Limbo: Haute Magazine's Fall 2023 Issue

LETTER FROM THE CREATIVE DIRECTORS

Dear Reader,

“Limbo” represents a state of being, an existence of uncertainty that walks the shaky boundary between the divine beauty of heaven and the nightmarish dread of hell. As beings who occupy this liminal space, we cannot be a part of either dichotomy and can only imagine what lies above or below. It is haunting yet beautiful. It is disturbing yet enchanting.

We — Anoushka, Fiona, and Katherine — are thrilled and honored to present to you this body of work that we hope captures and tempers that familiar feeling we’ve all experienced, existing in this state of unknown.

This issue aims to blur the line between these realms, universes, and realities which are, after all, woven from the same cloth. It’s impossible to have good without bad, heaven without hell, light without darkness. As we search for the boundaries between these supposed opposites, we find ourselves questioning our human relationship to the enigmatic beauty and enticing terror of what is beyond us. Perhaps the boundaries are greater than we are, impossible to understand. Or maybe we alone separate these realities.

Limbo is a concept bigger than us, than anything that one person could ever imagine alone. So it is fitting that Limbo is our most extensive issue to date, featuring work by a record-breaking 80 storytellers, visualists, and creators. Across 376 pages, our talented staff explores the good, the bad, and — perhaps most importantly — the messy middle.

With an issue as experimental as “Limbo,” we couldn’t possibly have done it alone. Working alongside some of the strongest creatives we know has been an incredible and fulfilling experience. Daniel, our Editor, we are grateful for your support and constant positivity. Hunter and Grace, Directors of Writing, your brilliant ideas and sparkling energy shaped this issue, from start to finish. Juliana and Alan, Directors of Photography, your ambition and drive to push the visual boundaries of this theme continuously inspire us. Nishka and Natalie, Directors of Visual Design, your boundless creativity and knack for visual storytelling formed the backbone of this issue. Josey and Kayla, Directors of Multimedia, your passion and intention are what brought this theme to vibrant life. Franklin, Director of Content, your multifaceted talents have brought Haute’s presence to new heights. Jade, Director of Marketing, and Daniel, Director of Finance, your innovation to conceive something greater than yourselves is why we can celebrate this issue in the grandest way possible. Finally, thank you to our staff of writers, photographers, designers, videographers, and marketers — none of this could be possible without your minds and hearts.

At the end of the day, Limbo is what you make of it. It’s the big and the small, the earth-shattering and the insignificant, the start and the end. What does the space between mean to you?

Sincerely,

Anoushka Buch + Fiona Choo + Katherine Han

Creative Directors Anoushka Buch + Fiona Choo + Katherine Han

Editor Daniel Lee

Directors of Writing Hunter Black + Grace Kim

Directors of Photography Juliana Margolis + Alan Phan

Directors of Visual Design Natalie Darakjian + Nishka Manghnani

Directors of Multimedia Josey Cuthrell-Tuttleman + Kayla Wong

Director of Marketing Jade Bahng

Director of Finance Daniel Stone

Director of Content Franklin Lam

Writing Team

Agnes Gbondo

Callie Lau

Jada Umusu

Jenny Kim

Kailee Bryant

Photography Team

Aaron Wilson

Aniket Singh

Bryson Nihipali

Cora Rafe

Daniel Song

Emma Lloyd

Emi Yoshino

Jenny Yu

Visual Design Team

Annie Yan

Arya Tandon

David Nguyen

Elise Monsanto

Evan Rodrigues

Jackson Epps

Multimedia Team

Alysha Wang

Cece Mou

Christophe Merriam

Eileen Mou

Jenna Miller

Joanna Song

Finance & Events Team

Ashley Kim

Camryn Lee

Hannah Zou

Isannah Marley

Justin Tsai

Kaitlin Chow

Lucia Zhang

Lisa Dang

Megan Zhang

Nilanjana Sha Sudha

Vrinda Das

Jimin Hong

Lucas Silva

Morgan Brown

Sammi Wong

Stephanie Lam

Summer Tillman

Winston Luk

Zongyi Wang

Michael Castellanos

Praew Kedpradit

Rohit Dsouza

Sharon Choi

Teri Shim

Olivia Harwin

Sea Gira

Sam Soccorro

Trelas Dyson

Tyler Tang

Yeji Seo

Katie Lee

Lois Yoon

Mia Lombardo

Owen Tan

Samantha Fedewa

Tanya Sakhala

Amber Park Amber Park + Natalie Darakjian

Heart Vrinda Das + Zongyi Wang + Michael Castellanos

Heaven on Earth, Because Earth is The Hell Stephanie Lam + Praew Kedpradit

Siren of the Sea Emi Yoshino + Annie Yan

Forgive Me, Father Kailee Bryant + Bryson Nihipali + David Nguyen

FACED ! Alan Phan + Anoushka Buch

Unforgiven Morgan Brown + Elise Monsanto

Grace in the Abyss Daniel Song + Rohit Dsouza

0th Floor Grace Kim + Andoni Redondo + Rohit Dsouza

Lo(bsession)ve Agnes Gbondo + Aniket Singh + David Nguyen

The Ruin of Souls Emma Lloyd + Arya Tandon

Untethered Jada Umusu + Winston Luk + Nishka Manghnani

Omar Salah Omar Salah + Arya Tandon

Flight Home Lucia Zhang + Cora Rafe + Michael Castellanos

Tide Megan Zhang + Summer Tillman + Sharon Choi

Landscapes in Liminality Lucas Silva + Jackson Epps

Limbo Daniel Lee + Fiona Choo + Anoushka Buch

DevInaNewDress Devin Desouza + Carter Woltz

Jacob Swetmore Jacob Swetmore + Anoushka Buch

Eclipsed Nilanjana Sha Sudha + Berta Andrea + Arya Tandon

Afterlife Progression Lisa Dang + Sammi Wong + Natalie Darakjian

LGRDMN Brian Sheehan + Jackson Epps

When the Time Comes Hunter Black + Lorcan Gould + Praew Kedpradit

Transience Jenny Kim + Jimin Hong + Carter Woltz

Intrusive Thoughts Daniel Lee + Kalliope Amorphous + Evan Rodrigues Xavier Luggage Xavier Luggage + Michael Castellanos Sculptor Worldwide

+ Nishka Manghnani

Aarron Anderson Aarron Anderson + Annie Yan

Judgment Day Aaron Wilson + Evan Rodrigues

惡夢無邊 (Boundless Nightmares) Jenny Yu + Teri Shim

Anatomy of a Leaking Reverie Callie Lau + Franklin Lam + Nishka Manghnani

Joshua Nai Joshua Nai + Sharon Choi

Behind Limbo Fiona Choo + Haute Multimedia Team + Anoushka Buch

Models Offset

Olivia O’Brien

Sicks Ways

Ashley Wang

AMBER PARK

Amber Park is a multidisciplinary Los Angeles-based designer. Amber’s creative approach is rooted in self-actualization and embracing community, which she employs in her work, regardless of medium. She prioritizes a unique aesthetic in diverse fields including graphic design, CG and illustration, multimedia projects, branded content, music videos, and visual art.

Natalie Darakjian is an Orange County and Los Angeles-based designer interested in form-making and visual design. Coming from an architecture background, she seeks to find ways to express her creativity in interdisciplinary ways. Natalie studies Architecture at the School of Architecture, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Visual Design for Haute Magazine.

AMBER PARK

VRINDA DAS + ZONGYI WONG

Fire + Blood

I’m used to staring at myself in the mirror. For hours on end. Countlessly, endlessly, loudly, obsessively. My gaze feels warm. A fire burning through layers of my flesh until I can feel the rot set into my core.

The sublime erupts. The flame of my eyes burns cold through every inch. It ignites with pleasure.

A pleasure that is easy to explain. Palatable. The kind that exhausts before vanity. But it soon descends. Hotter. Darker. Harder. Into a flame that begins to hurt. That lingers. Lingers for far too long.

It turns my reflection into a grotesque reminder of who I am. Not of here, nor of there. A gross, shameful pleasure like scratching a scab for too long takes over my mind.

An itch that doesn’t leave. That I dig deeper into until the wrinkles of my mind begin to bleed.

I like blood. The smell of it, the feel of it, sometimes even its taste.

It’s earthy.

Blood doesn’t burn the way I do.

My shape changes at my thoughts. My whims dictate my form.

I Must Exist. (I must exist)

The world is just a series of perceptions I form. Based on information that is real? That is wrong? Whether I know it or not, my reality is just as subjective as the lyrics of songs. Just as curated. As exact, as performatively effortless.

I learned too early that discerning between a truth and a lie is unimportant. A lie can be real if you believe it is.

(I must exist).

Everything is real if you believe it is.

(I must exist).

So I lied. I lied, and I lied, and then I lied again. Again and again and again until I forgot how to discern a truth from a lie.

My truth from the lies that I had spun around myself. I lied about my origins, I lied about my race, I lied about the sports I liked, the people I followed, the people I loved, and about those I hate. I lied to form myself against myself. I lied to affirm myself by making another one of me. I lied to create a rival, a friend, a completely new identity.

But I was caught between the two of us. I fractured myself. I caused a schism, an earthquake, an unhealable rift that tore through the very essence of my fabric. I was caught in the fiery between: real or imagined, true or false?

Must I exist?

MICHAEL

Dreams!

I like to marinate in my thoughts. To think them until they lose form. Like stretching a rubber band until it breaks.

Sometimes I think my mind is a rubber band; my thoughts are the elastic, and myself, my being, my abstract consciousness are the fingers that run through it, pull it, push it.

To the brink.

Nowadays, I feel my dreams. They live in my face.

In its tingles.

On my cheeks, under my eyes, in my nose.

It feels like intoxication.

A mist, a haze, a fog that clouds my vision. It takes me out of the mundane. I might be walking down the street, but I don’t have to do just that in my mind. So instead I traverse its depths.

I think until I’m dizzy.

I’m precise in constructing them.

Etching them with needles in the inside of my mind.

Poking, prodding, shaping, chiseling.

I feel my brain contort. I feel it scrunch. I feel it being wrangled. The tension pulses through it as the fibers begin to give out.

My dreams liquify.

They deform.

I can taste them in the back of my mouth.

They gush right out. Onto the sides of my lips, down my chin, onto my hands. They squeeze out of my eyes.

Liquid pierces through.

Until my tears are marked by the dreams I dreamt for too long. The liquid stains the walls. Black. Dark. Opaque. Musty. It slashes. I am drowning. Sometimes I am consumed. I am trapped by the vision of who I want to be.

Hope turns into fear. Into dread.

MICHAEL CASTELLANOS

Vrinda Das is a Bombay-based writer specializing in nonfiction prose, songwriting, and screenplay. She explores the narratives hidden in everyday life at the intersection of the self and the external world. Her work is inspired by the ephemeral. Vrinda studies Cinema and Media Studies at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Zongyi Wang is a beginner photographer always eager to learn and exercise his creativity. Zongyi studies Business Administration at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Michael Castellanos is a Los Angeles-based designer specializing in graphic design. He implements empathy within his design to drive his creative direction. Michael studies Design and Architecture at the Roski School of Art & Design and the USC School of Architecture, University of Southern California.

Models

Aditi Jagannathan Alizée Jacquinet

EARTH THE HELL HEAVEN

ON EARTH,

EARTH IS HELL EARTH, BECAUSE

Stephanie Lam is a photographer based in Hong Kong and Los Angeles. She shoots both film and digital, and she uses narrative elements or sceneries to communicate through visual storytelling. Stephanie studies Public Relations at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Praew Kedpradit is a Thailand and Los Angeles-based graphic designer and digital artist. Her works express emotions, explore relationships, and reflect inner conflicts about societal problems. Praew studies Communication at the Annenberg School of Communications and Journalism, University of Southern California.

HEAVEN ON EARTH, BECAUSE EARTH IS THE HELL

Models

Sasha Mason

Alizée Jacquinet

STEPHANIE LAM

HEAVEN ON EARTH, BECAUSE EARTH IS THE HELL

This photoshoot concept explores the duality of sex as both a representation of heavenly pleasure and a reflection of societal views of sinfulness. It delves into how sex can symbolize the euphoria of human connection while being associated with moral judgments and damnation. The aim is to challenge perceptions of morality and redefine societal definitions of “heaven” and “hell.”

Sirens are based on Greek mythology, being deadly creatures who lured sailors with their enchanting melodies. Siren of the Sea seeks to embrace both beauty and fear.

ANNIE YAN

Model

Corey Hegel

Props

Tony Torres

Lighting

Jacob Hollens

Emi Yoshino is an Orange County and Los Angeles-based photographer specializing in portrait, event, and production photography. With experience in stage management and photography, she is passionate about storytelling and entertainment. Emi studies Stage Management with a minor in Organizational Leadership & Management at the School of Dramatic Arts, University of Southern California.

