Climax | Charcoal Magazine Issue 8

Transitions. Charcoal has been through more than we can count, but this one has felt especially different for us. Entering the year with the largest, newest team we have ever had, questioning what Charcoal has been, what Charcoal is, and what can it be felt like second nature. When we think of POC voices, how do they sound? What is the tone of voice, the diction, the pace? Charcoal has often taken a softer approach when presenting such stories, so this time around–we got loud.

Climax explores what makes people’s lives worth living. It’s a rejection of inhibitions and an exploration of indulgent, unrestrained fulfillment. It’s a love letter to all of our recklessness and mindful devotion to the parts of our lives that keep our hearts beating. This issue uncovers what leads us to our high points, but also how easily we can fall from them. A mountain has several peaks and drops. See how it all leads to the top in Climax.

If Climax does anything, let it resonate deep in your heart and ring loud in your ears. Do not ever shrink your desires. Yell from the top of your lungs the livelihood you deserve. You deserve to be prideful. You deserve to be passionate. You deserve to be ambitious. You deserve to be.

See you again soon.

With love, Charcoal Magazine

Editors-in-Chief

Chike Asuzu Shamayam Sullivan

Director of Operations

Jessica Zheng

Managing Editor

Raksha Khetan

Creative Directors

Gauri Nema Manasvita Maddi

Marketing Director Mira Elzanaty

Web Director

Stella Ikuzwe

Art Director

Gladys Vargas

Photographers

Andre Weiss

Isabelle Yap Melissa Hurtado Ramsey Khalifeh Shelby Barthelemy Zoe Tseng

Videographers

Ernesto Garrido Jaden Duenas Lauren Richards Melanie Menkiti

Senior Editors

Mya Turner

David Malkin

Writers

Alyssa Yeh

Annette Yan Lauren Richards Sophie Lyu Suhera Nuru Neha Chinwalla Camille Ofulue

Marketing Manager

Irvin Alonzo

Marketing Copywriters

Hikima Lukomwa Julian X Skye Patton Jacqueline Santoyo Marketing Researcher Kate An

Production Assistants

Brittani McBride Irvin Alonzo Kate An Rafeeat Bishi Shaina Evans Maria Nino-Suastegui

Stylist

Immanuella Gabriel

Make-Up Artists

Atiyyah Mayaleeke Kim Buyannemekh Hikima Lukomwa Teesa Manandhar

Models

Adora Mehala Alefiyah Gandhi Allyson Imbacuan Becks Loo Imandi Herath Jayda Bonnick Milena Campos Miyu Nakajima Naomi Boye Patrick Udeh Preethi Rhea Bandaru Safiya Umrani Sanjana Krishnamurthy Toni-Marie Gomes Valyn Lyric Turner Zakiah Tcheifa Suhera Nuru Gabriela Garcia-Mendoza Kim Buyannemekh Ernesto Garrido

Mya Turner Julian X Maria Nino-Suastegui Hikima Lukomwa Atiyyah Mayaleeke

Web Designer Megan Balani

Content Manager

Miles Brewster Skye Patton

Graphic Designers

Alya Zouaoui Rayne Schulman Annika Pyo Drew Demeterio Hannah Ramos Asjha Malcolm Derek Ewers Neerali Gandhi Clifmon Leroy

Performers

Romil Pandey Anaya Barmecha Ashley Facey Gloria Ampadu-Darko Brittani McBride

Cover Image Miyu Nakajima Publisher Charcoal Magazine Printing Puritan Capital Press

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Thank you to the Howard Thurman Center for Common Ground for their continued support.

Charcoal Magazine issue #8 is dedicated to our new staff, making our family bigger than ever before.

IMMERSED

WRITTEN BY ANNETTE YAN | PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHELBY BARTHELEMY MODELS: GABRIELA GARCIA-MENDOZA, NAOMI BOYE, SANJANA KRISHNAMURTHY,

AND TONI-MARIE GOMES,

i. prelude

This morning I decide to step out of mundane reality into a dreamscape. A colourful tab dissolves on my tongue as I let

ii. overture

I open my eyes to green. Face to face with Narcissus, I stare back at my reflection colored by nature: covered in moss, hair a weeping willow. When I am displaced by just one degree, suddenly everything looks different.

As my mirror image dissolves, I lose interest and leave. I register a curious detachment, an external awareness of my body in motion - in space - in this moment, where everything is softly beautiful and infinitely kind. Colors are more themselves, and every the surface is alive, thrumming with some energy, slowly morphing before my eyes.

The weeping willow approaches my vision. I am wading through reeds, their stalks silently kissing against my arms and whispering, “hello, who are you?”

I exist only within this moment, enveloped in their conspiracy of affection.

This moment is only as beautiful as it is fleeting. To be at home in the world is to understand each moment will be as beautiful as the next. I let go of my breath, anticipating the next shift of my kaleidoscope.

iii. mesmeris

I am seeing pulses of crayola colors. Shapes slope with slurred sides and I stand in the middle of it all: a wiring tower, a central nervous system, my heart’s beating like it’s about to burst. My breath is shaky, I feel untethered, I feel like I’m approaching a truth about myself. Fixation comes easily; I am here; I am everywhere; I am aware of everything at once, and it is awe inspiring.

Two realities converge to form this dreamscape. My body is clear, but my mind is in a technicolor mist. I begin to trip on my way towards a sentence, stumbling over words and becoming tongue tied by expression trying to speak to approach to capture no, to describe this original mystery–how do I express what I’m feeling? I wade through my dream haze and my world my colors begin to vibrate as I sense a difference on the horizon: my kaleidoscope begins to shift once more, as this reality disintegrates in favor of another.

“I let myself slip through the colors. I pass through ribbons of light.”

iv. re-enchantment

If to wander through this self-created dreamscape is to flow from one state into another, acceptance of change is at the core of this experience. This state of dreaming is to wander, to be at home in the world, anticipating the next shift of this beautiful kaleidoscope and I let go and shift.

