Book of the Dead by Libertas Magazine

LIBERTAS v ol . 22, n o. 3

cover art by peter haugen

LIBERTAS book of the dead H al l owe e n 2 0 1 5 Kalie Slawson

Mirror Mirror Hannibalized (art)

Eliah Hiken FEATURED ALUMNA: Rebecca Hazelton

You’ve Never Done This Before Girlhood

Samantha Gowing

From the Archives: Grave Robberies and Hidden Skeletons of Old Davidson

Claire Heartfield

Motherhood

Madison Santos

Uneasy Viewing Picks Bon Appétit

Evan Stack Libertas Staff

Peter Haugen

Last Word: What Happens in the Graveyard Stays in the Graveyard Costume Generator Art

Peter Haugen is a sophomore from Seattle who is working on a studio art major with the premed track. He’s available for portraiture--contact by email if interested: pehaugen.

Feature Cover Artist:

Peter Haugen “Something Big and Bad”

special thanks to... Faculty Advisors: Zoran Kuzmanovich, Paul Miller (emeritus), Scott Denham (emeritus), Ann Fox (emeritus) Previous Editors: Meg Mendenhall, Michael DeSimone, Jordan Luebkemann, Will Reese, Emily Romeyn, Vincent Weir, Mike Scarbo, Vic Brand, Ann Culp, Erin Smith, Scott Geiger, James Everett, Catherine Walker, Elizabeth Burkhead, Chris Cantanese, Kate Wiseman, Lila Allen, Jessica Malordy, Nina Hawley, Kate Kelly, Zoe Balaconis, Rebecca Hawk, and Hannah Wright Founder: Zac Lacy

EDITORS IN CHIEF Alyssa Glover & Samantha Gowing EDITORS Madison Santos Mila Loneman Cordelia Wilks Claire Heartfield Quinn Massengill

art by Eliah Hiken

R O R R I M MIRROR Kalie Slawson

Once upon a time, there was a mirror… Have you ever noticed that humanity is obsessed with extremes? Best-case scenario romances – happily ever after – princess – dragon – you see, they’re all a little too sweet for my tastes. As for the worst case scenarios, though, there’s one that fascinates me, keeps its rotting fingers dug deep in my side – that would be the zombies. The zombie apocalypse, to be specific. What could cause it? Virus? Bacteria? Voodoo magic? Will they be standing corpses, rotting to nothing, or mutated freaks, oozing thick pus amid clouds of bacterial spores? Will they look just like anyone, before they rear back to sink their teeth into your arm?

Mirror, mirror, for a lark – Show me something deep, Show me something dark. Here’s the thing about zombies: they are the perfect nightmare. They are relentless, rabid, raw – undone. They are humanity stripped to naked violence, and as much as we fear them we can never truly stop seeing ourselves reflected there. They are the hunger we all feel, the id, the darkness, the animal, freed, unstifled. They are stupid, and weak – dangerous only in hordes – but aren’t we all afraid of being unimportant, expendable, just one more rotting face in the crowd? And of course – the greatest fear of them all. Death itself, and worse than that: death that peels away humanity – meaningless death, godless death.

Mirror, mirror, just for fun – Hatred, hunger – gore and shame; The sun has set, but we’ve just begun. Picture hands – not hands, just old bones hanging with streamers of flesh – reaching upward, milky, insatiable eyes set in your face, wearing your favorite T-shirt but naked in the worst way – your body, your biochemical construct, your hair and skin and scars, stripped of everything you love about yourself, everything you’ve ever loved in anyone. Rabid. Raw. Undone. Flinch. This is repulsive – this is wrong. But laugh – this is impossible. This will never happen. Picture your face in the mirror. Picture it darkly. Take it to the extreme – find the darkest corner in your heart, call up the sickest monster there and let it peer out from the windows of your eyes. What do you see? And remind me – what are you afraid of ?

Mirror, mirror, now don’t – don’t lie: Down deep, down dark, what am I?

