents yet to be identified…

Peyton Dortch is from Southern California, she has a dog named Spencer who is the love of her life and her favorite movie is Girl, Interrupted.

Emma DiValentino is probably happily rotting in the sun somewhere. Emma Geer is currently going to the cutest coffee shop in town.

Ruth Odin is a double major in Philosophy and Communications, and they need to get back to telling you about the Legend of Zelda lore.

Franky Rodriguez is a junior and is currently accepting donations.

Sophia Casey is a beautiful, young 5'9" teenage girl, who loves music, prose, and film :)

Grace Hill is an occasionally well-rested pre-med Anthropology major who listens to too much Hozier!

Susie Carns is a freshman Psychology major who loves cats and going on adventures.

Grace Weinberg is a senior studying History with minors in Philosophy and Political Science who loves soccer, reading, and watching It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia on repeat!

Sydney Hsu is probably tucked away in the library distracting herself from doing work by watching "Corrections with Seth Meyers."

Hope Hamerslough is a Literature major and Studio Art minor who loves to spend her free time watching old music videos and sharing her favorite ice cream shop with her friends!

Thomas Weaverling is a lover of language, consumer of copious amounts of media, and an avid crochet artist.

Tyler Davis is a chronically exhausted and Aquaphor addicted Journalism major and Literature minor.

Artist Bios Anjoleigh Schindler is feeling like she can do anything she wants in this world. Anna Rose Steinmeyer writes poetry, short stories and everything in between. If you like her work her Instagram is @annarosesteinmeyer, but if you didn't then it's all a mirage. Ava Stern is probably eating an everything bagel. Ben Ackman is a freshman at American University who amazingly finds time to read, write, and take photos. He, honestly, is just happy to be here.

Kendra Papanek is a freshman from Woodbury, Connecticut. She plans to major in Psychology and minor in Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. Lani Khuu is a sophomore from Grand Rapids, Michigan. She has always loved to write, and she hopes to continue writing for the rest of her life. Lani's favorite things include crocheting, leaving unreasonably long book reviews on Goodreads, and her dog, Milo. Her work has previously been published in Up North Literary Magazine and the 2021 Write Michigan Anthology. Luke Lederer is passing out chocolates to people and inquiring if they'd be interested in a trip to Mombasa.

Ben Austin is a sophomore Journalism Major at American University. He plays mono-green in Magic: The Gathering.

Luke Stowell is a jaded young adonis rather inclined to fits of madness. You may find them in the music hall swaying, or else prostrate upon the Earth.

Bridget Slakas is a poet at American University. She loves her dog Duke, making playlists, and hot chocolate (even in the summer).

McKenna Casey contains multitudes, or whatever.

Caroline "Cara" Siebert is a poet living in Washington, D.C. In her free time, she enjoys watching bad TV and procrastinating on her homework.

Meliha Ural is a writer and a cat mom who enjoys the beauty of words. Miriam Yarger is a Literature major who is busy putting things on her walls.

Charlotte Van Schaack is a junior at American University, where they study Literature and Education. When they are not being consumed by their writing and academics, they enjoy searching for four leaf clovers, spending two hours making breakfast, and looking at the moon.

Molly Stites is from a small town in Maine, and now lives it up in the big city of Washington, D.C., studying Film and Creative Writing at American University. She is passionate about writing, photography, her friends, and thrift shopping.

CJ Kula is currently complaining about the M4 bus route.

Naomi Skiles is a junior year Anthropology major and Creative Writing minor from Chicago, Illinois. She is passionate about finding meaningful relationships with other people and helping the world through a humanistic lens of writing, art, and love.

Emma Sarner has been a photographer since 2018, and art has always been one of their great passions. They often use art as a way of sharing their dreams, passions, and other interests. They often dedicate their works to their younger sisters. Ginger Matchett is a senior studying International Relations at American University. She began painting in 8th grade, when she became interested in exploring the female form. Her art focuses on combining abstract expressionism and nude figuration. She enjoys working with acrylic paint on polypropylene paper, and has recently spent time painting large scale murals. Ginger loves to sell her art and has an Etsy store with prints for purchase. This past year, she was commissioned to illustrate the book "The Path She Makes." Check out her art on Instagram @ging_match_art Hannah Sjovold just happens to be here. They're looking forward to graduating so they can be home with their dogs again :) James Skiest is 200 years old. He hopes to someday be a normal age, like 42. Julia Kane's go-to party trick is a barred owl call. When not becoming one with the birds, she may be found absorbing river water in a leaky boat. Kaitlyn Chesleigh is a junior who just won't stop talking about Fleabag.

Noelle Sommerville is a passionate artist who finds her creative outlet through drawing, painting, and photography, capturing the world's beauty with every stroke and click of the shutter. Oread Frias is a horrid little goblin creature who should be kept away from pen and paper at all costs. We don't know how it keeps escaping its enclosure. If sighted, please dear god call animal control. Reilly Phelan is an International Studies major from Prescott, AZ. Her favorite tree is the Alligator Juniper. Sophia Nayyar is a senior in the School of Public Affairs. She also serves as the Co-Director of AU’s Photo Collective. Sophia’s primary genre of photography is landscape. Sydney Hsu is an avid crocheter who also runs a popular pickle review (@pickles4review). Tyler Davis is a writer best known for their religious references and haphazard rhyme schemes. Originally from Florida, they grew up spending a truly clinical amount of time reading. They found a love for writing in middle school, pulling most inspiration from their own life in an eerily specific way that may make possible subjects a little bit nervous. They also adore the works of Richard Silken and Frank O'Hara, crediting them with a lot of, although ultimately inspirational, truly heart wrenching pain and misery.