Annette Yan is a senior studying sociology (major) and english (minor). Born in California and raised in Beijing, she is interested in capturing the tender feelings of youth and Asian American womanhood. This is her first year writing for Charcoal, and she is so honored to be a part of this issue.

WHAT’S IN YOUR BAG?

WRITTEN BY ANNETTE YAN ILLUSTRATIONS BY GABRIELA GARCIA-MENDOZA

Duck your head down, dive into the crowd, breathe it all in: a week’s passed and you’re back again in the push and pulse of pregames, bass thrumming in your blood putting you on edge. Throw back your first shot and smile as it drips down your face. Drink it all. Familiar faces rendered strange under familiar lights. It’s a kaleidoscope, a colourful cacophony. It’s a friend screaming in your ear time to head out! It’s youth tinged with the bitter bite of a Boston winter, screaming laughing viciously. It’s so close–you taste it like that acid shot of vodka bringing the promise of climax climax climax hurry we’re late!

Where’s the uber? What are you missing? WHAT’S IN YOUR BAG?

what’s in your bag?

close your eyes and feel cool plastic slide across the tips of your ears and kiss the bridge of your nose. open your eyes to a tinted world and the flash of a camera. a feature on an instagram story you tap tap tap through seeing you and your friends beaming from the same sunglass frames.

what’s in your bag?

watch them grin slowly and dip into a strangely secure pocket. eyes widen and you burst into laughter, they’re gripping a passport: a “ticket for entry”. take a shared breath–finally. we’ve waited too long for this. 21.

what’s in your bag?

“walk home with me later and find out.” all innuendos aside, you eventually head home sharing earbuds for the walk back. they say, it’s almost as good as the going out. i love this part, one from your playlist and one from theirs.

what’s in your bag?

the smoke hangs in the air with a blunt between your finger tips. the other hand slowly searches for the sound of wrapper crinkles. a sweet red globe meets parted lips and is captured between teeth. sugar to take off the edge of a smoke, sugar to sate after a prowl.

what’s in your bag?

well, you didn’t bring it here but you’re taking it back—a smile like a shared secret, hands dip into a bag and a stolen potato from the bar’s kitchen emerges: a mini moon glowing under allston streetlights.

what’s in your bag?

a clear elegant vial is extracted and you gasp as a chill roller skates across your skin. it evaporates as quickly as a body shot and you’re left with an alluring, familiar scent. tapping your pulse point with the perfume vial. this is your lucky charm.

what’s in your bag? a click, a flash, you’re blinded, and the sound of laughter fills your ears like grainy film. a photo will arrive in your messages two weeks later and it’ll take you back to this moment, this pregame, immortalized on kodak film. It’s you, it’s all of you–screaming, laughing, vicious youth.

It’s the end of the night and you have everything you need, grab your bag and let’s head out; what’s in your bag? sunglasses, passport, earphones, lollipop, perfume, potato, film camera, keys wait hold up... where are my keys?

p ay for p l ay

WRITTEN BY CAMILLE OFULUE ILLUSTRATIONS BY DREW DEMETERIO

During the pandemic, many joined the subscription-based platform, OnlyFans, or OF. The London-based app allows people or fans to pay for a monthly subscription to view content and tip, allowing the creators taking home 80% of the profits. Many OF creators took to Twitter and Tiktok to share just how “easy” it was to cash in on the booming industry.

These posts leave out all the steps between making the first post and achieving the success they advertise. They neglect to mention the amount of money, time, patience, and effort behind the scenes it takes to the people making these posts and often have already established fanbases that can be attributed to their “overnight success.”

To get a more realistic idea of what it’s like for an average person attempting to build up to that level of success, I spoke with Kayla, a creator who joined the app during the quarantine surge.

After watching Only Fans: Selling Sexy, a documentary covering the influx of new users to the app, Kayla joined the hoard of new, novice content creators in February 2021. She added that “It felt like it would be an easy industry to get into

and would never die out.”

Initially, the laidback 20-something was hesitant to actually use her new account, worried that her family would look down upon her. “People really don’t take the time to ask why you do certain things,” she emphasized. Despite the possible backlash she could have received, she ultimately decided to post. Surprisingly enough, the majority of her budding fan base was made up of men from her existing social media accounts.

For creators like Kayla, having no previously established audience to bring to OF is the biggest obstacle in making money. “When I first started to build my name, I was paying people on Instagram and Twitter in order to gain traction on my page,” said Kayla. These repost pages would spotlight Kayla’s content and expose her page to a new larger audience.

From this method of promotion, Kayla was able to build a fanbase of both “people just wanting to look,” and “generous people who wanted to tip and subscribe.” Retaining that fanbase is not easy. With new creators joining OF every day, she is constantly “thinking of what I should do next? What’s something I should post? What’s something they haven’t seen before.”

As a solo creator, Kayla is dependent upon herself. Already committed to a full-time 40+ hours a week job, creating content can be an additional hourslong effort for her. From ordering outfits, brainstorming ideas for content, filming, editing, promoting, and finally posting— OnlyFans is a job in itself. A single post for Kayla can easily take three hours.

Kayla also has to worry about her content coming off her page. Kayla’s content has been stolen and posted on Reddit without her consent multiple times. With OnlyFans providing no way to prevent this from happening again, Kayla has been deterred from posting, and because of these instances, she ultimately took a break from the app.

Today, Kayla is among the top 3% of all content creators on OnlyFans. Becoming a top creator was a months-long effort that came with many challenges that even she did not anticipate. In only eight months, she has posted over 100 pictures and videos and has garnered over 4,000

likes. Still working full-time and now dancing, she posts weekly. While she has considered creating content for OnlyFans full time, Kayla wants to “go wherever the wind takes” her and possibly pursue other interests.