Annie Yan is a Los Angeles-based artist focused on graphic design and the visual development of games and films. Annie studies Game Art at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

ANNIE YAN

FATHER FORGIVE ME,

A series of internal confessions and prayers to God, to myself, or to whatever exists beyond my existence…

dear god,

as i kneel before your glorious, gilded altar in a desperate attempt to restore my cursed, contemptible heart i can’t help but ponder on the existence of your imperceptible presence

yes, i know mama said your righteous spirit converges with my own wicked soul but i fear that my twisted vices have contaminated your virtuous beauty stained in the vulnerable flesh; internal wounds left ruptured, opened

yes, i know you’ve demanded me to read your holy book a time or two, and i swore that every word and every psalm would intertwine inside not sit on the edge of a steep cliff in the back of my mind, unconsciously clinging on, praying they don’t silently slip into a far-off memory.

yes, i know you no longer see the little girl that yearned to acknowledge your glory but a woman on her knees, pleading you to set her free from her own captivity i’ve sacrificed my pride, offering to cease my self-inflicted warfare this time all to beg for your forgiveness, in spite of the sword severed in mine

yes i know, i have dragged myself down your heavenly staircase, exiled from your throne. though i ask that you pardon my repulsive embrace, i am a peasant in your kingdom. a diffident coward weakening, eroding ever. so. slowly… sinking like a sloth. but i digress.

forgive me, father, for i have sinned.

dear god,

i wish i feared the obscure sense of the unrevealed; the dreaded unknown a foreign feeling cavernously concealed, deprived from its forbidden undertone the only way my brain copes with this sedated decay is scavenging off the leftover remains of my self-deprecating jokes

i wish my heart skipped a beat the split moment the sun hibernates in its cocoon but now dusk, dark shadows have become a frequent appearance and all i consume the depths of my soul lack tender, fiery fuel, intimate with this deleterious force, unable to provide just a sliver of luminescent light in my somber realm

i wish my heart yearned to escape this captivity but my voice is barbed wire shut arms tied down by my own recruited army of sorrow refusing to retaliate, welcoming the malevolent enemy but for me there is just silence.

i fantasize about what i should be, what i could be, if i wouldn’t have been me. can i be considered selfish if i desire nothing more to oppose the self-loathing version of myself tomorrow i dread to become? if so,

sorry i’m a little greedy.

forgive me, father, for i have sinned.

dear god,

i’m not one to become deeply ravenous but sometimes my appetite craves nothing more than the warmth of another’s touch wrapping around, bandaging my fragmented, injured heart even when their delicate fingers aren’t physically in mine

how can i apologize for the desire of unconditional love when i feel that you crafted me to be simply unlovable i can only imagine the moment my constructed walls would come crumbling down inviting one in into my vulnerable state of matter as we would seemingly glide beside each other

and when they would glimpse into my eyes they wouldn’t identify me with my brokenness but my awaited potential and i wouldn’t have to apologize for the way that i am because they would just. get. me.

producing a wave of turbulence screaming with regret, betrayed by their ill-willed intentions scrubbing the guilt of my hands clean.

i know i promised you i would save myself but this debarred action would be the one saving me just for a slight moment

FORGIVE ME, FATHER

i should have known they would use me for my body, the one thing i can’t control but i wouldn’t mind, because at least i was wanted

have i committed wrong for lusting over love?

forgive me, father, for i have sinned.

DEAR GOD,

i try to convince myself that my body is the culprit depriving me from experiencing a normal life but sometimes i think i’m the one sucking every last bit of pleasure out of my once fulfilled and optimistic soul

honestly, sometimes i believe i don’t deserve to live in this cruel world how could you have created something so monstrous? why would you allow a devious creature to seek vengeance on me? a gory battlefield, me against me

i hate you. i hate you. I hate… me.

i no longer recognize myself these days but every time i’ve come down to pray i find myself comforted by the idea that somehow, somewhere you may be listening, answering back and the little girl inside of me is beaming, rooting for me to confide in your omnipresent spirit

i don’t deserve your presence i don’t deserve grace i repent for releasing my scorching wrath

please forgive me, father, for i have sinned.

dear god,

shall i start over, properly introduce myself? or does my familiar pain echo within your realm G

FORGIVE ME, FATHER

as sirens sounds, alarming your angels to gather around me to retrieve my egotistic soul

i’m frozen, lying still you watch my lifeless, decomposing body, a bystander to an infamous crime scene until i open one eye to see the precious, dreaded light

i slowly begin to rise, attempting to cross the other side, until i’m hauled back to reality forced to confess my guilt, an ungodly homicide four hands left bloody convicted with my accomplice Lucifer by my side

i try not to be gluttonous, but when i rot away, i feel finally feel my spirit return home

forgive me, father, for i have sinned.

Dear God,

is it so appalling that the deadliest sin is one i commend the most? an addicting drug that would cleanse me of my flaws satisfying my withdrawals from my once amiable self a hallucination ever so real that i am transformed into a world where i didn’t hate her the way her her thighs touch ever so slightly when she walks the way her hair tangles like a bothersome knot refusing to be undone

an alternate universe where she didn’t hate the way she laughs echoing throughout a room and breaking harsh silence the way she attempts to camouflage herself into the crowd stretching herself so thin she could disappear and no search would be vowed

is it so unfortunate that your prideful sin is one i crave the most? granting the courage to look at myself in the mirror and not hate every. single. last. aching. bone. in. my. body.

where my eyes meet my own and boastfully scream “i love you” as my irreconcilable worlds collide and i cling on to the “i love you too” lingering on the other side

forgive me, father, for i have sinned.

God,

i anticipate that you don’t mind that i envy your righteous attributes and one day when the crowded voices in my head abate i can surrender my immorality for diligence. charity. temperance. chastity. patience. humility. and gratitude.

toward you. toward others. toward an authentic self. a version i’m still seeking. i know i’m not worthy of heaven, but i know i cannot survive the abyss of hell. spare me my life. allow me to reside within the plain sight of purgatory. gazing between the two opposing sides clasping on in the state of existence.

forgive me, father, for I have sinned. seven. deadly. times. amen.

Kailee Bryant is a Los Angeles-based writer. Kailee studies Journalism at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Bryson Nihipali is a Los Angeles-based photographer. Bryson studies Communication with a minor in Cinematic Arts at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

David Nguyen is a Los Angeles-based designer. David studies Game Art at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Models

Caleb Rashawn Enochs

Dawn Morante

Òlúwátòbí Kálèjáiyé

Brittany Quach

Meg Cain

Lighting

Sammi Wong

BTS

Andre Pak

Caitlin Wu

This concept explores the limbo between being trapped in our own anxious thoughts and accepting the present moment for what it is. It delves into the struggle of suppressing our demons through temporary gratification. Through the juxtaposition of serene beauty and nightmarish elements, I capture the uncertainty of existence and the perpetual search for meaning and balance. My goal is to evoke fear and overwhelming paranoia through a lens of elegant bliss. I want the images to be slightly scary and ominous while also having an experimental, contemporary, and clean look.

Alan Phan is a Los Angeles-based photographer from Dallas, Texas, who effortlessly merges contemporary visuals and storytelling. His visual style manipulates color and lighting to create captivating compositions. Alan studies Psychology with a minor in Music Industry at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences. He also serves as the Director of Photography for Haute Magazine.

Stylist Mika Shardarbekova

Wardrobe @newbedstuy @shop_925_

Jewelry @sulkworm__

Studio

The Ivory Space

Anoushka Buch is a Los Angeles-based creative from San Francisco specializing in visual design. With a foundation in publication design and branding, she seeks to create beauty through consistency and cohesion. Anoushka studies Design with a minor in Marketing at the Roski School of Art & Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

Models

Dylan Keeffe

Jau’mair Ramon Garland

Morgan Brown is a fine art photographer based in Los Angeles. Her photography explores the human experience through visual narrative, inviting viewers to contemplate life's complexities. Morgan studies Psychology at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Elise Monsanto is a New Jersey-based graphic designer who specializes in social media. Elise studies Business Administration at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

GRACE IN THE ABYSS

At the essence of our existence lies a paradox. We enter this world with primal instincts that society casts as shadows of ”evil.” From the moment we take our first breath, we are thrust into a world that expects us to suppress these demons in order to uphold the good.

Our lives become an intricate dance, a struggle between our inner darkness and our aspiration to be virtuous. We wrestle with seductive, sinister desires in the hidden corners of our minds, striving to rise above our base instincts and to embrace the values of kindness, empathy, and benevolence.

What happens when we give in to those inner demons, when we let the shadows take control? It’s a question that haunts our collective consciousness. When we unleash the primal forces that we’ve diligently repressed, we enter a realm of moral ambiguity and self-discovery.

In these moments, the boundary between good and evil blurs, revealing the complexity of our nature. These moments serve as cautionary tales and lessons in humility. Exploring what happens when we embrace our inner darkness is an exploration of the human condition, a reminder that our journey toward goodness is filled with challenges and temptations, and understanding our darker impulses is integral to our quest for moral integrity.

100 DANIEL SONG

GRACE IN THE ABYSS

Daniel Song is a artist based out of Los Angeles and Washington who combines fine art, digital art, and photography to add life to his creations. Daniel studies Communication with minors in Blockchain and Communication Design at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Rohit Dsouza is a Los Angeles-based designer interested in graphic and visual design. He seeks to combine a rigid, architectural style with his fluid, painterly approach. Rohit studies Architecture with a minor in Themed Entertainment at the School of Architecture, University of Southern California.

Model

Colin Li

Camera and Lighting

Dennis Lee

After Jonathan Lethem’s 2017 New Yorker Flash Fiction piece “Elevator Pitches.”

How does an elevator of the afterlife sound?

Turns out, smooth and slinky like one of those magnetic bullet trains we were all so excited about decades ago. The living are so excitable in their impermanence. A new flaky idea or a morsel of gossip enough to cause a murmur.

To transcend this flaky existence, one boards an elevator where no number tells you whether it’s going up or down. Down or up. Stuck in limbo. In a sensory deprivation tank. In even more uncertainty than when you were alive. That moment right after death. In this elevator of doom. Or of salvation.

A man dressed in a clean suit walks in with a neatly-folded black umbrella.

This elevator has a crank for a netted door. Silence overcomes the air between the operator and the man. So he begins to talk. Humans cannot stand silence as much as they cannot stand uncertainty. So they echo their last desires, becoming phantoms of their last wishes.

But these phantoms are still more human than not — shadows of their last remembrances of an appetite for life before they enter a forever existence — transcending desire, ceasing to want at all, or in perpetual, unending, and excruciating hunger for more, though they cannot explain what is more or why is more.

We are our desires.

A trip to Las Vegas at the end of a sticky summer with Kool-Aid and Capri Sun. The kids are back in school as the oppressive heat wanes. Those Cheetos hands are no longer within the 100-mile radius. Alone with you. Just like old times. Drinking ourselves to sleep.

Summer after sophomore year, my 4’11” guy best friend grew taller than me. All his actions look more intentional. Even his stupid jokes. I wonder what he’s doing this Sunday.

Gazing at the stoic, aproned back of my mother. She’s the typical Asian tiger mom who cuts fruits as her incomplete way of saying sorry. Could I be enough? A clichéd question that grips my heart.

The sky is capped by gray cement. I’ve breathed more dust and lint than oxygen molecules. To see the sky. To admire the stars. But again, I live in the city of angels.

The Cannes Festival. The faces I do not know long to see mine. They

0TH FLOOR

recognize me. They worship me. They want to grab me and touch me. The crowd looks like a swarm of ants while I am the curious boy in shorts that are way too short, confusing the march of ants who follow each other through scent. A wicked excitement. A divinity in playing God.

Cher Horowitz of Clueless. Elle Woods of Legally Blonde. Regina George of Mean Girls. I gaze into the mirror at my black hair and monolid eyes.

Words never spoken. Finite time. She passed before spring came to fruition. Before spring bloomed.

By that bakery on 34th Street. The glossy yellow of the egg tart calls. A reflection of a stout and pudgy girl on the window. She walks by.

Empty dining table on Christmas Day. An old man who sits at the top of the table alone. A cold chilly morning. How long has it been since warmth left the house?

A blank page.

Walking into H-Mart. Pushing the cart by Mom’s side as she loads kimchi, a big thing of rice, and a fish preserve. “I want a sandwich for lunch.” She ignores me and continues to make me smelly fried rice.

Working in a quiche bakery in Paris. Waking up at four in the morning to knead the dough. Finger tips with nails clipped short still find a way to become sticky. Meeting the Parisians. Pretending I’m part of the city. Becoming the city.

.

Clarissa. Beautiful Clarissa. Her sweet throat at the tip of my knife.

Four fried eggs on the stove with a dash of scallions on top. The ugliest one for me, two for the kids, and one for my husband. An already broken yolk. The soup is too salty, the rice too done. Spoonfuls of stickier rice, stifling the heat in my throat.

Money Heist. Ocean’s 8. A large vault of emptiness.

An umbilical cord which attaches a heart to a heart. The whole room is a foreign country, a separate dimension. You and I. We speak in a language only we can understand. Sharing each other’s life force. Draining each other’s life force. Breathing at the same pace. Pulsating at the same pace. Love. No, Friendship. No. Alone.

The man finally asks as they all do: “But is this elevator going up or down?”

0th Floor: A Suspension of Desire.

Grace Kim is a Los Angeles-based writer specializing in poetry, prose, and screenplay. She seeks to tell the ordinary stories of those who are typically unseen through her work, and she is interested in experimentation with form and the dark comedy genre. Grace studies English at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Writing for Haute Magazine.

Andoni Redondo is a Bilbao, Spain-based photographer. Since Andoni has been experimenting with analog photography, he has been attracted to the aesthetics of empty, liminal spaces paired with this style of photography.

Rohit Dsouza is a Los Angeles-based designer interested in graphic and visual design. He seeks to combine a rigid, architectural style with his fluid, painterly approach. Rohit studies Architecture with a minor in Themed Entertainment at the School of Architecture, University of Southern California.

Teri Shim is a Seoul and Los Angeles-based designer and digital artist. With a focus on storytelling, she is interested in exploring the human experience through the ways in which bodies take up space. Teri studies Computational Neuroscience at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

LO BSESSION (

BSESSION VE )

In a room full of people, all I notice is her, the definition of beauty. She walks towards me with two champagne glasses and a contagious smile. Her honey-glazed eyes burn through my sweater and a rush of warmth spreads throughout my body. I am smiling back at her, feeling at peace. At that moment, she takes up full capacity of my brain, and my arms long to wrap around her body. I want to sink into her shoulder and release the weight I am forced to carry. She’s my refuge, the safest place I know, the home I never want to leave. Her hair is slicked back in a neat puff, leaving the frame of her face naked. I trace my eyes between her small round nose, tempting full lips, and adorably tiny ears. When she gets near, I greet her with a kiss, nibbling on her bottom lip for a moment. I love this woman.

