Volume XV: Illusions by GSMSTLitMag

Illusions Infinitas Volume XV Fall 2021

The Gwinnett School of Mathematics, Science, and Technology 970 McElvaney Lane Lawrenceville, GA 30043

“One realized all sorts of things. The value of an illusion, for instance, and that the shadow can be more important than the substance. All sorts of things.” Jean Rhys, Quartet

Letter from the Editor: Hello reader, and welcome to the fifteenth volume of Infinitas! Our editing team was inspired to produce a magazine exploring illusions and how they morph and mold our perception of all. The pieces we received range in several varying topics: youth, hope, love, suffering, identity, and so on. Yet they are all weaved together by the falsity of their truth. We have organized the pieces in Illusions by theme and tone so that readers may envision a mirage of life and swiftly transition to the next illusion our writers, artists, and photographers would like to uncover. While some pieces simply portray and accept illusions, others are self-aware of their deception and try to put out these visions; is it better to believe or let go of an illusion? We hope that these works will illuminate a new side to our ever-growing perception of illusion/reality and that readers will wonder what is true, what is false, and what is worth believing.

Shiza Ghani, 2022

Table of Contents “In this Illusive Shell” by Usha Umair Flushed Face by Itohan Ologbosere “The Anvil and the Hammer” by Vineet Upadhya Snowy Mountains by Vineet Upadhya Red Light by Jedidiah Cheng “chess” by Ofuga Aitekha Untitled by Isabel George “Nowhere to run” by Ofuga Aitekha Untitled by Lois Adewoye Caged Boy by Salma Ramon Untitled by Anonymous “Ascension into Adulthood” by Ronaldo Abundio A new face at Daycare by Itohan Ologbosere Lost at sea by Aizzah Khan “Remembrance of a Friend” by Amir Austin “My Shadow” by Gabriel L’Heureux Watching Shadow by Cela Kilmer “The Fourth Floor” by Amir Austin Untitled by Leon Wang

1 3 5 6

10 11 13

“My Name’s Mark” by Bobby Sharma Poseidon’s War Zone by Itohan Ologbosere “To my lost left airpod” by Vandanadevi Dasarapu Airpod in a Loop by Itohan Ologbosere Void by Vineet Upadhya “A Billion Worlds in Just Your Eyes” by Melai Desta Untitled by Nancy Wang Untitled by Divya Tiwari “The Flowery Path” by Ruth Gabriel Impure by Tabitha Lee “The Mythological Curse” by Amah Mancho Untitled by Vineet Upadhya “Longing For You” by Carlos Lozano Power and Authority by Kyle Chen Hypnotic Gel by Itohan Ologbosere “Disillusionment” by Aamna Rehman Untitled by Gigi Spaulding Bird by Catalina Camacho Rondón Untitled by Keren Oh Untitled by Vineet Upadhya playing with fire by Pinali Patel

15 17 19 21 23 25 27

“And the Page is Left Half-Written” by Kiera Toole Las flores by Ruth Gabriel Contradiction by LanAnh Doan Contrast by Catalina Camacho Rondón Purple flowers by Catalina Camacho Rondón “Painter’s Paradise” by Kaitlyn Perkins Untitled by Isabel George “Maladaptive Daydreaming” by Kaitlyn Perkins Untitled by Robert Williams “Hank is a Menace” by Itohan Ologbosere Unknown Forest by Jaya Locklin “Darling Dalia” by Usha Umair Pain Killers by Andrea Trejo “Forsaken in a Fictitious Paradise” by Liam Scarborough Emphasis by Vineet Upadhya Untitled by Vineet Upadhya “Camouflage” by Brielle Bristow Untitled by Vineet Upadhya “The Lake” by Lauren Shinn Look at His Face by Itohan Ologbosere “Surface and Depth” by Isabella Garcia Untitled by Ruth Gabriel

33 35 37 38 41 43 45 47

stnetnoC fo elbaT “Libertas Ex Insectis” by Ally Cocar Movement by Andrea Trejo Untitled by Antonio Carriedo “In My Head” by Zahina Encarnacion Untitled by Catalina Camacho Rondón “The Profits of Pain” by Usha Umair Enticing Portal by Itohan Ologbosere “Breath” by Gabriel L’Heureux Drowning by Cela Kilmer “Unreconciled Time” by Shiza Ghani Trapped by Andrea Trejo “I Loved You Until” by Alyssa McLish Fruit Fuschia by LanAnh Doan LoSt by Andrea Trejo “In the Blink of an Eye” by Melai Desta Untitled by Vineet Upadhya “Natural Progression of Coupling” by Kendra Haley I see Three by Andrea Trejo “A Star Goes Bye” by Shiza Ghani Untitled by Amir Austin “Nothing but an Illusion” by Fiker Ayalew dreaming by Josephine Chivore

49 52 53 55 57 59

60 61 65 67

Flushed Face, Itohan Ologbosere, 2022

In This Illusive Shell Usha Umair, 2022

In this illusive shell, Where the truest self dwells With a burning desire To unleash its fire. But all their facile eyes Behold is this mere guise, Varnished in all its flaws For them and I to gnaw. This hindrance of a shell, The soul’s eternal cell, Keeping all that’s divine Trapped within its confines. If this shell were to crack, They’d be taken aback By the spirit within, Smothered beneath the skin. Perhaps the great beyond Will appease this despond; Reborn, by nature’s will, As a star—what a thrill! To be a buoyant star, So admired from afar, Its incandescent light Floating free in the night. How serene it’ll be To finally feel free, For I have been to hell In this illusive shell.

The Anvil and The Hammer Vineet Upadhya, 2023

Azure flames of dragon’s breath. orange glow of flame’s origin, With a hammer of pure duramen. And fine dust pervades my fingers. The scent of iron on my cloak lingers Flashing drops erupt from bubbles, And joyous steam distracts my troubles. The Anvil tings and saws grate. The pounding hammer only sedates. My heart thumps with its beat. In its heat my pain may sleep. Time goes on and the flames yet to retire, While flames in my eyes still inspired, Creating a world of red illusion And comforting me in wild seclusion. Only two in my mind waving their banner. The anvil and the hammer. In them, my soul settles, As I pound on smoking metal.

Icy Mountains, Vineet Upadhya, 2023

body text indent:: 0.25 No space between paragraphs Start all new stories on the left

Red Light, Jedidiah Cheng, 2023

Chess Ofuga Aitekha, 2023

One… two… three… four… “Queen, we’ve failed to keep the promise we swore.” five… six… seven… eight… “Queen, I hope this is the doing of fate….” nine.

Untitled, Isabel George, 2022 Life versus death, and chaos appears. Full of anguish, his pawns stare at their dear. Black and white squares stretch across the board. His whole body, dropping to that very floor. To his left, his beloved, translucent and frail, peers at the piece on the board in detail.

Frozen in time lies his demise. The bishops share a mock prayer to say their goodbyes to the corpse that was left behind. “O King, we hope to see You at the Gates!” Checkmate.

Nowhere to Run Ofuga Aitekha, 2023

ACT 1 SCENE 1 (The chessboard. The atmosphere is thick with tension. Every piece is waiting for Their next move.) Bishop 1 (Aims sword at King) O dear contender, prepare to surrender! This clash has been long overdue, so face me head on, only me and you! (The Pawns give ground to King and Bishop 1 and Bishop 2 in the middle of the chessboard.) King (Chuckles) Come now, we mustn’t brawl, for They will resolve this shortfall. Bishop 2 (Frowns) Your people have lost time and time again. Why must you try so hard just for Them to jot your defeat with the pen? King (Quietly) Haha….

Untitled, Lois Adewoye, 2024 Bishop 1 How about we settle the score? I hope you’re ready for what’s in store. (King’s face and the floor meet. Bishop 1 comes in for the kill, his blade drawing blood from King’s neck. He screams, trying to resist Bishop 1’s tight grip. King eventually weakens. He looks over to see his devastated Pawns and… his Queen....) Pawn Stop this! You’re doing this out of pure bliss! Bishop 2 Apologies, kid, but I’ll have to disagree, for I only do this to appease-

King Queen… we’ve failed to keep the promise we swore… to declare victory on this chessboard. Cissy… don’t be uptight… this is only… a… minor… smite…. (King gives up.) Bishop 2 (Confused) Who was he talking to...? Bishop 1 (Very loudly) Now you shall ALL weep and mourn to commemorate the loss on this very board! Bishop 2 (Draws hands to prayer) O King, we hope to see you at the Gates, walking on the golden slates! Checkmate.

Caged Boy, Salma Ramon, 2025 7

Untitled, Anonymous SCENE 2 (The park. The sun has set, and the park is empty. PLAYER 1 and PLAYER 2 are seated at the chess table under the streetlamp.) PLAYER 1 (Celebrates) Dude, you suck at chess! Admit it, I’m the best! PLAYER 2 (Rolls eyes) Whatever, I’ll beat you next time! Let’s play again tomorrow at lunchtime!

Ascension Into Adulthood Ronaldo Abundio, 2023

Lost at Sea, Aizzah Khan, 2022 A New Face At Day Care, Itohan Ologbosere, 2022

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Oh, if only I could tell you. The grand masquerade you witnessed, Can I really blame you? They had what you did not, they did what you could not. If only you knew. It was bound to happen You could not have avoided it God is forgiving but, time is not. If only you could see me now my reality and the truth, would they scare you? The truth of reality scares me. The number of times you wished for it is far too many. As I approach your delusional age of ascension I proclaim to you that the disappointment and deception That maturing brings along disintegrates your image. What you thought as an ascension, a rise to power and the things you longed for Is more of a continuous climb up a large and steep mountain With more and more weight being added. There will be freedom and there will be what you saw and believed in. But I promise you, Becoming an adult is not what you thought.

