vol.29 N D R G A E
no.3
Untitled Artwork
Latticework
Editors-in Chief Audrey Bohlin Elsah James
Secretaries Cate Goodin Caro Ewing
Fiction Editors Savannah Vonesh (lead)
Bianca Hassan
Sofia Cimballa
Clara Oyanguren
Phoebe Anderson Katlyn Saldarini
Poetry Editors Eliana Burgin (lead)
Colby Johnson
Jaiden Truhe
Belle Staley
Kella Jahn
Caroline Rydesky
Layout Editors Cole Erickson (lead)
Emma Huff (lead)
Avani Damidi
Savannah Soraghan
Laney Demarcay
Julia Carey
weather outside. However, it was particularly odd to him that on such a cold day, she would prefer to wear a skirt that reached only one hand above her knees, and extremely thin stockings that surely did nothing against the harsh breezes. His eyes trailed to the small tear on the left leg of her stockings, a mere inch above and perhaps two inches to the
that was invading his chest, his
The woman tossed the ashes in the ashtray and placed it on the table before her. There was another si lence. The man was fidgeting while the woman was looking at the man with calmness. As if he remembered something, he suddenly asked, “Would you care for some tea? I
“How long?” the woman asked.
“The water, how long did you boil
The man stumbled upon his words for a couple of seconds at the unex pected question before answering,
“The water must boil for at least fifteen minutes for proper infusion,” she instructed, her brow furrowing
“Of course, of course.” the man murmured while nodding his head understandingly. The woman then proceeded with her eyebrows arched further.
“Then, after removing from heat, allow it to steep for another twenty minutes,” she continued, her gaze unwavering.
“Indeed, indeed.” he concurred. The woman looked at the man sit ting before her. His hair was long
he would seek solace in the quiet spectacle of human existence. Yet, on this particular eve, as he gazed upon the tableau of life unfolding before him, an overwhelming sense of melancholy suddenly took hold of his mind. Amidst the throng of
engulfed by an indescribable and perfectly unexpected sadness that threatened to consume him whole.
she was at his door, uninvited, with a pot of chicken soup.
“Ms. White?” he could only murmur, taken aback by her unexpected presence.
“Chicken soup with lemon is the best cure.” she replied, her voice devoid of inflection. As the man poured a glass of water for Eunice, a sense of melancholy lingered in the recesses of his mind, akin to the subtle sting of electric currents. Yet, he resolved to shield his guest from his inner turmoil, deeming it unfitting to spoil her benevolent gesture with the burden of his sorrow.
“I am sure this will do.” he said. From the sudden rush or the smoke
Amidst flow of pedestrian traffic and the ceaseless hum of motorcars,
He was well-mannered, kind and docile. Such individuals, pliant and amiable, suited her predilection for influence, their compliance not stemming from intellectual inferior ity, but from a congenial disposi tion. It had been two years since they started working together. Not once did they converse more than two short sentences per each: “Would you mind looking over this
“Sure, Ms. White, it will be done by
And they wouldn’t utter another word until the next task beckoned. That was until Eunice noticed his absence for almost two weeks from the office. She learned about his illness from the manager. Next day,
The man and the woman shared a solemn silence as their eyes met. “I hope, truly hope, that you will get well. One day, you will.” And with that, Eunice left. The man closed the door and walked towards the living room window, watching Eunice vanish into the street beyond the garden. He returned inside and grabbed his wife’s picture. His thumb caressed her cheeks, lips and eyes. She looked young and happy. Indeed, elegant. Collapsing onto the couch, he curled into a ball, embracing the frame tightly to his chest as tears once again welled in his eyes.
The chicken soup laid cold upon the kitchen counter.