While many dismiss OnlyFans as a simple, effortless way of making money, that couldn’t be further from the truth. The get-rich-quick narrative pushed on social media does not capture the full story of creators like Kayla in their journey to the top. Before a person can make a profit from OF, they incur many costs. From the monetary costs of outfits, editing software, video equipment, time, and the emotional and mental tax of being exposed on the internet, OnlyFans creators sacrifice to gain and maintain a profitable presence on the app.

Camille Ofulue is a sophomore majoring in Economics and minoring in Sociology at Boston University. She is involved in the Black Business Students Association, Boston Political Review, and the PreLaw Review. Camille also serves on the executive board of BUNaturally, Diversity in Law Association, and UMOJA. The Houston (the best city) native is also a member of the Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Incorporated Epsilon Chapter. In addition to writing, Camille spends her free time going to concerts, rewatching Adventure Time, driving around aimlessly, and listening to Tems and Gunna on repeat.

Reaching for Rapture

INTERVIEW BY SOPHIE LYU | PHOTOGRAPHY BY ISABELLE YAP ILLUSTRATIONS BY DREW DEMETERIO MODELS: BECKS LOO, PREETHI

The art of reclamation, elation, authenticity.

How do you experience gender euphoria?

Becks: I experience gender euphoria when I do it for myself and not for others. It’s rare, but there are moments when I’ll dress a certain way and not really care what other people think. When I started medically transitioning, I was really grateful for the privilege. I really savor the little things like hearing my voice drop, being gendered correctly in public for the first time without having to introduce myself with my pronouns, and overall feeling more aligned.

Preethi: For me, it’s finally starting to feel like myself. A lot of times before transitioning I would feel very disconnected from my body, my reflections, from just me. Feeling like I’m a real person and recognizing myself is a huge part of transition.

Becks: When we were talking about this shoot we talked a lot about mirrors. Specifically, slowly looking at the mirror and changing from “I don’t want to look at myself right now” to “wow”–feeling so comfortable and wanting to check ourselves out when we’re walking down the street.

Preethi (laughing): Like when I’m watching a video and the computer screen goes black, I see myself, and I’m like “oooh!” Or walking down the street and looking at myself in the reflection.

What makes you feel alive?

Preethi: powerful because I wasn’t allowed to have them growing up. Especially when the world tries to tell you that being feminine is not powerful. Now, I’ll be feminine if I want to, and I’ll walk into a room full of white men in my physics class wearing a dress, kind of just like, “fuck you.”

Becks: by people, like my friends and my partner who make me feel sexy and confident when I don’t feel like it.

giving a fuck–so maybe moments like that.” - Becks

Preethi: This only started happening recently since I transitioned. I got the ability to fully put myself into something–similar to if I’m playing a game and I’m able to be fully present instead of just watching myself from a distance. I’ll be fully in the zone of something and then someone misgenders me and it just pulls me right out again. I guess this feeling of euphoria can be very delicate, where just one person can ruin it. Another time I can think of is actually the time I realized I’m trans. It was Halloween two years ago, and I had dressed up as Wednesday Adams. At the party, I felt very good about myself, but after, all this internalized transphobia came back and I felt ashamed. For two weeks after the party I was just disgusted with myself–I threw away the costume, deleted all the photos I had, and was like, “why did I do that?”

Have you ever experienced a low or a crash after that high point?

Becks: When I started T, I felt great. No changes had been made yet in that moment, but just knowing I was making a conscious decision for myself, and heading in the direction that aligns with how I perceived myself was a really high moment. Then right after that I found out three people I really loved and trusted didn’t want to support me on my journey. So, it just felt like I couldn’t even have this moment of feeling really good.

Preethi: It gives me a lot of hope for my life because it makes me feel like I’m not alone and that there are other people who’ve experienced similarthings to me. And I guess sort of related is: I’ve had a TikTok account for a while and a few weeks ago, a freshman at BU came up to me and told me that she realized she was trans because of my account.

Preethi: I guess before that I was sort of considering deleting my TikTok account—I felt kind of ashamed about it, like Tik Tok, ew (laughing)—but after she said that, I decided not to delete it. I didn’t think that I could ever be the person to help someone else realize they were trans, and that really shook me in a good way. So I guess living and existing as yourself doesn’t just make a difference in your life—it also makes a difference in someone else’s life, maybe even without you realizing it.

When you’re with people who relate to your experiences with culture or faith, how do you feel?

Becks: When I first came out, I spent so much time wrestling with my faith and the scriptures, and trying to figure out what was right and wrong. It got to the point where I was so focused on my afterlife that I wasn’t focusing on my life here. Eventually, I realized I don’t have to wrestle with this. I never got the answers that I was looking for, but I realized that I didn’t need to.

Becks: Growing up in the church, I was always told “love yourself because God loves you,” and that became the question for me suddenly. Christians don’t seem to love this part of me, and maybe God doesn’t, but can I learn how to love myself?

Preethi: There are two parts to this. First, all queer identities are extremely taboo in Indian culture, and I didn’t even know trans people existed until I came to BU. Second, there’s this huge emphasis on the traditional cishet family in Indian culture. All my life I was told that that’s what I have to do. But now that I’m transitioning, that’s not possible. It took a lot of meeting people and finding out that there are other ways to live. I do feel like ever since I’ve come out I’ve been slowly drifting apart from my family, and that’s been hard, but I’m also much happier now that I’m transitioning than before.

As you were coming into your transness more, how did you reconcile your relationships with your faith and culture?

Based on where you are now, what word of hope would you give your past self?

Preethi: I guess for me, it feels like I still have a long way to go, so I kind of wish my future self would come and tell me something (laughing). But I’d just tell myself: it’s okay to love yourself and it’s okay to do things for yourself sometimes.