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My Shadow Gabriel L’Heureux, 2023 I run through the meadow behind my house, skipping over rocks as I chase my shadow. My shadow dances, almost as if he’s taunting me for not being able to catch him. I laugh and run faster, yet he does the same. Funny, isn’t it? I’ve been trying to reach him for a long time but I’ve never quite caught up. He always runs ahead, almost as if he’s urging me to catch him. Like he can’t wait until I finally do. He grinned and when I finally thought I reached him, he ran ahead again. I sigh and fold over in half, attempting to catch my breath. I wipe the sweat from my brow. As I hear my mom call for me to come back inside, I smirk. “I’ll catch up to you someday.” I race him back home. Three years have passed. I still haven’t caught him. He hasn’t run out of energy yet, but I’m getting tired. He dances like he normally does, but I don’t dance back. He has defeated me. “You know you could have let me win just once.” He stares blankly at me. “Of course.” I sigh and walk back home before mom even calls me. My shadow sulks as he follows me back. Five more years have passed. I started college not too long ago. My shadow doesn’t show up as often anymore. He’ll occasionally show up and try to get me to smile and dance with him but I turn him down each time. And he always frowns and turns away from me.

Ten more years have passed. I’m working in a typical office. A boss, cubicles, old PCs, the whole shebang. My shadow is still. He no longer shows up around me to dance. Even though I wish I could dance with him now. I am so dreadfully dead inside and dancing always lightened up my mood. But I fear it’s too late. His life is drained along with mine. As I look behind me, I see him and smile. He doesn’t show any sign of life. I start to dance and he stands still. I frown. I move around and he follows me, but he only mimics. He is dead. Forty more years have passed. Before I knew it, I was old and retired. In a nursing home. I couldn’t even dance if I tried. But it doesn’t matter because I don’t see my shadow anymore. He simply doesn’t show up. It makes me tear up when I think of the good times. The times that don’t come anymore. Twenty more years have passed. I am in a hospital, inching closer and closer to death as the old age wears me away. As I close my eyes, ready to leave this world, I see my shadow one last time. Smiling at me, doing one last little dance, and waving goodbye. I let out a chuckle and sigh. “Goodbye old friend.” As I drift off into the nothingness, I take one last look at my shadow. I smile. “Thank you,” I whisper one last time. “Thank you.”

Watching Shadow, Cela Kilmer, 2023

The Fourth Floor Amir Austin, 2022

The fourth floor, A place unknown by many, I don’t blame them; they just don’t know what is in store. A hidden hot tub, Free food, and many more things aplenty. A figment of our imagination these things could be. However, it is a forbidden floor that no one must enter, So alas these are the things we will never see Because the fourth floor is a floor that will remain unentered. But when this floor becomes accessible and This floor becomes used to its full utility It will all relate to a saying most of us have heard too much and we all understand Because the legend of the fourth floor, similarly to our motto, had infinite possibilities.

Untitled, Leon Wang, 2023

My Name’s Mark Bobby Sharma,2022

The water can be heard from miles away. The kids’ efforts are washed away by the waves. The bright sunset can be seen at the end of the day. People line up at the food stand to fulfill their craves. Everyone is alerted by the lifeguards of water level rising, One brave man stays on the premises as he’s amused by the sea. Everyone screams and advises the man to run away due to the sizing. The man stays in his place and says it’s his key!

Nobody knows what to do and cries for the man to come back. The mysterious man continues to walk towards the enormous wave. Moments after the wave crashes and finally attacks. The crowd is screaming and wonders if the man was sent to the grave. Out of the random, one drenched man arises out of the dark, The man says “you guys really missed out and by the way my name’s Mark!”

Poseidon’s War Zone, Ithohan Ologbosere, 2022

Airpod in a Loop, Itohan Ologbosere, 2022 Void, Vineet Upadhya, 2023

My Lost Left Airpod Vandanadevi Dasarapu, 2022 To My Lost Left Airpod, I think about you all the time. Your presence and significance, like all other important things, was not properly appreciated until you went missing earlier today. Who knew you were such a comforting presence in my daily life? You probably knew how much you’ve done for me. You gave me an excuse to ignore those who made me feel scared and uncomfortable, and now my most reliable shield is gone. I can’t help but think “Was our relationship only important to me?” You helped me zone out from the world when I just needed a break, and now my means of escape have also gone with your presence. Oh, my beautiful left airpod! You’ve lasted by my side for four years, and what a good job you’ve done. Enduring the many times I dropped you by accident, kept yourself from fading out the sound, and helping me sleep at night. No one could ever live up to how much you’ve done for me. Please come back. I will fix you up and make sure you never fall again. Remember, I will always love you! Your partner of four years.

A Billion Worlds In Just Your Eyes Melai Desta, 2025 I look into your eyes, And I see the stars. A billion little stars, A billion little skies. But it changes As you turn your eyes, Another part is shown, Another galaxy only seen by your eyes. It’s raining. A billion little droplets, A billion little skies. I always look but I can never see it. It’s your eyes, They’re like gateways to galaxies. Ones that live infinitely, But it always ends. When you close your eyes I can’t see them. Everything is dark. Everything is gone. I wish to see But only with your eyes. To see all the galaxies In all their beauty. A billion little stars, A billion little skies, A billion little droplets, But never the darkness.

Untitled, Nancy Wang, 2025 Untitled, Divya Tiwari, 2025

The Flowery Path Ruth Gabriel, 2022 She walked down a path filled with flowers. When she started her journey, the path was filled with pink and white roses. She enjoyed the beautiful fragrance as she meandered along the path without a care. For months she watched as pink and white roses passed as she took their beauty for granted. The blooming flowers brought her peace, and she felt as though everything was perfect and there was nothing to worry about. “ Ah! What a beautiful sight! All these beautiful flowers and not a weed in sight!” She would walk with glee as the days passed by her quickly. One day amongst the pink and white roses she spots a small bundle of rhododendron. But she pays no mind to it as it wasn’t disturbing the roses. As she continues along the path she spots more and more of these bundles, but continues to pay no attention to them. “They will go away as long as I ignore them.” She thought to herself as she gazed onto the path ahead of her. Of course, as time passed, they went away but slowly, bit by bit so did the roses. With the absence of the roses, roots began to appear. Curiosity caused her to follow these mysterious roots and for a week she followed their path straying from the one she was already on. For days, she followed the mysterious roots hoping that they would lead her to a new field. On the seventh day of her journey the roots lead her to their destination. In front of her was a large willow tree. She walked around the trunk of the tree trying to find another path to follow but to her misery there wasn’t a path to be found. In total despair she sat at the base of the tree and wept, for all the days she wept the sky wept with her leaving puddles around and ground so flooded that no new flowers could grow. As time passedthe willow wrapped around her.

Trapping her without her consent, she could not escape. Slowly she gave in to the tree and let it conceal her and trap her from the world outside. The girl was trapped for months under the roots until a boy heard her whimpers in passing. Wondering as to why a tree would be crying he approached the willow with caution. After examining the tree,he could not find the cause of this willow’s whimpering so he calls out, “ Hello! Is anyone around? I hear this willow whimper but I find no source to its sound.” Hearing the boy’s shout, the girl lifts her head and tries to come out. “ Here I am! Under the roots! I know I sound crazy but please come and look. This willow has trapped me for far to long. I would try to escape but I am not that strong.” She exclaims in hopes that he could save her. The boy understood the girl but went back home. Two days had passed and the girl was again alone. But on the evening of the second day she could hear a saw breaking through the roots, and one by one each root was pulled away. Finally free the girl looked to the boy who, reached out his hand. “Thank you for saving me.” She said as she gets up and lets go of him. The boy responds with a nod of his head and grabs the girl’s hand again. “Come with me” He said. “I’ll show you a new path far from this willow and its roots.” Trusting the boy she followed him unknowing, and soon she found that there was ivy growing. She was scared to touch the ivy as she did not know what it would do, but the boy assured her that there was nothing to fear. “The ivy is beautiful if you look at it from here.” The boy continued to hold the girl’s hand as they walked down the new path together. Soon the two of them grew fond of each other, as moths went by the ivy turned into red roses and the sun began to shine. The two walked along the path, and with the passing of time the willow was soon forgotten and the whole world was fine.

Impure, Tabitha Lee, 2022

The Mythological Curse Amah Mancho, 2023

When I say I’m a god, don’t think it a gift When I say I’m a god, it’s like I’m on a shift Shift that never ends and goes on forever I’m a soldier constantly in place of vicious battle Others may die on the field, but I’m stuck to the saddle Saddle that I have to constantly ride to my endeavour Death hurts me more than it ever hurts another Cause all I can do is watch as it takes a brother It constantly takes friends but it takes me never When you’ve seen everything then it’s easy to get bored Every mystery of the world you have already explored So when I say I’m a god, a controller of creation Know, I’m simply a legionnaire stuck to my station.