By: Courtney Lassiter
I woke up hungover in a bed of moss on Sunday afternoon. My jacket still smelled of whiskey, vodka, and god-knows-what other concoction of other liquors from the night before. As I stumbled through the dirt and rose bushes just before sunrise, something in me hoped I wouldn’t wake up, so I could spend my time on the sweet, dewy ground forever. I’d done everything right to make it all go away, and yet–I awoke. I opened my eyes slowly, though it was still quick enough for a jolt of pain to shoot through my temples. Any slight movement of my bones rewarded me with a “pop” or “click” as I struggled to sit up. The indifference I felt despite having just passed out for godknows-how-long in some stranger’s backyard was immense. If you told me just a month ago, I’d be this far gone into another destructive bender I would’ve laughed at you–but, now, I can only sigh. Light streamed into my vision, enough for me to raise my hand to the sun as a sign of forgiveness, hoping someone was listening. Above me stood some of the tallest trees I’d seen in my life, or at least of what I could remember up until this point. Most of my childhood and even teendom memories had fled me from the years of self-destruction I’d engaged in. I looked closer amongst the green leaves and noticed something most peculiar. Oranges?
What god-forsaken backyard had oranges? Oranges would never grow in my hometown, but at
this point, It wouldn’t surprise me if I was far enough from that little dot on the map for the weather not to matter. I lost track of time and space, stumbling into bar after bar, and days blurred between the dark liquid just beyond every bottleneck. I wouldn’t question how I’d come to find myself under sunshine instead of demise–I’d eat.
I couldn’t remember the last time a full meal had graced my lips, and my stomach growled with possibility. I looked down and saw subtle shades of pink and green tickling at the ankles of my boots. Wildflowers and clovers that had sprouted up amid recent rain, perhaps?
Bundles of hydrangea blooms surrounded the burly trunks of the orange trees. I raised my arms up barely, touching a branch, and jumped a bit to yank it down. Thump.
“Fuck!”
I grabbed for my pounding head as the branch flung back up into the tree. I looked up, straining–an orange had fallen from up high and clunked right down onto my unsuspecting scalp. A blessing in disguise, maybe. I reached toward the grouwnd where it lay shining–and somehow– unbruised. I grabbed it, touching its scaly skin. As I lay basking in the rays of sun that streamed down from above, I tore into the fruit, juice flowing over my callouses. My first bite into the orange felt like God himself had come down, looked upon me, and somehow still decided to save my life. It was delicious. I realized the garden I found myself in was rather
beautiful. Perfectly manicured grass faded into bushels of creeping phlox, blooming purple beneath my soles. I leaned down to smell the fragrant call of a red hibiscus sitting proudly on a shrub of dark green leaves. The house before me was even more magnificent, with its marble columns rising high and mighty, far beyond the reach of those magnificent orange trees. I popped the last juicy slice of orange into my mouth and savored its bright, summery flavor. I swallowed, and as I stared into the windows of the perfect vacation home, I started to think. What the hell was I doing here?
I fumbled for the pocket of my dirt-streaked jacket–only a long-forlorn ring and a crumpled ten-dollar bill were there. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t buy another bottle of Jack Daniel’s with that–barely two shots, if I was lucky. That wasn’t the only thing wrong, though–I knew even despite the many memories that had long run from my intoxicated mind, there was a life and even a family waiting for me hundreds of miles away. Drinking away my world was a pitiful attempt at changing the mistakes I’d made. My heart ached longingly as the last aftertastes of citrus dissipated into my mouth. This cycle couldn’t go on forever. I turned away from the house and found myself facing a small neighborhood with a road, winding further and further until it disappeared into a crossroads. A glinting green street sign, Oglethorpe Avenue, shone valiantly at the corner. Maybe it was the work of serendipity that I found myself here in a beautiful Georgian garden; maybe, it was that I’d run out of alcohol. Either way— It was time to go home.
By: Liv Norten
I drop my keys unceremoniously onto the counter with a clatter that sends ripples through the surface of a half-full plastic water bottle that has been sitting in the same spot for a week. It has recently been joined by an IKEA bowl displaying remnants from plain pasta I ate 3 days ago. They are positioned like sculptures in a modern art museum exhibit: “Grown woman who cannot fathom washing her dishes.” Materials: polyethylene and parmesan cheese. I hear my footsteps echo menacingly off the white walls and watch as the whole room seems to tremble in time with my strides. I think I must be some kind of monster. This is how a horror movie starts. The camera is currently filming the protagonists of the story, cowering just around the corner, waiting for my reveal to begin a plot that is not my own. I think about getting a gym membership.