Becks: I think my biggest fear coming into all of this was losing community, losing people, and losing the foundation that I grew up on. And to my past self: I did lose it, so, valid fears. But I would also tell myself that I gained so much more from that: I met a lot of new people and new communities, I’m able to view my life in a much different way than before, and I learned that there’s more than one way to live your life. Also, not everyone’s gonna be on board but the people

INTERVIEW

BY SOPHIE LYU ILLUSTRATIONS BY ANNIKA PYO, DREW DEMETERIO

Isshelookingatmefunny,oramIjust paranoid?

I lay my book on my lap, brows cocked, and craned my neck enough to get a better look at the girl sitting across from me on the campus lawn at my writing camp. The sharp eyes of the pink-haired girl from my fiction class flitted away as quickly as they widened when they saw mine. My suspicion was confirmed. She was looking at me.

Or rather, the cover of the book I was shamelessly reading: TheFiftyShades ofGrey.

I rarely took to hiding my smut in the shadows. Despite the host of other things I hid from the outside eye, I was somehow never ashamed of the shirtless-Fabio-type-covered books that littered my shelves. I loved the escape they offered: pages on pages of raunchy, high-stakes romance, but, at their core, completely devoid of consequences.

Smut didn’t make me think; it offered sweet emptiness.

“God, that book is absolute shit,” the pink-haired girl, Lyvie, said when she sat next to me in class the next day. “I loved it, of course.”

We gelled quickly, filling the halls with whispers of boys, the best books, and tragically, the bore that was our final writing project.

“Write an extended piece from the perspective of someone you have nothingincommonwith? What a drag,” she complained one night, leaning against my knees smoking a cigarette. “Can you please turn yours into a smut thing to shake things up? That’d be so funny.”

I laughed, then paused. “Wait, I might do it,” I said with a grin. Lyvie jumped up, beaming. “But it’ll just be a scene or two. The rest, I’ll turn in for real.” And so it began.

The way I saw it, my elusive protagonist and I couldn’t be more different. She had a penchant for getting herself in trouble, a sexy sworn enemy, and brightly dyed hair: a sight for sore eyes according to said sworn enemy who gave her the nickname Red. And oh, was Red’s enemy a pain. There was nagging, and fighting, and finally, the ultimate scene: “Doyouhateme?Ordoyouhatemefor makingyouwantme?”Redchallenged. The two kissed, impassioned. Cue lightning striking in the church they stoodin.Redpulledback,eyesflaring withheat.“Let’sgetoutofhere.”

Flushed,Red’senemynodded,longhair bouncing.“Takemehome,”shesaid.

Well, Red was a lesbian. A lesbian in love with the Preacher’s daughter.

Oh, how my fingers flew writing that story. I filled pages in a matter of hours. And yet, I felt a sleuth of violent emotions: guilt in abundance, mortification, and… confusion. Why was I sitting there writing about two repressed lesbians finding unlikely lovers in each other?

And most of all, why did it come so naturally?

When I got to the final scene, my heart was racing. Their chests were pounding. I wrote about the chemistry between them. The passion in the way they kissed. The feeling—one of heavy longing and heat and pleasure—that I always read about but never felt with anyone. I wrote about release. But with it, shame.

I slammed my laptop shut as soon as my fingers spelled out that word, shame, face blanched, body flushed. What was I doing? I stormed to my room to reread what I had written. Denial be damned, I knew why I craved writing it. The safety of the prompt—to write as someone who didn’t reflect my most deeply buried desires—kicked my guard down, revealing something far from fiction.

I sank to the floor, pulling at my face as tears streamed down my cheeks and over my fingers, christening me in my newfound realization. Smut used to be a safe space void of any critical thinking, and yet it provoked perhaps the most existential question I’d yet faced.

How’s that for a sweet escape?

Only after crying myself to and through a pounding headache, I deleted the story. Disgusted with myself, I turned to Lyvie, who had opened my door with owl-eyes.

“Are you really crying over smut?” she teased after I confessed everything to her. The quip did its trick—we laughed at how ludicrous the situation sounded, laughed until I could pretend everything was okay. “C’mon,” she said, pulling me up. “It’s just a writing exercise. And besides, what straight girl doesn’t fantasize about gay sex once in a while?”

“That’s what I’m saying!” I sputtered. Three years later, Lyvie would tell me she’s a lesbian. I confided in her the same. Duh , she’d said. Youwere writinggaysmutatwritingcamp.

Years after I scrapped that project, long after I’d come out, I revisited the draft I had salvaged from the trash folder. I couldn’t get past the first line—the line that was to establish to my teacher what perspective I was writing from.

Red,unlikeme,isalesbian.

I laughed—laughed so hard my body was shaking and my eyes filled with tears again, only this time, it felt good to cry over smut.

Sophie Won-hee Lyu is a Korean-American writer and author from Wayne, New Jersey: a place known as home to the fifth-largest mall in the state and not much else. Sophie is a senior at Boston University studying Organizational Behavior, with not-so-thought-out plans to try to make it as an author after graduation. She loves books (from romance to sci-fi to memoirs), longboarding, crafts, and breakfast foods. In her free time, she can be found adding drama to her nowprolific, drafts-exclusive birate romance series, hunting for concerts, and engrossing herself in the Sims 4. Sophie is particularly passionate about art documenting the queer experience, and is humbled to share in its creation through this issue.

Ode to a Ode to a Runner’s High Runner’s High

WRITTEN BY NEHA CHINWALLA ILLUSTRATIONS BY DREW DEMETERIO

Onyourmark. It’s like driving down an empty road Windows down, music up. I’m up.

It’s like I’ve lost myself in a crowd. Singing and dancing. I blend into the pack.

Set.

The crunch of the sole kissing the ground. The rhythm of my arms swinging and hair flying

It doesn’t matter how fast I’m going Gunfires.

I am ready to fly.

Mind and body together in harmony It’s magnetic Every part of me working for one goal: Moving one step at a time. It’stime.

The middle of the run The last mile of a race It’s kicking in The pain floats away I float away I am nothing outside of this moment

Go.

What is running if not embracing discomfort?

