Issue #1 Halcyon; the peace and tranquility issue

ECHO ZINE issue #1

Halcyon

the Peace & Tranquility issue

Echo FeatureSavi R, digital artist interview inside pg.16 On the CoverLinda Kuo pg.9

Dear reader, We want to thank you for taking the time to read this first publication of our Zine. We want to thank you for your part in our journey no matter how much or little you were involved. This was more of a spur of the moment idea thrown to some friends one day and now, here we are. It’s finished and we are all so excited to see where this goes, maybe it will end here. But for the benefit of all parties involved, here’s to the greatness we may find within ourselves and the people around us; The moments full of calm peace. We present, Halcyon.

Enjoy!

Domonique, Lilly, Adong, Lori, Aylin X.

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CONTENTS

Editor’s Note….. …….1 Halcyon playlist…… 3 Lee Moon…………….. 4 Fire Escape…………...5 Girls x Nature………..7 Anarchanism…….…..9 Sonnet………………...10 Stretch Marks……...11 I Wanna Be In Your Bedroom…. ………….12 Art by Savi……….…..13 ECHO FEATURE……….…16 Oceans.. …………....19 Half the World Away ………………….20 Deep Breaths……...21 Untitled 01…………..22 New Eyes…………...23 Peaceful………….…..25 Untitled 02…………26 Amandla………….…28 AN-AR-CHIC……….29 Dressing Up the Kitties………….…….33 It Settles…………….35 Oscar…………...…….36 5 Poems………….…37 Savi’s Playlist…….41 Halcyno…………..…42 Bring the Soul Peace………………..43 Thank You……...…..44 Contributer Page....45

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LEE MOON

Art by Savi Ross

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Fire Escape

A short story by Julia Withers She was sitting on the fire escape wearing a white slip. It was one of her few luxuries. It fell off her shoulders effortlessly.

Her skin was soft and brown and her hair was softer and browner. I wanted to cry, looking at her out there, bathing golden in the glow of the setting sun. It was warm and still outside. I looked at the soft hairs on her neck, the curve of her shoulder blades. The way her hair fell on her back, perfectly without trying.

She turned her head, the tip of her nose pointing at her shoulder. Her eyelids were heavy. It was achingly silent. She looked like a blues song sung quietly to no one. She put out a cigarette in the empty flower pot. We had tried to grow tomatoes.

It was deep into August now and the days were long and languid. She was the only thing that hadn’t dried out or melted in the heat. I couldn’t hear it, but she was singing to herself quietly. I knew this just as I knew all the things I knew about her- earnestly and undoubtedly.

Now the sky was dark. She was a pale shadow on the moon, distant and waxing. I had been watching her, motionless, speechless, for longer than I could understand. Everything around her had melted. The kitchen, the window, the fire escape, the flower pot- those things were all gone.

Her body in the moonlight. All that there was now. I was gone now and she was everywhere.

“Max,” she whispered.

I didn’t say anything.

“Come outside,” she whispered.

I climbed out the window onto the fire escape. She looked up at me and I lost all sense of anything. Her eyes were sad and wet. She looked like war and sex and God and greed and sacrifice all at once. Everything that ever mattered.

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“I missed you for a long time,” she said. She rested with her legs to her right side, leaning on her left hand. I sat cross-legged and put my hand on hers. It was barely warmer than the air. “I missed you a lot, Max.” I didn’t know anything, I think, except that she was there and I was there with her. I didn’t say anything. What could I have said? How could she miss me when she was the whole world and I was just watching? I was silent for a long time. I focused on the sensation of my hand on top of her hand. This is her hand, attached to her body; this is my hand, attached to my body. I am here, now, on this fire escape. I am with her. I am.

I am.

“I missed you too,” I said.

“You could die here,” she said. “I could push you off the fire escape and you would die that way.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’d let you do it.”

“Do you think it would hurt?”

“Do you think it would matter?”

It wouldn’t, I thought. Nothing matters except that I am here, now. That I am. And if she pushed me off the fire escape it would be okay.

“I missed you too,” I said.

“You could die here,” she said. “I could push you off the fire escape and you would die that way.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’d let you do it.”

“Do you think it would hurt?”

“Do you think it would matter?”