The stairs arrive in front of me and I decide I will not climb them. I can feel the seams of my socks pressing unevenly across the tips of my toes and get the urge to vomit. The backs of my sneakers are worn away from the daily ritual of slipping in and out of them without any disturbance to the double-knotted laces. Foam pokes out of the identical holes when my heels pass over them like they have a million times. I manage to free my feet from the cotton using only the dexterity of my toes and notice that breathing is getting progressively more difficult. I have a single hand clenched on the railing for balance that is white across the knuckles. I pretend there is a doctor who is asking me to report my symptoms. There is a pimple on my hairline that throbs when I move my eyebrows up. One of my fingers has a hangnail. Keeping myself alive is almost as hard as my breathing has become. I am diagnosed with a chronic tendency to complain and hear my mother’s voice agreeing with this appraisal loudly behind my eyes. She would tell me this drama is not worth the insurance co-pay. My shoes lay discarded at the base of the stairs. I kick at them until they sit side by side.
The house is silent except for the hum of the air conditioner, dull and strangely comforting. I bet without it, the noise in my head would be audible to the neighbors. Possibly loud enough to be heard across town. I imagine my internal radio static creeping in through billowy-curtained windows and seeping into the perfectly manicured gardens of houses in tax brackets I critique through reposted Instagram infographics. My head pounds as my thoughts race. They seem to compete with each other.
My now bare feet carry me to the soft carpet that covers the floor between my couch and coffee table. There’s barely enough space to awkwardly shuffle sideways through the gap when you get up; my knees hit the floor with the same punishing weight as my keys on the counter, and I force my way to the ground. Lying flat on my stomach, I let the smooth panel of wood and the linen of the couch box me in, like wet sand into a plastic mold at the beach. And I stay there. Still. The fibers of the carpet push indents into my cheek and I thank the past version of me whose understanding of sanity meant feeling up rugs for an hour in Goodwill. Inhale. A shaky movement of air. Hold for 7 seconds, as my therapist tells me. I feel like I could fold into myself. Exhale. Eyes squeezed shut like a child. 8 more seconds. I do it again and again and again.
I bring my vision back unfocused and labored. Every bodily action requires manual operation, and it is making me exhausted. A tear slides out of my eye and into my mouth, bringing with it the faint taste of salt and frustration. The fact that there is only one is somehow the worst part. My mind isn’t even capable of sobbing out this thing inside me like a regular person. It feels like there are two tight
hands squeezed around my neck that seem to have a grasp on my tear ducts, too. I can’t even be sad correctly. I just stare forward. My sight line lands on a pile of books stacked haphazardly beneath the window. There is a thin cover of dust that has settled on the exposed covers that reflects in the light filtering through the glass. It’s clear they are more of a decoration than an intellectual pursuit these days.
Placed on top of the tower is a single pothos plant. Its place in a sequestered corner of the room makes it easy to miss, so much so that I am taken aback by my unfamiliarity with its presence. Nestled in a simple clay pot, unruly branches spill over the pages of forgotten words, some leaves pinched gently between volumes and others stretching toward the scattered patches of sun. The golden light exposes the pallor of the stems and shines on a graveyard of dead leaves on the floor. If plants have feelings, I now have to add vegetation to the list of people I disappoint.
The memory of how much time I spent coaxing the plant to life comes back to me through the haze. I recall scrubbing a bottle that once held an overpriced iced coffee until it was crystal clear; how I placed a tiny clipping inside and watched the roots coil and elongate through the water. I had read somewhere that if you play music to plants, it helps them grow. I filled the dirt with hours of Joni Mitchell until I started dreaming in shades of green and steel guitar. The corners of my mouth tug up against the inside of my elbow.
