NEW LITERATI SPRING 2016 by New Literati

NEW LITERATI SPRING

2016

ISSUE

EXPERIENCE CREATIVE

a NOTE FROM THE EDITOR DEAR BELOVED STAFF: Hey lil beans. Thank you so much for making this organization more like a family than a group of a whole bunch of weirdos that meet every week. You guys have made this whole graduation thing a lot harder. Thanks for working with me, thanks for laughing at my jokes, thanks for the never-ending creativity and enthusiasm. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to meet you and work with you in creating something pretty rad. You guys really are my lil gems and I cherish all of you. Good luck, NEWLITFAM!! I'll miss you guys!

DEAR READERS/CONTRIBUTORS: Thank you for contributing and reading this magazine. I hope this semester's issue not only reflects the creativity of our student body, but also how much we appreciate our readers and writers. Though we are still a budding organization and have much to learn, thank you for supporting us.

Jasmine Kim Editor in Chief

THANKS TO: CONTRIBUTORS SPRING 2016 STAFF SOPHIA ABOUELATA VANESSA AGUILAR AMANDA ALDEN KAILA BRINCKMANN JACE BROWN DE LEON CATHERINE G CLARK SEAN CUBILLAS SARAH DUNAVANT BOBBY GARCIA LILLI HIME AMANDA MARKOE FAVIANNA MORENO SARAH VALENZUELA GABRIELLE WILKOSZ

JESS ARRAZOLO ALEX CLARKE SEAN CUBILLAS OLIVER DAVIS SHARNICIA DOTSON SARAH DUNAVANT LILLI HIME REBECCAH HOFFMAN AMANDA MARKOE ALEX PESINA CJ SHALEESH MADDIE SMITH LOGAN STALLINGS AMY TONDRE

TABLE OF CONTENTS PROSE KAILA BRINCKMANN: trees/// 10 JACE BROWN DE LEON: think about dallas/// 12 SEAN CUBILLAS: old man and the forest/// 18 FAVIANNA MORENO: it never occurred to me/// 21

PHOTO ESSAY

SOPHIA ABOUELATA: unnamed/// 26 AMANDA MARKOE: sweater weather/// 28 SARAH VALENZUELA: trees/// 33

FEATURED

LILLI HIME: inside out mask project/// 40

POETRY VANESSA AGUILAR: dallas city/// 48 AMANDA ALDEN: ghost house/// 50 AMANDA ALDEN: If I'm an equation with a 5digit answer, what does that make you?/// 52 KAILA BRINCKMANN: us/// 54 CGC: eye contact/// 56 CGC: i love/// 57 CGC: superman/// 58 SARAH DUNAVANT: a love too holy/// 59 SARAH DUNAVANT: water rings/// 61 BOBBY GARCIA: a woman's first/// 63 BOBBY GARCIA: faith buffet/// 65 LILLI HIME: dear god/// 67 LILLI HIME: soul next door/// 69 GABRIELLE WILKOSZ: a poem from a restaurant cactus/// 71 GABRIELLE WILKOSZ: spell/// 72

PROSE

TREES I’ve always liked trees. Forests were my happy place. I love to swim in the ocean, and run through an open field, but hiding beneath the limbs of a huge for tree, I always breathed a little easier. As I drive by on the highway, the trees always catch my eye. Hundreds upon thousands of branches beckon me, calling my name, inviting me into their depths. I find my mind wandering back to those days when I could lose myself under the leaves. My breath quickens as the memory is jolted away by the brake lights in front of me. Red, noisy and attention getting, the lights grind me to a halt. I try to take the moment to enjoy the trees, but I am shaken, my fantasies gone. I force my head to look out the window. Enjoy the trees, I say to myself. Enjoy today, it’s a good day. It’s a good day. This is a mantra I find myself repeating day in and day out, a way of convincing myself that everything is going to be alright. It’s a good day, I repeat, as my breathing grows more rapid. It’s a good day, I command myself. Look at me, the trees seem to call. Remember me? Remember how easy life was back when you noticed me? I shake my head, as the cars in front of me move, and I begin to accelerate. The trees blur by now, as I begin to go faster and faster. Their differing hues of green blend together, and I am no longer able to distinguish them. And yet they still call to me.

