Editor-in-Chief Hattie McLean ‘16 Poetry Editors Mia Mazzaferro ‘16 Aria Pahari ‘17 Fiction Editor Libby Kao ‘17 Nonfiction Editor Trisha Kelly ‘18 Art/ Photography Editor Meaghan Sullivan ‘17 Layout Editors Kaitlin Boheim ‘18 Casey Linenberg ‘19 General Editors Cameron Graham ‘19 Anya Karagulina ‘17 Rosalyn Leban ‘18 Sarah Lofstrom ‘19 Cassiel Moroney ‘19 Rebecca Pittel ‘17 SGA Senator Katie Clark ‘19 Public Relations Mariza Mathea ‘17 Treasurer Megha Kymal ‘16
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Title Author A Brazen Conversation Savannah Marciezyk Shadow in the Sand Amra Sharif Firsts Katie Clark Blood Moon Abbey Clark-Moschella Untitled Raabia Malik dust bunnies have heart beats that Dani Planer go fast but that can also go slow i want to egg you in salem Dani Planer Untitled Yizhen Huang lion’s teeth Anya Karagulina Untitled Simi Esan 2:58 a.m. Rochelle Malter Day Walkers Ali Rossi Let the Water Katie Clark Untitled Simi Esan Tonight the Whole World’s a Savannah Marciezyk Mirage Tower Wall Merryn Kleider Separation Poorna Swami Noon Anonymous Pearls and Diamonds Laura Brockbank Peony Kelsey Murphy How to be Catholic Cameron Graham Flower Child Shelly Enright Evergreen Silhouette Kaitlin Boheim A Moment in Time Amra Sharif Untitled Yizhen Huang
art is italicized
A Brazen Conversation
Savannah Marciezyk
Over the phone, while in the bath I ask, “What do you think of me?” “Well,” you pause, apparently taken aback. You recover quickly, amused and elusive: “I thought coyness was a ploy for seduction, but now I’m not so sure.” I smirk at your response and sit up in the tub. Muffled in the curve of my chest and shoulders I ask again, “What do you think of me?” This time, I’m more serious, And in your silence The bathwater becomes colder than the Arctic, My knee caps floating icebergs amidst the bubbles, The space between them vast, terrifying, bleak. You can’t answer the question either.
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Shadow in the Sand Amra Sharif
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Firsts
Katie Clark she twirls the engagement ring around her finger, “summer camp, he was sixteen” the man knows it is foolish to be jealous of a boy but he stares down his own torso, wonders of the boy’s chest, finds his cheeks turning green at the thought of the boy’s clumsy youthful hands on her young body, how she flushes at the very thought, he trails his fingers across her back, her legs, her shoulders and she shivers, but does not tremble. he swears he can see fingerprints, tender stains from the shore of that lake, teeth-marks in her bottom lip, moonlight still woven in her dark hair, the woman gives all she has but it’s not everything, not enough, she places her mouth upon his but he sees the boy smirking from the back of her throat and thrusts out his jealous hands so she tries to loosen the boy, hacks up pieces of him: a pair of round glasses, a wool sweater swollen with cold maine airuntil she coughs a rusted purity ring into his palm. the two stare at it sitting heavily on the nightstand, until one day it’s gone. “what was her name?” she asks, and the irises on her bedside wilt as she notices a pale nervous girl in a rose prom dress peek out from under his beard.
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Blood Moon
Abbey Clark-Moschella
We lay in the shadow of the trees. We lay in the shadow of the moonsilent, except for the rustle of grass beneath bodies, wind within leaves. If we move, we will shake the very foundation- the bedrock to which we grasp unwittingly, without thinking, with every breath we take, muscles moving without command to keep us anchored, anchored on this rock we do not understand, rotating with fire, spinning with fire, spitting fire with a single enthralled exhale and the mutteredholy shit. The first giggleleading the charge we all feel, to let the cascade fall, and we laugh forever. We laugh until the moon stops bleeding. We laugh until the air in our lungs has become late September, and we feel, more than anything, frozen like we are radioactive. Glowing in our own shadow.
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Raabia Malik
Untitled
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2. i built shrines that swam with me. collected buddies from room corners all over. internalized them (with my generated heat). created something big. statues. we swam. the statues spun, created red, and flattened out. they formed something heavy, iron and nickel in my core, bits of the rest of it flying everywhere and leaving marks on the inside of my stomach. they carved into my walls to document something. it was the same as the sun but this time my insides melted heat. i needed it out somehow. i would wait till dark and spit up condensation on the grass of my neighbors. generate movement. everything was shining and i wanted to remind them what they missed in the morning. they would swim in what i did. they never forgot then.