I take in the burnt orange pot sitting on the plastic plate I bought at Home Depot before everything got so hard again, and wonder if the plant is still alive. I moved into this apartment a year ago with the hope that the independence forced upon me by a full-time job would make me worthy of responsibility. Maybe it did for a while, but now the only thing I have to show for my heart full of good intentions is doomed to a cage of terracotta. My chest aches from pressing into the floor and a new weight settles deep inside my rib cage alongside it. I push myself up off the ground until I sit with my knees drawn tight underneath my chin, letting my cheek rest softly on the denim of my jeans. I rest there for a moment, allowing myself the transition, before finding my way to my feet and moving toward the window.
The leaves poking out of the dry soil are turning brown and stiff, but there are still little green buds growing persistently out of a few nodes. I release a shaking exhale that sends the dust swirling into the air. My mind tells me the easiest option is to lie back down on the floor again, but, instead, I find myself grabbing the plastic water bottle from the kitchen and emptying its contents onto the dirt in a small circle. I watch the liquid seep down, disappearing to find roots, and it feels like a miracle. I recycle the bottle and crack open the window, letting the fresh air ruffle the branches again as it soothes the knots in my chest. I hope I remember to water the plant again tomorrow. I want to. But for now, the dust is gone, and the water is not pooling into the plastic plate and I feel the hands on my neck loosen, just a little. I return to the stairs, and this time, I let them lead me up to my room that will not banish me to the floor. My sheets are worn from years of restless sleep, making my pillowcase soft and familiar. I remind myself to wash my bowl and put my shoes away. I close my eyes.
Clara Oyanguren
Jacob didn’t like his after-school gardening job but had to do it for his family. They needed the extra money for his brother, Eddie, to attend a better, more private school. Meanwhile, Jacob was stuck going to a crappy public school. Listen, did he wish his family paid him that much attention? Sure, but the attention came with a price. One he was glad not pay. He would see his brother throwing up. He could see the blank spots in his scalp. He could see the bruises. So he goes to the Jackson’s white porched house every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to clean their garden for 25 dollars an hour.
He walks in through the side grey entrance and into the kitchen to the familiar sound of pans sizzling.
“Afternoon, Jacob,” he would hear Linda, the sweet tan-skinned woman who cooked for the family, say. He smiled at her, grateful for her kindness. “I got your usual.” She would remark, holding out a plate of PB&Js. He would then sit on the kitchen counter and eat while he watched everything run smoothly like a well-oiled machine. Linda’s chopping reminded him of his mom russing to make Eddie a quick lunch, while giving him 20 dollars. The frantic running around of the maids made him wonder when was the last time he cleaned his room.
He felt happy, warm. He didn’t know what to make of it but Linda’s sandwiches tend to have that effect on him. After eating, he gathered his tools, the weeders, pruning, and hedging spears. It was trimming duty today, so that was all he needed to bring. His job was to keep everything symmetrical and alive.
A tall, black-spiraled gate stood before the garden, protecting it. On the other side lay all types of trees, from oak to pear trees, flowers from sunflowers to tulips, and the grass perfectly watered and kept at two and a half inches. He’s worked so much over the year that he has the layout and inventory of the garden memorized. He could walk around it blind.
He went through the motions, watering the grass and conducting a weed inspection where a few rebellious ones escaped him. He cut each of them down, one by one. Then he moved on to the trees, carefully inspecting each and pruning them. There was a beauty to it. A rhythm. The click of the spears and the sound of leaves falling on the floor.
The hedges were next, he had to get rid of all the twitchy old branches threatening to upset the aesthetic. He had yet to reach the most enchanting flowers he had ever seen.
Red roses surrounded him, all plucky and young. Flirtatious even as they danced with the wind. Blue iris to the left with a shade of blue no sky or ocean can compare to.Tulips that looked like they came straight from Amsterdam. He revered their beauty. How they could be so confident and slick.
He noticed something unfamiliar leaping behind the flowers. Something green.. A four leave clover, perhaps? He thought. No, it’s something much bigger and thicker. The green-colored leaves looked so warm and bright. The surface looked glossy. He needed to touch it; feel it. The curiosity got the better of him. The mysterious plant was fluffy and comforting.
