It’s us, one last time. The people will hear from us, one last time. (ew.) This term was truly revolutionary theeheheheheh. We hosted an open mic, made our workshop zine, and welcomed a powerful phalanx of first-years to our club. During many of these occasions, cookies were involved. A classic babyteeth term, to be honest.
A note: We must issue a formal apology due to our blunder in this term’s workshop issue. Due to extenuating circumstances, beautiful workshop pages from Sam, Caroline, and Kate were excluded. They are included in this edition! Thank u for understanding, IT WAS A TOTAL ACCIDENT! we will return in the winter, rosy-cheeked and deeply happy. we just can’t wait! mwah, olivia “pubgressive” ho lily “historiography” akre adiana “instagram reels cleanse” contreras sofia “cleaning the mirror” durdag
EDITORS: miah francis
ava blaufuss alisa cherkashina ada camp eliza farley lily akre sofia durdag olivia ho adiana contreras
nicky pierce-ralph
CONTRIBUTORS:
ava blaufuss
miah francis
percy vermut
rahim hamid
em jahn
colin james
sam miller
nicky pierce-ralph
sunniva maharajan
maddie burge
ada camp
clara alexander
billy bratton
cover: miah francis drawings: miffle
New Glasses
Olivia Ho
by
photo by Miah Francis
i have not needed new glasses since i was seven.
if i needed new glasses some-thing would have changed. some-thing on the outside would show.
i do not need new glasses. i don’t. i do not need new glasses. i don’t. i can see just fine. i can see fine. i don’t need new glasses. i don’t. i don’t hate America. i don’t. i don’t hate America. i do not need new glasses. i do not. i don’t. i don’t need new glasses. I don’t hate America. when i grow up i will be a list of dropped figs. all around me the figs have rotted and i took no steps. i do not need new glasses. i do not hate America, i do not. i don’t need new glasses. i love my life. i do. i love being alone. i have hope. i have it all. i do not need new glasses. i don’t need anything new. my life is perfect. i love being alive. i don’t hate america. i don’t. i love. i swear i love it. i swear i want it. i swear. i do not need new glasses. i do not need my life. i do not need new glasses.
Dream Catalogue by Nicky Pierce-Ralph
June 24th:
Trying to teach a friend how to drive, he takes his hands off the wheel and continues to blaze forwards as I scream for him to brake; we proceed to majorly T-bone another car. He later reveals himself to be the living incarnation of negativity and kills me in front of all my extended family, who don’t seem too concerned.
July 31st:
Stationed alone on a research vessel in space, I pick up Cheerios off the floor at the behest of the ship’s computer. Strange stairs lead down to a cobblestone path lit by torches and roamed by neanderthals. A single discarded pink baby shoe makes me think of my infant daughter—the mysterious circumstances of her death I’m sure had something to do with the space government that put me here.
August 28th:
Death is a pale woman in dark sunglasses and a deep blue chador who pursues at a walking pace. Running towards her is not as scary as running away.
September 24th:
An alternate version of myself wants us to fuse together, but I resist because I know my other self would use our shared body (a big Power Rangers mech) for evil. We play a game of cat and mouse, me waking myself up every time she finds me and then sleeping again to transport somewhere else, until I accidentally end up in her house at night. I see her father playing the piano and excitedly ask to play it myself—I’d been practicing a piece for so long, but had no one to play it for. In the living room afterwards, she keeps reaching for my hand. I pull away every time our fingers touch. I sleep on her couch, and in the morning I find myself laughing at my own jokes just to see her crack a smile. I feel as if we’ve been friends our entire lives. I suddenly don’t want to leave anymore.
October 11th:
Carleton College offers Five Nights at Freddy’s work-study.
photo by dashiell tidrick
howdemocracydies
at the ballot box
no big coup those do not last a slow rot seeping through asleep at the post let them slip by i think about you my love i hope we stay after the ruins
rahim hamid
photo by alisa cherkashina
your skin is smooth and light and i can’t tell if you were born that way or if you stood by the mirror or in the steam of a lobster-boil-red shower and scrubbed yourself with a pumice stone or a little pink loofah, with the holes for bacteria and everything, and sanded down every chicken bump, every angled edge.
i slide my fingers over your soft arm and the ridges in my fingertips dance over you. through me a tinge of lightning. through you it’s impossible to tell. inscrutable, and yet your down cast eyes and yet that smile, a fishhook stuck in your cheek drawing your mouth aside. i know you’re in love with me or with pain or with hurting yourself but you don’t have to show it so much.
poem by colin james poem by colin james
I’ll stop loving you, By death or chance or circumstance, I’ll stop loving you.
And you’ll stop loving me, By the same unfortunate end.
But for now lay with me, Hold my hand like its lifting you from hell, And kiss me like the red strawberries of Egypt, Cry with me, the tears of the willow tree
We composed in the park on your birthday
And laugh with me, the soliloquies of a fowl.
Let the silence of the unspoken speak
The speeches we made when we were young, Let our words linger, like the hairs on your back
And let the world envelop us
And make us so small
Like the frog you dissected in the 7th grade
And when the sun smiles,
And we must wake to the pear on my desk
Smooth, and satisfying
Say goodbye.
For I will stop loving you,
drawing by miffle drawing by miffle
drawing by em jahn drawing by em jahn
it’s the babyteeth classifieds!
comic by stewie goon
thank you for a great term gregor in the sun by ava blaufuss