1. my mom read to me until i was 7 and probably also after that too. she read to me about circles and the way they deflect light and the creation of the color red and also the creation of all the other primary colors too but in particular about the creation of the color red (how they were all really red). it was a spindle. something i was created from. a spinning and a flattening and a generated heat that we cranked out ourselves and a melding that followed that. there were rules about age and about composition and i was 60% water and always swimming. there were traditions. i would always feel the earth barefoot and through gravel and my cousin would always sneeze after inhaling near her parents (she was allergic to dust).
Dani Planer
dust bunnies can have heart beats that go fast but that can also go slow
outsides even if the timing wasn’t right & even if i was just close to living & even if i wasn’t living at all but just close to it
i want to egg you in salem Dani Planer listen chickens are dumb but they are really good at laying eggs & maybe sitting on their eggs is something they are just moved to do & maybe
that looked like hope too & listen … you don’t need to worry … i would make you new shoes if yours got too splattered with my insides to look greasy in a cool way & when you are overflowing (the way that french poets sometimes say that you do) i would make you other things too …
feeling partial & feeling partial & not full & sort of like an egg in the way that feels like closeness to living maybe if the timing was right but being splattered across your body & splattered across your shoes instead was something i was just moved to do …
listen i can’t feel things much in real life but i feel lots of things through movies & when we watched tv in your bed my body overflowed too (i was spilling off your bed too) & i feel dumb the way i made you feel how i was overflowing with your hands to prove to you that i really wasn’t just close to living & to prove to you that i was actually living &
& you texted me when it happened & you texted me & knew how i would contemplate the way that something that maybe could have been close to living (maybe if the timing was right) got splattered across your body & got splattered across your shoes & the way you were egged in salem gave me hope …
listen ….
how i could be close to living but not living at all and still mean something being splattered across your body & splattered across your shoes
your excess is constantly being cupped by these eggshells that got lucky (the ones that got thrown at you in salem) & even when they are full & tired (even when we are full & tired)
that looked like hope & how my insides could still come into contact with your
we’ll never let you run low
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Untitled
Yizhen Huang
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lion’s teeth
Anya Karagulina / a day later you found a plant to take in that you named after dead friend no. 2 you forgot what was ink in you, ты сама пуста ты мне сказал что я должна себя крепко держать не пропускать flowers rot in my room, books stack up on my desk either waiting to be filled or digging in the lake dirt in the corner on the phone or mouthing words in the morning settle, cut the dream now cut the dream now before it gets bad again stinking flesh sticking mad, windows put shards in me ceilings press down even before then i was waiting to be filled even before then i saw the lasting still: без резких слов тихо молча просто смотри в его глаза и ничего не объясняй ты знаешь что твой язык хромает undo it, please let, slide back then revolve the chambers til you’re lucky die on the palace walls while tulips rise / even after then i was waiting to be filled with bitter ginger chamomile holding tight does it touch you close and cold and reach across to vomit empty everyone loves talking about suicide i dreamt once that i came home found my father dead upstairs somewhere swift-handed and wished for his suicide when i found our cat soaked in lysol “he sprayed himself ”
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and wished when i found our cat’s eye gouged out “he ran into a corner” i wished when he threw a jar across the room and bent the drywall the next day it was plastered and painted over the swift hands of a carpenter— and every few months he would take my mom and i outside and unfold the ladder aluminum long and climb up to clean the gutters i was the weight to hold him steady. i wish i’d slip i didn’t dream two friends would die but they did anyways two boys, one 18 one 19, dead in a single year and i told you that you know that i lay there with you still below is blank et love below you and me i try to be soupy and warm between splinter eyed quiet side burrow in pulp become very very small aloud words run away from me swallow toothpaste and throw up in the shower you know turn your head to see you glow can i write new dreams peopled with dead boys who held their own violence can i leave the fruit to rot and then leave everything to rot except what i dream up and dream in can i touch april lemon honey, scratchy throats north american bathroom tile never tasted so sweet adjust the edge so it fits just right on the curve summer drifts and perfect twists i’ve got lion’s teeth /