Well, comforting for a minute, until he felt a strange sensation in his arms. He couldn’t stop stretching at them. Red spots appeared all over his hand. He was sure his skin was burning. He wanted to scream, to chop his arm off with one of his tools.
He inspected the plant, seeing the compound leaves with three leaflets.
Poison Ivy.
Huh, beautiful but bites… like his parents, then…
He kept scratching and scratching. There was a metallic sensation on his hands.
“Jacob, honey?” He heard someone say. He looked around, he can’t see anything.
Linda.
He wanted to run away; he didn’t want her to see him.
The footsteps getting closer.
“Honey, where are you?” The voice got clearer.
“Here” He finally responded.
He could feel her eyes on him, inspecting him.
“Oh sweetie,” She said, heartbroken, taking his hands. “Come on, we’ll take care of it.”
They walked past the garden and over to the kitchen.
Jacob sat down as Linda ran trying to find things. He could see her getting cold water with baking soda on it and claritin from a small medical cabinet. Finally, she wet some pieces of cloth and started delicately rubbing them on his body.
Slowly, he didn’t want to chop off his arm anymore. Granted, the red was still there, a reminder of the pain.
“Here. Is that better hun?” She asked caringly.
“Yeah. Thank you”
He didn’t know whether the medicine made him feel better or if Linda’s motherly touch did.
Luca Lovrich
The first was made. Then the second. Then the third.
Peering over a golden gate of dandelions, the first man saw glimpses of the Tigris. The water rushed. So did he. Stomping, he moved through the high grass, past the luscious trees and flowing meadows until his knees hit the ground. The canary chirped. The grass rattled. Following his knees his hands flew down as support, scooping the water with each finger, searching for the answer to his never ending thirst.
The second man stood tall. Courageously, he walked with a strut like that of a peacock. His feathers sprawled across his back while the Euphrates hit his toes, the water washing away the speckles of dirt on his bare feet. His sticking glare pierced through his own eyelids. The canary flew away.
Hurt and afraid. The third man trudged through the harsh terrain. His head bowed. His stomach empty. More so than anything, the feeling inside his gut was one not only of longing but one too warm for his own good. He looked through the luscious fields of trees only having his focus disrupted by a more tranquil sound of water gifting life to the reason. A canary flew by him. How lucky to see a bird of such measure on this day. “Life” he thought. “How beautiful.”
Having taken his sips from the Tigris, the first man moved on through the fields. He took a note out of his pocket, grasping it with his muddy fingers. While he couldn’t read the note, he knew what it said. He wished it wasn’t true. A hunger brewed in the first man’s stomach and once more kneeled down on an offshoot of the Tigris and cleaned his has. The mud came of seemingly washing away all his past endeavors. “Food” he thought. “I need food.”
Doubt is not a concept the second man understood. The note he received, which he let blow away in the wind long ago, warned him about this, but a combination of naivety and overconfidence led the second man to disregard the warning. The Euphrates was no match for the second man. He leaped passed the rushing water. The garden parted. The trees were alive. The flowers had bloomed. Suddenly they were scared.
The third man’s eyes drifted, following the path of the canary. It flew left and right. His eyes moved left and right. He attempted to scoop the fresh water spouting from the two rivers, but his clean hands shook as he reached in. He was careful. He knew the limits of the garden he was in. Weak. Scared. He followed the path of the canary across the river valleys taking rest in between each step. Despite his pain, he saw beauty. Blossoms. Birds. Bees. Billowing in the sunlight. Basking in the wind. He pondered how such beauty can contrast such pain.
The hunger in the first man’s stomach called out for anything he could find. He looked up. To his delight he saw the rows of trees filled with every fruit he desired. He raised his hands, grasping at the plumps fruits seemingly just provided to him. Carefully he removed the tree’s offspring looking at the glossy bulbous fruit. A thought crossed his mind. The note. Suddenly he remembered.