Ezra held onto this memory. It was a beam of light in his darkest moments, but when Death crept, his love for Darla was a painful ache. Nowhere else could compare to his heaven that resided on Earth. He feared nothing else than leaving Darla. In these final moments, he bargained with Death, pleading for more time. An agreement was made.

The date was Monday, March 10. At 7:02 a.m., the sky was dark and the house was soundless. Ezra carefully unraveled himself from the bed, being attentive to not wake up Darla. She is the picture of peace, he thought, admiring the woman beside him. The floorboards creak as Ezra walks to the kitchen, breaking the stillness of the home.

In the next hour, he made Darla oatmeal and an omelet, nothing for himself. He could not eat. Before leaving the kitchen, he cleaned and headed back to the bedroom, food in hand. Ezra placed a tray on Darla’s nightstand. He then kneeled beside Darla’s body, wrapping his arms around her. He whispered, “Open your eyes... open your eyes, Darla, I have something for you.” At the sight of Ezra, she sat up and smiled.

It’s a beautiful morning. The room is filled with yellow and orange, a slight morning breeze runs through the window, and my Ezra is beside me. His face is familiar again. The sickly stranger that I have lived with and taken care of for the past year has left. I am happy. Life is normal. He hands me the breakfast tray with oatmeal and an omelet. He’s a great cook, better than me even. I asked if he ate but he said he couldn’t eat. That’s weird and very unlike Ezra but sometimes he’s full of surprises. He sits at the foot of the bed watching me eat. He talks. I hear him but I cannot focus on his words. My brain is busy capturing the perfection of this moment. I want to remember this forever. I want to lose myself in this faultless moment.

And Darla did. Death took Ezra this day but he stayed with Darla. They lived on in Darla’s phantom.

In a moment, my attention is drawn to the window. The sky is blue and filled with wispy clouds. The time is now 3:35 p.m. and I am in the parlor. Ezra is cooking rice and chicken. The sound of saxophone, piano, and drums fills our home. I see Ezra swaying his hips. That’s his only good dance move and it makes me laugh every time. I join him, letting jazz break me from my stagnant stance. I twirled around the parlor feeling his gaze on me. I love when he looks at me. I crave his gaze. My legs feel weak and collapse. I plummet to the ground, my face meets the hardwood.

Earlier, Darla’s brain was altered. Her grief manifested into delusions mixed with reality. Now, it’s beyond repair and her time is limited. Death is coming for her as well.

My body is cold. My eyes open to darkness. There’s a pounding force against my head. The clock on the wall above the kitchen bar

says 10:15 p.m. The house is still and painfully quiet. Where’s Ezra? Speaking hurts. “EZZRAaahhh mmmhhhh.” I can’t move. The room is eerie. I hear heavy footsteps. It’s deafening. The sound is growing closer. I feel my throat closing up and I’m gulping for air. I feel his hands under my body. They’re scarred and rough. I smell a sharp musky scent. My head and legs hang from his arms while he lifts my midsection. He carries me but I cannot see where to. “Take a breath and close your eyes,” he encourages. I comply with Ezra’s voice.

Ezra is not near. The arms carrying Darla are not his. Darla’s memories are corrupted and her health is drained. She cries for Ezra but he doesn’t come. Darla’s weak body lays on the bed, next to Ezra’s cold stiffened corpse. She mumbles, “Where are you? Ezra, I’m scared, please answer me. Ezra!” Her voice breaks and tears fall. “Ezra please, come back. I need you. I can’t do this alone.” She squeezes her eyes shut and holds her breath, in hopes Ezra will appear. Moments go by, and the house is still, quiet, and dark as before. Darla lets out a long breath and relaxes her body. That was her last. Two lovers, lifelessly lying beside each other. They conquered their vow, “til death do us part.” In death, they found each other again.

Darla’s spirit leaves her flesh. It sits on the floor beside the bed, head down and arms around the knees, waiting. In that instant, Ezra enters. The contract between Death and Ezra is fulfilled.

There she is, my sweet Darla. Once again, I can be near her. She looks scared, like the girl I once knew as children. I walk up, hoping not to scare her. Will she understand my deal with Death? I hope she can see I did it for us. Life is not pleasurable if we are not together. She has no one. The other side is torture without her. They haunt me with her absence. I have no one. I need her, I want her, I desire her. I kneel in front of my beloved and whisper softly, “Open your eyes… open your eyes, Darla, I have something for you.”

The Eulogy

They were young when they fell in love but their passion for each other stretched beyond their youth.

She grew in absence and longing, fighting to survive. Her world crumbled multiple times but she was persistent. She built herself and constructed her life. Then she met him. He was adored by many and lived contently. His aura was peaceful and calm but her personality rivaled his. They meshed well together. He was her light, her love, her life. He orbited around her, constantly mesmerized by her celestial beauty and strength. The depth of their love competed with the Pacific. They were happy until a day in April.

It was a dreadful morning. The sky sobbed for Ezra. His phone vibrated, and then it rang. The sound was jarring. When he reached for it and held it to his face, a male voice announced his worst fear. The voice traveled from the phone, filling Ezra’s mind and body. Death rang through his bones, tearing through each organ, upsetting all trillion cells. He was no longer in control. Something was ripping him apart from the inside, he was dying. His body has been deteriorating for a while, but now he is merely breaths away from his last.

We all thought that was the introduction to the conclusion of their great love story but we were wrong. Something sinister about the relationship grew out of Ezra’s illness. Their pure love became contaminated by obsession and fear.

It was as if, in those last moments, both their souls were detached from the physical realm, an empty space where their love continued to mature.

Agnes Gbondo is a writer from New Jersey currently based in Los Angeles. She takes inspiration from her Sierra Leonean culture and family. Agnes studies Business Administration at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Aniket Singh is a Los-Angeles based photographer. Aniket studies Arts, Technology and the Business of Innovation at the Iovine and Young Academy, University of Southern California.

David Nguyen is a Los Angeles-based designer. David studies Game Art at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

THE RUIN OF

OF SOULS

ARYA TANDON

Emma Lloyd is a Texas-based photographer. Her work explores the beauty of detail in the human experience. Emma studies Public Relations with a minor in Marketing at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Arya Tandon is a Los Angeles-based graphic designer focused on visual design and user experience. Her designs navigate the intersections between accessibility and aesthetics. Arya studies Cognitive Science with a minor in Designing for Digital Experiences at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences.

THE RUIN OF SOULS

A visual meditation on how hedonism and the doctrine of living life to the fullest plays into the human quest for salvation. The Ruin of Souls demonstrates that, despite centuries of cultural attempts at piety and restraint, pleasure always wins in the end.

Models

Giselle Galindo

Liam Falls

Ivana Karastoeva

Tanya Aggrawal

Alissa Silva

Niko Malouf

ARYA TANDON

The first time I woke up in hell, it felt like home.

I bolt up as if Zeus’s thunderbolts had struck me. I look around frantically, terrified of what I might encounter. Instead, a familiar sight greets me. The forest surrounds me. Different hues of green fill my vision. I glance down. Drooping off my shoulder, my once elegant dress could be mistaken for rags. Little forest creatures chirp at my feet. My hands, trembling, reach out to them to feel a sense of comfort. My fingertips barely graze my ear when a melody begins to play. I was enraptured. The longer it plays, the more familiar it seems. It is so comforting. It reminds me so much of… him. Orpheus. Orpheus. Orpheus!

It must be him. It has to be.

My ankles almost acquire wings, with the speed I race toward him. Practically flying towards his voice, I see a silhouette in the distance. A familiar feeling of desperation begins to claw at me as I move closer. I shout his name. Orpheus! Orpheus! Orpheus! He doesn’t turn. Why isn’t he turning?

I stop a couple of inches away from him. He keeps his back turned to me. He still sings. I advance towards him. He makes no move to acknowledge my presence. Is he not as desperate to see me as I am him?

I shift around to face him. He seems the same. Still my Orpheus. Finally, his eyes connect with mine. Something was off. His blue eyes which used to remind me of Posiden’s most protected oceans now had a vacancy to them. Like a wave, different thoughts crash into me at once. Had I done that? Had my absence ruined him in ways that could not be undone? Would we be the same?

Lost in my thoughts, I fail to notice his hands are gripping a lavish bowl filled to the brim with murky water. SPLASH. Violently thrown back into the present, water slowly drips down my body. My eyes jump to his, but it quickly switches to the bowl in his hands. It is only halfway full. The water droplets slowly sunk into my skin. My eyes begin to droop shut.

Slowly, my memories start to become hazy, as if they are no longer mine to see. Even Orpheus starts to feel like a figment of my imagination that suddenly wants to break free from the cage that has become my thoughts before he disappearsentirely too. I can barely hear the melody that first drew me to him. The feathery greens and the timber limbs of trees that encompass us started to lose their hues of greens, blues, and pinks.

Drowning in different pigments of black and gray, more and more memories continue to slip through my fingers. More and more pieces of Orpheus start to break away. My fingers ache to reach out and catch them, to catch him, but my body feels frozen. As my memories become more muddled and distant, a nagging feeling begins to tug at me. Orpheus.

Why… was I forgetting him? Anything else, please… not him. My hands subconsciously drift towards my face. Water droplets burst underneath my fingertips. My eyes snap open. They reposition to the bowl still in Orpheus’s hands. The water swirls with remnants of my memories threatening to take more. Orpheus strides toward me, but I step back.

He follows. He shoves the bowl insistently towards my mouth. I keep moving back, but that does little to deter him.

He nudges the bowl more forcefully towards my mouth, his shaking hands giving away his urgency. But I am even more desperate. It consumes me. Why does he want me to drink that when it made me forget him? I shove the ostentatious bowl away, and it clatters to the ground, taking the rest of the water with it.

Ignoring the cloudy puddle beneath my feet, I march towards him. I need him. His touch. His voice. My heart throbs, aching to feel connected with Orpheus. It has been too long. After feeling my memories of him gradually slip away, I want the real thing. Within seconds, I’m in front of him. My hands reach out and my palm connects with his sunken cheek.

UNTETHERED

On its own accord, my body tilts closer. My eyes glide shut. Just as our lips touch, his hand clasps around my neck. My eyebrows furrow in confusion. His grip tightens. My hands clasp over his. His hold tightens further. My feet dangle off the floor. My eyes shoot open in distress. My finger urgently scrambles over his wrists in anguish.

I lean back a little to try and catch his eyes. A gasp tumbles from my lips. Red eyes stare back into mine. I quickly tear my gaze away. This is not Orpheus. It can’t be. Right? His other hand moves to grip my jaw and forcefully turn my head back towards him. He yanks my chin up, so our eyes meet. His merlot-red eyes suffocate me. They hold promises of thousands of ways he could break me.

His forceful touches reduce me to his lyre, an instrument to be played with. Each brutal stroke plucks more luscious memories from my ravaged recollections.

His hands fall away from my neck, and I stumble back. My hands hardly break my fall. From the ground, even more is amiss. Orpheus’s wicked clone looms over me, but gone are the earth-green tones of the forest. As I scramble to get away, my hands collide with water. As I’m shifting my body away from the river, a hand reaches out and latches onto my shoulder. I peer back. Only water fills my gaze. No one is there. Still, I feel fingers clutching my shoulder. I attempt to move away, but another hand lands on my wrist. In seconds, more and more hands envelop my body.

Imperceptible hands drag me deeper into

the river. I strive to break free, but ultimately, I am no match. I lose another battle. I submerge.

Water engulfs me as I struggle against my invisible captors. The tousling makes it worse. I grapple to keep my head above water. I splash and spar against the water as if it is responsible for putting me in this hell. Even in the depths of these waters, I can still make out glowing ruby eyes at the river’s edge. Inconspicuous hands drag me deeper into the river. The red vanishes. The longer I remain submerged, the more excruciating it all feels.

It burns. As if Hades himself has thrust all the fires of hell into my body, it burns. My body demands to be released from this unsuspecting cage, but my mind cannot be reasoned with. I urge my body to move. The water weighs down on my arms and legs like iron-clad shackles. I swish around, desperate to be free. Instead, I burrow further in the depths of its waves. The hands disappear. The water suddenly becomes unnaturally tranquil.

Gone are the aggressive ripples that threatened to take ownership. Stillness envelops me. Alone, encased in billows, I thought of him. The pieces I had left.

Haunted by vermillion red waiting for me at the edge of the shore, I revel in the hues of blue that swear to protect me. Part of me wants to disappear. To slowly decay until I blend in with the hues of blue around me. Until I am less than a ripple.

My illusion of tranquility breaks with a sound. A voice I know too well. Orpheus.

The first illusion is now a distant memory. I search for Orpheus. In the distance, I recognize him, but he isn’t alone. An audience surrounds him, reminiscent of the first time I set my gaze upon him.

Still trapped, I find myself longing for him to come to me. I implore his eyes to connect with me. Instead, he keeps his focus on the girls encircling him like little goblins who had never laid their eyes on human flesh.

Their giggles permeate the air. Like sirens, their voices beckon him to listen and be enchanted. Rivaling a banshee, my mouth opens up to bellow a sound that would send a god to his knees. I shriek in agony, calling out to him. My screams fall on deaf ears. Orpheus keeps his focus on his sirens as if our eyes had never crossed in those parakeet shadows of the forest.

I urge myself to glance away, but my eyes stay on him. What a sight. He has stolen their powers. The Sirens are now bewitched. Their promiscuous hands roam his body, spellbound by his voice. Their hands wander to places that I had been the only one to touch. His eyes flutter shut. Their hands continue to roam. His mouth opens in a gasp. His hands start to wander. He touches them in places he never touched me. His body contorts in ways I never had the pleasure to see.

Why is he doing this to me? I gave him everything in my possession: my opulent forest, my life… my body.