Remember me? Remember how easy life was? How easy it all could be? I am driving even faster now, even the angry lights are a blur. Today is a good day, I repeat through gritted teeth, today is a good day! The trees limbs seem to reach out to my car, pulling me close to the outer white line. Remember? You will finally be able to breathe when you are with us. The tears are openly falling down my face as I am drawn to the greenery, to the lush paradise, my car veers further to the right, to the blissful escape, to the great sigh of relief I know I will feel when I

BY KAILA BRINCKMANN

Kaila Grace, 19. I love dogs more than almost anything. Writing is more of an outlet than anything else, so do forgive me if you find you can relate to my jumbled sense of self.

THINK ABOUT DALLAS Hey, I told you I’d find you. Funny, isn't it? That the six feet between us right now is the least amount of distance we’ve had in twenty years. I guess a lot has changed since that rainy night you walked out of my apartment and out of my life. I’m sure you’ve heard I’m not me anymore. I’m an addict now. When you sat me down, looked me dead in the eye and told me this wouldn't work, there isn't a future, and that you were done with me, I had to find a way to ease the pain. I turned to popping pain killers, smoking weed, and sipping codeine to help guide me back to reality. But I hated reality. You told me before you left that I should just think about Dallas and that intimate trip we made together to remind myself of the love I am capable of giving and how great of a person I am. I believed you. I believed you when you told me you cared and I believed you when you said that I was special. None of that was reality though. Reality was that when we came back, we grew apart. So how was I supposed to think of Dallas and forget what happened next? I wasn’t good enough for you and I wasn’t good enough for the American people either. I’m sure you watched my campaign and the addiction stories, the escorts, the affairs, the late night drinking and etc. I can’t say they were wrong or that these attacks didn’t hold truth to them. In fact, I deserved that ass kicking. My egotistical self thought I deserved that seat and you probably knew that. I can see you now, mimicking my every word, making fun of how I say I’m sick and tired of fighting for stuff in my life and how I think I deserve something because of my struggles. So I lost the election and skipped out on my speech and press conference. They found me the next day in a brothel

passed out. Didn't do much to prove the rumors wrong, huh? When the election results had come in and they called the race in what’s his name’s favor at 10pm, I didn't know how to react. It’s like, I knew a loss was coming my way but I went ahead and let it happen. I broke down and cried that night for the first time since I watched you, soaked in rain, step into your Mercedes and drive off to somewhere without me. Can’t believe that was twenty years ago, today. I remember swinging my suitcase open and grabbing my bag full of pills. I demanded a car and off I went. My first stop was White Rock Lake. The same lake you and I sat at when we came to Dallas. When I brought you home. I parked and stared out into the abyss. I could see the Dallas skyline in the background. I looked over to the passenger seat and it hit me: you were gone. I took the first pill of the night and thought, “Damn, we really went to Dallas.” I just sat there and replayed our every move at that spot. That was the same night I stopped mid kiss and told you that what sucks the most is that you were, and still are, everything I want in life and that I couldn't have you. You held my head in your hands and whispered, “You have me right now.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve replayed that in my head. I never wanted to leave that moment. Once I left the lake I decided to head back to where I first met you. That lonesome ride back to the University never felt longer than it did that night. I kept peeping over to where you used to sit, hoping you’d appear. I just needed to see your smile. I chased that craving back to campus. I walked the same path we did the first time we ever hung out, all the way to that rock we would sit on at the edge of campus, where we could look up and see the castle on the hill. Most people would walk to the castle, sit and stare down onto the city but not us. We looked up as if that’s where we were going. Plus it would have been too cliche to go up by the castle. We weren’t cliche. Nothing about us was cliche. We just did what we felt with no