The endless rows of plants bursting at the seams with delectable fruits stood right before the second man. He yanked at each plant. Tugging. Pulling. The shrieking plants unwillingly provided for him. They had no choice. In the mind of the second man the once parted garden seemed ever so fruitful again. Squirrels scurried away. Birds crowed. Every living thing in
sight braced for the greedy eye of man to turn its way. Fortunately, his piercing gaze had only one target. An apple.
The third man was grateful. He found a fallen pear nestled in between a rose bush and a fig tree. Careful not to poke himself (and injure himself more) he grasps the pear and takes a bite. For a quick moment his ailments are erased. He felt the bliss. He wants that feeling again.
The men took the fruit from the trees.
The first man learns about calvary. The third learns about eternity. The second learns nothing.
The note weighed down the first man’s pocket like a boulder resting on a wooden bridge. He knew what was right. Soon, he’d know what was wrong. The man approached another tree. He didn’t know why. He felt a force around him, pulling at his knees. The note. He was pulled closer and closer until the tree was within hands reach. “How could I do such a thing” he thought to himself. The first man knew his only instruction was not to touch the tree that he was drawn to in the garden. The note told him to. “But why,” the man questioned. To this question, he had no answer.
The apple glimmered brighter than the sun reflecting off each blade of grass lying beneath the feet of the second man. He wasn’t drawn to it, but he had an urge strong enough to compel the fairest forces to do the evilest things brewing inside of him. The note. By this time the note that the second man crumpled and discarded was only in the back of his mind. “Why was I warned,” he thought. The second man’s naiveté took over his mind. He saw the apple. He ate it.
The feeling of bliss lasted only a for a quick moment. Soon enough the third man’s ailments flooded his body. Again. He needed to feel the feeling again. He had heard the rumors of the special tree in the garden. He also had heard about the consequences of taking a branch from it. Bliss. Pain. Bliss. The man needed bliss. He craved life. He wanted to hear the bird’s chirp. He wanted to hear the wind sing through the blades of grass beneath him. His desire overwhelmed him. Enough pain. Enough suffering. The man was now determined to continue feeling the bliss he once felt as he charged over the special tree. He stood under the branch contemplating which emotion to choose from. Desire won. A snap followed. The branch fell.
The three men made their choice. For a second all everything was normal. The birds still chirped. The wind still danced through the blades of grass.
A canary flew from a tree.
The man left the tree. He trudged away feeling weaker in weaker. He began to crawl. A tear fell down his face. The canary fell to the ground.
As the man took one final look at the tree, he saw the garden he once admired. The trees were now wilted. Every fruit that once flourished found a new home on the ground next to the dried up bushed and on top of the endless view of dirt.
The man realized what it meant to make a mistake.
Josie Swain
By: Ava McKinney
Upon entry, my eyes could not separate stone and flower —
A coercion of the spirit, hope like the reason I needed wine, The victory of according plans I sigh on from a mild hurry.
Grouped thus, I wait with her, and the others unnamed.
Grape Commander walks on dismay and pride
With the Miracle of the Grape on his side, His vineyard, each martyr vine a victory Against his epic war with clima change-a and the bank
Only the rain-a, he proclaims over us, backlight, stern-sight, The Commander mumbles half-words and nature,
A mysticism only performed where flowers grow from stone — My wine, no tasting good yet — it will, we pray, it will.
I catch Commander’s speech and twist it around my memories. She, with a face to the same light, puts meaning over land’s arch, So we craft His life for us, use it for us, impose it all
As our great vineyard awakening, the one before the wine.
Commander uncorks and names begin to form.
Grouped thus, long table, last supper —
Another speech, and our wasted monologues playing sumptuous, Ours knowing that yes, this is the wine, but finally we’re alive.
A tour, is a tour, is a tour, right until
The grape is a miracle, the ground hallowed hill.
It’s a lost celebration, the mist of the light —
A red drink, a real laugh, a maybe, I might.
Butterflies are just moths who grew up without the internet their antenna never grew fuzzy with endless threads they remember to shave, never questioned why they stayed so sleek
Moths are just butterflies who stay up a little later whose eyes turned into little black holes gobbling up the slightest crumb of that air filled cake we call light, ever expanding once light turned blue
How cats become moths
By: Savannah Vonesh
Moths, and butterflies, are just cats, with pillars for legs, who forgot how to meow and stopped licking at their paws. Only motherflies can be orange And black And white, (because of all their exes).