Focusing on my breath.

I lose myself in the rush of endorphins.

My worries dissolve with each drop of sweat

So I tie my shoes. Pull back my hair. Start my stopwatch. And I take off into the distance, In search of the high once again.

Neha Chinwalla is a senior studying Earth and Environmental Sciences, with minors in Political Science and Environmental Analysis and Policy. She grew up outside of Chicago and is a midwesterner at heart. This is Neha’s first year as a staff writer for Charcoal and she is proud to be a part of this community.

PHOTOGRAPHY

BY SHELBY BARTHELEMY MODELS: MILENA CAMPOS, MYA TURNER, VALYN TURNER, AND ZAKIAH TCHEIFA

HOW DID YOU FEEL DURING THE SHOOT?

Powerful, inspirational, I felt like I could touch the STARS

CLIMAX. I felt the true definition of climax.

SEXY. B OLD . HOT. CONFIDENT. like a .

inhale

WRITTEN BY LAUREN RICHARDS | PHOTOGRAPHY BY ISABELLE YAP MODELS: ALEFIYAH GANDHI, ALLYSON IMBACUAN, AND MIYU NAKAJIMA

Sensation

His hands grace my hips, his touch delicate and gentle as they graze my body. My hands-on his shoulders then on his neck and then our faces are close, only centimeters apart. Our breath is the only sound I can hear, his presence, his touch consuming my thoughts. For a moment, all is frozen. We hold each other, caught up in a thickness that looms heavily in the air, in our bodies, in our breath. The closeness turns into a oneness as our lips paint each other’s bodies and our tongues find and caress one another.

In a swift movement, he pulls away to close the blinds with shaky, eager hands. Those hands return to my body, removing layers of clothing. I tug at his shirt and soon our bodies are bare in an immaculate nakedness. We let our fingertips and imaginations dance to the symphony of our increasing breath and heartbeats and we quickly find ourselves enraptured in one another. Everything is right.

The wanting, the attraction, the curiosity and eagerness to learn the dips and curves of one another’s bodies. Every movement, stroke, caress and cry ignites a growing twist of delight and pain that cannot be described as anything other than beautiful harmony.

My heartbeat quickens. And quickens. And quickens. My body, my soul is alive, a bursting exuberance that I can almost taste. My mind swirls as sensation rushes through my veins, like liquid sunlight pouring through my body. Nothing exists outside of this moment. The sight of him, his skin so close, elicits a vulnerability that causes me to pull him closer, deeper, as sound escapes my lips. My hands grip harder, my moans grow louder and I feel liberated as our intertwined bodies swell with stimulation so sweet, so powerful, I feel my breath leave my body as my muscles tighten and throb.

Exhale

An electric tingling washes over me as we evolve into stillness. We pant as we untangle our limbs and lie side by side, our lips curling into smiles and finding each other again. We are quiet, our lungs filled with the infinity of the instant still lingering on our tongues and vibrating in our muscles and skin.

We take a breath and begin again.

Constricted

Anxiety whispers softly, sending a tremble through my body. It grows into a rumble and I shrink. I find myself searching for an escape, a place to isolate and come undone. I lock myself in the bathroom, my back against the door, my knees to my chest, my body rocking.

The whispers grow into shouts and my thoughts are all consuming, swallowing me. They send me into a dizzying spiral that, no matter how tense my muscles become, I cannot brace for the fall.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to think. My body doesn’t feel like mine as my heart palpitations increase and my throat constricts. Panic overtakes my body like a plume of smoke, growing in intensity, choking me.

Stop. I beg my body and mind to stop.

My head swirls and my body aches. I can’t find my breath. I try to recall the grounding techniques I learned in therapy, but the memories are blurry and my labored breath is the only sound in the empty room. I take in gulps of air that won’t fill my lungs. I want to scream

but I’m paralyzed to silence. Eyes open, eyes closed, the world is spinning around me and logic won’t stick. I desperately search for calm, for something to cling to but all I find are ghosts of thoughts that don’t take root. This shouldn’t be happening, again. I should be okay. Tears quietly adorn my cheeks, and I’m suddenly aware of their softness, their lingering on my skin, their salty taste in my mouth.

The haze that overcame me begins to fade, my thoughts slowing,

like smoke rings dancing into oblivion. Numbness takes over. My breath steadies and my muscles ease. I unfurl, my limbs stretching out as my gaze softens. I’m depleted.

Words hold no meaning in my mind as I stare blankly before me, my body still, tired. I can breathe again though there’s no relief, just breath and an absence of panic. I hear my heartbeat as I muster the strength to stand. I wipe my eyes, open the door, then silently slip out as though nothing happened.

It’s only a matter of time before the panic begins again.

Lauren Richards is a senior studying journalism at Boston University. She grew up in North Dakota before happily moving back to the East Coast. This is her third year writing for Charcoal and she’s loved every minute of it. In addition to writing, she loves photography, cooking, biking and wandering through the city.

CRASH RISK

WRITTEN BY SOPHIE LYU ILLUSTRATIONS BY ANNIKA PYO

I can still hear the roar in my ears—the sound like a sea of trees bending from the force of the winds, snapping apart for fear of uprooting. It was the sound of the air splitting around me, then the crash of brittle bone against black concrete.

It’s funny how bloody knees can feel like heartbreak.

The day we met felt like the first moment my feet hit my longboard: shaky, uncertain, exhilarating. You excited me from the first word you spoke to me, down to the last words you whispered before I pushed off the ground and started gliding: “I don’t want to be just friends.”

I had only been with men before, known that uphill climb every time with no

relief—always going up, up, up but never getting to the top of that hill.

I pushed until I grew exhausted, reaching a breaking point, sore and battered–you won’t make it, you never will.

With you, I felt the thrill of that climb. When you first kissed me, you took me to the top of that hill for the first time, throwing me off balance and all at once, tipping me over its edge.