Tears flood my eyes, adding to the ripples of sorrow around me. My eyes fixate on him. Beautiful yet so torturous. From afar, I trace the contours of his body. From his rugged thighs to his calloused hands, up to his sculpted shoulders, I take in his silhouette. My eyes dance across the sharp edges of his chiseled face. His gaze catches mine. Red eyes stare back at me. He smirks.

I cry out in horror, but no sound escapes. Bubbles reaching the surface of the river were the only indicator something was amiss.

With more fervor than a wild boar, I grapple to break the surface. He moves towards me. I wrestle with the water. More bubbles touch the surface. He inches closer. I am still trapped underneath. I have no choice but to wait for him to come to me. In seconds, I’m within his reach. He maliciously urges me to focus on his hands. Trapped beneath his fingertips rests a lyre. One by one, he brutally plucks each string from the instrument. When there are no strings left, he drops the lyre. It disappears. My eyes follow the movement of his hands and he molds the wire into the form of a noose.

In a flash, he fixates the noose around my neck. I have nowhere to go. He pulls the noose tighter. Once again, he tilts my cheek to focus on me. We lock eyes once more. Pacific blue stares back at me. I gasp. More bubbles reach the surface. The noose becomes tighter.

Orpheus? The wires break my skin. Orpheus? Blood trickles out. Orpheus? My eyes slam closed in disbelief. My thoughts jump haphazardly around in my head. My heart refuses to believe Orpheus would do this to me, but it looks just like him. Black spots gradually fill my vision. I eagerly welcome darkness to take over. The truth feels too much to bear.

My eyes remain closed, waiting for the inevitable. Instead, I feel a hand from above grip me by the nape of my neck and pull.

Instantly, my body breaks through the surface and lands on a boat. Water spurts out from my mouth as my body heaves in overexertion. My hands gently cup my neck where wire wrapped around seconds before. I peer down. Blood covers my fingertips. Thoughts still run rampant in my head. I try to recall every moment I had of Orpheus to separate him from the obsessive demon that is hopefully drowning down below. My mind feels too foggy.

I feel so exposed. My drenched hair is the only semblance of privacy. It shields me from my savior. I am terrified to peek through.

Would the real Orpheus finally stand before me? I won’t — need it to be him. Who else would save me, but him? It has always been him. Hope began to fill my body.

What a beautifully dangerous thing. Hope.

I squint through the curtains of my soaked hair.

My entire body deflates in an instant.

His staff gives away his identity. Charon. Ferryman of the Dead. I thought he’d be more alluring, yet he is hideous. I’ve seen pimpled toads with more appeal. The boat starts to move, and with that, he breaks the burdening silence.

“Most people don’t leave that river,” he says. “Most stay submerged in their misery never being able to escape.”

My eyes wander to the murky water surrounding us. So unsuspecting. I can still feel the remnants of agony gripping me. My mind still remembers the way their hands wandered. The way his hands followed suit. Wailing interrupts me from my trance. My head snaps to Charon, looking for an explanation. I get no answers. I search for them by myself.

Leaning over the side of the boat, looking for answers of my own, a heinous scent overwhelms my senses. The smell of rotten eggs permeates the air. The wailing gets louder sounding more tortuous than before. My body keeps moving subconsciously closer to the water.

Underneath the murky waters, thousands of sad souls continue to wail underneath. They call out to me, begging me to save them. Without thought, my hand starts reaching towards them. A hand snatches onto my wrist, forcefully pulling me towards them. Another hand grabs me. More and more hands land on my body, dragging me towards the water. Their screeches echo in my ear, disorientating me further. As I feel my hand sink into the water, an overwhelming sadness starts to overtake me. Orpheus. Why hasn’t he come? Was that him back there? Doesn’t he love me? I can feel my heart start to crack. My mind starts to sink into itself as my body gets dragged further into the water.

Desperation has a way of making the mind lack reason.

In a familiar motion, Charon’s hand grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me back. The sorrowful souls didn’t follow.

I’m not sure why they let go, but they did.

“This is not your destination,” he tells me. He says nothing else. We continue.

As we move along, steam gradually starts emanating from the river. The blue

hues have disappeared. The waves have taken on undertones of red. The more I stare, the more the waves began to resemble vast pools of blood.

Screams cut through the air. Emerging waves aggressively lash against the boat making it unsteady. A splash of water lands on my skin. I watch in horror as my skin starts to boil. More shrieks fill the air. Screams rip from my body. Unimaginable pain fills my arm as my skin bubbles. My eyes close in torment willing the pain to go away. It refuses to leave. The boat continues.

As we inch closer to our destination, Charon’s body becomes more tense. My body follows suit. Then I see it, the gates of hell in the distance. The urge to run takes over my body. I peer over the boat’s ledge to peek at the water. After everything these tides of waves have put me through, it still looked unnecessarily inviting. Charon’s gaze burned into my back. I sat down.

Too soon we reach the shore. I swiftly exited the boat and waited for Charon to do the same, but he didn’t. Instead, he and the boat start to move away.

My eyes follow him until he is no longer visible. My eyes turn to the gates. They slowly open by themselves. It feels suspiciously inviting. I go in.

UNTETHERED

Jada Umusu is an Atlanta-based writer specializing in short stories. She loves working with the idea of inevitable growth and the resulting transformation. Jada studies Political Science at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Winston Luk is a photographer based out of Los Angeles and Hong Kong. Exploring portraiture and street photography, he aims to capture emotional elements through his work. Winston studies Computational Neuroscience at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Nishka Manghnani is a Mumbai and Los Angeles-based graphic designer and digital artist. With a knack for public art, she creates work with the intention of mobilizing social change. Nishka studies Design with a minor in Web Development at the Roski School of Art & Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Visual Design for Haute Magazine.

SALAH

OMAR SALAH

ARYA TANDON

Omar Salah is a Los Angeles-based photographer who has practiced photography for seven years. Omar specializes in creative portrait photography but explores all mediums of photography.

Arya Tandon is a Los Angeles-based graphic designer focused on visual design and the user experience. Her designs navigate the intersection of accessibility and aesthetics. Arya studies Cognitive Science with a minor in Designing for Digital Experiences at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences.

Models

Bolawa Labisi Chau Nguyen

ARYA

LUCIA ZHANG + CORA RAFE

MICHAEL

dream

The sky is swathed in a veil of red, a tapestry of ruby brilliance that drips from the clouds. My knees dig into the coarse earth, and my eyes land on the flat, circular void that hangs in the sky. In it, I see a shadow of myself; it circles, eyes barely glancing at the scene taking place in the middle. The brutality of the spectacle unfurls like a blossoming rose, each petal peeling back to unveil something deeper, darker. Screams that would have clawed through its eardrums months earlier only harmlessly bounceoff; pleas that would have grasped onto its sense of empathy only lightly tickle its sense of pity.

I wince. Reaching my hand out, I grasp the void, twisting it, until it sinks firmly into my hand. It’s jagged yet slippery between my fingers, the images on its surface simmering and shifting.

It displays a small mouse with soft, gray fur that wriggles in my hand, its small paws nick at the blue latex. Reflexively, my fingers tighten.

The needle-like discomfort in my stomach sharpens. Curling inwards, I fold my other hand over the sphere. I can’t help but grind my hands together, rolling the ball between my palms like a potter molding dough. My eyes squeeze shut when the edges scrape a web of lacerations into my skin, a brilliant white glowing through the translucent skin of my eyelids.

The spidery-thin vessels transform into ears, legs, and tails, slicing the blank canvas into a hasty painting of a cage of mice. Their small bodies slither against each other as they struggle to move. As they struggle to breathe.

What is their suffering worth?

There’s blood on my hands, flowing in thick rivulets down my fingers and under my nails and into my minute wrinkles lining my flesh. Like tar, it drips onto the image in front of me, coating my vision with scarlet that oxidizes to maroon and then black. And suddenly, I’m back where I began. My shadow still circles around and around, seeing everything yet doing nothing.

You’re not a good person. You’re not a good person.

The pain is all-consuming. Even as my stomach caves in, I continue to pore over my conscience, kneading and pulling and stretching until it melts onto the twisted creation weighing in my hands. I recall the late nights I spent sprawled on my couch, thinking about the time I spent, the money given away, the things I said.

To be better. To be good.

My heartbeat slows to a sluggish pace, and my breathing calms.

When I open my eyes, the sky stretches overhead, veins of blue and gray pulsing underneath the opalescent white that bathes the sky. One finger at a time, I lift my hand to uncover the orb. The blaze of light engulfs me, but the surface shines smooth and iridescent. With a mind of their own, my hands raise towards my mouth like a priest with an offering.

The sky folds inwards onto itself as the oyster shell snaps shut.

It’s too late, though, and the egg slides down my palm and cracks against my teeth as it splits open. Warm yolk oozes across my tongue, and my knees drop to the ground.

wake

The sunlight scatters a barcode across my bed as it filters through my window blinds. Rumpled blankets form snowy mountains of fabric, blurred by the remnants of sleep. My eyelids droop downwards, and when they shut, I’m transported back to the world of illusion.

A flash of blue, and one hand dips into the cage and picks up one of the stiff bodies by its tail while the other grasps closed scissors. Up, up, and the mouse sways in the air until its head gently hits the mat. Down, down, and the scissors press into its neck. A small pop, and its skull dislocates from its spine. Except when I let go of the tail and the mouse lays in the middle of the circle with its pink legs curled in on itself, the pink morphs into white cloth stained with red, and its grey fur mutates into black and blue bruises. Semi-transparent figures flit across my eyes, and the smoke of laughter drifts from my lips into the air in front of me and cloaks the image in front of me. I’m not moving, not intervening — just walking in a circle.

Is their suffering worth it? Is one worse than the other?

I wrench myself from the grasp of the dream, clawing at my sheets and dragging myself out of the vacuum of sleep. My feet slap against the cold wooden floor, and I’m stumbling out of bed. The glass of water on my nightstand does little to clear the thickness building in my throat, nor does it cool the heat bubbling in my stomach. The clock flashes 6:39 pm, and I sink back down, rubbing at my eyes and raking fingers through my hair. I turn on my phone and check my calendar filled with a mosaic of red and blue and green: class, volunteering, research. I should be in the lab right now — it’s been weeks since I’ve gone in.

Yet.

I scroll through my phone, checking for new texts, emails, anything. My thumb keeps moving, but I can’t stop the images from blooming in my mind, and I can’t stop the thoughts from permeating every crease and crevice of my thoughts. I can play god one day, but in the next, I’m just an amoral shadow in the night. What can I do? Who gave me this role?

Why can’t I just be good?

I put on my slippers and make my way to the bathroom, turning on the hot water despite the way my skin is scrubbed raw. The harsh lighting and white tiles emphasize the contours of my collarbones and pallid hue of my skin.

You’re not a bad person. You’re not a bad person.

My reflection stares back, vacant, and my stomach churns. I fight the urge to vomit into the toilet, instead choosing to splash water on my face and go on a walk to clear my head.

Wandering through the neighborhood, time slips through my fingers, and a midnight blue shroud begins to pool around the sky. The moon cuts out a perfect circle. Gravel crunches under my feet. I shuffle towards the nearby park, chasing the disappearing sun. The warmth hanging in the air strokes the flames in my stomach, humidity increasing the stickiness in my throat. Despite this, my teeth chatter and skin prickles.

I keep walking.

sleep

She halts, briefly, before falling to her knees like a marionette doll snipped at its strings, and her head snaps back while her jaw drops. A crow begins to unfurl from her mouth, stiff feathers forcing their way out of her slack lips. Each of its bones snap into place as it takes flight. Its talons glint silver in the moonlight, but the rest of its body is a sleek, glossy black. It hovers in the air, briefly, before swooping down to snap its jaw closed on the front collar of her shirt. The girl’s head jerks back as she’s lifted into the air, and the desperate thrashing of the bird’s wings echoes like the wind.

As she’s lifted into the air, her limbs tumble into a graceful arc. Her body carves a perfect outline around the curve of the moon, and for a moment, she’s suspended so delicately and so perfectly and it’s almost ethereal.

Her shirt rips.

She drifts down the sky, a white feather swaying back and forth and back and forth, before she makes impact. Her joints crumple into the ground. The crow remains unmoved, watching; its stillness reverberates through the park. The body lay, in a heap.

In the end, she couldn’t leave.