It wouldn’t, I thought. Nothing matters except that I am here, now. That I am. And if she pushed me off the fire escape it would be okay.

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GIRLS x NATURE

A photoset by Brittany Schonert

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ANACHRONISM Art by Linda Kuo

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SONNET

Art by Linda Kuo

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*TRIGGER WARNING*

STRETCH MARKS

A reflection of self-love by Jocelyn Thibodeaux Ever since I was little I remember struggling with self-love. At the age of 12 I became severely depressed, I started cutting and I gained a lot of weight. At the age of 13 my cutting and self-hatred became so bad that I wanted to die; I would cry and cut my self to sleep all the time. I started to find an eating disorder from within me; I would not eat for days and see no results, so I would binge and gain even more weight. I was 14, when I cut so deep I almost wanted to tell my mom that she needed to take me to the hospital because it wouldn't stop bleeding.

My stretch marks on the top of my arms are from muscle loss from my eating disorder, they won't go away. I only thought that fat people got stretch marks. On my 15 birthday I told myself that this is the year you recover. 3 months later, I overcame my eating disorder, I'm vegan now. I have been a month and a week clean, I’ve started to love working out, and I found my own religion.

I love my self... Goddamn I finally I love my self. And that's one thing no one can tell me stop doing because once you start you never stop...

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I WANNA BE IN YOUR BEDROOM A poem by Mollie

I wanna be in your bedroom all blankets and drapes and candles and trees the soft light would clean us but we are pure already because we are with each other this is quieter than silence this is how the world was meant to be the soft light would clean us but we are already pure because I am with you I wanna be in your bed

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ADAM

By Savi Ross

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FRESH PRINCE

By Savi Ross

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ANU

Art by Savi Ross

ECHO FEATURES… Digital Artist- SAVI ROSS

Echo Features; every issue we bring you a young creative, inspiring person that we believe you need to check out. We interview them and through out each issue share their work.

For issue #1, we’re featuring Savi Ross. She is a young digital artist who’s simplistic yet detailed art absolutely captivated our hearts. Not only is she a talented artist but as we continued to contact her, she remains to be one of the sweetest people! What’s not to love about someone who is so willing to share their art with us, you and somehow puts a smile on your face while doing it?

Her Instagram is @saviscribbles (she frequently updates and posts new art, definitely follow her) She also has a website where she sells her art, society6.com/cacti , which is a wonderful way to contribute and help her out. So please if you can, do support her!

With out further ado, we give you Savi!

Is digital art the only medium you work in?

I only started really dedicating time to digital art 2 or 3 years ago (shoutout to my lovely pops for buying me my first tablet in 2011). In the past, I’ve spent more time with I guess the traditional pen and paper, as well as watercolours.

Did you start digitally or on paper?

How'd you get into it [digital art] or art in general?

Did you start as a child? If not when?

I think I started scribbling things as a child, like most people I guess. My interest in creating artwork really blossomed when I was introduced to manga, I think, which I absolutely adored. Creating art through this platform hasn’t really been a big focus of mine until more recently though; I’ve had a very on-and-off relationship with drawing.

Is there anything in particular that inspires your art or gets your creativity flowing?

What's your favorite thing about drawing others?

I always think it sounds really cheesy when I talk about it but in a broader sense, I started actively choosing to see beauty in as many places as I could find about 2 or 3 years ago. Really once I started university. I don’t know if that’s connected. So, anyway, this has played a really big part in my fondness for drawing portraits. A lot of my earlier work, particularly with digital art, was just self portraits because I think I was becoming more and more aware of traditional ‘beauty’ standards and how I fit (or didn’t fit) within that. Art was definitely a tool that helped me feel more comfortable with the way I look, as well as challenging my own ideas of beauty? Drawing other people has been really neat because it really allows me to see so many different people, and appreciate all the different types of beautiful that exists (still don’t know how to say that without seeming disingenuous or, like, fake, but I’m working on it).

How about music, is there any music you like listening to while you draw?

I usually watch films or catch up on tv shows when I’m drawing, but music is a big part of my creative process I suppose. I follow some really cool people on Soundcloud which is always a nice way to expose myself to new artists, but I’m always listening to artists like Gambino, The Front Bottoms, Frank Ocean, Twenty One Pilots, Archy Marshall, Kanye, Kojey Radical + Willow and Jaden Smith (both make some really lovely tunes).