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You’ve Never Done This Before - A Halloween Tale 1996

he walks just a step ahead of him; he takes advantage of the view. She wears a short leather jacket, zipped, tight black jeans, tall laced boots that tread lightly. Her long white neck is defenseless, her brown hair knotted slickly and tidily in a bun. It is a very secretarial hair style for such an outfit that he finds the contrast appealing. She gives his hand a pull and brings him abreast of her. They pass Main Street, Perkins, Pleasure Circle. Now he glances at her profile. She is beautiful, but hardly typical. There is something of the child about her, the over-the-top makeup and outfit. A child playing dress up – a little girl seductress. They’ve walked a mile and a half, out of the end of the club district, into the richer hotels and apartments that jut up incongruously against it, making money off tourists who want to tour the clubs and the classier, discreet red light district. Now they are standing in front of the Blanc Hotel. The Blanc Hotel is a charming architectural nightmare, with its great stone turret imported piece by piece from Germany, its ridiculous Victorian gables. Each room contains a different nation’s monstrosities of taste. She leads him to the double doors and the impassive doorman draped in crimson. He lets out a low whistle. “You live here?” he asks. Their first words – their trivial nature making him inwardly flinch. “Yes,” she answers. Her voice is matter of fact, clear and low. With this voice she is telling him to stop asking silly questions. They go inside. Room 222. The turret room. The smallest room – the money goes into paying for the turret. She slides the card key into the lock and it opens with a satisfying click. “I thought you said you lived here,” he says slowly. The room doesn’t smell like a person, but like cleaning agents. “I do,” she said. “I just moved in a day before yesterday.” “Where’s all your stuff ?” “At my sister’s. What are you, writing a book?” She jokes, or at least he thinks she does. She opens her mouth quickly with a soundless laughter then closes it again. She closes the mahogany door and he suddenly questions the validity of his decision to follow her. The closed door stares back with finality. She takes off her jacket. Underneath she wears a lacy black bra. The straps are improbably thin. Her breasts are small – there is a mole on the slope of the right one. Now he panics. “No, look, this isn’t like me – I’m not the kind of guy who does this sort of thing – I don’t pick up women – I only went to that club with a friend – who’s probably wondering where I am right now –“ She interrupts him sharply, “Did he see you leave?” Suddenly she seems angry and menacing. He’s confused at her tone. “No, he was talking up some floozy.” “Well,” she said, the flash of temper gone as if it never was, walking to him. Her forehead is level with his lip. He can smell her hair – sandalwood. “I’m not a whore, if that’s crossed your mind, and I know you don’t pick up on women. You don’t ever have to pick one up again.” His hands want to reach out, his hands want to but he stills them. She takes them and puts them on her waist. He leans in to kiss her, feeling clumsy. She turns her face to the side. “You’ve never done this before, have you?” she says, looking up to him, her eyes dark and unreadable. “I’ve kissed women before.” “But more than – you’ve a virgin.” She’s not asking anymore. “Yes.” He’s embarrassed. This is all wrong. He pulls away. She steps closer. He groans inside. She stands on tiptoe, her breasts brush his chest. Her lips touch his ear like a bird’s wing. “Some things,” she whispers, almost without voice, “Can’t be stopped once started.” They are on the bed. Her boots have a hidden zipper and are the first article of clothing to go. She dexterously unbuttons his shirt and this testimony to experience almost makes