Lucia Zhang is a Los Angeles-based writer who aims to make sense of the uncanny by mixing science and history. Lucia studies Quantitative Biology and Philosophy, Politics, & Law at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Model

Athena Stuebe

Assistants

Brendan Rains

Summer Tillman

Cora Rafe is a creative based in Los Angeles who focuses on body, temporality, and family. Cora utilizes photography and sculpture to explore concepts of impermanence. Cora is a graduate student studying Applied Psychology at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Michael Castellanos is a Los Angeles-based designer specializing in graphic design. He implements empathy within his design to drive his creative direction. Michael studies Design and Architecture at the Roski School of Art & Design and the USC School of Architecture, University of Southern California.

me/you

i still want you i need your hot breaths scattered moans ribbed body you don’t love me but i still want you. fuck me

i want you to need me again crave your hands on my wrists tight grip on my neck on my hips, on my waist those hands could never hurt me. fuck me

i crave your love back so choke me suffocate me in your love hold me so tight you could never let go.

i’d rather you hurt me than leave, so please. don’t let me go.

you think you can leave?

rage, revenge

i’ll seduce you be irresistible to you chokehold on you

fuck you

you don’t get to hurt me worm your way into my life slick up my heart tear her to shreds and leave me in pieces

fuck you

you’re under my control my simp, my little baby i’ll make you fucking crave me

you’re intoxicated. delusions of choice, don’t think you’ll ever stop wanting me. because everything you hate me for made you come to me in the first place.

prayer

dark matter is your god your lord your faith your prayer on repeat you built your walls up to heaven wrangled god by the neck and cursed me to hell — a hell of your creation where you’ll never be

dark matter, your invisible love the space between my galaxies your gravitational pull reigns my dark energy, keeps our world intact our universes infinitely expand but i need to contract a world without you by my side

i fall apart reality fractures, i’m only human what do i really understand?

because if i stare into the darkness long enough, my limbs start to fade away every inch of my flesh losing color slowly becoming transparent as my particles fizzle into you — into the atmosphere.

i love you i love you i love you

art is my devil my lord my faith my prayer on repeat

i spit out words of venom, vitriolic bars that cut deep and make you bleed. twisted lines of poetry graphic imagery that bear open my blistered heart

it’s pretty ugly, right?

the pain is exquisite — just the right amount of poetic and i’ll never stop saying it but pain makes the easiest art.

the manifestation of my essence, my being, product of my love and the space you forced on me because as long as it’s called art even ugly can be beautiful.

i am nothing but wrath and rage turning scathing whips to the ones i love because if you truly love me, you’ll love me through the pain.

i’m sick, i’m afflicted you condemn art because of me and there’s no way out.

i hate you i hate you i hate you

devoid

what does love look like in the void?

serene smatters of blue, purple, green neurons, veins, webs of light specks of glittering white galaxies of countless worlds, stories, lives waves of white sheets, hands on silky skin, warm, healing glow oh, how nice it must be to love. or does love in the void look like violence?

supernovas and black holes our infinitely expanding universe that threatens to tear reality apart with no hint of warmth to be found ripping my skin off my flesh pounding my skull against the wall clawing a hole in my chest and ripping out my heart, stupid thing.

who is to say my love isn’t real? who is to say my love isn’t right?

the full moon tonight is covered by half my cloudy soul — i pledge myself to you under the dark night sky.

my hands are cold my bed is empty what are you doing? where are you when i need you?

hypnagogic state my vulnerability with no body there, i’m helpless. my love bleeds away, unhindered

blurred screens, whirring lights static, white noise cloud of pop music, chorus of babble pounding in my head memories, remnants, ghosts of the tangled that fade into gray.

numb blank slate

its like a sticky, gooey essence that clings to and submerges all the jagged edges soft blanket over cracked ribs so that there’s no way back to abrasion sometimes, theres a pocket of air puncture a fissure and a gust of steam signals the inevitable torrent quickly plugged, suppressed, swallowed into the empty pit of your stomach

jagged edges of darkness pierce through the fleshy, bursting, seams of the soul and there’s nothing. void

Megan Zhang is an Atlanta-based writer. As a poet, she loves to convey stigmatized emotions to show the beauty of the unfiltered human experience. Megan studies Business Administration at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Summer Tillman is a Los Angeles-based artist from Atlanta. Her work explores the triumph and trauma of the human experience, reflecting her belief that living is an art. Summer is a graduate student studying Communication Management at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Sharon Choi is a Los Angeles-based designer and fine artist who focuses on visual and experience design. Sharon studies Business Administration with a minor in Product Design at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

176 LUCAS SILVA

Lucas Silva is a film photographer based in Southern California. He predominantly shoots street and landscape photography to capture the environment’s aura. Lucas studies Health Promotion at the Keck School of Medicine, University of Southern California.

Jackson Epps is a Los Angeles-based designer who seeks to creatively tell visual stories. Jackson studies Public Relations with a minor in Communication Design at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

180 LUCAS SILVA

LANDSCAPES IN LIMINALITY

JACKSON EPPS

LIMBO

LIMBO

Limbo.

Yes or no.

Black or white.

Lost or found.

Heaven or hell.

Life or death.

Here, a counterbalance in place.

But when in limbo:

Anything and everything, anytime and anywhere.

Not constrained by the physical, mental, social, or political.

Not bound by the laws of nature.

Transcending all knowledge of the universe.

Spiritual? Maybe. Perhaps the closest thing But confirmation only comes after the declaration.

DANIEL LEE + FIONA CHOO

The curse of greater knowledge only to be seen, not touched.

Medical rather than recreational or else you’ll sleep forever.

Dreams and nightmares should lie in the white of our eyes because a dilated pupil cannot be fueled by delusion.

An awakening sobriety and a drunkening euphoria.

A demilitarized zone where God and the devil shook hands and acknowledged each other.

The Big Bang.

Motion and fluidity that engulf your soul in flames.

A stillness that leaves you forever disassociated.

Things don’t make sense here, sense is made.

Beauty in distortion.

Chaos Theory.

No question of real or fake because it’s much deeper than that.

But that dream you had last night sure felt real, didn’t it?

Be careful.

There is one thing that exists in all realities — a grain of salt.

Don’t roll your eyes too far back.

Don’t forget to shut them every now and then. Channel it, let it take over, understand it, and utilize it.

A foundation of newfound truth.

Beneficial to the literal and metaphorical. Juice.

Limbo is the “or” because anything can exist between “yes and no”

“black and white”

“lost and found”

“heaven and hell”

“life and death” and we’d still understand the pattern.

DANIEL LEE + FIONA CHOO

Dismissed as a filler and humble in its appearance, Limbo acts as the standard that determines if you are too far or just short. Cracks and crevices turn into faults.

A wasteland of opportunity where you’ll never reach the end because you are human.

Our destinies don’t lie in the dream state, they belong on Earth.

Daniel Lee is a Los Angeles-based writer focused on creative marketing. Daniel studies Communication at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism. He also serves as Editor for Haute Magazine.

Fiona Choo is a mixed-media photographer based in Southern California. From fine art to digital photography, she presents a diverse range of media in her work which explores and interrogates societal narratives. Fiona studies Media Arts & Practice with a minor in Cinematic Arts at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

Anoushka Buch is a Los Angeles-based creative from San Francisco who specializes in visual design. With a foundation in publication design and branding, she seeks to create beauty through consistency and cohesion. Anoushka studies Design with a minor in Marketing at the Roski School of Art & Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

194 DANIEL LEE + FIONA CHOO

DEVIN DESOUZA

DEVIN DESOUZA

DEVIN DESOUZA

Devin Desouza, known as DevinInANewDress, is an Los Angeles-based artist from Arlington, Texas, who specializes in photography and directing. Devin’s work has sparked attention for its nostalgic, playful wide-angle approach. Devin took up photography during the pandemic, and he soon garnered attention from Travis Scott, WhataBurger, Blockbuster, Guess Originals, Zara Kids, and more through his passion projects. Today, Devin leans into versatile mediums such as directing and action with the goal of inspiring people to grow and be open to change as an artist.

Carter Woltz is a Chicago and Los Angeles-based designer specializing in digital design. His interests lie in iconography and typography. Carter studies Business Administration with a minor in Communication Design at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

The 1975 in August 2023 at Reading & Leeds Festival

Jacob Swetmore is a UK-based photographer from Staffordshire with a passion for live music. He specializes in concert photography, with a striking portfolio accrued over five years of capturing concerts and festivals in his signature style. His work has been featured in publications such as Wonderland Magazine and Clash Magazine. Jacob’s goal is to one day travel the world as a tour photographer. Learn more at jacobswetmore.com

Anoushka Buch is a Los Angeles-based creative from San Francisco who specializes in visual design. With a foundation in publication design and branding, she seeks to create beauty through consistency and cohesion. Anoushka studies Design with a minor in Marketing at the Roski School of Art & Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

NILANJANA SHA SUDHA + BERTA ANDREA

In the realm where memories paint their canvas, A year had passed since our last embrace.

Since a deep and rumbling river — like laughter tore asunder the weeds of sorrow’s chase.

Since within your eyes, I glimpsed my mind’s reflection, and our hearts intertwined, guiding our steps and breath. Since we had found direction In the dance of existence, Living, feeling, knowing, beyond life’s depth.

The sun is rising on this foreign horizon It warms the back of my neck I search for you, as I have been Within every face that I’ve met.

Moments before I saw you again, My sister, soulmate and friend, a tranquil stillness unfolded my senses dulled, thoughts composed — Oh, how I loved you deeper in your premature absence, the rooms of my mind that held you, heartache doors, never closed.

So as I sat beside you In this unfamiliar place of wonder Freedom and capability colored my dreary skin. Bound to foreign lands, we pondered Who we’d be, Freed from the chains of our own

220 NILANJANA SHA SUDHA + BERTA ANDREA

Photographer

Kaja Sigvalda

crafted guise of sin.

Who were we now, now that we had no one to be?

Identities, from the ego’s grip set free.

The dawn resides boldly and assured Over these isles of paradise. The warmth is melting away the clotted layers, baring secrets of my protected heart. What’s left of these bloody remains? How long was I hiding behind my stage of players?

The weights of obligation dissipate but I am no less grounded As I stand with saltwater knees finding each insecurity drowned. Did I not confess my faith before? Because, Flower, I am. Publicly, wholly, faithful To the greatest treasure I have found.

I will confess forevermore.

The sun is setting now and I am rooted with gold And within those mines, I found him — A new light I behold.

Lyrics flood from your eyes distant stranger, why do you sing? The remnants of my cold unshifting heart

coughs up a newfound vulnerability. Do you see?

Do you see between my folds?

The hidden layers I’ve kept secret just for you?

This thawed heart of mine you dug out of me

I do not know if you can feel its rhythm or see its scars the keloid paths I vowed to never repeat.

We have until the next dawn and I am giving myself to you as the moon lends herself to the earth. On this borrowed time, I will come out of my dark haven.

But it was borrowed time after all — Now dusk encroaches us and Time is about to end this battle of ours.

I still carry the shell of our brief entanglement Around my heart

As you carry the rings of my Saturn Will we meet in orbit again?

It has been months since that sun set Yet I think of an improbable, distant eclipse. It hurts my eyes to look how far you’ve gone But I still look, Until I can’t anymore

Until we’ve become vague memories of past And I am left alone in this dark

The eclipse has passed, I feel the warmth of the sun And I revel in this new light again.

I have my Self to return to.

Nilanjana Sha Sudha is a Los-Angeles based writer who specializes in prose, poetry, and screenplay. She writes to explore the complexity of the human psyche and uncover raw, unconventional, and authentic truths. Nilanjana studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Andrea Snaedal is a photographer based in Los Angeles and Reykjavík, Iceland. She enjoys film photography as it enables her to remain fully in the moment and aims to capture the beauty of the present with an emphasis on human relations with nature, the healing powers of earth, and being fully immersed in the moment. Aside from photography, she has also starred in commercial works, theatre, and film, some notable works being BELLE, Silicon Beach, Ófreskja, and more.

Arya Tandon is a Los Angeles-based graphic designer focused on visual design and the user experience. Her designs navigate the intersection of accessibility and aesthetics. Arya studies Cognitive Science with a minor in Designing for Digital Experiences at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences.

226 LISA DANG + SAMMI WONG

Prologue

Throughout human existence, we have continuously pondered, what lies after death? For hundreds of years, religious narratives spread through words, sermons, and scripture. Buddhism, Christianity, Islam. We clutch on to spiritual explanations to justify our actions on Earth. However sinful or virtuous. We gave ourselves permission to live in peace. Humans created a system for themselves to believe that they served a higher purpose in life and that they would become divine once they passed. As science developed, humans tried to rationalize other possibilities of death and familiarize themselves with discomforting news. Humans are no different than other beings of nature. As part of the cycle of life , humans live and die, then they cease to exist. Regardless, it is unknown what truly takes place after death, though we can perceive existence beyond having possession of physical occupancy. Only after passing, are we left with the exposed truth. Without our bodies, what are we? And if we exist, what do humans experience in the absence of consciousness? Is there a heaven or hell? Do we disappear after our bodies disintegrate? What is left in the infinite realm of the universe?

(Stage I) Loss

As the first signal of expiration, the heart stops beating. In the world of medicine, it flatlines. Like a carefully orchestrated event, the rest of the body follows in harmonies: blood flow constricts, organs shut down, skin loses color, warmth leaves the body. The brain is the last to expire. Even as the body shuts down, brain activity doesn’t cease. In fact, neurons start firing more rapidly than they ever have. What the brain experiences in its final moments is similar to a trance, except in this nightmare there’s no wake-up call to evade death.

It feels like I’m dreaming. And you can always tell when you’re in a dream - the mind just makes you quickly forget. But I’m not forgetting. It’s lucid.

Questions coagulate, where am I? What am I now?

My thoughts barely form . I’m floating.

Humans are thoughts

Our ideas, identity, actions

Told thoughts, drawn thoughts, acted on thoughts

We outgrow thoughts, live thoughts, become thoughts

At mortality’s punishment

I lose my body

But my essence remains

Now stuck in this waiting game

Time is frozen

In pondering my destination

Persisting thoughts intrudeI don’t believe in God. God is not real. There is no God.

In gondry my voice becomes distant

Fantasy lift me

Take me away

Project me among stars

Lucidly becoming astral

AFTERLIFE PROGRESSION

(Stage 2) Wandering

Consciousness has now diffused beyond the living. Everything is simplified to reactive energy. Untethered from physical occupance, the soul is pulled into a riptide — a spiritual portal closely resembling the physical world, but void of warmth and life. The landscape is shaded in black that creeps into grays, painted with translucent whites bled with dark inky textures. A magnitude of nothingness.

All the light I see spirals in one big wheel churning blobbed splots into an all consuming black. Colors inverted. Set on high contrast. Picturesquely still. All the sound roars into a gritty crescendo before slammed away by a deafening silence. My eardrums collapse from the lack of sound and onset of pressure.

[ Moments I spent alone

Clouded in rue

Bashed wishfully In limerence ]

Atmosphere flattens into two dimensions. Folded into a singular plane. Splotchy dark outlines distinguish figures printed on a page, patterned by granite scratches varying in harshness and depth. Their subjects are undefined. Loop, trace, scribble. They pop out like veins in a frenzy or blood splattering on a bleak pavement. Subdued, murky ombres fill the spaces.

[ Wading through Flashes of you

Stubborn traces still linger Carve my dystopia ]

As I slip deeper and deeper into the crevices where contrast meets, I curiously look for other beings. But there’s no one. Only deformities erratically nearing. There are no sounds, I realize. Except me. Am I speaking? No these are thoughts and they’re GETTING LOUDER. I can’t hear anything, my thoughts start PIERCING MY EARS.