Who is your favorite artist (in any sense)?

I adore everything @ricemilkdoodles does but I’m a little bias because we’ve

been friends for almost 6 years. She is the Abby to my Ilana, the Troy to my Abed, and is always creating cool things and is also ridiculously funny.

Besides that though, I absolutely love @choodraws artwork, @theskinnyartist, @caobecky, @lampagous, @manjitthapp, @lauracallaghanillustration, @juanydiegoart, @artbyshinji, and @louaikun.

What would you call your own art style?

I don’t know if there’s a specific genre I identify with, but lately I’ve been focusing a lot on simplicity and minimalism?

Do you feel that your art helps you express yourself?

Is art the only thing you do to express yourself, or do you have other hobbies?

Absolutely. I’ve always been drawn to creative outlets more than anything; first and foremostly I consider myself a writer, and allowing myself these outlets has been a really rewarding experience, as far as self-expression goes.

What has been your most memorable moments in your art career?

I don’t know if I’ve had a single most memorable moment worth mentioning. I like connecting with people. Instagram is obviously a really useful platform in that way, and I’ve been fortunate enough to meet some really fantastic people through that. The art community on Tumblr is pretty cool like that too. I have two younger siblings who always seem to get interested in doodling whenever I visit them, so it’s always fun to see my art excite and inspire them in that way.

What other artist(s)would you love to work with and why?

What is your dream project?

I think my personal relationship with my art is still sort of rooted in insecurities, so I’m not super comfortable with collaborating with other people at the moment. But I’m keen to try pushing myself to hopefully explore that in the future (which I bet would be a fun thing to do with really anyone).

Shoutout to @ricemilkdoodles again though because we’ve been talking about creating a web comic together and I think it’ll be pretty rad.

And lastly... What motivates you to keep pursuing/doing art?

In general, art is a tool that I use for self-expression. Writing fiction has always been something I’ve loved and I couldn’t see myself pursing anything unrelated to that. So, in a pragmatic sense, I pursue some forms of art for future (hopefully) career/financial purposes. It just so happens, I guess, that pursing these forms of art as a viable monetary path would also (I think) really fulfil me on a creative/spiritual level.

OCEANS

There’s something so intoxicating about waves, Taking back sand and seaweed, to deposit it elsewhere.

Something so dangerously calming about the repetitive nature, So calming that we find ourselves earning for more.

There’s always that nagging voice in my head, Telling me to strip down to nothing, to remove my identity, And sink into those waves and wash up ashore in a foreign land.

And how many times have I fantasized about ending up elsewhere?

Ending up somewhere, away from the stress and worries I have, Only to be shut down. Because there is always stress and worries.

It never deters my wanderlust though, because of that childlike innocence, That brings with it wonder and joy at the ocean, that creates fear in the dark, And that brings hope for the world, that maybe when I get my motivation, I will find my peaceful place.

Yet until then, I will continue to admire the ocean.

The one being that is constantly everywhere, and touches everyone.

It’s a strange admiration, almost an envious admiration.

It brings peace to everyone by instilling a natural cycle.

Something that I could only hope to achieve one day.

A poem by Selena Atkinson

HALF THE WORLD AWAY Art by Marte Lindholm

DEEP BREATHS

A playlist by Domonique Harris

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UNTITLED 01

Poem by Mollie Lindholm

once i see that my 25oz mineral water contains salt, it tastes like ocean water and i am ill i spent an hour on your website last night and almost filled out the form section, to tell you i am still in love with you also to tell you that i know you are still in love with me, too, because you screenshot my snapchat i stayed up late talking to a peripheral friend on tumblr, recommending him netflix movies while he is on vicodin he said he started the one that i told him was my favorite, then sent another message saying it "made you feel lonely" i wanted to correct him, and say made HIM feel lonely, but did not respond all the flowers at work are dying and i put my coffee that i drank from back in the pot i hope my coworkers do not drink from it, but don't really care if they do i got my nails done for twelve dollars this weekend as cliche as it may sound, glitter reminds me that life can be okay and i can be happy again he lays on my floor, and i ask him what we are going to do we both decide to sleep instead in four days i might see you and the sound of your voice will feel like the sun on my face after a very long rain ‌22

NEW EYES A self reflection by V Starling All I can remember is being told to run. That if I ran fast enough, pushed hard enough, the track would vanish from underneath my feet, the burning pain would subside and I would fly to the finish line. The gun fires a blank. I’m dazed, I’m ready to start and I’m ready to sprint and the people around me are focused on the race ahead but I’m not capable of doing that. My feet are firmly planted on the ground and I can’t move them.