Suddenly everything around me was moving, so, so fast. I was on the descent, cutting through the air on my board.

“I’ve never felt like this before,” I’d confessed, head on your shoulder while you strummed “Bleeding Love” on your guitar. We weren’t together yet—we were both scared. Afraid and falling,

afraid of falling.

They say the secret to taking on a hill is committing to it. There’s something called the speed wobbles, a side effect of the fear that you may not land it, but you’ve gotta push through—it’s more in your head, anyway. Commit. Keep flying.

We were in your bed one night, room dark and heavy with unspoken longing. Hand in mine, no kneepads, you committed to that hill. “Will you go steady with me?” It knocked the wind out of me. I hadn’t expected you to want that, but I reeled my shock in, pausing before answering because we were playing Gerardo on the boombox and always needed to sing the chorus to Rico Suave when it came on. “Why, yes,” I said, and you held me so tight I was convinced I’d never again stumble, “I will.”

But all it takes is a single moment. Your foot slips from your deck, there’s a crack in the road, maybe a single doubt takes over and festers like an infection—then the speed wobbles again.

“I don’t want to be in this city anymore. I don’t know where I’m going to be or what I’m going to end up doing. I don’t know.”

That’s all it takes to crash, to launch your body from the surface you thought you firmly stood on and send your skin skidding against

a n d f a l li n g...A fraid offalling

concrete, heart racing as the shock of the fall momentarily suspends the pain of your broken skin. And then, the pain: stinging, bitter, throbbing, dark pain.

There’s beauty in learning to stand on a board for the first time. It’s about trusting yourself. You alone have agency over the placement of your feet, the movement of your body, and thus the course of your ride. After a fall, the steepest challenge is relearning that trust, and deciding whether

the high of the journey is worth the crash risk.

Perhaps there’s even something beautiful about falling, crashing, bleeding—how morbid, does she crave heartbreak? It’s the ultimate sacrifice the body takes on: the way blood beats out from the heart, the way flesh makes way for blood—the liquid ore of life. It’s painful, it’s gruesome, it’s ever-there, it’s the force behind life.

Isn’t that what love is?

When I open my eyes at the top of every next hill, I remember the view from the top of the monument where you told me that you loved me for the first time: rolling fields drenched in amber light, full of life, with so much to be discovered.

“I do, too. But I’m scared.”

You grinned. One thing you taught me is that there is always fear. And behind it, the thrill of overcoming.

Afraid a ndfalling

“Oh, I’m fucking terrified,” you said. “And it’s the best feeling.”

I smile, put all my weight into it, and descend again.

It is the best feeling.

Afraidoffalli

CRISIS

Crisis unravels the journey of your descent, a spiral down from your highest peaks. Trapped, lonely, unsatisfied. A fall to your low yet again leaves you in a chaotic bondage; a longing to rise again. You are left uncertain.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY ANDRE WEISS MODELS: ALEFIYAH GANDHI, KIM BUYANNEMEKH, PREETHI, AND SUHERA NURU

T E M P T A T I O N

WRITTEN BY ANONYMOUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY CLIFMON LEROY

Once her lips left mine for the final time that night, we both drifted asleep, but my brain was still charged. I awoke the next morning trying to figure out if last night was reality or just a fervent dream. But it was real. I really kissed her. I smiled. My body started to vibrate, I was excited. I was ready to text my best friend that I had finally kissed a girl. As I looked for my phone to FaceTime her, it hit me. I kissed a—girl.

I instantly felt the weight of my actions. Shot by a pang of guilt, my excitement morphed into disgust. Disgust with myself. Growing up, the people closest to me were repulsed by the mere mention of queerness. I was taught to look down on those who engaged in such abhorrent acts of sin. After last night, I became one of those “sinners.” The pride I had in how disciplined I was in my chastity, disappeared. I wept in disdain of myself. I was a hypocrite.

I’d found ways to justify liking girls before. “They’re just crushes, everyone has them. It’s fine. As long as you marry a guy at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. Just don’t act on it.” But now, I had acted. I gave into the urge. A small part of me was relieved. The question of if I was actually gay dissolved. Last night confirmed that. That moment of solace was tainted by disappointment. Disappointment in myself. How could I have been so selfish to do something so wrong? How could I have given into temptation?

Everything is different now. I must be honest with myself. It was an undeniable fact that I did it. And I enjoyed it.

I can’t fabricate these fantasies of myself with a man anymore.

My future had shifted.

It fractured and slipped away.

My future relationships, the beautiful traditional wedding, the relationship I wanted to have with my parents.

To accept this part of me is to reject the person I believe I could have been–who I deluded myself into being.

I am still learning how to embrace the beauty and complexity that come with this rebirth. Confronting my internalized shame is a journey. I’m working through unlearning and renouncing the shame that I’ve been conditioned to have. Part of that is allowing myself to revel in the simple pleasures like imagining life with a wife or just talking about crushes I have with my friends.

I am a lesbian and I’m beginning to be okay with that.

ROOTED

Inspired by “My Life” by Erkyah Badu

WRITTEN BY GAURI NEMA PHOTOGRAPHY BY MELISSA HURTADO MODELS: SAFIYA UMRANI, JULIAN X, JAYDA BONNICK, and PATRICK UDEH

I used to balance on my toes Fingers intertwined behind your nape as my only support, The warm peace tremorring with each touch Like a reliable promise Designed for long embraces Familiar to the stillness of maternal caresses

But with chills around the way

I guess it was a “thank you” to my planted feet

Found in samasthiti

They kept catching me from leaning too far forward The only weights to keep me grounded within the life I want to lead, Since no bliss from you could help me now In this impending, possibly dramatic, descent And I release, as quickly as you reneged my safety

Alone with the strides I needed to take Staring at puddles on the ground I reflect on why we learn to fall, Same reason remembering you and my scraped knees: only good if I didn’t let it be the fear in me So my first step was to deny your rule over my soul Then I decide when to throw my hands up in the sky or get down on my knees to pray Because as she sang, in my heart I know I’ll see that day When my freedom comes along And instead of running away These feet will have carried me far my own way Liberated by these very soles

WRITTEN BY ALYSSA YEH ILLUSTRATIONS BY NEERALI GANDHI

-

Sigrid

Nunez, A Feather on the Breath of God

The sequins are digging into her skin, But she can hardly feel them now. Adrenaline pushing her forward, she takes The stage striding forward in the dark

Feeling the heat of the lights Seeing them bright white blue and red.