regards to what it did to us emotionally. Our love was tainted and we knew it. I miss it. I hope you know, I really tried to move on. Hell, I got married. Part of it definitely was because her daddy believed in my message so much that he made huge campaign donations throughout my political career (made him look like an ass didn't I?), but I did fall in love with her. Her name is Aubrey but then again, you probably already knew that too. I really fucked that one up. I know I told you about my womanizing ways but believe me, my relationship with her was strong until my tests results came back. It’s all too complicated for my lazy self to fully understand but my diabetes somehow led to my infertility. I guess I let it get out of hand. Then I couldn't give her a family. I wasn’t enough once more. Everything was downhill after that. She didn't know about the drugs but I opened up to her about my affairs. Now she’s gone too. Last I heard she's engaged to an old friend of mine and she’s already pregnant. I’m glad she got what she wanted out of life. All I wanted to do was talk to you about it. The thing was, I had no idea where you were. I went around the country shaking hands, speaking to people with the one hope that you would show up. I just never could get your full attention. I don’t remember much after sitting at that rock except popping another pill. I mean, I heard about it the next morning while laying in a hospital bed. Witnesses say I stormed down the street screaming a name, your name, all the way downtown where supporters had recognized me and began to buy me drinks out of sympathy. Oh how I despise sympathy. That feeling of hatred came from how you used to treat me and do things for me when something went wrong in my life. I don't know to this day if your actions were genuine because of how it made me feel or if you did it just to try to make me feel better. I don’t know why the latter is a problem with me but never knowing how you truly felt took a toll on me. Somehow I ended up drunk, off of xanax, coked up, and passed out in a brothel forty five minutes away from downtown. I woke up (a week after my breakdown) to

hear that my wife was leaving me. I wish I would have never woke up. I’ve had a lot of time to think about my life. Do you remember how many times you’d tell me how dramatic I am? Looking back, you pegged that shit. Look at this story I’m telling you. It doesn't get more dramatic. It’s almost as if this is the life I asked for. So I’ve thought back to Dallas and that nights we spent together. Then, as always, I think about what happened next. I knew I should have never gotten involved with you because you made it clear nothing would come of it but I couldn't resist. I had to get to know you. I wanted to know who the curly headed short girl really was and I got that opportunity. It just ended up that you were the greatest person I’ve ever met. You still are. That last night, you tore me to pieces. I never thought you would ever say that you were done with me as if I were some kind of toy. I felt like you had lied to me and I felt like I let you play me. Then you called me and asked if I’d just stay on the phone with you till we fell asleep. As alone and empty as you had just made me feel minutes ago when you stormed out, I accepted your offer. We didn’t speak, we just listened to the silence. We fell asleep and I’m assuming you hung up the phone. Then we never spoke again. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve missed you and I don’t know why it was necessary that we went our separate ways. We completed each other but we never realized it. Well, maybe I did. I know I told you that I’d find you again one day, but years passed and those words, “realistically this just wouldn’t work” echoed in my head so I figured I shouldn’t even try. I have never let go though. On the day of my wedding, when I lifted Aubrey’s veil I hoped your face would appear under it. We were partners. We were two individuals who survived by ourselves but thrived together. Laying here, with you to my right, reminds me of the good nights where we laid in bed staying up way too late just to enjoy each other’s presence. It should be me buried beneath this pile of dirt. I wish it was me. You had so much potential to do life changing things for a number of