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him bolt, only her scent is filling his nostrils and her can’t think anymore. His head feels heavy, rushing with blood, his body throbbing. She lays on top of him, stretches her legs out along his length. He’s kissing her with a sort of insanity, a wildness. His body is crying to enter her, but again and again she pushes his increasingly hesitant hand away from her sex. Then she pauses, holds his head in her arms with a strange, sudden tenderness. She is calm, unruffled, and gazes on his fevered panting state with a detached curiosity. He strains to reach her lips, but she stays out of reach. She hushes him, places her finger on her lips. She strokes his hair, turns his head to the side. His hot cheek rests on her arm, which feels cool and good. She kisses his temple, the thin bone there, then his cheekbone. She runs her tongue along his jaw line and he shivers, moans and tries to touch her, but his arms have gone weak. Shhh, she says, shush. She kisses his neck, lightly at first, then parting her lips, wetly. They she bites him gently, a little nip, and he arches his back in response. She puts her finger to her lips again, kissing his neck with cool lips. Her teeth sink into his flesh. He is frozen in pain and he can hear the sucking at his neck, her lips clamped impossibly hard. Her arms hold him rigidly with incredible strength. He feels as if his very essence is being threaded through the eye of a needle. Time stretches on like a thin wire pulled taut. He ceases to hear, to feel. There is only the terrible paralysis, the helplessness. And soon, even that fades, as he goes limp, finding comfort in the support of her arms. Finally, finally her lips pull away, the horrible thing pulling inside him, of all of him leaving, subsides, replaced by gnawing emptiness, a deep hollow in his belly, his head and heart feeling lighter than air. His neck hurts distantly, distantly, but now he is very cold. He begins to shiver, gently, then with sudden violence. His teeth chatter and his body convulses with cold. “S-s-so c-cold…” he stutters. She strokes his face. His eyes look at her wildly, the pupils dilated, almost obliterating the green iris. She holds him tighter. “I’ll keep you warm,” she says, “shhh… I’ll keep you warm.” She’s smiling sweetly, her bloody mouth curving in a parody of a little girl’s smile. But it only gets colder. ▲

FEATURED ALUMNA:

GIRL HOOD 2014

Last are the bells in the dark of the evening and last are the children to hear them. The break of the play is signaled so tersely, the end of the day’s best meaning. One girl rises, another falls down, in a crowd they make their way home, under the sweep of the swifts and the bats, and the streetlamps buzzing to life. In houses are fathers and mothers and worse; in houses are dark, hidden rooms. There are spandrels and closets and doors that go nowhere, there are cellars, basements, and vaults. For each girl is a hole that is aching to have her, each house has a shadow that’s hers, and once play is forgotten the real play begins; the doors open once, then no more.

Rebecca Hazelton Rebecca Hazelton graduated from Davidson fifteen years ago. She was an English major and advisee of Professor Parker, who is still on campus today. “You’ve Never Done This Before” was originally published in the October 1996 issue of Libertas. This is the first time “Girlhood” has been printed for the public. Rebecca is the author of Fair Copy (Ohio State University Press, 2012), winner of the 2011 Ohio State University Press / The Journal Award in Poetry, and Vow, from Cleveland State University Press. She was the 2010-11 Jay C. and Ruth Halls Poetry Fellow at the University of Wisconsin, Madison Creative Writing Institute and winner of the “Discovery” / Boston Review 2012 Poetry Contest. Her poems have appeared in AGNI, The Southern Review, Boston Review, Best New Poets 2011, and Best American Poetry 2013 and 2015. In 2014, she won a Pushcart.

ghostly perspectives

samantha gowing

From the Archives:

Grave Robberies and Hidden Skeletons of Old Davidson Unbeknownst to many Davidson students today, the college once lived next door to the North Carolina Medical College, which stood across the street from the Davidson public library. Founded by Dr. John Peter Monroe in 1893, the medical college had its roots in a small pre-medical program taught by the town doctor and the college physician. The building was tall, with three stories and awninged entrances at each corner. The third floor of the building housed the anatomy classroom; a 1907 newspaper article described it as “a large dissecting hall with concrete floor and well lighted.” Despite the building’s regal stature, however, the college often found itself lacking resources. By 1904 the medical college had grown from just two students to eighty-three, and they were desperate for the students to be able to practice their lessons. Legend says that the college began allowing its students to pay their expenses by supplying dead bodies for the college’s use. And how else are young, rebellious boys to do so except by the age-old sport of grave robbing? In 1960, The Davidsonian interviewed Sam Thompson, a local, retired farmer and graduate of the medical college. He spilled his own secrets about the part he played in the body snatchings. “I’m a ghoul,” Sam Thompson chuckled when asked about it. He even explained a bit about the process. “We’d get them about the second night after they were buried,” he admitted. “We never had any trouble except one time,” when the person whose body they had stolen had a gold tooth, making the body easily recognizable. The relatives of the deceased found out what they had done, made the college rebury the body, and sued them for