It’s QUIET, Quiet!, quie —

[ Dragged viciously in turmoil

Taunted by my escapade

They’ve found me now. ]

(Stage 3) Terror

In this stage, seen terrors crash the human boundaries of awareness. These creatures are limitless and undefined, embodying karmic imbalances. Within the mind, unseen terrors violate the mind. Fear alters the physiological balance, triggering the release of endorphins to protect the mind from incomprehensible matter. Faced with cognitive dissonance, we struggle to retain a sense of control. It is our survival tactic.

A moment of clarity strikes. I’m stuck in the in-between. Stretched both ways but falling downwards. Down, down, down to the horrors that scare us into praying.

Disemboweled reptilians

Warped enigmas

Desiccated flesh

Phantom dementors

This time I can’t hide in my flesh that protected me before. A physical barrier to the vicious creatures who corrupt my core and seep my energy. In neither heaven or hell, I’m drowning alongside the lost souls that never made it to the gates of Heaven or Hell. Without consciousness, I can’t decipher the dangers I encounter but I feel their presence as a cyclical threat of looming over me. Every ounce of remaining awe leaves me. Fear seizes my passageway. Tightens my breath in asphyxiation. Paralyzes my senses. I’m high off the pleasure, forced out of control. A fake sense of control. Save me.

(Stage 4) Survival

At the final hour, when our minds mimic death, we’re saved by something beyond us. Love. There is solace in intimacy. This stage expresses our codependency. A natural inclination for human connection. Without love, we are nothing. Experiencing love is what allows for us to overcome incomprehensible pain — fear of the unknown — even death.

Love overcomes death — in this lifetime or the next one.

As the world blurs over

I retreat inside

Tucked within myself

Hidden away

In my mind’s eye

I remember you

あなた (Anata)

As you pull the scarlet twine

I crumble to your embrace

There you lie

Like serendipity

Caressing me gently

Smothering my cries

知音 (Zhiyin)

As always

We’re endlessly knotted

Dripping in crimson

Tightly intertwined

Woven spiritual bloodlines

I remember you

인연 (Inyeon)

We’ve met before

Like déjà vu

Please unravel me not —

Bittersweet reminiscence

Let interlude flourish, continue

My darling

Permit me to exist with you

Keep me refuge in your mind

Pinky promises tied in bows

Let’s stay interlocked

Forever waltzing

Eternal love

We’re tangled to the end

Follow you wherever

Your red string bends

Pray a chance you may stay

Alas farewell our time together

Dear soulmate

(Stage 5) Reach for Divinity

During true serenity, a drop of sun touches the soul. Divinity manifests itself pulling the souls up towards its origin, away from impurities. The gates of heaven. We ascend toward higher celestial territory and face judgment. Confronted with earthly sins, a predicament occurs in which heaven is even fucking scarier than below.

Defied your benevolence

Fearing my overindulgence

Did you keep score?

What is divine intervention?

You never saved me

Oh, not once

Crucified from judgment

Drowned in stigma

Faceless bodies intertwine

Infinite hands shoot past me,

Through me, within me, against me

Rippling form across space

I’m sorry

Forgive my sins

I’ll reap my sow

Promise

I’m grateful

I’m good

My eternity

Don’t abandon me!

Begged your sympathies

Condolences for my crimes

What is my tally?

Puppeteered in your hands

Weighed on your scale

Where do I stand?

We claw our way up

Pleading for salvation

Haunted by abomination

My angels’ eyes bleed

Scarred by obsidian hatred

Painful vengeance

(Stage 6) Sixth Dimension

After the encounter with celestial beings and rejection from heaven, the soul breaks into another dimension.

My reality starts to crack —

A deep fissure threatens

Silky alkaline fractures shake

Fragments of me from multiple lifetimes, splayed in front of me, distorted by the thousands of glass shards.

Chrome panes

Smothered in crystallic prisms

The surface shatters

Rends into pieces

As I start to fall away, light pours between the cracks, flows over me, and swallows me whole

(Stage 7) Rebirth

Afterlife is at its final cycle. Transition for identity reformation; metamorphosis.

Or like a lotus blossoming for the first time.

Nude pink blushes

Bleed virgin petals

Peel me gently

Enamor me now

Sweet nectar

Replenishes me quickly

Wrap me tightly

Make me pure

Make me free

Leave these murky waters

Which poisoned me well

I have always survived

Even when deprived

Well, I blossomed

Now envelop me in nirvana

Release the sacral hold

Let me go

238 LISA DANG + SAMMI WONG

Epilogue

Humans are comprised of thoughts, emotions, and experiences — our perceptual landscape. A lens that is malleable to our cognition and vulnerable to suggestion. At the point of death, our afterlife will only be as complex or rich as what we can perceive. No matter what science or deity you believe in or don’t, let this be a comfort that what you experience in the afterlife may only be determined by what already exists within you. NATALIE DARAKJIAN

Model

Lexy Pantera

Lead Producers

Jose Vielman

Lisa Dang

Sammi Wong

Production + PR

Irma Penunuri

Burgerrock Media

Haute Magazine

Production Assistants

Franco Salas

Karla Gonzalez

Assistant + Lighting

Cristine Jane

Makeup

John Cotter

Hair

Kyniiah

Stylist

Jessie Guillen

Interview

Nancy Martinez

Studio

Studio Eleven43 (@studio_eleven43)

Co-Publisher

StyleCruze Magazine

Lisa Dang is a Los Angeles-based writer who explores and experiments with different mediums. Within her storytelling, she hopes to challenge the limitations of perception to unveil intimate moments discovered from shared human experiences. Lisa studies Business Administration at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Sammi Wong is a photographer residing in Los Angeles. Her narratives come to life through her distinctive style in fashion photography, inventive manipulation of analog Polaroids, and captivating mixed media collages. Sammi studies Fine Arts at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California

Natalie Darakjian is an Orange County and Los Angeles-based designer interested in formmaking and visual design. Coming from an architecture background, she seeks to find ways to merge her various creative interests. Natalie studies Architecture at the School of Architecture, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Visual Design for Haute Magazine.

“Lenses opaque in season delight; to breathe in the luminous dance. Cold hours in kingdom skin.”

Jackson Epps is a Los Angeles-based designer who seeks to creatively tell visual stories. Jackson studies Public Relations and Communication Design at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Brian Sheehan, under the moniker LGRDMN, is a multimedia artist from Detroit. His work is reminiscent of old spirit and spectral photography with a contemporary touch. Using symbolism and dark visual narratives, he creates commentary on the surrounding world where subjects are akin to eidolon mythology and his own original vampyric lore. Brian uses horror aesthetically and intellectually to map the human condition.

WHEN THE TIME

TIME COMES

Fall

When the time comes, you will not be prepared. You will not be ready to face the loss of your guardian in the winter storm. A guardian who raised you as your own despite not being direct family, someone who has been an overarching part of your life; putting you at ease with her tender embrace, one that you imagined the clouds to feel at a young age; with soft words that flow through your ears like the dewdrops do on your skin after a gentle shower. Would you have been the same person without her guidance? No, of course not.

Your nostalgia only makes the pain intense. You’re torn. Weak. Broken. Yet, why do you still feel yourself tearing apart from something that hasn’t happened yet? Why must you agonize over the anticipation? Do you desire it, this feeling? Horrible, horrible, horrible.

Now is no time for blame. You brace yourself for your last embrace together, but you can’t help but let sorrow overpower your rationale. You have never experienced something like this: silent tears, your composure in complete dissonance with your disposure; tears that reveal the lie your smile and movements tell. You share brief words, a casual exchange that would otherwise be held by acquaintances, old friends seeing one another for the first time; words that conceal the grave situation you both face. As you share your words, you hold a lingering fear that this is the last time you will unite as one. You are helpless, watching someone so powerful and collected begin to wither away due to a force outside of their control; you’re just a bystander in the end.

Is this right, to grieve over something not yet lost? It’s anticipation. That’s what it is. Why must you anticipate the end?

You share an embrace, your tears sliding down your face like the dewdrops do on your skin after a gentle shower. You fear to let go, but you must. As you leave, you feel each footstep carrying a weight heavier than the last; you must put your guilt aside, there is still time. Why must you grieve the future?

Your intuition has not betrayed you. Your visit to her was the last.

Winter

When the time comes, you will hear the news of her loss. Time will have passed since you have last seen each other, time used to prepare yourself for the storm. You preoccupied yourself; menial tasks you partake in that justify under the guise of ‘looking after yourself;’ thinking about ‘your future,’ ‘your own needs,’ your ‘own life.’ Burning your own coal to keep yourself warm knowing that she can no longer do so herself. Living life knowing someone will soon take their last breath. Pretty selfish, isn’t it?

The news does not strike you as a life-altering revelation, a doomed prophecy come true, a tragedy. Rather, you simply listen. Listen to the news. Is there more you can do?

Like the bittercold that embodies the weather, you are frozen. Frozen in shock? Frozen in fear? Frozen in some emotional whirlwind too incomprehensible to put into words? Nope. Just frozen

Condolences come by, but you say you simply are fine. Because you are: no tears, no showers, no sense of looming dread that is coming your way. Simply moving along the path that life takes you, no need for the pains of nature’s harsh elements when you’ve taken precautions. The worst has happened, you saw it with your own eyes; you are in recovery, your recovery simply looks different than others. Right?

You can’t help but feel unnatural for your feeling, or lack thereof. You take others’ words of consideration at face value, like the snow as it slowly melts upon your skin, dissolving into water. You’ve heard countless tales of how you are supposed to feel in situations like these. What it means to grieve. What you experience now, this paradox of feeling the unfeeling, is simply not that. What is wrong?

You tug along. Move on with your life. Continue to preoccupy yourself with the mundane that makes up the machinations of life. When the time comes, surely, you will understand.

Spring

When the time comes, winter’s ice will have melted. The sun’s arrival brings life anew, the birth of newly-sprouted flowers, young birds who hatch from their egg and take their first glimpse of Earth’s beauty. Springtime is known and revered for reminding us of its blessings of life, love, and renewal; a reminder of how the new year brings about a kaleidoscope of opportunities and life paths. Yet, your life still feels stagnant. Why?

The sheet of cold that ironically kept your body warm has defrosted. Without the embrace of the bittercold, you can no longer ignore the raw energy that has been brewing within you. Time’s arrow marches you forward into a new era, whether you are ready or not. Rebirth is not a choice, rather a necessity.

Springtime is known for its fresh air of new life, of new renewal; this is certainly true for you. A butterfly emerged from a cocoon, your wings are fragile, yet glistening. Naive yet bold after conquering the challenges life (at least adolescence) has thrown at you, you fly to incredible lengths and marvel at your newfound flight. Yet, you are weighed down.

For while you marvel in your newfound identity, you know deep down this is a side of you she will never see; from the day your paths diverged, you have been living a new life, a new person who will never feel her love. This is the horror that your hibernation tried to hide from you: rebirth, in all its glory. Is this how change supposed to feel?

In the audience of those to witness all your greatest victories, the goalposts you move day by day, the accolades that define you as a person, the milestones others say only come once in a lifetime, one seat will always be empty. In all your losses, your self-indulgent expenditures, experimental vices with your body and mind, your ugliest encounters, she will not be there to bear witness, to bring comfort or stern direction. Why is change so lonely?

Springtime is known for its rebirth, but also its showers. Let your wings beat with an untapped ferocity as you fly higher into the sky in a fit of rage; angry at yourself for not cherishing your

younger moments more dearly. The person you have become she will never know, angry simply just to be angry. Raging against a light, one you know will never answer back.

Let yourself crash down, the only place you can land after wasting so much energy on a conflict with no end. Simply lie and cry, vulnerable, shattered across the leaves. Question all you’ve known, question if she can see you now, question if she can still remember your memories together. Your tears intensify, rejection of a truth too hard to swallow: you are alone here.

Summer

When the time comes, you will have found your balance within the world, yet still an uneasy one. Do not mistake this balance for that coveted ideal of ‘acceptance’; the ‘acceptance’ they speak of in tales of mourning, akin to some end-all miracle cure for an ill-fated curse in fairytales you’ve heard as a child. That acceptance is something you have not achieved, if ever. This is simply your response to life’s ultimate demand: you must move forward.

The Earth’s axis does not lie waiting for anybody, revolving around and around at its own pace with no shred of empathy. Life beckons for you to work tirelessly, to keep up pleasantries, to be normal; lest sympathy turn to scorn. The vicarious rays in the sun, passion within their burning heat; the crashing waves of the ocean, swaying between forceful and reserved; despite the ever-so-present emotion within these natural occurrences, they are at nature’s beck-andcall, their fervid bouts of intensity simply a vain attempt at resisting change.

However, despite the pressure to move forward, you are left with a memento. A memory, one that you cherish: her love. For when one’s body leaves the mortal plane and moves somewhere higher, the one material they leave behind is their love: the lasting memories with others still ever-so present. To love is the greatest treasure you can leave; it carries the memories of times much cherished, and

is a foundational piece of energy that is everlast, ebbing and flowing amongst various individuals with different origins, all with the same reverence. It is now your turn to carry her energy of love amongst others, as you once felt.

When the time comes, you will visit the old patio of the garden you once walked through hand-in-hand on a summer day for the last time. Gaze upon the pond; a reflection lingers, once holding the golden gazes of two pairs of eyes, now staring back at you with a sullen disposition. Walk upon the small bridge; a bridge that once carried the skittered stomps and gentle steps of two different pairs of feet, now hold one. Lay down next to the orchid tree and look forward; where once two bodies laid side-by-side, there now lies one.