Untitled, Vineet Upadhya, 2023 24

Power and Authority, Kyle Chen, 2022

Longing For You Carlos Lozano, 2023

Hair gel, O Hair gel! You held more than my hair, You held together my existence. In your sticky web, you consumed me. You attack at dawn and hold me captive until the sweet release of a water reaction. You shaped me for so long— in the midst of your games, I grew tired and ashamed. O puppetmaster! Judas held no candle to your betrayal, yet I still reach for you— sometimes— I will never live without you— I will never be satisfied with you— For, you were there for so long, And now you long for my attention.

Hypnotic Gel, Itohan Ologbosere, 2022

Untitled, Gigi Spaulding, 2022

Disillusionment Aamna Rehman, 2023 The Modernist movement in literature began in the late nineteenth century and took off in the early to mid 20th century. The movement reflected “modern” society which was most times seen from a pessimistic perspective; society back then had been broken because of the world wars and depression, so modernist writers would reflect this in their works through fragmented and negative storytelling. Modernist authors had most likely fought in one of the world wars or had lived through a war and seen its effects—this led to the rise of the theme of disillusionment. Disillusionment focused on the loss of illusions that had made something seem greater than it was, and in many modernist writings, authors disillusioned society. Because of the turmoil caused by the world wars and the Great Depression, modernist authors used disillusionment to deem society as evil in order to praise individualism. J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye reflects the Modernist movement and its themes of disillusionment throughout the entire novel. Holden Caulfield moves through his world, convinced it hates him and hating it back; he calls most people he encounters “phony” and believes that most adults have bad intentions. Salinger emphasizes evils in society throughout the book by focusing on topics such as sexual abuse, revealing even Caulfield’s most trusted adult, Mr. Antolini, as a predator. By telling the story from Caulfield’s pessimistic perspective while also focusing on real issues that affected him, Salinger displays modernist views. Disillusionment shines through the book from Caulfield’s point of view on youth and children; the way he treats his younger sister as well as his visit to her elementary school show that he sees youth as an innocent time before one is forced to grow up and see the realities of the world, before one is forced to see through their illusions. Salinger hints at Caulfield’s own loss of innocence, and along with it his youth, when he hints at the sexual abuse he went through as a child—this explains Caulfield’s views on his world as he has already went through disillusionment. Salinger’s shorter work, “A Perfect Day for Bananafish,” specifically shows the contributions of war to the modernist movement. The main

character, Seymour Glass, is a war veteran who is on leave for what is implied as psychological reasons. Glass shows the effects of war by isolating himself from his wife, snapping at strangers for being “sneaky,” and in the end, committing suicide. Glass’s experience in the war led him to obvious psychological turmoil, and his view on the world became negative enough to believe that strangers were out to get him and had evil intentions. His explanation on how bananafish cause their own death because of greed for food could also be representative of how society causes its own downfall because of greed for other things (as this usually leads to war). Salinger emphasizes youth’s innocence again in this work—Glass spends one of his final moments speaking to a little girl he meets on the beach and walking through the water with her; he shows more fondness for the child than for

Bird, Catalina Camacho Rondón, 2024

adults in the story. This is again because the child is still innocent and “good,” and has not lost her illusions of the world yet. Salinger has even stated that he saw himself as Seymour Glass; Salinger himself was a war veteran and showed it through his works surrounding disillusionment. Readers have differing opinions on whether Lord of the Flies by William Golding falls into modernism or postmodernism; however, the book does carry the theme of disillusionment and its pessimistic turn towards the end helps consider it as modernism. The novel can be seen as a metaphor for society: Jack and his followers represent an evil society that functions on greed while few individuals such as Ralph, Piggy, and Simon stay “good” and fall apart from this society. By showing the individuals losing to the larger society near the end, Golding shows modernist views in which good individuals are always overshadowed by a more powerful society with evil intentions. Disillusionment plays a large role throughout the novel; the biggest displayal of it, however, is Ralph’s breakdown when the boys are finally found—he remembers all the cruel things he and the other boys had to go through as well as the deaths of

Untitled, Vineet Upadhya, 2023

Untitled, Keren Oh, 2025

Simon and Piggy and realizes the evil in the world that he previously did not know. The illusions fall, and his innocence with it. Youth is once again depicted as innocent in this novel; while many of the older boys had evil intentions, the younger boys, or littluns, in the novel are almost always playing or doing work for the other boys. Even their bad actions are usually the influence of the older boys which is reflective of modern society in which youth are only turned evil through bad influence. Golding also fought in World War II—his depictions of a crazy society with few individuals fighting against it are representative of the worldwide situation during the war, and the disillusionment in the novel also depicts the loss of illusions the second world war brought. T. S. Eliot, a renowned modernist author, included disillusionment in most of his works; but “The Hollow Men” specifically represents the disillusionment felt after World War I. The poem focuses on men who are spiritually dead while being physically alive—they move in union, although their movements seem to have no importance. The men depicted are basically half-dead and empty. These men largely represent the men who had fought in World War I and felt the hollowness inside after having faced the harsh reality of the world, losing their humanity. The men moving in union without any meaning depicts what society can do to man; by conforming to society, one loses their humanity and becomes hollow, leaving all individualism behind, which is what the first world war did to most European society. By drawing onto this negative idea of men becoming hollow when a part of society, Eliot praises individualism instead, making it seem more humane. The poem symbolizes disillusionment caused by conforming to society which occurred in post-WWI Europe. While Eliot was not able to fight in the war, he was able to see its effects on society indirectly which led to the themes of disillusionment and individualism in the poem. Most modernist works share these themes: a larger evil society that oppresses the individual and takes innocence and youth away from children, leading to a clearer view of the world’s realities rather than its illusions. Most authors who fought in the wars and went through the depression use this method to reflect what happened during those events—larger societies or countries had evil intentions that they used to start conflicts and wars, affecting individuals within them who were forced to see cruel happenings, taking away their inherently good world. Youth were also affected by the wars as they had to grow up in chaos and lose their innocence from an early age. By including these topics in their pieces through symbolism, modernist authors were able to depict disillusionment which led to the favor of individuals over societies.

playing with fire, Pinali Patel, 2023

and the page is left half-written Kiera Toole, 2023 Tasks call me and the page is left half-written. An air of books, non-living things with numbers and letters and symbols dominating the focus. So I ponder of the world full of colors: where communication sparks fireside warmth; and knowledge blooms a tulip garden; when ignorance creates smoky chaos; and love beams a blinding light; I run for its open embrace. And the page is left half-written, papers of once-canopies. And the page is left half-written, but it never bothered me. I can make the beauty in this world. This page is not mine, I will stop—to be free.

Las Flores, Ruth Gabriel, 2022 Contradiction, LanAnh Doan, 2024 Contrast, Catalina Camacho Rondón, 2024 Purple flowers, Catalina Camacho Rondón, 2024

Painter’s Paradise Kaitlyn Perkins, 2023 He stood out like a white rose against a bush of red blossoms. Everything around him had a glowing hue on top of a dark world. Everything from the black cobblestone roads to the ebony-like bricks was dark. The sky above him was hard to distinguish against due to the towering reaches of a menagerie of tall, connected buildings. The paint on the ground, the walls, anything, and everything shone brightly as if they too were neon paint on a black velvet canvas. The streets are illuminated only by the occasional light and the scattered figments of leftover imagination. However strange and fabricated the landscape was, there was a constant. A thunderous clamor of hooves and snarls reverberated throughout the cityscape. Nearly being served a brutal punishment for trespassing, a great, vibrantly-colored bull charged down the narrow pathways, determined to discourage all passage through the streets. The echoing of its rage still trembled the road beneath it for a time, but even as that faded, the sound remained, only fading slightly. He had avoided it for now, but who was to say it would find him again? He never saw anyone move to and fro from their many windows or doorways, but that was probably for the best. The only citizen that seemed to make up this foreboding district was him, but even then he was from outside of here. Not of this plane, at least. The street had alleys that the creature never patrolled. Along the walls and hanging off of the many balconies were banners and posters, many depicting the struggle of a matador and a bull. The bright colors displayed the matador, not in a heroic light, but of one

of two evils vying for the viewer’s eye. A thief in the spotlight. The bull was right to steal his fame. The bull had a name, due to its innate nature: El Odio, to mark its burning anger. The matador was not a thief in name, per se, but he had stolen the artist’s love, a famed dancer of unmatched beauty. She was his everything, only to be taken by a man of subpar skill. So the artist painted. Why fight so passionately? Is it not the nature of nature to be torn down and made anew? To be controlled and pestered beyond relief? Never an artist, but forever a painter, he knew that letting this bull run rampant was easier than overcoming its tough nature. Easier than harnessing its rage, that it might overcome the matador. The thief. He painted the roads it ran down. He painted the fight for freedom; not for the bull. The matador was not a thief. The dancer was never stolen from him. The bull then ran the streets in a literal and metaphorical sense. It wasn’t being controlled. He was the bull. He wasn’t a painter. The matador’s colors were bright and mocking, but they too were fabricated. His love was never a dancer. She hadn’t been stolen, she moved on. He was still here, in the streets, running rampant. Even when no one else was there. He stood in front of his black canvas, again depicting the conflict. He put the paint down and walked away.