people. You were so full of love. You are everything I wish I could have been. I’m an addict that has ruined everything I had going for myself. I’m alone in this world. All this time all I’ve thought about is how much I wish you were here. I miss your curly hair, your goofy laugh, the way that you smile, and the way we used to kiss. Every time I sit and reminisce I add a quality to that list. I want to lay in bed, wake up the next morning and smell you in my sheets. But I can only see you in my dreams now. I can’t find the strength to throw away that picture of you in the blue dress either. I know, this is all too much and I agree. It’s become too much for me to handle. That’s why I’m here. I once said that the timing just wasn’t right and that maybe we’d be together in another lifetime. I came here to see this through. This isn’t what you’d want and I’m sure you’re screaming at me from the heavens but I can’t fight any longer. You see, as different as you might claim we are at our core, we always agreed that the feeling of home is what we all desire in life. When I lost everything I looked around and realized I didn’t have a home. Dallas isn’t home and neither is the one bedroom apartment with the parking lot view. I didn’t feel at home at the University anymore either. That’s when I finally let the truth sink into me. You’re home. So I drove back up to Dallas and jumped onto a flight to Chicago just to track you down. A friend of yours said you traveled east. You’d only go out there for New York but you weren't there either. So I flew across the country out to Seattle. Still nothing. It was like everywhere I turned I saw your curly hair in the distance. Every black SUV had you in it and I was sure of it until I wasn’t. This pursuit was the only thing I had in life. I was going to find my home. A year passed and I had no lead. I didn’t know where you were or who you were with. I really didn’t care. I let you be selfish and runaway with no regards to what it did to me so it was my turn to express how I felt. I finally grew the balls and decided to go pay your sister a visit in Houston. When I got to her house I had to sit down and explain to her everything because I was never worth mentioning

to your family. But she stopped me. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “She died two years ago, shortly after the election.” “What? How?” “Hodgkin's Lymphoma.” She gave me the directions to you before I could even ask if it was okay if I came to see you. It kills me to know that you had to suffer. I wish I was there to take all that pain away from you. Your sister showed me pictures of you before you passed. I still can’t say I’ve ever seen you not look beautiful. Cancer never looked so good. Yeah, you lost the curly hair but you totally pulled off the bald look. I like it better than when you tried pulling off the braids senior year. I just hope you thought about Dallas. I hope you remembered the love I gave you and the impact you had in my life because I’ll never forget it and it’ll be the last thing on my mind when I go as soon as all the hydrocodone kicks in. There isn’t much more for me to say so if you don’t mind I’d like to lay here, next to you, and enjoy the view. It’s just sad that we have been and still are worlds apart, and life is short. So here’s to us in another life. I’ll see you soon.

BYJACEBROWNDELEON

My name is Jace De Leon and I'm a sophomore at St. Edward's University. I have been writing for the past four years. I wrote this piece after a trip to Dallas I experienced with somebody who I am no longer in contact with. It was such a monumental moment in my life and knowing we no longer are in contact inspired me to create a story about how I miss those days.

OLD MAN AND THE FOREST The old man stood in the middle of a forest. Aged and rotting himself, he fit in with the forestry. You couldn’t tell if you were looking at a person or one of the trees. A cold, lonesome wind disturbed the peace. He opened his eyes and tried to become acquainted with his settings. He was surrounded by the peculiar forms of shadows. Their silhouettes reached out to him. The place was still and isolating. For a place so dark, it felt so accustomed that the old man wasn’t sure if this was solitude or loneliness. Looking through the woods, the only figures he saw were the familiar backs of people that had left and ignored him. In this forest, nothing grows but stays. He was about to lie down and rest, when he felt something hit the ground before him. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but there was a clack on the ground. Something did fall. Staring blankly to the foreground, he noticed some bushes rustling. Popping from the leaves was a young boy, covered in scratches and dirt and looking more confused than the old man. This was an even greater disturbance than the cold wind. The boy looked to the old man and his confusion softened. He slowly paced towards the lone figure, trying to separate him from the dark. To the old man, all the boy could force was a “Hello”. His elder kneeled before him and took a good look at the boy. There was something strange yet accustomed about staring back at another person. After receiving clarity of the situation, the old man quietly asked, “Are you lost? Do you need help?” The boy could only nod and stretched out his hand.