Earl enjoying the scenery from his window

several thousand dollars. In her book “Davidson: A History of the Town,” Mary D. Beaty tells a much sillier story about the grave robberies. One night, a medical student followed his friends as they went out to steal a cadaver. After they placed the cadaver in their wagon and went back to fill in the grave, the boy quickly moved the cadaver over and took its place. As they were heading off, one of his friends reached back and laid his hand on the “corpse.” According to Mary Beaty, the scene went something like this: “This one feels warm.” “So would you,” said the corpse, rising up, “if you’d been in hell.” Exit a pair of fast-moving students. This funny quip, however, pales in comparison to the real mystery of Davidson College: the skeleton in the column. Before Old Chambers burned down, its front two columns stood proud and majestic. Students milled about around them as they wandered from class to class, oblivious to the dark secrets within. Accoring to college folklore, these columns were hollow, and a young student

had fallen—or been dropped—down into the column’s deep well. One fictitious story by Andrew White, published in the April 1912 Davidson Monthly, tells of a senior student’s tall tales about ghosts that haunt the school, and how “every fall about this time Bill Ashton’s ghost comes out and walks around, hunting for the fellow who put his body there” in the column. A first-year student heard this story and was terrified, but could not stop dreaming about it. One night he climbed to the top of the column and, peering inside, fell to his death—becoming the true ghost of Davidson. Another story, published in the October 1976 The State, tells that three Davidson boys were pursued by the law after a night of grave robbing. “To avoid being caught with the body in their possession, they took it up to the attic of the Old Chambers Building and threw it down one of the huge columns.”

“So would you,” replied the corpse, rising up, “if you’d been in hell.” In 1914, only two years after the Davidson Monthly tale came out, The Davidsonian published an article about the recovery of the body. Walter Dumas, class of 1915, “with a rope fastened securely around his body and with an electric searchlight in his hand, was safely let down by several of his comrades, a thorough search for the much-talked-of skeleton was made, and a skull, the only part of a skeleton that was visible, was brought up to the top.” Whether any of these tales are true, we may never know. And we may never know if skeletons lie hidden in the columns of our own Chambers building today, either—unless, of course, there remains a brave soul somewhere daring enough to hold tight to a rope and flashlight and journey into the dark, deep bones of Davidson. ▲

Special thanks to archives specialist Jan Blodgett for being such a superb storyteller and for making this article come to life. See her original article at libraries.davidson.edu/aroundthed/skeletons-in-the-columns. Onlookers watch as the columns of Old Chambers come down

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Motherhood Claire Heartfield

She had imagined holding the helpless thing in her arms, the immeasurable tenderness she would feel for it. She had not, however, imagined how deserted she would feel upon entering her apartment with the thing for the first time since its birth. Life in the city was isolated. She often missed her attic room in the family’s farmhouse with its view of the perfectly exploding sunrise every morning. Now when she looked at her window, she found herself focusing instead on the film of blue grime around its edges, or how it allowed checkered moats of afternoon sunlight to decorate her loneliness. This was why, after months of solitude and freezing Northern rain, she had decided to keep her baby. Indeed, the hormonal wreckage caused by the warm fetus inside preoccupied her greatly and her increased appetite forced her to leave the apartment more often. With a belly swollen to nine-months and counting, she hardly had time to feel any emotion that was organic to her. The baby possessed everything. “Francis, you’ve never even taken care of a puppy. Get rid of it,” Mother had said. “I mean, who will help you? Who is the father?” “Mother, I don’t need his help with this.” “Well then you won’t be receiving my help either.” And that was that. She had hoped the child would bring her comfort or purpose. It had, until it was born. When she slipped the tarnished bronze key into its crippled lock and kicked the door open with her left foot, the apartment was dark. She did not bother to switch on the silver lamp, but chose to sit in her stained brown-suede arm chair in darkness. She held the baby to her breast and rocked, trying to protect it from the silence, her shoulders a fortress around its tiny head. Then, it began to scream. It wailed until its eyes bulged from their sockets, delicate veins protruding like tree roots snaking across dry earth. It cried until its screams devolved from the crystal clear pitch of a voice never used to a grating rasp, until Francis was sure that a trickle of slick blood would escape from her eardrum and creep down her jaw bone at any moment. The crying only quieted during feeding, when the baby would suckle almost contentedly. Francis would watch the workings of sleep. Its eyes would begin to lower, its jaw cease working momentarily. In these moments, Francis would also begin to relax, allowing her eyes to close and her heart to slow. The instant her eyelids touched, squeals became sirens that became deafening. Colicky wails haunted her gray apartment for hours at a time. The baby needed to sleep, and it 5