Under them the audience disappears, today She doesn’t feel heavy, she doesn’t feel worthless, She feels like she’s on fire. There’s nothing quite like it, Feeling her muscles stretch as she Launches herself off of the ground, Eyes to the sky, Her pointed toes Scrunched tightly in her shoes

She holds her pose as the lights fade. Face molded into a grin Her stomach heaving in and out, A glimmer of ribcage visible with every Inhale Exhale. Once it’s dark it’s a mad dash offStage, out of this costume, into the next, Designated people removing the slick tights from her body.

She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, And doesn’t recognize the image, This common crow made into a showbird, A 13-year-old playing grown-up, Wearing lingerie onstage.

“To see a fine dancer execute a pure arabesque is to believe that the body, at least, is capable of perfection.”

Hands clasped, Eyes closed, It’s Sunday–A different kind of performance now.

In this building, With its brown walls brown ceiling brown pews She receives no applause, wears no makeup, No feathers or falsies allowed here.

She’s traded her glittery bandeau top for the Good Chinese Church Girl Uniform: National Honor Society crewneck and faded black jeans.

There’s no stage lights, no jazz shoes But still, all eyes are on her, Inhale, I have decided to follow Jesus, Exhale, No turning back, no turning back.

And now, it’s a Monday, She’s back at the studio. Someone else’s mom drops her off out front. Standing next to her prepubescent teammates in the floor-to-ceiling mirror

She sees herself, Mottled thighs bursting out of spandex shorts, Hand-me-down Lululemon bra, Swimsuit padding stuffed down her front To hide her budding nipples.

Her teacher asks the class to take off their shirts so he can “see their form better,” They comply, dancing in sports bras. She wants to shrivel up But she must carry on.

Chaîné, Piqué, Down upupupupup–Chassé, And grand jeté!

Alyssa Yeh is a senior studying advertising at Boston University. She was born and raised in Southern California. When she is not attempting to turn her word vomit into something intelligible, you can find her stress-eating Cheez-Its or aimlessly walking around Boston. Writing for Charcoal has challenged her in all the best ways and she is so honored to share a little piece of her heart in this issue!

7 Stages of a Digital Breakup

WRITTEN BY ALYSSA YEH ILLUSTRATIONS BY RAYNE SCHULMAN

1. March 5, 2020: TWO MONTHS BEFORE

It’s the first warm day of the year. I text him saying we should go for a walk, since it’s so nice out. “Ok!”, he replies. We meet after class, without winter coats for the first time since October, and meander down the Esplanade, hand in hand. At the dock, we sit and look out at the sprawling skyline, Cambridge and Boston together under a cerulean sky. I put my head on his shoulder, and watch my feet swing back and forth just above the water. We talk about menial things: his grad school classes, my future, how we both really need this upcoming Spring Break. He’s going home to New York, and I’m going on a service trip to Puerto Rico.

“Next year we’ll do something together,” I say.

Later in the day, we kiss goodbye, in front of the udon shop. His bike helmet

2. May 16, 2020:

THE

DAY

OF

I take the two steps from my bed to my desk and hop on the Zoom link we pre-prepared for the occasion. I’m wearing my pajamas, a purple shirt from Goodwill and polka-dot shorts, the same outfit I’ve been wearing for the past three days. The pandemic has condemned me to pajamas as casual wear. If our meeting could have a title, would it be, “We Break Up or We Stay Together?” At this point, I’m not sure. It seems like all we’ve done in the two months spent long-distance is talk about what the uncertain future holds for us. Time together feels heavy, but still laden with care for each other. Halfway through the call, it’s evident that both of us know what needs to happen. We laugh about it, call the situation bittersweet. I tell him I’ll ship him a break-up gift, a rubber bumper for his water bottle that he calls a “bottle condom.” It’s part of an inside joke from before we started dating. Eventually, he says, “I should probably go.” “Yeah,” I say, “Me too.”

“I’m sorry it had to end this way,” he says. “Me too, ‘’ I respond. I hit the red “Leave Call” button on the screen and stare at my reflection on the desktop. I look fuzzy, as if I’m made of static. There’s a strange buzzing in my ears. I feel tears trickle down my cheeks, but I barely register them. I take a deep breath and emerge from my room to get a snack from the fridge. My parents are perched at the kitchen counter, where they’ve likely been waiting this whole time. Upon seeing my face, they make concerned gestures in my direction.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I tell them.

3. May 17, 2020:

ONE DAY AFTER

He sends me a meme on Instagram, which I double-tap and respond with “LOL.” We don’t mention the conversation we had yesterday, but he changes my nickname in Messenger from “宝贝” (“baby” in Chinese) to “bottle condom.” I get the feeling that neither of us knows how to proceed. I feel like our words evaporated in the liminal space of the internet, and the break-up didn’t really happen.

In the next week, he sends two more memes, then three, then six. Are they Guilt Memes? I’m Sorry Memes? I Want Us To Get Back Together, or I Want Us to Be Friends Memes? I’m not quite sure.

4. May 23, 2020: ONE WEEK AFTER

I wake up crying and decide to spend the day beneath my red quilt, tears dripping silently onto my sheets. I feel as though I’m moving through water. I unfollow his sister on Instagram to feel some closure, but I end up feeling nothing. I download Tinder to launch a Digital Hoe Phase, but feel guilty whenever I swipe right on someone. A friend reveals that my profile has been circulated in “The Boys” group chat containing guys from my high school. Not worth it, I think, and promptly delete the app.