The old man securely grasped the boy’s palm and looked to the forestry before him. He wasn’t sure if even he could walk through the darkness, but the old man inched forward anyways and began walking. Breaking through the forceful twigs and branches, he walked through long, forgotten memories. He walked through all the people’s distant stares and gazes. He walked through all the whispers that had said something’s wrong about him. He walked through the same halls his family had left him in, that his friends had stopped visiting, that only welcomed the world’s lost souls. He looked at the boy’s face. There were dried streaks leading from his eyes. The boy refused to look up or back. It was the face of someone trying to leave something behind. The old man knew the face well. He knew how hard it was to look at someone and only see silhouettes. It’s a strange feeling that everyone faces every now and then, but he feels every day. Not many could understand it, but he lived it. Out of anything, he knew how lonely and scared the boy had become. Up ahead stood the boy’s father, looking despaired trying to find his son. He became lit with relief as the old man returned the boy. “Thank you so much, sir.” The father kneeled and looked at the boy. “Son, it’s going to be okay. This just happens every now and then, but she’s going to get better. It’s for the best.” The old man had seen people come and leave this place but didn’t know whether or not to believe this man. What he did know was the father’s familiar tone. It was unassured and condescending. It was the same lonesome air that made this place feel cold and heavy.

The old man decided to say something to the boy, his first words in years: “Thank you, boy, for stopping by my room. This place can sometimes be a bit of a dark forest.” He looked back and saw only silhouettes. He had no idea why he could only see the boy’s face. Even the father blended in with the forest. He held the boy’s hand. “It’s things like this that can help anyone walk out of here.”

BY SEAN CUBILLAS

My name is Sean Cubillas, and I am an English Writing and Rhetoric major. Currently, I am a first time Freshmen who joined the New Literati this semester. I have a plethora of experience with essay writing dating all the way back to elementary school, but I also enjoy fiction writing and hope to become a screenwriter. A lot of the themes I like to center my work on are areas of self-motivation, conviction, and censorship. In this case, I like my ideas to either come from an underdog perspective or something powerfully idealistic.

IT NEVER OCCURRED TO ME As a little girl, I often imagined what my life would turn out to be. I daydreamed about what it would be like to be a “big kid,” to have a car, to go to prom. I yearned to possess my first inkling of responsibility; I wanted to grow up. My first year of high school was comprised of unsuccessful, cliché attempts to “find my true self.” I traded in my Keds and pink, Unicorn graphic tshirt from the children’s section at Old Navy to Vans and black, My Chemical Romance tshirts from Hot Topic. And studded neon, so much studded neon. I started a new school, met some new friends, and found my fair share of “high school” shenanigans to get into. It was a year of many firsts: my first failed exam, first kiss, first boyfriend, first heartbreak. After my freshman year came to a close, I was optimistic that the rest of my years in school would be just as eventful and memorable as the first had been. While I was not technically wrong, the events that unfolded over the next few years were not at all what I had in mind. I had another first coming: the first time I’d heard my diagnosis of Crohn’s Disease. In the wake of my imminent journey into the adventures of chronic illness, before my life and the lives of my family members became a chaotic disarray of medical bills and colorful pills, my mother religiously lived her life by one simple phrase: this, too, shall pass. Ever the faithful, Godfearing servant, she believed, that there is “no pit so deep that God’s love is not deeper still.” Being raised in a traditional Hispanic family with core Christian values, I was raised to trust my faith, my God, and to never allow my faith to waiver. It was August 23, 2010. It was the day I was scheduled to start the first day of my sophomore year of high school. I would no longer be at the bottom of the high school hierarchical system reserved for incoming