Untitled, Isabel George, 2022 34

“HOW DARE YOU, DAYDREAM”

Untitled, Robert Williams, 2022

Maladaptive Daydreaming Kaitlyn Perkins, 2023 How dare you, daydream Rob me of a life I desire so greatly? A place to find escapism Is a place to call home. When calling to go to a better place Needs to last longer than to just roam. A place hot and bright Where anything goes And a friend is just a thought away. Imagination is better than prose. The world calls out to you In a mocking tone of voice, You seek to run and hide Longing to find a better choice. You know to hide away makes you seem weak But what else can you do? When relying on the thalamus Makes a fake world feel so true. Perhaps this life feels dull, And adding spice is hard, By staying longer When trying seems to leave you scarred. It’s not as hard as it was— Living in your head— But even the dumbest of us know You can’t live on bread. Stay here longer But don’t throw away hope. Make friends for real Staying away is just a slippery slope.

Hank is a Menace Itohan Ologobosere, 2022

Surely you all know about Hank— My strange friend who played a mean prank. I wanted to rejuvenate. His drink made me hallucinate, So I jumped out of the fish tank.

Unknown Forest, Jaya Locklin, 2024

Darling Dalia Usha Umair, 2022 “That piece cannot move there” is what I imagine Silent Suri would say if they were just Suri, perhaps with the accompaniment of some foul language. To my luck, though, the prefix to their name holds true and I remain one move closer to checkmate. At least I think so. I am not quite sure of the rules of this game, but I enjoy it nonetheless. Game time from 4:15-4:45 is my second favorite time of day, p.m. of course; how mad must one be to play chess at four in the morning. Silent Suri is my ideal opponent as I do not have to manage any voice other than the one in my head. This voice seems to be vanishing too, not that I mind. I am sure it is just the work of the magical capsules of all different colors that they give me each day. They really are the kindest of hosts. They serve me meals on plastic platters and my favorite pudding for dessert, they read me pleasant stories, they provide me with my own room with celled windows (to protect me, I presume), they quiet the others’ screams. They even give me clothes to wear—a comfortable white gown with blue dots all over; it’s not the most flattering but that does not bother me since the others all wear the same, which I find to be quite humorous. This palace really is the most peaceful of all places. If only Richard and the children could stay here with me. He would visit some days at first during visiting hours and tell me stories of the children. He never brought them along though, he told me it was not a friendly place for them—a remark which is beyond me. I am sure the children would love it here as much as I do, I am sure of it. As time passed, his visits became less frequent; I assume he has been busy. It’s quite alright though, his voice was in all honesty a nuisance at times, especially when it exhibited that certain coldness I always loathed.

He is not the only one who has stopped visiting. The absence of the wicked woman has brought me great ease. They told me she was merely a figment of my imagination, but they cannot fool me for I have felt her presence on numerous occasions. Thankfully, I never laid eyes on her wretchedness, but I do know she came in the late depths of the night. She would somehow taint my every thought with her vile ones, submerging my mind in her complete and utter darkness. On the darkest of nights, she would even pull me from my bed and into the town to accompany her in her heinous crimes. The deplorable acts I witnessed were so surreal, it almost felt as though it was myself executing them. It was truly as if she temporarily yet wholly inhabited my body, tarnishing my name in the town. Her last visit that I can recall was the night before I was brought here. The truth is that I cannot recount the events of that night, I just knew by the horrified look on Richard’s face that it was of the utmost severity. He had found me asleep that morning near the gate of our abode with peculiar red stains all over me, which was especially odd considering I did not seem to have a single scratch on my person. Word soon spread that the body of a man by the name of Wren Davies was found by the lake. Everyone’s fingers pointed towards me as the primary suspect, which I attempted to shift in the wicked woman’s direction for it surely could not have been me. I would never openly express this to anyone, but deep down, Wren’s death brought me no sorrow other than that of the accusations. I may even go as far as to believe that he deserved it for all the sickening nights he would visit my chamber when I was a child—nights that, out of shame, I never told anyone about. But I could never be the one to draw the blade; indeed, this had to have been the work of the wicked woman.

As the strange men came to take me away, I assured them that the wicked woman was the one they sought. I was then brought to this wonderful place; I presume that they found the woman, and this was my reward. And the grandest reward it has been as it has freed my mind from her despicable clutch, for her voice was the most harrowing of all. After game time is my favorite time of day when they bring us those magical capsules in small disposable cups. I get one red one and two blue ones; everyone gets different ones. It is gracious of the hosts to give personalized capsules to each guest. I am not sure what it is that these colorful little things do, all I know is how my mind feels ever so free after I consume them. Everyone’s voices, including my own, begin to disappear—a feeling of ease that I hope will last forever every time. Sadly, such tranquility fades after some hours, but the hosts tell me that taking them consistently will render their effect everlasting. If I do not, however, they tell me they will have to take me down to the basement for a bizarre operation involving electricity. While the prospect of having electricity run through me sounds exhilarating, they needn’t worry as I would never willingly miss the pure bliss my beloved capsules bring me. The seat on the other side of the chessboard remains empty as Silent Suri is nowhere to be seen. I think they may be in the basement; maybe the electricity will give them the potency to become Suri, like in those books that children read of superhuman sensations. Anyhow, I am left to play against Gaunt Gale today. The winner gets the other’s pudding tonight, though she does not seem to have much of an incentive as she bestows no objection upon my cheats—not that I am complaining. I inquire about her thoughts on Silent Suri’s whereabouts. “I hear they took them down to the basement,” she responds.

“How marvelous! Surely they will be talking soon enough.” Though I will grieve the loss of a silent opponent. “They sure will. That device will bring out the screams of the quietest of creatures.” What a strange remark. I suppose I too would be so overjoyed as to yell out in exuberance. I am sure Suri will have plenty to say to me for all my baseless victories. “Well, that’s wonderful,” I reply. “You are an odd one, Delusional Dalia.” This name never fails to bewilder me. I would much rather prefer Darling Dalia or some other name of that sort. I am not sure how the “delusional” came to be. I am not bothered, though, for anyone who truly knows me knows that I am anything but. Once game time ends, we make our way to the line awaiting their personalized capsules. As I look down at the cup in my hand, I notice that there is an unusual lack of blue in it today. “Where are the blue ones?” “Ran out. They will be back for tomorrow’s dose.” “But I need them.” “Tomorrow.” I reassure myself that red is all that is necessary. Besides, I still get Gaunt Gale’s pudding tonight, so there needn’t be a reason to fret. By nine, I lay in bed as I drift off to sleep and my voice is suspended amidst the night’s darkness. It is within this same darkness that I awaken, putting an end to this will-less slumber. Though I have hitherto been subdued, Darling Dalia hath never escaped my grip. As she played her little games, there I lingered in her shadow, taking note of the nurses’ uniforms, folded in the vault three doors from mine, and of the key cards, stored within one of the shelves. Quietly, more so than Silent Suri, and with ease, I follow this path and back to replace this grisly gown with that of a nurse. And with this key card, my escape.

Before my departure, I glance a final look— one of triumph—at the moonlit sign reading “Minsor Sanatorium”. And with that, I take my leave for my former abode. Quite the walk it is, but the distance is no match for such fury. Upon my arrival, I check beneath the mat of the entrance for the key. Foolish Richard, shouldn’t he know better? After all, there is a killer roaming about the town. As I make my way up—stopping in the kitchen for the sharpest of blades—my sight diverts toward the polished frame encasing a portrait of Richard and the children with a dame other than Darling Dalia. All the more reason, I think to myself. As such, I climb the wooden staircase and reach his chamber; at last, I plunge my wrath into his futile heart. Red on the sheets, red on his mistress, red on my costume, red on the ticking clock whose hands read four in the morning. And with that, my being is sealed. Oh, ‘tis fate that the blue capsules were missing, for red is all I need.

Pain Killers, Andrea Trejo, 2023 40

Forsaken in a Fictitious Paradise Liam Scarborough, 2023 Out in view on the horizon, A spot of land approaches, There’ll be no compromisin’ O’er the fare that encroaches. When we all gathered aboard Meat, cheese and eggs were our gotten staple, We had quite a nice scrumptious hoard ‘Fore the food had spoilt’, ‘twas fresh on the table. When we set off to sea, Our drinks, they were fresh; Warm rum, ale, and mead Made steady our breast. When we pushed off the shore, Our rations—they were plenty; Hearts filled with courage galore, Yet not knowing how our guts would lay empty. Our luscious swill rapidly spoiled, Mold robbing our minds of elation and lust, And o’er our ark still we would toil, ‘Twas the four-leaf clover in which we all did trust. Once were we naive, Learned are we now Of our hopeless berieve, Or our mutinous avow. Nay! Today we persevere! Thanks be to thee, Who freed us from a stage most severe, And promised fortunes brought forth with glee.

Our lives were wrought in grief so dire, ‘Till your mercy freed us from our blight, Now in our gaze we see your allure, Our guts shall be replenished and eyes filled with light. Thanks be to thee, We gaze upon your blessings Of rich venison and beef, And countless savory dressings. Again shall we feast upon eats so divine, Thy island vows feats before thought forgone, We shall no more walk this thief-gotten line, For no more shall we sail the seas alone. Damned may I be, If you are but an illusion Damned may be our plea, If you resort to elusion. ‘Tis just my luck that you would be such, Merely a facade built from our starvation. Perhaps it was wrong to ask of God so much, But ‘tis natural that we should beg for salvation.

Emphasis, Vineet Updahya,2023

Now we lie beached upon lands forsaken, Sand and yet more lines the scene of our damnation. Our hope, faith and glory from us was taken, But such are the risks of a life of temptation.