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that day red eyes warmed half of each and i thought, this is it looking outside at old photos painting someone on and breathing public air knowing that soon january and april will make a negative space to hold me you “is another word we use whose definition we haven’t agreed on” you are “one of the ways i tortured myself last night” “i spent some time chasing words and cut the dream close and cut the dream close and soon he’ll work his thoughts with his hands, forgiving looking on down towers and towers don’t let settle no no reinscribe my skin hard please hold my imprint and know that i am not monumental i just sing your song and hold my bruises safe and when they fade it will hurt you said: be responsible for your ghosts (even the ones who spit at you) now give me your back, i’ll mend it for you arms stretch and wonder to atlantic seas to beaches we’ve never been to within i will never end bitten bare til you see green flesh contained in a shoe box on a closet shelf just like lifting wet velvet, sunburnt cloth roses carry these paper myths around chew on pens until you chip your front teeth like i did let the water take what it can and leave i will not /
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some trees touch my home i will never end and when you hear the soft click of the door as i leave i will come in the morning long highways til home, you cannot sleep enough mirrors and you cannot sleep you cannot sleep you cannot sleep and when you sleep your violence holds unsteady some trees pucker and burn waking sonnets sprayed on pillars, sand may’s white disorienting sadness, too bright to feel a small cat that follows you almost all the way home showers can’t clean my lungs but i wish they could i call my father to ask how to pack dishes safely so they don’t break i know this makes him happy but i don’t know what to do with being chased around the house trying to find somewhere quiet to cry when he shoves and bangs each door i try to close i try to cut the dream close with lion’s teeth cut close and settle / now be past the edge of lights where you can see the old mountains outlined dark or somewhere on the steps face open sun fresh my shoulders are golden silver sharper than anything else, slick you miss hard everything is at an unsatisfying velocity and the lipstick designs on your thighs will not fade chalk mists to dry your skin, it cracks and bleeds unmanageable now it’s everywhere everywhere you are everywhere and it is too late for your blood to return to you and the lipstick designs on your thighs will not fade so become a monument on these palace walls make the tulips rise to red
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Untitled
Simi Esan Dawn lightens the sky. I kiss the hollow of your neck until you’re whole.
2:58 a.m.
Rochelle Malter sleeping alone she farts and, smiling, rolls over. who needs a lover?
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Day Walkers Ali Rossi
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Let the Water Katie Clark
Even from the back of the plane Ester could feel April’s breath on her bare knees, even colder against the peppermint silk of her legs. Winter still held Massachusetts in a frosted fist, caressing the back of her neck with a clammy palm, a gesture met by tensed shoulders and gritted teeth. On the way down the stairs she wrapped the jacket tighter, tried to pretend the warmth was the sun seeping into skin, purging the pale from her features. Spring hasn’t made it to Boston yet, Ester figured, the South’s first gasps of summer still heavy on her tongue. Small things: the smell of pine straw baked in mid-afternoon sunlight, the heavy dark of her great-grandmother’s cast iron skillet, the way her grandma held it like a thurible, waving her cornbread blessèd, the gentle breath of the grandfather clock whistling its hourly chime, how it rang through the house as she slept, sunk its rhythm into her pillow, a warm pattern. Virginia had welcomed her back with confederate jasmine arms and dogwood blooms, the suet melting onto the brick of the back porch. The lake behind her house was still cold enough to chatter her teeth, to keep her from entering past her ankles, but it took her into itself like a past lover– a body remembered but blurred, freckles familiar with rivulets trickling new rivers, staining her cuffed twills. What had changed: the cat’s mottled fur strained over thickening ribs, her vanity table no longer flecked with ivory powder, instead a light dust smothered the cracked white paint, her father’s new porch swing couldn’t hold her in any way that felt like a memory, its cedar scent still heavy in the air—something she couldn’t remember, the way the blessing cut three lines short, became a whisper offered up to pursed lips and empty mouths, the down of her brother’s cheeks darkened into stubble, how it stuck to the wet of her sink, how his life had drifted like a feather plucked from her mother’s decorative pillows, floating far from her eyes until she couldn’t see it anymore in the fading window light, how last time she’d been home it had gotten darker so much earlier—there had been a certain safety in knowing when the night would close in. By the time she made it back to campus, the sun had gone down but the streetlamps hadn’t begun their nightly vigil. Charcoal flakes of forgotten snowfalls lingered in large mounds and Ester wondered who had given up on cleaning it as children threw dirty snowballs at each other. The dirt made the stains they left even darker now, into the kind that wouldn’t disappear just by drying. One grazed her arm like a rogue roman candle, a scar she still carried from six summers ago, and she stopped in the middle of the path. The snow soldiers shifted nervously in their saturated Sunday shoes, ice melting in their hands, not sure how this civilian would react. Ester knelt, gathered the halves of the bullet, and tossed