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did, but only for fractions of an hour at a time. It was hardly enough for Francis to eat, let alone sleep herself. One day of ceaseless crying bled into two, and then three. On the morning of the third day, Francis rocked her baby. She fixed her dull brown eyes on the line where the gray brick wall met the linoleum tile of her apartment as the child’s ferocious voice ran dry. Francis noticed how the sepia water stain near her left foot took the shape of the muzzle of a snarling dog she had seen once on the road outside of her apartment, or maybe the dog’s snout had taken the shape of that water stain. She did not know how long she had been rocking, but she knew her lower back ached with sharp pain and her baby was finally quiet. She placed it in the crib that laid flush with the wall across from her dusty bed. No sight had ever brought Francis more relief than that of her baby’s long lashes tickling the apples of its cotton cheeks in peace. She tentatively stepped backwards on the carpet, dragging her feet rather than stepping them, afraid that any small noise might rouse the cradle. The edge of the bed made contact with her calves and she sat down hard, as if someone had kicked at her knees from behind. As her baby’s ribs rose and fell, Francis’ back hit the unkind mattress and her black hair flared around her forehead. She looked drowsily at the ceiling and noticed that the water stain there looked just like a sleeping baby. Francis slept. She inhaled suddenly, sucking air that healed her stale and startled lungs and blinking filth from her eyes. The water stain infant grounded her sleep-fogged brain. Her window told her it was deep night, although she had no clue how long she had been sleeping. When she attempted to sit up and check on her own infant, she could not. In fact, the only muscles that seemed to work were her eyes. An invisible weight pressed upon her body and held it motionless as if she were compressed between the surface of her mattress and a sheet of glass. Francis was not alone. Surrounding her paralyzed and prostrate body were three cloaked figures. Like pillars of a chapel, they were motionless. The figures were cloaked in black velvet robes. The one near her head drew back his sunken hood to reveal a pallid, corpse-like face. The skin was drawn much too tight over his high