Untitled, Vineet Upadhya, 2023

Camouflage Brielle Bristow, 2023 Little snowy specks, speckled across a brown back, It is you who shields a little fawn from attack, Curled snug against Mother Earth’s dark skin. You conspire with the sun’s spotted rays Hiding the feeble creature from the wolf’s gaze. Little black hooves, no claws with which to scratch And little white teeth which are no match For the wolf’s loathsome, crimson jaws. Yet your cunning illusion, a foolproof disguise, Fools the beastly wolf’s piercing eyes. Little quivering beast, anxious eyes wide with alarm, Stay still, you swaddle the little creature in your arms, Soothed by the sunlit warmth of your veil. Although all you wield is a slight sheet, Still, the wolf, you succeed to cheat. Little fragile neck—the wolf’s fangs could cleave, Leaving little for its mother to grieve, And a scarlet puddle—were it not for you. Camouflage, with your mystical masquerade, Meager critters faced with monsters need not be afraid. Little beastie, the wolf has meandered away Still starving, unable to seize a little, miserable meal, While your fragile being miraculously remains. Standing now, shadowed by your sublime guide, Your mother, from behind her mask, again, aside.

The Lake Lauren Shinn, 2022

Somewhere, near a quiet town reminiscent of decades past, under broad, clear skies, and amidst oaks and aspens shedding their leaves once again, a woman named Melanie arrived at the lake. There was nothing particularly striking about her: middle-aged with thinning hair and sallow skin, who had no ambition nor strive in her youth, and now reported to an office as a secretary for a large insurance company that cared neither for its clients nor its employees. Her life was dull: unremarkable, planned out, methodical, predictable. She had never felt any significant desire to be daring or spontaneous, instead choosing to settle down into a mundane, but sufficient life. However, something changed yesterday. Melanie had seen a picture of the lake the day before in a discarded travel catalog on the sidewalk close to her home, now hundreds of miles away from where she stood. On a whim, as if it was almost calling to her, she had booked a flight to Vermont and immediately set out to see the lake. The drive through the forest to get to an open area of lakefront in her old, rented Ford had Melanie grasping the steering wheel with wet palms, her nerves fringed with anticipation for a reason she could not quite place. Thoughts raced through her mind as she reflected on the past twenty-four hours. Hastily booking a flight and departing with only her purse and a coat, she now realized, was something absurdly out of character for her, something that she would never have imagined herself doing. “Why?” she wondered to herself. Why did her heart pound so rapidly within her chest? Why did she desire so strongly to see this lake? As she drove through the forest with her empty stomach and stale clothes, she found that despite her rash choices, she didn’t seem to care. Finally, after reaching a secluded part of the shoreline, she abandoned her car and hiked up a short way till she stood on a small, cliff-like ledge. The strong blue currents lapping against the rocky shores of the lake entranced Melanie as she stared at the rhythmic movement, almost unable to take her eyes away from them. “How beautiful!” she gasped aloud to no one. From where she was standing, she could see the expanse of water spread out far and wide under the cloudless sky with the

occasional cluster of oak trees scattered along the shore. A thought quickly flitted across Melanie’s mind. She remembered that the travel catalog had depicted many groups of families and friends laughing and traversing the water in boats, but where were they now? No cheers of laughter, no creatures swimming beneath the surface, and not even the songs of birds were present. The water was beautiful yet barren. A heavy, leaden feeling settled in her chest before her mind suddenly cleared and she remembered why she was there. “To see the water, of course,” she exhaled with a grin. She stood on that small ledge for hours. The sky grew darker and the temperature cooler as night approached, yet Melanie had no urge to leave. Everything in that moment felt completely right- her underlying hatred of herself and her unexceptional life soothed and disappeared as she listened to the waves crashing against the rocks below her. Suddenly, in the dimming light, a flash of movement in the water caught her eye. “What was that, there, in the distance?” she thought to herself, her pulse quickening with concern. “A hand? A child’s hand? Oh god, was someone stuck here all this time?” Without hesitation, she suddenly began making her way down the steep ledge, tripping and stumbling over rocks in the dark. Loose stones seemed to evade her feet as she sought stable ground, cutting her calves and causing her to wince in pain as her ankles twisted and bent at unnatural angles. She didn’t care. She needed to know what she saw. Finally, she stepped into the lake. One foot at a time, she trudged into the cold, inky water, gasping from the pain in her wounded legs and seeing her blood create red swirls in the water she left behind her. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. Further and further she went, as if in a daze, unable to stop as she felt the frigid water rapidly rushing up her body. Whatever she saw in the water, she could see no longer. There was no hand, no child, no one on the verge of drowning in the dark. There was only Melanie, now struggling to keep her head above the water, coughing and sputtering as the lake water seemed to tug her further out. Her heart felt like it could nearly explode with panic, yet Melanie could feel her fear being placated by a strange, muddled

Look at His Face, Itohan Ologbosere, 2022 state of mind. Something wanted her to go deeper, yes, deeper into the water below. She could feel her body protesting with all its might. Somewhere deep in her mind, she could hear cries of “No! No! Please, no!”, yet the urge to comply with that inviting feeling overpowered that small voice of consciousness, so far off lost in the sea of her thoughts now.

At last, with an unnatural sense of calmness, Melanie allowed the desire of the water to slowly sink her to the bottom of that frigid, dark lake.

Surface and Depth Isabella Garcia, 2024 Every once in a while, a rock saves me Even if it’s weeks, or months later that the string wrapped around its body becomes visible It lifts me out of the water Wipes down my face Offers me a towel along with their comfort and presence The bottomless sea tends to swallow me whole Slowly I sink deeper into the calming darkness Where limitations are non-existent and I can simply be Until I run out of oxygen And drown in an intolerable unlivable nightmare that is life Unfortunately when I’m drowning I’m at my best I don’t know I’m slowly withering out Everyday floats by without the acknowledgement of effort I finally feel capable and at peace A new perspective New surroundings Different, more manageable struggles awaken The surface hurts almost as much as depths Only one isn’t real I’m pulled back up, taken care of, saved In all likelihood still unknown to them But thank you to all my rocks for bringing me back to my reality

Untitled, Ruth Gabriel, 2022 48

Libertas ex Insectis Ally Cocar, 2022 but safety, the boy read on, absorbing the words from a long-dead language into his odd little mind. He sat, curled up on the old couch, holding the weathered brown binding in his hands, the yellowed pages rapidly becoming a place of refuge for the growing adolescent. One night, the boy awoke with a start. The bugs were extra active in those early hours, and he swore he could hear voices, as if from another room in the hospital. But there were tens, hundreds, of tiny, screeching voices, calling out his name… It had been many years since he’d first been admitted to the hospital. Many years for a boy to grow up and out of his silly imagination. Many years for a boy to learn the routines of the staff, old and new, and exactly when he could grab the girl. The very same girl, just a few years younger than him, who “I swear I have control over my own mind and body. looked at him funny when he nearly tore his own My soul? Not so much…” skin off trying to grasp at imaginary things. A young boy sat twisting in his seat, writhing The things he dumped on her weren’t so as if trying to escape his own skin. His own body, a imaginary, not to him. Buckets and buckets of the prison, the ultimate personal torture. Psychosis, the things he’d gathered, gathered around the poor bespectacled doctor had determined. The boy knew girl, tied to a chair. He circled her, grinning widely there were no bugs on him, he could see none and while she struggled against her bonds. Time didn’t knew that, logically, there were none. It therefore seem to pass, and yet the hands on the little clock brought the boy all the more discomfort as to why on the wall seemed to speed about on their rounds. he could intensely feel them scuttling about along The boy picked up the first bucket, hefting it in his entire body. his arms, then dumped it over her head. And then He had swatted at them incessantly, disrupting another. Buckets and buckets, one after the other, his class, on the verge of screaming every day. The filled with them. They came down upon her like boy’s parents had taken him to doctor after doctor, some rushing torrent of water, insects rather than until one had finally put him in a hospital. There, soft droplets. She screamed, mouth agape, trying the boy learned to not scream at night at the idea of to press the noise through the walls towards some bugs all around him as he tried to rest. He learned savior, someone, anyone. And with her mouth not to twist in his seat, trying to squash what was agape, she was able to catch even more of the things not there. He learned that logic was his best friend than the boy would have hoped. A piercing shriek, in that cavernous hospital, filled with rows of emp- moment after moment, filling the room with the ty cots and screams of the not-yet-dead. The boy sounds of agony, and yet—no one came. learned that, even if his skin told him one thing, his mind told him another, and he was safe. He was safe, he was safe, he was safe. The boy tried his best to keep his mind off his constant torment. He read voraciously, until all the books on the shelves had been read twice through, the tiny hospital library offering nothing left but a dusty Latin encyclopedia. He had to check each page for a hidden devil, and after finding nothing

Movement, Andrea Trejo, 2023

Untitled, Antonio Carriedo, 2023 The screams continued until her voice eventually gave out, until she choked on the bugs poured on her, until she slumped in her seat, face turned a purple color that gave way to pale ashen white. The boy merely tilted his head, smiling at the sight of the bugs still crawling all over her limp form, gnawing at the rope tied tight ‘round her neck. “Over the years, when continuously faced with one’s monster, you learn pretty soon you have to face it. But facing it only makes the horror worse. See, you have to make friends with your monster. Or, rather, monsters.” The boy giggled as he hissed the final letter.