Before your departure, take a deep breath and close your eyes. Feel the breeze of the garden’s breath slide through your lungs. One tear will fall, but resist the urge to stop its tracks. Let it roll down your check, like a dewdrop does across a green leaf. Feel its warm streak trail down your pale skin, leaving a pathway before eventually falling down and leaving its imprint upon the garden flowers. Give a moment for your heart to relapse, to reflect, before you return back to the call of life. When you’re ready, open your eyes and gaze upon the garden once more.

It’s beautiful.

Hunter Black is a San Francisco and Los Angeles-based writer who is passionate about narrative writing, and he seeks to incorporate others’ lived experiences into creative stories. Hunter studies Public Relations at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California. He also serves as the Director of Writing for Haute Magazine.

Lorcan Gould is a Suffolk, UK-based artist that specializes in various mediums of art and photography. Lorcan is currently a student taking A-level courses, however, he is looking to further pursue his passion for art beyond school. His source of inspiration ranges from his personal interests to events in his life, expressing through his artwork various topics such as memory, trauma, and the present. He features the aesthetics of local Suffolk and Norfolk countryside as his primary subject.

Praew Kedpradit is a Thailand and Los Angeles-based graphic designer and digital artist. Her works express emotions, explore relationships, and reflect inner conflicts about societal problems. Praew studies Communication at the Annenberg School of Communicationand Journalism, University of Southern California.

sliver

children of the cosmos, borrowers of the stars. we steal a sliver of time from the universe’s multitude of breaths. in exchange, it screams at us to use our stolen treasure wisely, sparingly. for good, for great. for you, for others. we reside in a ticking hourglass, in every hour of every minute of every second of every life. the stopwatch starts at our entry to the world, ends when we reach the exit. in this crevice of time, hidden like a speck of dust in infinity, we are timed and tested. we are haunted by the end of all of our lives, inching near us like a tiger pouncing on prey as each precious moment comes by.

time taunts me in every corner. it sits in my coffee, warmth of the ceramic mug slipping from my fingers. it hides in my father, folds sinking into wrinkles as age coats his skin. it lingers in the air, the grim twang of dust and wist arising from old boxes of childhood toys i rediscover whenever i grieve my childhood. here lies a cold reminder that the universe is cruel and feeds us the pain and the medicine, caresses our bullet wounds as it hides the gun behind its back. the world gives us love affixed with loss, home entwined in eviction. and for a lifetime, we do nothing but let it. because time remains stagnant, and i stare at it in a coldening cup, resting in wrinkles, drifting in the air. time will point and tease and sneer and we just let it, because what else can we do? so i try not to think about how it screams in my ear sometimes, try not to spiral at what comes next is it darkness is it nothing is it a void and i’ll treasure warm chocolate-chip cookies, the lingering hands of a lover, the smell of old pages in a book, and the embrace of my mother’s hug.

fluidity

an unmoving pond after the storm, a puddle of worn bathwater at the bottom of the tub. a body of water bunched up in hues of blue and transparency as it swirls as one entity. the ocean is one being, millions and millions of miles treading on and on, destitute of any gaps or breaches. water seems stable and compact as it flows as one. i reach out to hold it, foresee something of substance meeting skin, but my fingers dip into thin. liquid seeps through the crevices of my fingers.

i grasp at life like i grasp at water, watch it break apart in my hands as the droplets cling to my skin like a cold cold reminder that life is finite, fleeting like remnants of liquid dripping from my hands down into the drain to the pipes to the sewage to the unknown. i wish to hold the flow and ease in my hands. the breakage of what seems to be solid makes me want to scrub at my flesh until it is raw, scour until the temporariness is gone and somehow permanence remains.

waves opaque foam bubbles at the shoreline. blink, and it retracts back into darkness. barely breathe, the next one dives at our feet. inhale, watch the waves crash and crash. up and over, out and back. the waves don’t wait for each other, no room for error or courtesy. the next one will begin to rumble before the last one retreats, impatient to ruin any sliver of calm that comes as the current withdraws. this restlessness never ends, without fail each wave will come and go and come and go. the ocean never hesitates, the cycle never breaks, the water never lies. sticks and stones

will break my bones, this truth will always haunt me.

we exist in every wave, each crash brings us closer to the end. we are every grain of sand, misplaced by each ripple of water, waiting for the next pang of pain to hit and the permanence of temporality stings like saltwater seeping into cuts deep in my mortal flesh. forever we’ll reside in the moments where the wave retracts and the next one is just about to hit, the split second where the ocean breathes like the second hand just before midnight, before the current strikes and scrapes at our feet again and again and again.

talking to the moon

when you stay up late talking to the moon, you’ll find yourself pausing for a breath and a response that’ll never come. the world doesn’t respond to your outcries, only the whistle of wind and the mocking singing of crickets. the silence is daunting, and all at once i feel insignificant in this realm between the beginning and the end, time and space. i often want to shrink, even smaller than the world has already cruelly created me when i realize i am half a speck of dust in the universe. i’ve found solace in the warm saltiness of my tears and my hand cupping my cheek. perhaps there’s blessing in being inconsequential. maybe i can smell the flowers and hold a lover and run into cornfields and be free. but scents will turn sour and my legs will get tired and i’ll remember that nothing’s forever. so i will spend my days picking at the skin around my fingers and counting the days until the weekend and stay in denial of the finiteness of time. i’ll digress back to talking to the moon, holding a breath, and awaiting a response knowing nothing will come.

circles

the sun burns scarlet, her eyes see red as she makes her way past the shambles of the thicket’s splintered evergreens and dampened soils full of dead leaves. she lets the gales carry her through the scene, violent gusts blowing her to what seems to be the edge of the world. she finds tempo in each misbalanced step, rhythm in boosts of adrenaline as the air carries her to the periphery. there’s comfort in panic when it’s all you’ve ever known. shivers decorate her flesh like a hug enveloping her skin, the cold bites at her ears like the nibble of a puppy’s kiss. fear coats her bones like a warm drink on a winter evening. she allows subtle horror to overcome her, lets the feeling sink into her core to translate to adrenaline, and the familiar ache in her heels returns as the panic, manic, frenzy of an old friend, driving each ambitious step that screams to run away.

all at once, the wind stops, every leaf on every tree holds its breath. there is quiet and the sun’s red hues return to settle on her goosebump-adorned skin, her eyes settle on the all-too-familiar split branches and dirt trekked with her very own wicked footprints. back to zero, back to nothingness, back to awaiting the panic that will settle again with a moment’s time, time wasted at our crazed efforts. her heart had been so caught on running that she has forgotten how long it’s been, too long to recall when she started to flee. our lifetime will be full of these runs until we have nothing left to give, no more steps left. after all, the world is round, we are bound to run in circles over and over again, we will spin around and around like soulless mortals until we dizzy ourselves to death.

JENNY KIM + JIMIN HONG

Jenny Kim is a New York and Los Angeles-based writer. She finds passion in the intersection of sentimentalism and honesty. Jenny studies English at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Jimin Hong is a Los Angeles-based photographer and filmmaker. She studies Film & TV Production and Non-Governmental Organizations & Social Change at the School of Cinematic Arts and the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Carter Woltz is a Chicago and Los Angeles-based designer specializing in digital design. His interests lie in iconography and typography. Carter studies Business Administration with a minor in Communication Design at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS

INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS

Sleep in—

Don’t go—

Flake—

Drop out—

Quit—

You suck—

Why are you even here—

I hate you—

I miss you—

Run the red light—

Steal it—

No one is looking—

Kick the dog—

Make the baby cry—

You smell—

F*ck this guy—

That sh*t was trash—

I’m going to punch you—

Lie—

I’m so much better than you—

Do you know who I am—

Who are you—

Who cares—

I’m not sorry though—

Break it—

Throw it—

You are a waste of time—

You are not worth it—

Cheat on her—

She won’t find out—

F*CK YOU—

Is there really a God—

I need help—

What’s the worst that could happen—

Snort it—

Smoke it—

Drink it—

Text her—

Call her—

It’s fine—

Whatever—

Forget it—

INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS

I want to punch you— I wonder how it feels—

Would anyone even notice I’m gone—

I love you—

I want you—

She’s the one—

Marry her—

Say it— I dare you—

What if— F*ck it.

I have these intrusive thoughts sometimes.

I spiral down into countless dark realities where the isolation, misery, lust, rage, and resentment overcome me.

But they don’t.

They never get to see the light of day.

Forever lurking… Forever incomplete… Loose ends…

It’s an eerie reality knowing that I am not the only one to have intrusive thoughts. We all do.

We all try to control them.

Some are more successful than others. Thankfully more the former than the latter.

What’s crazy is that, sometimes, the pot doesn’t even need to be stirred.

Why are some thoughts considered “intrusive” while others are considered “epiphanies”? Who is to decide the difference? The right from wrong? What about how I feel?

I’m the one who thought it after all. Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do. It obviously came from somewhere.

The devil wears Prada. He cleans up nice. Just like you and me.

Call me fake.

But if anything, I am protecting you from what’s inside. My skin is what keeps it from all spilling out. Thick skin.

We are all fighting our own battles. It’s okay — I hear you. I see you. I acknowledge you. The voices are loud, but your mind is stronger.

The less they know, the better.

Daniel Lee is a Los Angeles-based writer focused on creative marketing. Daniel studies Communication at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism. He also serves as the Editor for Haute Magazine.

Kalliope Amorphous is a photographer based in Providence and New York City. Kalliope is a self-taught photographer who explores dreamlike, surreal narratives through a diverse portfolio of fine art, portraiture, experimental photography, and conceptual art. Kalliope uses reflectons, blue mirrors, multiple exposures, and composite techniques to lead the viewer through themes of identity, mortality, time, and consciousness. Kalliope’s uses photography as a performative process to heal trauma by exploring the boundaries between “self” and “other.”

Evan Rodrigues is a Los Angeles-based designer. Evan studies Journalism with minors in Applied Analytics and Entertainment Industry at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

XAVIER LUGGAGE

Xavier Luggage is a Los Angeles-based photographer from Chile. Xavier draws inspiration from his life and the happenings around him, and his goal is to elicit reactions from his audience. As a creative, Xavier aims to showcase everything that isn’t common, perfect, or beautiful.

Michael Castellanos is a Los Angeles-based designer specializing in graphic design. He implements empathy within his design to drive his creative direction. Michael studies Design and Architecture at the Roski School of Art & Design and the USC School of Architecture, University of Southern California.

Models

Kayla Sarno

Ana Paula Cedillo

Kimya Jalinous

Kaitlyn Hajj

Studio Luxury Elevated Studios (@luxuryelevatedstudios)

Fiona Choo is a mixed-media photographer based in Southern California. From fine art to digital photography, she presents a diverse range of media in her work which explores and interrogates societal narratives. Fiona studies Media Arts & Practice with a minor in Cinematic Arts at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

Bryson Nihipali is a Los-Angeles based photographer. Bryson studies Communication with a minor in Cinematic Arts at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Jimin Hong is a Los Angeles-based photographer and filmmaker. She studies Film & TV Production and Non-Governmental Organizations & Social Change at the School of Cinematic Arts and the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Zongyi Wang is a beginner photographer always eager to learn and exercise his creativity. Zongyi studies Business Administration at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Nishka Manghnani is a Mumbai and Los Angelesbased graphic designer. With a knack for public art, she creates work with the intention of mobilizing social change. Nishka studies Design with a minor in Web Development at the Roski School of Art & Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Visual Design for Haute Magazine.

SCULPTOR, also known as SCULPTOR WORLDWIDE, is an apparel company based in South Korea specializing in streetwear. The brand strives to carefully and artistically create clothing that resembles a sculptor’s work, and SCULPTOR is represented by celebrities such as New Jeans, Lee Hyori, and more. This spread was produced in collaboration between SCULPTOR WORLDWIDE and Haute Magazine.

AARRON ANDERSON

ANNIE YAN

Aarron Anderson is a Dallas-based photographer specializing in editorial, beauty, film, and studio photography. Aarron’s bold, unique style is the hallmark of his career.

Annie Yan is a Los Angeles-based artist focused on graphic design and the visual development of games and films. Annie studies Game Art at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

JUDGMENT

DAY JUDGMENT

Aaron Wilson is a Houston and Los Angeles-based portrait and sports photographer. Aaron studies International Relations (Global Business) at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Evan Rodrigues is a Los Angeles-based designer. Evan studies Journalism with minors in Applied Analytics and Entertainment Industry at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Model Jordan Nicole

This concept is inspired by Judgment Day from the Bible. It explores the acceptance into heaven as well as the acceptance of death.

JUDGMENT DAY

(

BOUNDLESS NIGHTMARES

NIGHTMARES) 惡夢無邊

We spend a third of our lives sleeping — blurring reality and illusion, reflecting our innermost subconscious. Nightmares are manifestations of such an in-between state. Not entirely real, not entirely fantasies, they are cries of anxiety, echos of fear, and whispers from the shadowed corners of our subconscious minds. Much like Limbo, nightmares disrupt the border between our conscious awareness and the realm of unknown. Nightmares are paradoxical reminders that we are alive, just disconnected from the reality that we’ve always known.

Models

Alicia Lin

Neveah Li

JENNY

BOUNDLESS NIGHTMARES

Jenny Yu is a Los Angeles and Qingdao-based photographer. They specialize in street photography and portraits with a strong interest in cultural and self-identity exploration as well as monochrome photography. Jenny studies History and Economics at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Teri Shim is a Seoul and Los Angeles-based designer and digital artist. With a focus on storytelling, she is interested in exploring the human experience through the ways in which bodies take up space. Teri studies Computational Neuroscience at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

ANATOMY OF A

She has not slept in a week. It is matchless, this dream that plagues and delights her: baled hay seething in the blue air, splintering rooftop, and fine frames of a house burning, bonfire-high. She rolls over in her silk bedsheets. She feels it all over her skin, the smoldering drapery of her velvet curtains.