I’m not running to anywhere. I’m not going to fly anywhere, effortlessly carried past my competitors. Lately, it’s been hard to do much of anything. Maybe it’s the tendrils of depression coming back to haunt me again. I want to seclude myself from society, I want to craft a little world of my own, one where cities and responsibilities are wiped clean and I have a fresh start. I’d be living in a cabin by a lake, and I’d slow down, take the time to appreciate nature, instead of wantonly destroying it. It’s my little fantasy, something to entertain myself with as I go about my day, to stave off exhaustion.

But I can’t do that. I’m supposed to be successful and ever since I was old enough to speak and be pitted against others, I had to rise to the top, my talent shining through, working to outshine others. Gratuitous competition, gather whatever awards you can, show them off, line them up on your bedroom shelf so you can look at what you’ve done as you drift off to sleep. Run, sprint, like you’re on the verge of defying gravity, and don’t let your feet touch the ground. You won’t get there fast enough if your feet touch the ground.

I failed. That’s why I’m writing this piece. Maybe the success I would have obtained would have been hollow anyway, I wouldn’t know.

Maybe, if I had applied myself, I would have made something of yourself. People say, you’re so young, you have time, don’t worry.

That’s when I clamp my jaw shut and nod curtly. The conversation is over, done, and it’s time for me go. I can’t tell people about my insecurities, how I need a long break, to finally look at the world with new eyes. They don’t understand why. …23

I’m running from place to place, terrified for my future, and it feels like I’m tied in place, straining to break loose. I study things I have no passion for. I’m paralyzed by the fear of failure and maybe something is wrong with me. I’m supposed to hoard bits and pieces of knowledge, gain new talents, perform, have a plan for my life, and be everything. I have so much. How dare I turn and reject it all. I am supposed to weave this grand tapestry of my life that I can present, impress with. I don’t measure up because one thread leaves and it’s flawed. The edges are frayed and the color is washed out and I turn to hide. My mouth grows dry and I forget what I need to say to impress them. I’m running out of time.

I’m. Sorry. I need to slow down, maybe we all need to slow down.

I’ll look at the surface of the lake without disturbing it. I’ll simply observe, let my mind turn to the wind and the sky and the way I breathe, the air flowing in and out of my lungs. I’ll sit, holding a wildflower in between my fingers, listen to the rustle of birds wings. I’m on my own. There’s no one here I need to impress. I’ll go about my day. There’s no schedule, nothing I need to do. I’ll gather my thoughts. I have all the time in the world.

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PEACEFUL

art by Quinn

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UNTITLED 02

Poem by Mollie Underwood

your cold feet touch me in the bed and i scream you cook quinoa for dinner and do the dishes you drive me to the hospital even though i do not tell you what for i create a gate you wanted between the neighbors and us with a wooden pallet i buy paper towels, toilet paper, bleach, and brita filters i wash our clothes every day ~ every other day you let me wear your socks and don't know i wear your underwear you buy a loofa for my shower you send me pictures of yourself in my bed with a sliver of light on your face from the window i give you my key to make two copies i text you the name of songs that you like on the radio and do not know i call you every day as soon as i get off of work you let me put facemask on your beard you drive me around in my car it ain't all bad

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AMANDLA

Art by Savi Ross

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AN-AR-CHIC

Poem by Lillian McCall

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DRESSING UP THE KITTIES

Story by Fishspit

How and why did life get so complicated . . . so difficult? Mental illness and booze have ravaged me since age 13. But I remember . . . god I remember. Younger days, maybe it was age 4 or 5. I’d go to see my cousin. She was the same age as me. She lived on a farm. I’d go stay a while. And there were always plenty of cats on that farm. Some were wild; they killed the rats. And a few were tame. The big mama cat would have her litter .and when I came to the farm, Faye, my cousin, would take me out to the smoke house where they’d be.