87% of the time, the cat caucus choose transformation. The other 13% sounds something like “squish”, and is still a transformation just of a different name. 87% of the time, the tickling mass separates out - odds over here, evens over there, and they all wrap their tails around their noses, shoulders, stomach, feet, stick their concrete toes into a leaf, and trill their last pur as the fur becomes a tenuous blanket.
Pillarious cats like to scoot on their bellies and drink oat, almond, and oak milk till, inspired from dodging of chicken beaks, (for lounging leaf cats are diplomatic chicken delicacies, of course) they meet as a caucus hairy bodies rolling around as chirps and trills and leaf munching sounds decide their plan
Here, they just sit and liquify. The amorphous butterflies listen to green noise and aphid sounds. Deliquesced moths just think - probably too much. They probably put in their headphones. They wonder why they had to come from eggs, just to be larger eggs again.
When the air begins to smell like gardenias, blankets burst and out pop the creatures, extra limbs, looming eyes, curling whisker nose. Butterflies try to drink the sun, moths try to drink the lake. The silly creatures don’t realize it’s the same thing
Gabrielle Bell is an esteemed cartoonist and author of five graphic novels. Her autobiographical comics are loosely based on her life, touching on philosophical topics in a dark and humorous way. She will be visiting Davidson The week of March 18th. The Libertas staff had the wonderful opportunity to talk to Bell via Zoom, in anticipation of her visit to campus. We thought our reader’s might enjoy learning more about Bell and her work, and we’ve included a few snippets of the interview below.
What are you working on right now?
I’m doing these comics about lucid dreaming and dream yoga, where you become aware you’that you’re dreaming and you do exercises in the dream to learn about yourself and expand spiritually.
I use a fountain pen...But I use my own carbon based ink that won’t smear. It’s a whole process using a dropper. And I use it for my whole process. I usually do a sketch of the comic and then I redraw with a lightbox.
I generally let them take me where I want to go. Which is difficult because sometimes it doesn’t go anywhere. It’s like being in a dark room groping around for a doorknob. It’s a very organic process. It’s very mysterious how the creative process happens.
I heard the food is really good! I’m also excited about performing a slideshow for students. It’s going to be a whole theatrical event. I’m excited for the whole adventure of it!
Dear Reader,
Spring at Davidson has always been my favorite part of the year. The weather gets warm, and campus begins to bloom. The promise of sunny spaces drives us out of our dorms onto the lawns, and blankets and hammocks begin dotting every green space. We convince our professors to have class in the sculpture garden alongside the daffodils. We soak in the roar of the lawnmowers, Davidson’s own personal army. Forgive my flowery language, but the Davidson garden, both metaphoric and literal, really begins to bloom after spring break. In this issue, the staff wanted to capture the feeling of a blooming garden, the art form of planning, planting, waiting, and watering. We hope you enjoy the Garden issue of Libertas.
With the change of seasons also comes change for Libertas. We are currently planting the seeds for our new staff in the fall, and I am so excited to announce that Audrey Bohlin will be joining as our new Editor in Chief. She has always been an enthusiastic and dedicated member of our staff, and I can’t wait to see the magazine thrive in her hands.
This issue of the magazine will be Max’s last as EIC, and I want to take a moment to thank him for everything he has done for Libertas. Max and I took on Libertas almost two years ago, with hardly any idea of how running a magazine worked. With his passion for the magazine, he turned our vision into a campus wide community of editors, writers, artists, designers, and readers. He made the magazine a reality–running meetings, recruiting staff members, and making sure every edition was published and distributed on time. Without Max’s hard work, Libertas would not be the magazine it is today.
And lastly, dear readers, thank you. We couldn’t do it without you. So go sit in a garden (or don’t if you have allergies) and enjoy this edition of Libertas Literary Magazine.
Elsah James, Editor-in-Chief
Josie Swain