The bespectacled doctor shook his head, sighing. “James, we have to take you to a more secure hospital. For your own sake. And for the sake of others…” “Oh, doctor! Doctor, doctor, doctor… you think I hurt that poor girl? I freed her! She need not fear any monsters, not anymore! Libertas ex insectis, libertatem insectorum, eh?” James tilted his head, giggling some more. A beetle had just crawled up his neck and whispered a delightful joke in the young man’s ear. James only laughed harder. The doctor leaned slightly backward in his chair.

“James?” “Yes?” “That’ll be all for today.” James just laughed again and nodded, standing up, careful to not drop any of his friends. He was guided back to his room and forced onto the bed, where he laid completely flat, enjoying the sensation of all his little friends crawling all around him. The boy, now almost a young man, let out a small giggle, which crescendoed into a larger laugh, until he was guffawing, unable to breathe properly. Help was called for as guards rushed to the door, struggling to unlock it. By the time the medic arrived, James had choked to death. When it came time for the autopsy, they found a singular, miniscule spider lodged in his throat.

In My Head Zahina Encarnacion, 2025

Do you know what it’s like? Being stuck in your own head, Analyzing your thoughts When you should be studying instead. Not knowing what’s real Or what’s just made up in your mind, Planning three steps ahead Leaving reality behind. Living in a nightmare A nightmare filled with what-ifs, Anxiety and fear Wrapped like Christmas gifts. Bending reality To something that isn’t quite true, Taking hours and hours To figure out what’s best for you. Never knowing what might happen Not seeing what’s right in front of your face Being told that you’re loved and appreciated, But still feeling like a disgrace. Walking into a room Thinking, “All eyes are on me.” I guess that’s the price you pay When you mix illusion with reality.

Untitled, Catalina Camacho Rondón, 2024

The Profits of Pain Usha Umair, 2022 Fear. Fear is both at the heart of eating disorders and an inevitable result of living in a capitalist society. In The Capitalist Manifesto, Louis O. Kelso and Mortimer J. Adler (1958) write at great length to define leisure as a time for further advancing civilization “to prevent anyone from confusing it with play or idleness” and that no “self-respecting man could regard indulgence” in the latter (pp. 28-31). As proclaimed here, capitalism deems laziness with failure which, in turn, creates the fallacy that only those who work hard succeed and deserve praise. Since society links laziness with larger body types, demonizing laziness ultimately perpetuates the stigma against these body types and causes them to be viewed as unprofessional. As a result, many people develop eating disorders to attain a thinner body type to avoid this stigma. Fear also manifests itself in this matter through socially constructed beauty ideals created primarily through mass media advertising by industries to achieve capitalist goals. The fashion, cosmetic surgery, beauty, diet, weight-loss, and entertainment industries use mass media to represent “the image of the body” as “that of perfection” which “blurs the lines between reality” and what the media continually exposes us to (Carolan, 2005, p. 100). This promotes consumerism or the deceiving idea that the increased consumption of goods and services opens the door to an individual’s well-being, thus generating maximum profit for these industries at the expense of the consumers. This becomes a dangerous thing as many consequently equate happiness with the “ideal” body type. Fear is not only a seed for eating disorders, but it also often sprouts out of them. Caloric deficits—restricting calories to a certain amount—and intermittent fasting—eating only within a certain time frame—are common harbingers of eating disorders. These methods frequently give rise to an obsession with calories and this obsession eventually becomes fear. Pursuing extreme weight loss journeys without adequate research causes many to develop a newfound fear of calories in which they aim to minimize its intake, thus depriving the body of “the energy needed to sustain life” (Osilla et al., 2021).

Success. In capitalist socities, material success defines one’s identity and worth which is evident with the growing job insecurity and demand for higher education. One of the many ways this phenomenon harms people’s well-being is through normalizing eating disorder behavior as a means for success. For example, athletes in “aesthetic sports” and “weight division sports” are prone to engage “in extreme and unhealthy eating and weight control behaviors in the name of commitment and competition” (Francisco et al., 2013, p. 266). Gymnasts, ballerinas, and ice-skaters often suffer anorexia nervosa to stay thin for appearance purposes while wrestlers go to great lengths to make certain weight classes for competitions—all to feel successful. As such, symptoms of eating disorders are often erroneously ascribed with success in weight-loss or weight-gain endeavors. Competition. The highly competitive nature of eating disorders embodies capitalism’s manifestation in society since capitalist “ideology is a set of values… rooted in competition” (Butler, 2018). While healthy competition may be necessary for a healthy economy, under the lens of capitalism at least, unhealthy competition is necessary to continue the unhealthy mindset brought on by eating disorders. This competition can occur in several ways: comparing caloric intake or expenditure, comparing weights and/or pounds lost/gained, comparing eating habits and diets, comparing bodies through body checking, or even comparing eating disorders. Competitive tendencies are one of the many mental tolls that eating disorders take on those suffering as a way to feel validated and cope with dwindling self-esteem. Control. Control is power. Like control over markets making entities powerful in capitalist economies, self-control over one’s body is the ultimate feeling of power in eating disorders. Controlling exactly how much one consumes provides a fallacious feeling of power as if one is beyond the primal human need for food. In reality, those suffering tend to rely their happiness and self-worth entirely upon futile caloric goals, pounds lost or gained, and external validation; this pursuit for control only spirals people deeper and deeper into their eating disorders. Herein lies the ultimate illusion of eating disorders: one thinks they are in control when really the disorder controls them.

Enticing Portal, Itohan Ologbosere, 2022

Breath Gabriel L’Heureux, 2023

CAN’ T BREATHE I am under water. I cannot breathe. I cannot move. I am drowning. No one can save me from this treacherous fate. I feel my throat constrict. I feel my limbs go numb. As I lose the air in my lungs, I lose my determination along with it. I hear a knock on a door. “Are you okay in there?” I open my eyes and choke on the air. I cough violently. I breathe in and out slowly. I feel my throat loosen. I feel my limbs come back to life. I reassure myself: it wasn’t real. It was only an illusion. “I will be.”

DROWNING 55

HELP ME

Drowning, Cela Kilmer, 2023

OPEN THE DOOR

IWho-I-Am! and down forever, pushing past thorns andcollide, I plod blindly the rooms getofIdarker, step quietly topoint, not break thetocan silence. Thepeak cold isthe numbing andI me the isjourney stiffening, yetgohow the search istheunending; there’ s our noandend tomebristles. descending. asmybeoflight closes behind meknow tothisanit,IWho-I-Could’ve-Been! even denser Iand refuse turn back and regret my choice. Istart seeapain tomy the end asgood, the end sees toonyou?”. me, and when our journeys surely lifeAnd will aaslight melody. I’ll say, “Hello, How dofell you do?”, and she’ll reply, “Hello, I’ m about We’ll speak of journeys and share our observations on life; course, she will empathize, we reunite. Yes, she will welcome with warm embrace and be my escape. The thought unburdens of the weight of struggle—before I’ m floating down the stairwell. At the of last path, stare down the stairwell, resting my eyes door with light voice behind. That sliver is brighter than void, where for an eternity I into futile pondering. That familiar voice is clearer than this storm, where winds start howling and rain starts beating. I feel myself sink again as I remember what will happen; I rush to the door in hopes I will gladden. I openme,thethat door,webut light CRASHES, BURNS, andatyet SCARS thedischarged ground withandgoes a BOOM thatthen me. future, thought and feeling, every andSilence every heartbeat evertothehad or will comes thatshestrike. Everything white, pitch black, andpast withandaPerhaps brief flicker outside, room is yet stilltoagain. finds returning capture andhave engulf my together memory, has engrained herbreaks message inEvery my mind. I every wasinside just notandmeant to be,thebut I amsensation, understand why.

TheHere, nightthe ispresent full of another dreams could grasp oreverything keep.about The night isknown. fullIofcouldn’ storms I same couldis asyellow notfluid dissipate. Theandnight isthe fullmind, ofoutside dullthe lights and lurkthBf me to inquire the friend t and remember. Silence is swallowing inverting dreams find myself familiar house. The lights burn the overhead, thegrow night is stillpast dark. ghosts of my and does notisInight exist,innot fora vaguely here I’ v e ever Here, time as the musty air trapped by damp walls walls ceilings, trees for climbing abound. Fresh mints, AItimeline I’veonneglected outgrown andisreaches to the endless corridors of this haven. Stairs zig-zag up and down; progression and follow that stalk and fall for millenia, as I’ve done a million times before. Looking down theregr stapo

Unreconciled Time Shiza Ghani, 2022 The night is full of dreams I could not grasp or keep. The night is full of storms I could not dissipate. The night is full of dull lights and lurking shadows, tired eyes but pending troubles. The sky and ground are restless, depolarizing their charged thoughts in the distance, leaving me to inquire about the friend I couldn’t remember. Silence is swallowing the mind, inverting dreams into reality, reality into dreams… eventually, I let go of the present, slipping into the illusion’s seams. I find myself on another night in a vaguely familiar house. The lights burn the same yellow overhead, and the night outside is still dark. But here, the storms have frozen to numbing stillness and the lights are soft and warm. The room is empty of matter but full of memory; ghosts of my past and future live in harmony. Here, the present does not exist, for here is everything I’ve ever known. Here, time is as fluid as the musty air trapped by the damp walls that are as old as eternity. Perhaps I accidentally left the windows open eons ago, because an unattended garden floods in. Vines climb the walls and ceilings, trees for climbing grow abound. Fresh mints, poisonous berries, and dandelions for wishes populate the ground. A memory I’ve neglected is outgrown and reaches to the endless depths of this haven. Stairs zig-zag up and down; progression and regression outlast duration. Forward, there’s a stalk that grows downwards, its stem and leaves going deeper and deeper into the abyss. I can follow that stalk and fall for millennia, as I’ve done a million times before. Looking down the stairs, I question, “Will I find her?”, because the bottom is so dark that it might not even be there. I start my journey and go down forever, pushing past thorns and bristles. I plod blindly as the rooms get darker, I step quietly to not break the silence. The cold is numbing and the pain is stiffening, yet the search is unending; there’s no end to descending. And as light closes behind me to an even denser point, I refuse to turn back and regret my choice.