5. August 19, 2020:

THREE MONTHS AFTER

I return to Boston; we are in the same city again. His sister re-follows me on Instagram. What does that mean?

We make plans for him to drop off the items I left in his apartment months ago. As he pulls up to my dorm, I stand nervously and wave from six feet away.

“Your hair is so long,” I say.

“I knew you were going to say that,” he says. He unloads my stuff, and then stretches his leg out for a COVID-safe “footshake” goodbye. Our sneakers touch for a second, and then I turn around and go inside.

Afterwards, he texts me, “It was good to see you.”

I respond, “Same.”

He asks if I want to meet up in person, and I stall, citing social dis tancing concerns.

6. September 8, 2020: FOUR MONTHS AFTER

After writing and revising a message in my Notes app for weeks, I tell him I’m not in a good emotional place to meet up and would like some space.

“No worries,” he says. “You okay?” Yeah, I say, with a thumbs-up emoji. I wonder if I have made the right decision, but it’s too late now. A few days later he unfollows me on Spotify.

7. February 20, 2021: NINE MONTHS AFTER

I go for a sunset walk and find myself at the dock on the Esplanade, the same one he and I walked to right before the pandemic began. The air is sharp; my breath rises through my mask to fog up my glasses. I widen and narrow my eyes, and the city lights pulse like dying stars. Something prickly scrapes at my chest. I inhale, exhale, and it is gone.

Finally. I don’t think of him as I walk back to my dorm.

The Sun &

The Moon

WRITTEN BY NEHA CHINWALLA

ILLUSTRATIONS

BY RAYNE SCHULMAN

Grief:

Is catapulting into the deep end but forgetting how to swim, stepping on the subway in Manhattan but not knowing when to exit, living here trying to do my stupid little tasks while you’re not here too.

If love is a universal human condition, so is grief.

When I lost the most important people in my life, the Earth shifted off its axis. My mom was my sun and my dad was my moon. Now my days lack sunshine and my nights lack light. The world may carry on, but in my world, everything has changed.

After their deaths, everyone told me I was strong, as if outliving them is what gave me strength. All I felt was weak. Everyone told me it will get better. But grief is a tsunami of ups and downs. One moment, I am fighting against the riptides; later, I am floating in calm waters. I have made progress: tying my running shoes, walking into a therapist’s office, opening up to a new friend, allowing myself to indulge in fun, feeling excited for my future even though they won’t be in it.

However, three years later, I’m not better. I have built a dam so resilient, so good at holding back tears that I can say “my parents aren’t around” to my academic advisor with a blank face. And then a month later, I’m

sitting in the airport thinking about the family trip I just went on without my parents, thinking about flying back to the university they never saw, back to the apartment their life’s savings are helping me afford, back to the friends who haven’t met them (or who think they’re alive), back to the perfectly normal boyfriend who has two perfectly alive parents. And I fall apart.

Three years. Does that seem like a long time to you? It was just yesterday when Dad would fall asleep on the couch while we watched the nightly news together, or Mom would pick my brain about what happened at school that day. Three years can also feel like decades. How have I survived three years without Mom’s warm hugs and kind smile, without Dad’s adventurous spirit and attention to detail? How will I survive a lifetime ahead of me without more memories made with them?

All I know is that I will never move on. But moving on isn’t the end goal. I never want to move on from the absence of the most unconditional love I will ever feel. With acceptance does not come forgetfulness. Grief, pain, sadness: they are as much elements of life as love, comfort, joy.

Everyday, I wish Mom and Dad were here to join me on the college journey they worked so hard for me to have; to see me become a woman they would have been proud to call their daughter. I would give anything to

call them one more time.To have the opportunity to tell them anything, to call them one more time. To have the opportunity to tell them about my day and hear about theirs. To tell them that I’m doing okay and not to worry. To plan their trip to see me cross the stage on graduation day. No amount of time will fully heal a wound so deep in my heart. But I know that somewhere they’re laughing when I’m stressed for no reason, probably still hoping I will change my mind and become a doctor, and cheering me on along the way—as they always have.

My grief will always be with me, but they are never truly gone if they live on through my thoughts. So I listen to the Bollywood music that reminds me of their laughter filling our home. I reminisce with my siblings on our shared memories and grieve our shared loss. I smile when the sun warms a chilly day. I admire the glittering moon on a lonely night. As long as I can see the sky, the sun and the moon will never disappear. They’re farther away, but still, here.

utopia

A direct response to the question posed by Cauleen Smith in her film Sojourner:

PHOTOGRAPHY BY MELISSA HURTADO

STYLED BY IMMANUELLA GABRIEL MODELS: ATIYYAH MAYALEEKE, BECKS LOO, HIKIMA LUKOMWA, JULIAN X, KIM BUYANNEMEKH, MARIA NINO-SUASTEGUI, MIYU NAKAJIMA, AND RHEA BANDARU

“What does a generous and radical worldbuilding look like to you?”

Continuation

WRITTEN BY SUHERA NURU

Moments leading to another moment

Calming waves and drizzle

Claiming a point of no return; destruction But realizing there is Perception

Perception

Of a single second as it passes by Time clicking

Moments unrecognized by the millionth decimal Moments that we take for granted Moments that lead to connection Re-enlightenment and reimagination

Caught in a cycle of euphoria

High doses; flicker of a light bulb A shock; bonded realization of a thought to reality Then we stop; pin drop of doubt

Turn back; caught in a mindset cloud Deny; aiming to pretend there is no fault

Consider; possibilities of which there is exalt Fault; blended in with the doubt we have created Accept; the entirety of ourselves in our stories

Then continue

We are what define the journey And We are never done We got stories to preach We got higher shit to reach We got brighter skies to see We got time to breathe We got time to fucking be We got time to be.