She’d gather up some kittens and tell me, “Fishspit! We’re gonna play house!” Then we’d take ‘em to the back porch where Faye had a lot of milk . . . and a bunch of the prettiest little dresses she’d made herself. The mama cat didn’t mind. Sometimes she stayed in the smokehouse and snoozed . . . other times she’d follow us to watch the little game of playing house.

Faye would get them little kittens all drunk and sleepy on milk. They then were putty in her hands. They’d get wobbly . . . they’d get sleepy. Then she’d pull out her little dresses and bonnets and other accouterments and start dressing them up.

And I was her husband of course. We’d have 7 kittens. They’d all be girls. She insisted. Even the little boy kittens were girls . . . them little boy kittens . . . sleepy on milk . . . dressed up in Faye’s little dresses.

Well! I had to provide for our children. So she’d send me out to my uncle’s garden and have me pick grapes, and beans, and peaches, and just about anything. I was a farmer you see. I was a good provider. We ate the peaches and Faye read English lessons to her children. Her mother was a school-teacher . . . so she’d use her mother’s text books. But since Faye couldn’t read, she’d just open a textbook and make things up. Things she’d heard. She’d tell the kittens about George Washington cutting down the cherry tree . . . “I cannot tell a lie!” she’d quote! Then she’d accuse one of the kittens of lying and that kitten had to go to bed. She’d made a little shoebox bed. The kitten sure didn’t mind. Sleep was sure welcome to a little kitten buzzed on a belly of milk.

Soon being a farmer wasn’t good enough for me! Faye wanted me to be a bigger earner. So she insisted that I get a job at an office . . . an insurance man or something. She’d tell me to go to work. I asked her where my office was. “Behind that tree!” she’d exclaim. And I’d tramp off to work. I’d get bored and lonely over there, listening to her talk to our children. So, I’d come home from work and she’d ask me where my paperwork was. “I didn’t get any,” I’d tell her. She told me that that just wouldn’t do. So she left me to take care of our daughters while she went inside. I played with the sleepy and precious kittens.

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When she returned she’d brought some paper and a pen and a paper bag. The paper bag was my suitcase. She put my pen in there and my paper in there, and sent me off to work again. She said to be sure and write a lot of reports. I didn’t know how to write . . . so I went behind my tree and wrote fake cursive scribbles all over about 3 of the pages . . . cursive scribbles that looked to me like the writing the older kids like my sister did at school.

I’d come home from work (the tree you know) and Faye would inspect my work. She was pleased. So then I had to kiss each of our seven daughters. Then I’d be told how bad the little grey kitten had been (whom she had dressed up in the tiniest pink dresses) while I was at work. She insisted I give her (though it was a him) a good talking to. Apparently the little kitten hadn’t done her chores.

What those chores were I wasn’t sure, Faye hadn’t clued me in.

And I’d take the little grey kitten aside and give her (him) a “corrective interview’, as my cousin liked to call it. I don’t know where she got the term . . . but now I wonder how many “corrective interviews” she’d gotten from her mama. Faye could be a rascal. I’d ask the little grey kitten why she’d been so naughty . . . and he’d (she’d) say, “Mew, Mew, Mew.” And I’d hear my little cousin who was listening in say, “That is NO excuse!”

Finally Faye would say that we needed a night at the movies. It was only about noon, but to her it was time for us to get a babysitter. We’d take the kittens back to their mama. She was the babysitter! Then Faye and I would go to the movies. This was an afternoon of Buck Rogers, Banana Splits, Batman, and whatever else was on the television.

Faye would make us sherbet cones and it was so wonderful. Oh how I miss such times. Faye’s grown up now and married to a fellow that sells farm insurance. I haven’t seen her in years. She has 3 children who have left home. Everything goes away in the end. I wouldn’t want to even see Faye now . . . I want to remember that little girl with so much innocent beauty in her little soul. I sure wouldn’t want her to see me. I didn’t turn out so good. Like John Prince sings, “Old man sleeps with his conscious at night . . . young man sleeps with his dreams . . . while the mentally ill sit perfectly still and live through life’s inbetweens.”

God bless all the precious kittens in the world. I hope little girls are still getting them sleepy drunk on milk and putting little pink dresses on them.