I see to the end as the end sees to me, and when our journeys collide, surely life will be a melody. I’ll say, “Hello, Who-I-Was! How do you do?”, and she’ll reply, “Hello, Who-I-Am! I’m good, how about you?”. We’ll speak of our journeys and share our observations on life; of course, she will empathize, and we can accept. Yes, she will welcome me with a warm embrace and be my escape.

silence. The cold is numbing and the pain is stiffening, yet the search is unending; there’s no end to descending. And as light closesthe fuse turn back and regret my choice. owthe dotothe you do?”, and she’ll reply, “Hello, Who-I-Am! I’ m how about you?”. We’ll speak of our and share our observations nburdens me the weight of my struggle—before I know it, floating stairwell. At the peak the last I stare tokought That familiar voice clearer than this where winds and rain beating. feel sink again shemory, tofutile door inofhashopes I will gladden. and feeling, every sensation, andisevery heartbeat thatgood, wemyI’mever had ordown willstart have comes atjourneys that strike. Everything goesdown white, yetpondering. she discharged and engrained her message instorm, mind. Perhaps I the washowling just nottogether meant tostarts be,ofbut I am yetIpath, tomyself understand why.

The thought unburdens me of the weight of my struggle—before I know it, I’m floating down the stairwell. At the peak of the last path, I stare down the stairwell, resting my eyes on the door with light and voice behind. That sliver of light is brighter than this void, where for an eternity I fell into futile pondering. That familiar voice is clearer than this storm, where winds start howling and rain starts beating. I feel myself sink again as I remember what will happen; I rush to the door in hopes I will gladden.

I open the door, but the light CRASHES, BURNS, and SCARS the ground with a BOOM that breaks me. Everything goes bright white, then pitch black, and with a brief flicker inside and outside, the room is still again. Silence finds me, returning to capture and engulf my memory, yet she has discharged one lasting message in my mind. Lying still, I cannot accept the horrid rhythm of time, for reality will always be our unreconciled rhyme.

Trapped, Andrea Trejo, 2023

The night dreamsareI could notdepolarizing grasp or keep.their Thecharged night isthoughts full of storms could notleaving dissipate. night isabout full ofthedull lightsI couldn’ and lurking shadows, tirediseyes but pending trouThe skyis full andofground restless, in theIdistance, me toTheinquire friend t remember. Silence swallowing the mind, inverting dreams into reality, reality into dreams… eventually, I let go of the present, slipping into the illusion’ s seams. Ibles. find myself on another night in a vaguely familiar house. The lights burn the same yellow overhead, and the night outside is still dark. But here, the storms have frozen to numbing stillness and the lights are soft and warm. The room is of matter but full of memory; ghosts of my past and future live in harmony. Here, the present does not exist, for here is everything I’ve ever Here, time is as fluid as the musty air by damp walls that old as eternity. Perhaps I accidentally left the windows open ago, because an unattended garden in. Vines climb the walls and for grow abound. Fresh mints, poisonous berries, dandelions for wishes populate ground. A timeline I’ve neglected iseons outgrown and reaches thedeeper endless corridors ofempty this haven. zig-zag andtrapped down; progression regression duration. Forward, there’down sanda stalk that grows downwards, it’s stem and going andknown. deeper into thebecause abyss. IStairs can follow that stalk andtrees fortheclimbing millenia, asbeI’ve doneareaasoutlast million times before. Looking theleaves stairs, Itoquestion “Will Ifloods find her?”, the bottom isthe soupceilings, dark that itfallmight not evenand there.

king shadows, tired eyes but pending troubles.stillness skyofand and ground are restless, their thoughts inbutin.thefull distance, leaving shat intohere, reality, reality into dreams… IThe letleftgothe theground. slipping intodepolarizing the illusion’ s seams. But theold storms have frozen toIforeventually, numbing thepresent, lights areeons soft and warm. The room ischarged empty of matter ofabyss. memory; future live in harmony. are as as eternity. Perhaps accidentally windows open ago, because an unattended garden floods Vines climb oisonous berries, and dandelions wishes populate the ression outlast duration. Forward, there’ s a stalk that grows downwards, it’ s stem and leaves going deeper and deeper into the I the can airs, I question “Will I find her?”, because the bottom is so dark that it might not even be there.

start my journey and go down forever, pushing past thorns and bristles. I plod blindly as the rooms get darker, I step quietly to not breI r behind me to an even denser point, to the end as sees to me, and when our journeys collide, surely life will be a melody. I’ll say, “Hello, Who-I-Could’ v e-Been! onIIIsee life; of course, she will empathize, and we can reunite. Yes, will me with a warm embrace and be my escape. The thought stairwell, resting my eyes door light and voice behind. That sliver of light is brighter this void, for an I as Ime. remember what willeternity happen; open the door, butthe theendonlight BURNS, and SCARS the ground with aSilence BOOM thatthan breaks Every past and future, every then pitch black, and with a the briefCRASHES, flickerwith inside and outside, thesheroom iswelcome still again. finds me, returning towhere capture and engulf myfellI rti

I Loved You Until Alyssa McLish, 2024

Saw you through a filter Was overwhelmed by your beauty Swore that you were perfection incarnated I loved what I saw Took in poison coated in sugar My taste buds were faulty Swore you were sweetness defined I loved what I tasted Heard music in clangor Was hypnotized by your soothing tone Swore you were an angel I loved what I heard Found aroma in the stench My nose was crooked Swore you were a rose I loved the scent I felt warmth in the tundra Receptors were dormant Until I felt a chill run down my spine Something fetid seeped through the fragrance The music became noise There was a bitter to the sweet I saw your true colors I loved you No I loved the illusion of you

LoSt, Andrea Trejo, 2023 Fruit Fuschia, LanAnh Doan, 2024

In the blink of an eye Melai Desta, 2025 You watch as they swim While you drown. While the sea of the dead Suffocates you.

You relive their moments, You watch as they leave, You watch as they die.

You all started together, You were wanderers, Finding new beautiful places. But now you’re on your own.

Deserted, with nowhere to go You can’t even cry out. Stuck up somewhere far away.

Too far, Too high. You watched as they died. Slowly, but surely, they were gone. With all the other things you’d lost: Their memories, their hearts. And now them. Taken from you so viciously.

Bodies laying waste in the sea. Never to remember, the one who left. And never to know the one who suffered.

Untitled, Vineet Upadhya, 2023

Natural Progression of Coupling Kendra Haley, 2022 He shook violently while lying on the floor. Nothing was wrong with his health, per se, but there might as well have been. In a panic they searched their desk for something, anything to fix this. All sorts of papers and pens and cups flew. Including one with plain water in it, which hit the floor, and emptied itself over frayed wires plugged into his neck. Then yellow sparks flew, too, and flesh-scented smoke flew, too. When the smoke dissipated and the sparks ceased and the man stilled, the limbs were no longer strained and they remained languid against the hard and flat floor. The conscious individual only watched. But they didn’t cause this, did they? Not on purpose, no?

hear the blips of programs being opened and files being created. Within minutes he was aware of the memory of a new person in his mind. He was, however, merely confused the first time he saw her and thought of her. She was inserted, as he was aware—but she came from nowhere. “Do I know her?” Narcissus turns, gazes at Elvan with a tilted head. Elvan shrugs. “You do now. Relax; you understand how this works, don’t you? Close your eyes.” He complies. “Yeah, just—no one’s done that before.” It’s more common that you would create the image of yourself, so you can do and live the unthinkable using the scope of your partner’s mind. “I’ll admit, I’m different.” They’re playful. “But other than that, It’s the same. Now, relax, like I said.” Narcissus met the woman in a packed cafe. She asked They looked like some kind of flag—Elvan to sit with him, and did so with permission. Harel with flowing fabrics and cloth next to a “It’s nice to meet you,” she’d said. “I’m Sanja—sorry slightly taller Narcissus, crisp, linear, and geometric to take up your space.” in attire. They had shared ideas at the restaurant He didn’t expect Elvan to be so shy looking in of things they could do with each other. Perhaps the memory, but he supposed it wasn’t them, was structures they could build. Narcissus was not so it. It was “Sanja”. A slightly strange thing, to play a geometric, having ideas of skyscrapers that curve person. and wind through space. Elvan was more into the “It’s okay, I don’t need it all. Narcissus.” engineering of it all; buildings don’t traditionally “Good to meet you, Narcissus,” she said, optimism hold a half arch very well. purposefully pushed into her voice as she smiled a shy and They’d gone to Elvan’s home, where all their overly-polite smile. hardware was (as Narcissus did not have the Then, they sat. required set), to do what they really intended to do. [“What did you do next?” asks Elvan.] Elvan’s home was orange-lit and dim, lights coming It was a while before either of them spoke again; they up from near the ground and not down from the opted to mind their own business following introductions. ceiling. Narcissus understood further how special “Hey, if you don’t mind, you think you could answer Elvan was when he saw the hardware setup, visible something for me?” Narcissus pinched the bridge of his nose, upon entry. His own little personal computer setup relaxed but not very much. was tucked away in the far back room of his apart“Huh? Oh, sure, I guess. What do you need?” ment, almost away from even his own eyes. “I—I’m doing this thing and—what do you think goes Elvan stepped to the station first, picking good with purple?” up wires and adjusting things on their desk and A pause. resting surface. They swiveled their lush dark brown “Purple? Like, the color? Well, white or black, obviouschair around in the process. “Don’t be shy.” ly. Not so obviously, gold’s a good color. Green or blue might “I’m not,” Narcissus mumbled, but he obliged. be good, too. And I think something about otters goes with With a metal band fastened around his head and a purple really well.” Sanja was noticeably out of breath when cord plugged into his spine, Elvan quickly attended she answered the question, and he wondered how often she to him. He faced away from the screen showing the spoke at length. interface, as was the social etiquette, but he could “Otters? The color brown?”