cheek bones. In places, the shrunken skin cracked in deep crevices. The revealed raw muscle oozed a dark substance in thin streaks down the dead cheeks. The splitting wounds snaked across his hairless scalp. A muffled gurgle clawed at its confines inside of Francis’ frozen throat. The sound was attached to an aching terror inside of her stomach. She wanted to protect her infant, to run, to protect herself. Instead, she watched the figure tilt its head closer to get a better look at her temples beaded with sour sweat and lips quaking in fear. The faces of the other two figures remained bathed in the dark abyss of their hoods. The exposed being angled his emerald green eyes toward the crib on the other side of the room, and the hoods of the other two followed. Francis bit her tongue until she tasted blood and then the contact of tooth on tooth as a small piece fell to the back of her throat. She strained every muscle until it burned in an attempt to free herself from the sick spell. Nonetheless, the figures huddled around the crib undeterred. Her baby was resting peacefully, ignorant of its mother’s horror. The unveiled figure stretched out his bony fingers that tapered into sharp green fingernails. He stroked the pink cheek of the baby, then clenched at its throat. Francis dumbly watched as the baby’s legs kicked twice. Through the slats of the crib, she saw its skin turn red and heated with agitation towards these strangers. The figures turned, and began to walk toward her once more, taking their time. “Franciiiiiiiis?” Her mother knocked, then beat, then kicked aggressively on the thick wooden door of Francis’ apartment. Neither friends nor family had heard from Francis in days. Her mother was beginning to feel guilty for the sanctimonious way in which she had handled her only child’s pregnancy. She might actually enjoy being a grandmother, allowed to spoil a child for once. She had come to the city to ask Francis to move back to the country, where the corn was just beginning to green. One particularly hard kick ripped the door’s lock from its socket in the wall, spewing splinters of mildewing wood across the hallway inside. “Francis, I know you’re upset. You haven’t been returning my calls, and I’m sure it’s because you hate me.” She walked timidly past the kitchenette to the left and then the small bedroom to the right. Strangely, the entire apartment was dark. Not a light was shining. “Darling, I want you to come to the farm. Daddy and I miss you, and we want to see the baby. I’m sure he’s so beautiful . . .” As she neared the living room at the end of the gray hallway, her ears picked up a sound that crescendoed with each step. Swish, swish, swish. It was the sound of a chair, rocking to and fro. Francis’ mother made out in the darkness the stained, suede brown-backed armchair that her sister had left after her death. Its slow rocking entranced Francis’ mother. She walked nervously around the edge of the chair. Instead of her beautiful browneyed daughter, she saw a figure cloaked in black velvet, its hood drawn low to cover its face. It held in its greedy black arms her grandson, asleep. A raspy voice cooed, “Isn’t it nice when they’re finally quiet?” ▲

UneasyViewing The Essential Hallo ween Movie Marathon Guide curated by Madison Santos

Nosferatu (1922)

Monster Squad (1987) So maybe German expressionism wasn’t your thing, maybe it was, let’s bring up the mood of the night with a family feel-good, heartfelt corny 80s film that might just bring you to tears.

Start out your marathon with Murnau’s classic, timelessly terrifying with just enough of that art stuff.

OR: M. (Lang), The Cabinet of Dr.

Caligari (Wiene), Psycho (Hitchcock), Night of the Living Dead (Romero)

OR: Troll 2 (Fargasso),

I Saw The Devil (2010) Time to take a break from appreciation or laughter and get into the real stuff. You haven’t felt fear until you’ve seen some modern Korean horror.

OR: The Host (Joon-Ho),

Killer Clowns from Outer Space (Chio- Oldboy (Chan-wook), Ichi the Killer do), Silent Night Deadly Night (Sellier) (Miike), A Serbian Film (Spasojevic), Begotten (Merhige), It Follows (Mitchell)

Bon Appétit

Evan Stack

She knew, as soon as she could think, that she wanted to be a lumMaxwell Obsidian, within the confines of his enigmatic life, berjack. The thrust of the axe onto the vulnerable tree, the life could never be considered an extrovert. He worked all day, and followed by frigid winters - she was hooked. slept all night. Sure, during a Somerset, Vermont winter in *** 1896, that was likely commonplace. Every day, he’d come in from the same crippling, steadfast bliz- It was particularly cold and white on this silent Sunday evening. zard, after having done the same thing - chopping trees for Mary had been begging and pleading to spend the night at Obsidhours - and would set his snow coated hat on his special hook. ian’s place. “I just want to watch,” she whined. She reasoned with her tremulous mother for almost an hour, who eventually acquiHe then lit a fire and whipped up his favorite - Bangers ’n’ esced. While helping Mary pack up her belongings, she stumbled upon an old, torn, plush figure of Paul Bunyan. Before leaving her, Mash. she gave a kiss on her forehead. “Make sure Paul gets a good night Every meal was the same. Same taste, devoid of all rich, com- sleep tonight”, she said as she handed over the ragged Paul Bunforting flavors. Those greasy sausages sat on his plate for yan doll her daughter clutched tightly in her warm, secure bed. usually no longer than 10 minutes. Complete the meal with *** a hearty side of Mashed Potatoes covered in gravy, and you have the evening of Maxwell Obsidian. Obsidian hurried to the basement. He dropped the axe on the feeble ground and watched as it fell through his rustic, wood floor. “I To cook was to enable. He LOVED Bangers ’n’ Mash. guess I can’t help it”, he said to himself. He laughed. He laughed for an unnatural period of time. *** Mary Siller was what you would call a walking ray of light. Her smile brightened up every store owner and resident in the town - even during this pummeling Northern snow. She was a precocious student, held her own, kept up some of the best manners you’d ever seen on a 6-year old girl - and had the strangest, most powerful love for Maxwell Obsidian.