freshmen, and I was ready to embrace whatever obstacles life threw my way. I woke up that morning to my mother shaking my fragile, weak body from the deep sleep I was in. I could barely open my eyes, the color leaving my cheeks, the warmth leaving my body. I was dying, or at least that’s what it felt like. For a few weeks before, I suffered from what I and my parents, perceived to be a stubborn stomach virus. My parents had successfully built and ran a small business for most of my life, leaving my family without the luxury of health insurance. Due to our lack of coverage and a bit of my mother’s traditional Hispanic belief that time, a prayer and some chicken soup could fix any ailment and seeing a doctor wasn’t an option. After seeing the state that I was in, I was carried by my father from the comfort of my purple, plush comforter to the car that was waiting outside to take me away. I became a resident of Edinburg Children’s Hospital’s intensive care unit for 24 days. My time there is difficult to remember and even more difficult to articulate. I wasn’t allowed to eat, drink, or have visitors. I couldn’t shower on my own or use the restroom on my own, but refused to use a bedpan or let a nurse give me a sponge bath; I refused to be degraded. I lived under a haze of strong narcotics, slept more often than not, and dwindled into an abyss of selfpity and selfloathing. As my classmates were continuing on with their everyday lives, I had been reduced to being barelyalive. The year that followed my diagnosis was the hardest, as I came to find out is the norm. Later that year, my disease became so unmanageable that the need to remove my large intestine became apparent, a procedure of last resort. With that came a slew of other issues: an ostomy bag, kidney stones, side effects, and the list goes on. I was unable to physically attend school because of these issues and was left to do my schoolwork at home while a teacher came to my house once a week to track my progress. I had little social interaction, and spent most of my time alone or with my mother. I wasn’t allowed to be a kid, I was shoved into a world that stripped me of my remaining childhood and was forced to grow up. After all, who had time for trivial matters like school or friends when you’re fighting with every fiber of

your being to simply stay alive. I struggled to grasp the concept that this was my new life, something I could not just walk away from. I couldn’t fully comprehend that I wouldn’t wake up one day and be whole again. It had never occurred to me that one day I’d wake up sick and never get better. It’s been almost six years since then. I am now a junior at St. Edward’s University on a full academic scholarship, double majoring in Psychology and PreLaw, living on my own in Austin. I have two jobs, the first as a Correspondent for Senator Eddie Lucio, the second as a cashier at Shake Shack. I have the greatest, most supportive group of friends and the most incredible boyfriend that keep my spirits high. Although I still struggle daily to manage my symptoms, I have a much more positive view of my diagnosis and prognosis. My symptoms have shifted in intensity from periodic and highly intense, such as constant rectal bleeding, stabbing abdominal pain, and severe malnutrition to chronic and more subtle, such as severe fatigue, joint pain, malaise, and a dull abdominal pain. Throughout the years, I’ve learned more about myself than I ever cared to know. I can list off the foods that make me hunch over in pain and I can tell you every adverse side effect from every medication I have taken. I have also learned about resilient inside of me that I had no idea I possessed. My mother’s mantra of cliché phrases that I had once written off as the false comfort of a desperate mother finally started making sense to me. There is truth to the proverb “this, too, shall pass.” Although my disease has not and never will pass, my struggle with accepting my fate has. When it once never occurred to me that I would wake up sick and never get better, it also never occurred to me that it would be okay. I now live my life by my own mantra. In the wise words sung by Destiny’s Child, I am a survivor and I’ll keep on surviving.

BY FAVIANNA MORENO

I have had a love for writing my whole life, starting in creative writing competitions in the first grade. In high school, I wrote a few pieces for the school literary newsletter and received school wide recognition for an essay I wrote about Dwight D. Eisenhower. Over the past few years, I have focused on personal essays, poetry, and short stories.

PHOTO ESSAY

UNNAMED

BY SOPHIA ABOUELATA

I’m a freshman soon-to-be-sophomore here at St. Eds. I’m from Tennessee. I’m a Photo Communications major. I’ve been taking pictures since I was a freshman in high school. These photos are special to me because they are ones I took with my childhood best friend.

SWEATER WEATHER

BY AMANDA MARKOE

I really like patterns and fabrics (especially on film) so I wanted to incorporate those elements with people. I've always loved images that cover people's faces so I decided to add that as well and make the series outside, so some images look very comical, while others are creepy. Overall, the series displays how humor and horror can often go hand in hand to create an interesting effect.

trees

BY SARAH VALENZUELA

"My name is Sarah Valenzuela, I'm a Photocommunications major, and I'm going to be junior here at St. Edwards. I love trees, I think they're beautiful. On walks to class or to my dorm, I find myself looking up and staring at the

sunlight shining through the leaves on the trees. All of the images in this set were taken in a parking lot, which is the last place you'd think to find these little snapshots of nature. For me, this means beauty can be found everywhere, which is a comforting sentiment. These photos are 35mm color film."