“No.” “Ah. Okay.” He thought about otters and purple for the next week. The file closes. Narcissus opens his eyes wide and stares at the ceiling because he knows he closed the file and he hadn’t intended to. Elvan caresses his shoulder, reassuring. “Don’t worry. I made that your exit.” “Made what my exit?” “Otters and purple. If you wanna get out. Think about otters and purple just like you did. Over and over again.” “Thank you.” “Don’t.” Narcissus was more and more conditioned to seek a new memory of Sanja with every date with Elvan as time went on and he didn’t mind. Seeing Elvan’s smile reflecting the sun was heartwarming; remembering Sanja’s rare smile was exciting. When Sanja drank coffee or wrote on a sticky note he could see someone akin to a goddess. It was so much more than coffee and sticky notes to him, so much more. “Miss?” he’d asked one instance. “Yes?” Elvan answered, as they always did to his good manners. “Is Sanja’s last name ‘Harel’? Like yours? She’s like you, right?” Elvan stared at him for a whole moment, thinking about the question they seemed unprepared for. “I already told you. No. ‘Pinheiro’.” “Oh, okay.” “Why? You want it to be ‘Paget’, like yours?” “I—To address her in emails.” It was honestly much more than that, and he was sure they could tell. He didn’t mind, but Elvan minded. They opted for more alone time, doing mundane things and talking about anything but Sanja and his memories of her. Narcissus was strong in pushing against the dismissal because Sanja was someone he really wanted. Something he really wanted, and they knew he thought they wanted it, too. Narcissus remembered seeing Elvan on his couch in the morning, laying around and doing nothing. “Good morning,” they had said. “Ah—good morning.” “Something wrong?” “Where’s Sanja?” “Who’s Sanja?” [“You know who she is,” Narcissus remarked, believing in Elvan’s benevolence and playfulness hiding in his tone.] [“I’m being serious,” was all they responded with.] “She was here last night.” He quickly became worried, then frantic, practically searching every corner of his

apartment. Elvan was unfazed, even as the mood of the room shifted. “Calm down. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” [“Really, calm down.”] “It’s important. She’s important! I mean—she’s got to be here, right? Don’t you know where she is?” “You’re acting irrational.” Narcissus breathed, relaxed himself. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll just contact her.” He stepped away from the living area, thereby disregarding his partner. Otters and purple. He hears the soft padded sound of Elvan’s hands dropping to the desk. “What’s wrong, dear?” “I want you to show me something new.” “Well,” they lolled over it for a moment, “Say please.” “Please.” “Okay.” They gave him a new blue cable which he plugged into his spine without question. They walk away—absence of their touch chilling on his chest—and when they get to their keyboard, they are frozen. “Miss?” Narcissus asks, throat dry from possibly speaking out of turn. “Yes?” “What are you doing?” There’s hesitation, still. “I’m making something new for you. Don’t be impatient.” “I’m sorry.” “I know.” Elvan doesn’t know he’s sorry. They don’t think he is. They know he isn’t. He’s in love with Sanja and they regret making up that stupid woman with her otters and her shyness so much and they’re so close to burning that file to ash and they’ll do it. They know exactly how to fix this. In their rage they felt confident that their skills were unmatched, and while it was illegal and ill advised to harm someone through the interface, it was a guideline they utterly ignored. With a request that he wait, Elvan sighed aloud and typed as loudly as the non-physical keyboard would allow. A new file created, named after their theory birthed from anger—one supporting the non-lethality of pain signals in the interface. Narcissus’s mouth opened slightly with the suddenness of this new environment. [Setting: Only an endless void of gradient purple: (#b767f9 to #524b61); time: 0;] [Open Sanja Pinheiro original;] The Sanja that Elvan made wasn’t warped to sit as Narcissus’s obsession. This is what she was meant to be. (And the reality of it all was that Sanja was a normal person, in either case. She had had better traits, not better power. Elvan is a bit self-critical

of their hyperbolic thought regarding such a small part of this whole interface.) [Set Sanja Pinheiro original: face-to-face with C:subject.NPaget.009i approx. 4 inch apart;] [Say Sanja Pinheiro original: “Hello, Narcissus.”] C:subject.NPaget.009i: “Hi, hun. Where are we?” [Say Sanja Pinheiro original: “That doesn’t matter. I want to ask. Do you love me?”] C:subject.NPaget.009i: “What?” [Say Sanja Pinheiro original: “Answer me.”] Hesitation. C:subject.NPaget.009i: “Yes. Of course. More than anything.” A hand comes to her forearm. [Set Sanja Pinheiro original: pulling away;] [Say Sanja Pinheiro original: “Why?”] C:subject.NPaget.009i: Repeats. “Why?” The hand lingers. [Say Sanja Pinheiro original: “Yes.”] C:subject.NPaget.009i: “You’re wonderful. Special. The most interesting thing I have.” [Say Sanja Pinheiro original: “I don’t understand why. I’m normal. A regular person. I’m not special.”] C:subject.NPaget.009i: Fingers push back her hair. “Don’t say that about yourself! I cherish you.” [Set Sanja Pinheiro original: pulling away;] [Say Sanja Pinheiro original: “I’m not demeaning myself. It’s a statement.] [Set Sanja Pinheiro original: sighing;] [Say Sanja Pinheiro original: “Look, I don’t appreciate your love. It makes me squeamish.”] C:subject.NPaget.009i: “What?” The fingers linger. [Say Sanja Pinheiro original: “This is the way I am, for real. What you think of me—who you think I am—it’s not real.”] C:subject.NPaget.009i: “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Smiling. “Don’t play.” No longer smiling. “Don’t lie.” Pleading. [Say Sanja Pinheiro original: “Look.”] [Say Sanja Pinheiro original: “I love you, but you changed me.”] The file shows corruptions and errors and it closes and the whole program shuts down, and Narcissus’s eyes go unfocused and his body begins to tremble and shake. [Set (Say Sanja Pinheiro original: “Ω”): SIGNAL.AδC F3*P4;] //Set the dialogue Ω to trigger a pain signaling to the brain [Set Ω: Say Sanja Pinheiro original: “I love you, but you changed me.”;] //Dialogue that is set to Ω

I see Three, Andrea Trejo, 2023

Untitled, Amir Austin, 2022

A Star Goes Bye Shiza Ghani, 2022 Now the sea and sky can for once be one Mellow duo of You and I; it seems Your light has scattered with the parting sun— Twilight twinkle bliss that shall last in dreams. Memories are drifting, death is slowing As I reach for your hand to wish goodbye. Time reveals that life is so unknowing Of love that illumes from within the eye. Our shadows lengthened; now they diminish Like untold words, radiant by descent. Regrettably, night rise was imminent And lucid vision will come to an end. In moonlight, more distant stars grow anew— I remember you, if only you knew.

Nothing but an Illusion Fiker Ayalew, 2025

Endings are only an illusion, nothing but an illusion, as nothing truly ends. Even if stars light years away have reached the end of their life, their light still shines down us as we look up into the night sky, years in the future, their gift to us. And of those who were dearly loved and revered, but still lost to the passage of time, please do not despair, for memories of them will live on in the hearts of their beloved, their legacy remaining behind. Nothing truly ends, as the elements that made those in the past have mixed in with us, so nothing is truly destroyed, oh nothing truly ends.

dreaming, Josephine Chivore, 2022 68

Credits Editor in Chief: Shiza Ghani

Editors: Ofuga Aitekha Vineet Upadhya Amir Austin Usha Umair Shiza Ghani Kendra Haley Vandanadevi Dasarapu Ruth Gabriel Aamna Rehman Gabriel L’Heureux Ally Cocar Bobby Sharma Lauren Shinn Kiera Toole

Special Thanks to: Mr. Andrews, Class Teacher and Club Sponsor Adaeze Uzoije, Club President Micah Xu, Club Vice President Mrs. Vatalaro, Photography Teacher The Literary Magazine Club Everyone who submitted