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it back to the little boy who looked the guiltiest. As she walked away she heard the snowball take another victim with a small yelp, and then squeals of laughter. She grinned as she turned the key to her dorm, still hearing their war as she walked up the stairs. In her room, the heater moaned mechanized exhaustion as it worked to warm a room forgotten to the winter. Heat coughed, hiccuped, trying to comfort like the best of intentions fallen short. Water pooled in the windowpanes where the snow had seeped through the dried caulk and Ester stuffed the shirt she had been wearing against the sill. She pulled the soggy tights from her thighs and hung them to dry over the radiator, watching a steady plume of steam rise up from the metal. She wrapped her numb hands around the bars, steadily feeling the heat grow stronger until her hands were warm enough to feel the pain of it. She finished undressing and stood bare in front of the wardrobe, an oak piece kept arranged in a perfect gradient from summer to winter due to her tendency to wear sundresses under coats she knew she wouldn’t take off all day. Ester stood staring down her bristled body, her fingers grazing the new freckles on her chest, nearly convinced for a moment that they would simply brush off. Ester had perpetual summer skin: bikini tan lines that never seemed to even out, a clear line on her thigh from where she always wore shorts, a small circle around her left ring finger from a promise she’d made and broken her freshman year of high school. He moved to Wisconsin, and still wrote sometimes, but she had never written back. She eventually reached for a wool sweater and let it wash over her, relishing the dark, inhaling heavily. The sweater breathed the smoke of a past evening spent on the green, her lips painted bloody beeswax, a rolled cigarette held between trembling pale fingers, her nail lacquer fumes fresh. A boy with nicotine stained fingers and a bouquet of geraniums grinning proudly down at her. His father had gone to Harvard and his father before him but he’d decided on Yale, he told her, a smirk playing on his lips. Little rebellions, he said, his eyes pushing the cardigan from her shoulders. Propositions for skinny dipping in the lake, cold water seeping into bone. His hands gelid, icing over her skin just enough to stop the current within her. She pulled her head through the collar. She’d forgotten. What had it been? Four, five months? No, no, three. Mid-January. She was sure of it. She lay in her bed, skin afire with pinpricks, that lasting cold. She set her glasses on the nightstand and pressed her fingers into her eyes, gathering the phosphenes into vast constellations, imagining them into something she could wish on. Though, even if something celestial were listening, she wasn’t sure what she’d wish for. She
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used to wish a relative would get sick—but not too sick—or a friend would pass— not a close friend, but someone close enough—so that she could go home. She’d feel terrible, of course, for even thinking it, and worse for daydreaming so about it, but it never happened and thus she figured her karma had been served. Instead, Ester ended up wishing for a rainstorm, a good late-afternoon downpour, one that would wash away all of the snow and resurrect the perennials. Morning woke her before her eyes opened and for the faintest second the blue lied to reality, told of skies far from her ceiling, that her eyelids hid a canopy of magnolias, the sheets beneath her the softest of rotted petals, the dust golden pollen, her quilt miles longer, long as the Potomac. She opened her eyes and the dream fell. She rolled the tights in her hand and brought the mouth of the fabric up around her calves, patches of the nylon still wet, pulled a skirt over her thighs, moved her body to feel the sweater new against her skin. The wood of the doors felt damp against her palms as she stepped out into the nearly-spring air. The puddles on the ground were less puddles and more spaces into which she could fall, and never fill, felt the path tighten as she rounded the dorm and made her way to the lake and there on the footbridge she watched the spiders in their silk waiting for something they could dismantle from the inside, could suck the life out of and into and she watched the shells sing warning to a sky too loud to listen. When she had awoken to his oak tree breath beside her, she slipped from beneath the wool blanket he had brought for them and dressed, watching as he laid there, childlike, his muscular arms tucked beneath his head, one hand pressed to his lips. She raised the blanket to cover his chin and left, leaving behind the geraniums he’d given her. He’d written and called, every word sounding like white picket fences and blue eyed babies but she couldn’t feel his honey I’m home, his sapphire slipping around her finger, her mother’s middle name tucked between their daughter’s first and his last. She took off her tights first, then her dress, reaching behind to unzip herself, her fingers tender against the buttons down the front. When she stood before the water, cold air licking up her legs, she made it her own, let it swallow her now, let her eyes close. When the water became her, she became it, let her body fall with a heavy breath into the thirst of gravity’s throat. Ester emerged; the snow against her eyelashes melting into tears with the burn of salt, the heat of seeing something you can’t yet, and took her first breath.