She gets up into the dead of night. She gazes high into the cerulean clouds, cold as her frozen fingers which she chews. The porch door slams shut, gently. He comes out with a porcelain cup and offers her tea — ginger. It’s good for circulation. She straightens her shoulders as she stares into an inky speck in her tea and slips out of her mind. She begins sipping, also, to slip into the night.

“I adore this faint moon. I adore this light,” she sighs.

“Drink up, you’ll need it,” he replies. She looks at his smile through the silent darkness, waiting to hear its twinkle… It rings sharp like metal, like the metal of a cage falling up into the ever-open skies.

The white linen of her day dress is soft against her tanned skin, melted from a day in the sun. His sweaty feet leave fading marks on the cool terracotta of the floor. She feels the trance of midsummer — the hum of cicadas, the familiar stench of his lavender and cigar, his hands drenching the air with fresh turpentine.

“What do you think?” His latest painting is a burning scarlet sun setting down over the nearby indigo coast, the bleeding light of an

evening cove captured perfectly with his oh, so, painterly hands. She peers closer at the sun, a bruise, bold and bright, spreading purple with yellowish blotches across the night sky. She tugs at her sleeve. Despite the warm summer air, she is shivering now.

“It’s painfully charming,” she laughs. Everything is funny when she ignores the dread.

“Thank you, my love.”

Love. A lonesome syllable, a feathery thing, a name no sharper nor duller than a sculpting razor. She understands what it is: not a cleaver, but an edge. An icicle. It splices the center of her womanhood, drawing everything into two. Before and after. Beauty and the damned. Healer and the blade. The rest of the world outside the frame falls away on all four sides—what is outside is ugly and its ugliness, he says, is raw and unfiltered. Though she wonders, when truth plunders beauty, what its offspring would be.

She is dreaming again. She is a body of oozing light. She is wrapping her bedsheets around her wrists, trying to cage her fractals of light. He is pricking her surface with a needle, trying to turn light into liquid. Every so often, an agonizing ray leaks and gushes out in surges and it is killing her softly.

She is awake. She looks down at her arms and two pinprick wounds glare back at her. She had always been awake. He holds her eyes in his poisonous glint and kisses his

ANATOMY OF A LEAKING REVERIE

prayers into her: let there be light; let the banal become holy, let the vulgar be purified. He empties the blood-filled syringe onto a palette, dips a paintbrush into the quickly darkening substance, and plasters his gory sunset with its final strokes. His cruel nail to its true cross. In that suspended moment, she watches in shock as he forces the painting to take its first afflicted gasp of air. A religion in flesh and pilferage. She had never been awake to see this — the sad, counterfeit coin behind the magician’s crude, derivative secret:

He is Man and names himself Truth. She is Beauty, and he is after her blood. He has made pain meager and suffering bland. He leaves crimson claw marks on all the light he has ever touched and entombs her in a shrine christened Art.

She tries to recall the last time her skin belonged to her and fails to remember. But there is still light inside.

“Dance with me.”

She freezes. They’re by the coast again, and her mind is racing, picking through what she had thought to be her reality; truth tumbling down the crevices of her scalp in harmony with the ocean conjuring its wild waves. She is in love with a past, a past that once promised a heavenly home beyond an ugly grave. She knows the home is made of hay now.

Taking a deep breath, she turns. She has to know.

“When will this end?”

His lips curve up into a godforsaken smile.

“Why, till everlasting glory,” he hums, placing his calloused hand on the small of her back, pulling her nearer.

“And what is my glory?” she asks. “To live to bleed and die?”

He laughs.

“No, to bleed and die — to live.” He waltzes them across the floor languidly in the way tea would trickle down her throat — just as he had done so many times before, when they were once in love.

She is tangoing with her past. It twirls; it drifts and gathers. If she is not careful, it will bury her. She pulls away and lifts her head.

“You are cruel and dead,” she states.

“And you are empty and living,” he whispers.

She looks up into his eyes, two stony constellations borne of darkness, origins of hunger and sacrilege. No, he does not know love. He is a pillager who paints pictures, and the world worships his name.

“You are never letting me go,” she says, almost amused.

“I would rather die.”

Fascinating. She sways and continues their dance. She dreams of how that would be arranged and loses herself in her riverine mind again. ***

She is starting to believe in everything she dreams. For dreams are the language of the world after — a world borne of despair into hope, as the blitz turns prisons to land, and ashes to heart. With the wind rising, she watches herself quietly putting on her sundress at midnight, throwing in three matches for her dream that now simply delights her. One, for the baled hay seething in the blue air. Two, for the rooftop splintering over his eternal slumber and all around her. And three, for the fine frames of her wretched house to burn and burn — bonfire-high.

In the shimmering heat of her vision, she gazes up into the faint moon she so adores and lets the smoke blacken her dress. Her hair, colored an asteroid-ash coat of ebony on a blackberry, wanes down her crescent abdomen. Walking over her ring of fire like a lake, she notices a trickle of blood running down her thigh onto the alpine knuckle of her leg and halts it. Her hand slackens and smudges red against her canvas: one creator, one birth.

She catches a glimpse of herself in the moonlight and smiles with the recognition one reserves for a ghost.

I. Blood of a Lamb in Wolfskin

All I’ve ever known was to grip on your worn-out cool skin Falling in love with me yet making love with young girls who Swallowed almond pits in their sleep.

I was there, you know, herding seven sheep you’ll soon skin And wear when you leave to lure and hunt more to keep.

But you never came home empty-handed; 180 pounds pounded with Blood from cobblestones all the way to my starving arms, and back, And just enough rich wool on my bruised shoulders.

Now my skin is a mirror and I stand in front of it. I don’t recognize the gwai that stares back.

This gwai moves. I wince.

This gwai opens its almond eyes. I shriek.

This gwai is a yellow wound, and I bleat in feverish pain:

I’m your understudy tonight, honey. Tell me to clean you and your scars, Tell me to nourish you and your ignorance And I will make love to you and your histories. I win whenever you win.

Read me like a dirty magazine

As I make love to filthy men and before I make them your own clothing, I’ll make them eat almonds too and force in at least eight pits to stop Them from breathing. Maybe they’ll look for its tree when they’re tired From haunting us down while we lay in comfort fields.

There my body lies.

Ruins of a battlefield to a great civil war that raged inside me

As I betrayed myself to forgive you.

*gwai: Cantonese for ghost

II. When Truth Plunders Beauty

Love is a sin and in the alcove of my heart lies an inferno. That inferno is the hell where lovers lounge.

Your body is a temple to the angel that idles on your eyelids. Oblivion is the color of my irises at midnight.

The lotus on my windowpane refuses to wilt.

You stroke my hair and your angel blesses me with binds on my feet. You kiss my lips and your angel sings a hymn that carves up my tongue.

Do you ever wonder if you win or lose When I feed you a fuck or two?

Somewhere, another lotus begins to bloom.

My tears drown cities and wreck their temples. Your body was a temple. It is tear-stained now.

An angel begins burning in a wreckage drowned by sin. She writhes on your eyelids that wither with desire.

Every truth that comes my way sins and every sinner who touches me finds a home. I open my mouth and a burning angel makes her way down my throat.

The lotus on my windowpane moans.

Love is pain that tastes like licorice needles and it siphons my light. Forgiveness is a sin and your growls slashed my tongue apart for vengeance.

I can shut you and your ego up for— How long can you hold it in?

She reaches a pit.

Her howl is the lover’s laughter that escapes your lips and brands my flesh.

III. They Weren’t Society People

I was a nude model for the House of the Orient. At dinner parties sometimes They’d make the waiter bring me out and they’d Bawl me out in front of the other guests.

They weren’t society people.

They ate portraits of withering fruits And archaeological ceramics from the East And abstract faces of philosophers with dementia.

They were divine succubus.

They devoured the illicit shape of my tongue, The smell of the iron in my blood and the rot of internal wounds. Their cheap paint will never rub off my rich skin.

One day in walks the man in charge Of the chamber. It was him. He was Lord Succubus. He told me I belonged to him.

That he was the only one to sculpt wild in my eyes And staple tame on my mouth. He said now I’m going to teach you what I Learned in Rome one summer.

Lord, I’m nobody’s flesh.

I put a latex apple in his muzzle And hogtied his companions up against the wet frescoes And told them I was going to show them what I learned In the House of Jade one year.

Judgment hailed on the Obscene Chapel that shrill night.

ANATOMY OF A LEAKING REVERIE

Callie Lau is a storyteller, painter, and singer-songwriter from Hong Kong. Callie imbues her poetry with incongruous aesthetics, iridescent mysticism, and the transgressive power of femininity. Callie studies Narrative Studies with a minor in Music Industry at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Franklin Lam is a Los Angeles and New York-based multimedia artist who captures emotional narratives through photography, filmmaking, and visual design. His dramatic visual style bridges fashion, music, and cinema. Franklin majors in Media Arts & Practice at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. He also serves as the Director of Content for Haute Magazine.

Nishka Manghnani is a Mumbai and Los Angeles-based graphic designer and digital artist. With a knack for public art, she creates work with the intention of mobilizing social change. Nishka studies Design with a minor in Web Development at the Roski School of Art & Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Visual Design for Haute Magazine.

Models

Lisa Souphone

Hair & Makeup

Assistant Mason So

Rui Zhang

Isa Perez

Wardrobe

Kentaro Kameyama

JOSHUA

JOSHUA NAI

JOSHUA

JOSHUA NAI

Joshua Nai is a second-generation Chinese, Australian-born photographer and creative based in Melbourne, Australia. With an endless passion for the creative arts, Joshua pays attention to form and narrative through photography and video. Joshua is driven to create by the infinite possibilities with light and explores his subjects through his creative use of lighting. His ultimate goal is to tell the stories behind his subjects and himself.

Sharon Choi is a Los Angeles-based designer and fine artist who focuses on visual and experience design. Sharon studies Business Administration with a minor in Product Design at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

BEHIND

LIMBO

BEHIND

LIMBO

Dancers

Irena Yin

Ermioni Har

Nick Li

Directors

Sea Gira

Cecilia Mou

Executive Producers

Josey Cuthrell-Tuttleman

Kayla Wong

Katherine Han

Producers

Christophe Merriam

Tyler Tang

Associate Producer

Olivia Harwin

Assistant Director

Olivia Harwin

Writer

Trelas Dyson IV

For the “Limbo” theme reveal, we wanted to immerse our audience into an abstract visualizer depicting a surreal world that contends with states of suspension and uncertainty between binaries. Through the amalgamation of striking visuals, projections, and three hauntingly beautiful dancers, “LIMBO” guides our audience along the shaky boundary between divine beauty and the hellish grotesqueness, hoping to make way for a new, liminal space in between.

Costumes

Alysha Wang is a Los Angeles-based Indonesian creative who specializes in producing. With a focus on POC and LGBTQ+ narratives, she’s passionate about exploring human connection. Alysha studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Cecilia Mou is a Los Angeles-based artist who seeks to make her audience feel loved across mediums. She seeks to expand emotional boundaries through authenticity. Cecilia studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Christophe Merriam is a Los Angeles-based film producer, lifelong photographer, and storyteller. He strives to spotlight underrepresented stories of the human experience, allowing his viewers to feel represented and expand their perspectives. Christophe studies Business of Cinematic Arts at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Eileen Mou is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker. Eileen studies Design at the Roski School of Art & Design, University of Southern California.

Jenna Miller is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker and cinematographer from the Bay Area. She hopes to help tell stories that further social change. Jenna studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Joanna Song is a Vancouver and Los Angeles-based Chinese creative who specializes in video production and film photography. She is passionate about storytelling and seeks to explore different media. Joanna studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Olivia Harwin is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker specializing in directing. She seeks to bring a collaborative, raw approach to her projects. Olivia studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Sea Gira is a St. Louis-raised and Los Angeles-based Thai-American filmmaker. Inspired by her experiences, she creates stories centered around relationships, coming-of-age moments, psychological experiences, and representation of minorities. Sea studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Sam Socorro is a Bay Area and Los Angeles-based creator who specializes in concert photography and analog videography. He seeks to create short-form content based around his friends, travels, and personal life experiences. Sam studies Business Administration at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Trelas Dyson IV is a Los Angeles-based actor, filmmaker, camera operator from Las Vegas. He hopes to work in the film, theater, and screenwriting industries. Trey studies English with a minor in Cinematic Arts at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Tyler Tang is a Los Angeles based filmmaker from the Bay Area. He specializes in cinematography and producing. Tyler studies Cinema & Media Studies at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Yeji Seo is a Los Angeles-based multimedia artist passionate about experimenting within the intersection of technology and art. She derives inspiration from her heritage, urban art, and the diverse communities around her. Yeji studies Arts, Technology and the Business of Innovation at the Iovine and Young Academy, University of Southern California.

Fiona Choo is a mixed-media photographer based in Southern California. From fine art to digital photography, she presents a diverse range of media in her work which explores and interrogates societal narratives. Fiona studies Media Arts & Practice with a minor in Cinematic Arts at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

Josey Cuthrell-Tuttleman is a New York and Los Angeles-based filmmaker with an emphasis in directing, cinematography, and producing. She strives toward creating content that focuses on empathy. Josey studies Film & TV Production with a minor in Law & Social Justice at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Multimedia for Haute Magazine.

Kayla Wong is an Oakland-raised, Los Angeles-based filmmaker. She aims to present audiences with the messy parts of life from a personal perspective, focusing on amplifying the voices of those who are affected by politicized or underrepresented issues. Kayla studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Multimedia for Haute Magazine.

Katherine Han is a Los-Angeles based creative specializing in videography. She seeks to continue pushing the boundaries of multimedia storytelling. Katherine studies Communications and Cinematic Arts at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism and the School of Cinematic Arts, University Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

Anoushka Buch is a Los Angeles-based creative from San Francisco who specializes in visual design. With a foundation in publication design and branding, she seeks to create beauty through consistency and cohesion. Anoushka studies Design with a minor in Marketing at the Roski School of Art & Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.