Doing his best to avoid getting the cold blood on his boots, he stumbled over the severed head of Mary Stiller and nearly tripped. It rolled around like a bowling ball.

Obsidian slammed her light body on his kitchen table. “The Butcher is in,” he yelled, before rummaging around through her murky lower intestinal area, pulling out her lung; in his other hand, he Her heart poured out its contents and opened its door for him sheaths his kitchen knife like it’s his pet. to step in. She only wanted to wipe the jagged frown off his He chopped her globulous organs up into various mixtures, cupped withering face. them swiftly into a case, and tied the end neatly, with precision. Maybe it was her connection with the ghost-like Obsidian; maybe it was innate. She admired Paul Bunyan and his wood- “Dinner is served”, he said, with a sharp grin on his face. chopping persona. LIBERTAS, V o l . 2 2 , N o . 3

LIBERTAS last word What Happens in the Graveyard Stays in the Graveyard a halloween mad-lib Late at night on Halloween, you and your _________ friend, _________, are walking down the street (adjective)

(name)

past the graveyard. You hear a _________ from behind you, and let out a blood-curdling shriek: (sound)

“_________!” Oh no! Your worst nightmare: a _________. It’s_________ and has an oozing _________ (exclamation)

(scary creature)

(adjective)

(noun)

attached to its _________. All of sudden, the thing _________ all over your friend, and you run away (body part)

(verb)

_________. Hiding behind a _________, you hear footsteps coming nearer. It’s now or never; you de(-ing verb)

(noun)

cide to _________, but it’s too late. You’ve been grabbed by the _________. You reach for the nearest (verb)

(body part)

_________ and bang its _________. It cries out, “_________,” and runs away. You turn and head off (noun)

(body part)

(exclamation)

to celebrate your escape by _________ with your _________ friends at _________. (-ing verb)

(group on campus)

(location on campus)

A Libertas Original

COSTUME GENERATOR

If you can’t decide what to be for Halloween, we’re here to help! Choose the adjective that corresponds with your major, and pair it with the noun that corresponds with the first letter of your first name. And voila! You’re ready to go. Africana Studies Anthropology Art Biology Chemistry East Asian Studies Economics English Enviromental Studies French Studies Gender & Sexuality Studies German Studies Hispanic Studies History Latin American Studies Mathematics Music Philosophy Physics Political Science Psychology Religion Sociology Theatre Interdisciplinary Undeclared

Royal Crusty Ironic Undead Radioactive Fashionable Republican Sexy Birkenstock-wearing Whiney Politically Correct Spooky Romantic Bloody Magical Graphic Dorky Stoned Tired Pretentious Preppy Demonic Basic Tragic Hipster Confused

a. Wizard b. Elf c. President Quillan d. Demon e. Pumpkin f. Vampire g. Fairy h. Scarecrow i. Fidel Castro j. Spider k. Princess l. Kim Kardashian m. Octopus n. Gnome o. Zombie p. Angel q. Sex Kitten r. Albino Skunk s. Lance Armstrong t. Ghost u. Marxist v. Clown/Donald Trump w. Robot x. Superhero y. Professor z. Butt of two-person Horse art by Peter Haugen