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Untitled
Simi Esan these poems are like you; studied and measured recut and fractured till the least is said through the most. meaning gathered as each layer peels back (a revelation is far from here) you are an onion my eyes smart from your sting as i discover you
Tonight the Whole World’s a Mirage
Savannah Marciezyk
Shimmering glittering shades of my vision tonight the whole world’s a mirage drenched in gin dancing with me to jazz the soundtrack of our ecstatic clutching at each other under the creamy moonlight talking sounding looking like we’re under water electric currents make my hair stand on end leave me feeling frazzled joyous misery pleased in the pluralities of my personality one luxurious one stumbling one dejected all manic all the time repellent desire dripping from fingertips the same shade of plum-red smears four lips unevenly matched catatonic catalyst to your rage tonight I can’t tell if I’m alive or dead.
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Merryn Kleider
Tower Wall
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I can feel the chill of winter now turpentined cuticles paint peeled from fingers how it feels to disappear with a brushstroke I painted the Rann of Kutch once the sea became sky its skeleton the salt spreading to the horizon I told it a secret and lost an echo like an echo that had nowhere to return this house might be that desert we told it and did not tell ourselves our bodies fell underfoot caked paint desert floors you will never be that salt not the echo from these walls I swallowed in chapters I want to paint you a mythology you might be the house a pigeon the center of a city seized by conquest be a journey where the railway track bends around forests between teak trees fluffed with gold looted for a city
Poorna Swami
Separation a house this table powdered with dust I drew your body before it fell from its skin skin will always be skin as dust will always be skin and you I would rather sweep a historical moment build cities of soot in the trenches of fingerprints pressed to paper scriptures fall from my fists emptying not erasure I painted a desert once the sea became sky its skeleton the salt you will never be the skeleton of a faraway city not a tree in some forests gold or dust you will never be sea or sky but always the becoming how water betrayed its ground you are not the paint or the painting not the desert but always the drying not that expanse but this color
Noon
Anonymous I am watching her swim and thinking lilies. Her nose braving forward— wax leaves, sidewalk, then her blurry body.
Pearls and Diamonds
Laura Brockbank
When we loved it was round oval an opal or pearl swallowed whole and held on your tongue until it dissolved like a sherbet and I’d ask you Daddy where did it go when is it coming back I said sorry once twice thrice but then forgot why tasting the sugar again was really salt and my wound was open a nail ripped from flesh all jagged because when we hated there were edges and needles slicing diamonds apart or a part until you’d open wide to offer something previous precious perilous
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Kelsey Murphy
Peony
How to Be Catholic Cameron Graham
My mother is Irish and my father is from Cuba. In our home, time does not exist before Kennedy. They met both fresh off boats to lands that would not treat them well. Ma knew all the words to Ave Maria and that she would be hated for it. Dad knew how to roll cigars and smoke them slowslow enough to last an entire game of dominoes. Neither of them knew how to be American. When we went to Havana people looked at Ma like she built an empire on their island. Like she didn’t know how to wear red or squeeze limes or about revolution or the warmth of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe. But she knew all of these things. She still saw her people’s blood run on bluegrey slate and prayed to the Queen and loved acidic— she just didn’t do it in Spanish.