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IT SETTLES

A poem by Domonique Harris

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OSCAR

Art by Savi Ross

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5 POEMS a collection of poems by PJ Carmichael The Last Temptation

The face and the eyes, cheek bones, the sense of excitement, adventure passion, pleasure, perfectly abstract.

Another (it’s always) glance across the floor, against the grain, inside the body, the heart as a weakened instrument.

Youth and fertile ambition spend seven minutes in heaven, an hour in the bedroom, the rest of their lives in sensual matrimony.

My glass is neither full nor empty; it is a golden mirror.

Structure Someday, my love, you will learn, as I have learned, to see past the facial scars and the cursing and the loud records and the skateboard.

You will see the soul, the spirit, the essence of the human experience.

You will see past the media and the gossip and the rumors and public opinion.

My love, you may even gaze wide-eyed into the mirror and discover yourself, uncharted territory.

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Return of Spring The air is warm (God is smiling) and the flowers, oh, God, the flowers!

Coldest Rain, Warmest Night My lightened heart escapes the winter; scar tissue solidifies the broken pieces.

A cohesive whole, if such a thing is possible.

The breeze hits my chest as a symphony of milk and honey.

Chills up and down the body, droplets dusting the mane.

My heart pools in hillsides and windowpanes; the whisper of ambient electricity carries down words to future generations.

(To be alive in the modern age.)

New England is the reason, New England is the reason.

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The Storm Has Passed Blood leaks freely from the nose; my hands are covered in it.

(It’s a masochist’s dream, not a losing streak.)

The mischievous smile, the swollen flesh, the empty stomach and the sweat-soaked T-shirt are a visceral reminder of my humanity, an indubitable reinforcement of my existence.

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SAVI”S PLAYLIST

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HALCYNO

A poem by Aditi S The atoms that make me are in constant motion.

My eyes repose for less than eight hours.

My mouth moves to allow food (in) & words (out).

I think I use my hands the most.

Ants crawl over me if my feet are still for too long.

This, here, is my brain.

This, here, my heart.

Neurons transmit, veins throb.

My pulse is violent so close to destruction.

Perpetually in a state of wonder.

Did I lock the door?

Does my hair look too big?

Is there something between my teeth?

Can they hear me?

Am I boring?

Am I annoying them?

Should I stop speaking?

What am I doing with my life?

What should I be doing with my life?

Is this good enough?

Is this good enough?

Is this good enough?

You, they, everyone.

Moving, doing, breathing, creating, living.

Me, me, me.

Moving, thinking, breathing, thinking, existing.

Once upon a time, I felt at peace.

Once upon another time, that changed.

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BRING THE SOUL PEACE Art by Quinn

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THANK YOU for your support, Love the Echo Team

You can find us on Instagram @echozine & on our website echozine.weebly.com

ISSUE #1 HALCYON APRIL 2016

SOCIAL MEDIA

Echozine.weebly.com Instagram: @echozine

CONTACT

echozineb@gmail.com

EDITORS

Domonique Harris Lilly McCall Adong Akot Lori

CONTRIBUTING WRITERS Aditi S

ECHO FEATURE SAVI ROSS Instagram: @saviscribbles Society6.com/cacti

MEET THE APRIL TEAM! JESSIA KHALIS Instagram: @jessiakhalis MARTE LINDHOLM Instagram: @fruitfawn JULIA WITHERS Tumblr: @officialtwiggs E-mail: twiggjaywithers@gmail.com SELENA ATKINSON Tumblr: @nexrotic Instagram: @selenaatk E-mail: selenaatk@hotmail.com MOLLIE E-mail: molliekatrinaunderwood@gmail.com BRITTANY SCHONERT Instragram: @contemporary_angel brittanyschnoert.carbonmade.com JOCELYN THIBODEAUX Instagram: @jocelynthibodeaux LINDA KUO Tumblr: @buppletea Twitter: @buppletea Lindakuo.carbonmad.com

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SAVI ROSS Instagram: @saviscribbles Society6.com/cacti FISHSPIT E-mail: fuzzybunnyflatbunny@gmail.com QUINN

quinninnoir ADITI S urlinprogress.wordpress.com

PJ CARMICHAEL

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ECHO ZINE APRIL 2016 HALCYON ISSUE