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Flower Child Shelly Enright
I dug my fingers into the Earth, brushed aside some dirt, and found you curled up under a tulip bulb. You were bleeding but refused to acknowledge that you were hurt so I took you home, cradled like blueberries in the apron of my skirt. I washed your body in the sink, dabbed you dry until you were warm and pink. The cold white seeped out of your skin and the black streaks of blood disappeared. I wrapped you in a handkerchief up to your chin, held together with the pin of my fingers curled around your thin, broken body. I watched you fall asleep as evening neared. You slept on, nestled against my breast as the rain began to fall. I kept my gaze on your face in sleep and fell in love. My love grew and emanated from my chest as the mourning dove cooed from the stone wall. While she spoke my love strengthened you so you woke up tall and blessed. Without words you left. Flower child I love you so Why did you have to go And leave me where I found you
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Evergreen Silhouette
Kaitlin Boheim
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A Moment in Time Amra Sharif
My knight in his huggable hoodie comes pedaling down the clear, empty street. The Christmas lights in the tiny village mesh away. Only the solitary sun shining through the middle of his head remains. The wind whips up again. My nose is cold and red as I sniff up the chill. He smoothly swerves into the curve, coming to a halt; the two wheels equidistant from my feet. He turns and smiles at me in his adorable, bearish way. The perfect circle, a miniscule version of the ancient clock’s face slowly ticking away, vanishes from my face, as he turns off the safety light on his helmet. “Hey, all ready to go?” “Just give me a minute.” I quickly blow my runny nose, making an awful lot of noise. Stuffing the tissue back into my coat pocket, I carefully clamber onto the back. “It’s going to be a pretty long ride so might as well clear it out.” “Better have it out than in, anyway.” I take a firm grasp of his broad shoulders, mirroring the way he’s clasping the handles in front of me. “Alright, lets go.” He chuckles. Slowly releasing my grip, he wraps my skinny arms around his waist instead. “You would definitely fall off and break something, sitting like that. Just hold on tight, you’ll be fine.” “Yea easy for you to say, you know how to balance on this thing. I freak out on anything that doesn’t have four wheels.” “I’ll have you there in no time and in one piece. Don’t worry about it.” He adjusts the helmet over his head, getting ready for take off. “Do you have another one of those?” “Hahaha no.” He turns back to look at my slightly skeptical smeared face. “Just think about the turkey and the mashed potatoes. That should take your mind off things.” “Fine, I’ll try.” I roll my eyes pretending like its no big deal. My lurching stomach tells me otherwise. “Ready?” I give a slight squeeze in response. And we’re off. A muffled squeal escapes my half-chapped, half moist lips, into the warmth of his hood, as we crunch through the barren branches and crackled, dry, leaves onto the solid, charcoal mortar. I feel the cold rush against my face. Slowly, I feel the tight knot loosening. My aching muscles begin to relax. Throwing back my head, I let out a loud, languorous laugh. It echoes back into the empty street we’ve left behind, where the age-old clock tower has just struck its first gong of the tenth hour. We ride into infinity.
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C ont r i but o r B i o s Poorna Swami ‘15 Poorna is a writer, dancer, and choreographer, who was the Baccalaureate poet for her class. She now serves as Editor-at-Large (India) for Asymptote. Her poetry has been published by The Missing Slate and Indiana Review. Amra Sharif ‘15 Graduated from Mount Holyoke last Spring with Magna cum Laude Honors and a double major in English and Economics. Thoroughly enjoying her marketing job and being back home with friends and family in Karachi, Pakistan. Alessandra Emma Rossi ‘16 Alessandra, born and raised in NYC, uses a knife instead of a paintbrush. Dani Planer ‘19 Dani Planer likes trains. Kelsey Murphy ‘17 She is a junior Studio Art Major with an expressed interest in Printmaking and Papermaking. Savannah Marciezyk ‘16 Savannah writes poetry that is conscious of how meaning and form interact. After leaving Mount Holyoke she hopes to get an MFA in Creative Writing. She enjoys cats, coffee, and Allen Ginsberg. Rochelle Malter ‘18 Over the past twenty years, Rochelle has considered becoming a librarian, a marine biologist, a historian, a cemetery administrator, the 49th President of the United States, a museum educator, a florist, and a stand-up comedian. She still hasn’t decided which one would suit her best. Raabia Malik ‘15 Raabia is a Pakistani-American and a psychology major. She enjoys taking
pictures of landscapes and whatever else catches her eye. Her current jam is “Sorry” by Justin Bieber. Merryn Kleider ‘19 Merry has been doing photography since high school and especially likes taking creepy photos. Anya Karagulina ‘17 For a while they thought there was a very persistent chocolate stain on their hand but it turned out to be a freckle. Yizhen Huang ‘19 She is dedicating to be a qualified mushroom. Cameron Graham ‘19 Cameron is from a beautiful tropical island in south Florida and will never let you forget it. Above all else, she loves Sundays, hip hop, and her niece. Simi Esan ‘18 Vibrant, Curious, Versatile. Shelly Enright ‘15 Testing the waters. Abbey Clark-Moschella ‘17 Abbey is an English and Anthropology double major, and the proud owner of extensive collections of both books and nail polish. Katie Clark ‘19 Part-time dandelion. Novice watch wearer. Can be found mourning dogeared pages in a library near you. Laura Brockbank ‘17 English export studying English Literature. Adventurous. Kaitlin Boheim ‘18 A native of Massachusetts, she studies neuroscience and psychology.
The Art and Literary Journal of Mount Holyoke College Fall 2015 Like us on Facebook: facebook.com/monetalitmag Follow us on Twitter @Monetamhc Email us at moneta.mhc@gmail.com