FEATURED

INSIDE OUT MASKS PROJECT Traditionally, masks serve the purpose of deception. A person can hide their truth behind them, conceal all their insecurities and fears. This project turned the conventional definition on its head by creating masks that peel back our guarded exterior to reveal one’s internal struggle. Inspired by an art therapy for soldiers dealing with PTSD, the Inside Out Masks Project asks students to consider whatever deep-seated issue they’re facing in life at the moment and gives them the chance to express it. Given free range to use a variety of shapes, colors, and whatever other material available, students are able to express the issues that otherwise is pushed down. I want to extend my sincerest thanks to all the people who part took in this project for allowing yourselves to be vulnerable and being so honest. My hopes for this project are just to show that vulnerable side of people we so rarely see so we can really connect and empathize with our fellow human.

Diagnoses: Major depression and panic disorder. I’ve struggled with major depression and anxiety since I was in elementary school. The right side of my mask is actually from a text message I sent to one of my closest friends explaining how my disorders make me feel. When I wrote this message, I was in the middle of one of the worst panic attacks of my life. Because of this, I chose not to add any punctuations. It’s just an unbroken stream of panic regarding my depression. On the other side of my mask, I depict how I try to appear to others. Perfect. Most people wouldn’t realize just by looking at me that I’ve run to my therapist in a panic twice a day. Having both anxiety and depression seems like a bad joke sometimes. Depression strips you of everything that makes you feel, and anxiety throws all of those emotions back at you just long enough for you to feel your life is falling apart. Sometimes I relish the apathy and other times it makes me want to crawl out of my skin. But I will be okay. I go to therapy, I take the pills, and I cope the best I can.

I am very emotional but in a way I can’t express. My depression makes me incapable of expressing it, so it causes me to be very confused as well. My balance is off and my good side is being engulfed by the bad side. My different emotions are in different sections of my head and they all swirl around at the same time. I can have hope sometimes though, and specks of yellow happiness may show up. Through it all, I still keep a smile though, and my eyes stay vacant.

Half of me is open and creative, and the other half is shy and scared. My creative side has so many thoughts and ideas to let out and can be quite an extrovert, but at times is held back by my shy side. This other side is the one that is afraid to express myself, and overthinks to the point of reaching anxiety and panic attacks. But regardless of these mentality issues, my eyes remain the same, because perspectives stay the same. A personal struggle I’ve faced all throughout my life is that I care too much about what people say about me. I strive for positivity and to make positive impressions on people, but when someone says anything negative about me, I can’t stop thinking about it. It sticks with me. It brings a lot of negative thoughts and feelings and self doubt. heartbreak leads to pain pain gets covered by addiction Addiction leads to guilt guilt leads to depression Depression leads to Anxiety and when you don’t talk about it it leaves you lifeless This mask symbolizes myself and my struggle with depression and anxiety. Half of the mask is the sun because it symbolizes what society expects of me. Mental health is a touchy subject because the stigma with mental health is so negative. The left of the mask represents how I feel when I am struggling with my anxiety. The swirls represent wind that suffocates me and I feel like I can’t escape it. Somehow I am both. Happy and struggling. This is me.

This mask represents the duality that I feel. My constant realignment of my inner being is my hardship. I question every move and step I take. This leads to happiness as well as deep sadness. I’ve got this voice pounding inside my head, always telling me how worthless I am, how I’ll never be good enough, that I’ll always be alone. I feel like a prisoner inside my own body sometimes. I think the sadness is pounding to get out and to crack the happy mask that I wear, and it’s scary. It shadows many joys in my life with this bitter aftertaste of self doubt. I’m surrounded by so many amazing people and amazing opportunities and it just whispers in my ear how I’ll never live up to any of it. They don’t see it. They don’t see my coke is actually vodka. They don’t see my red eyes aren’t from getting high. They’re from hours of crying. They don’t see my laughter and always happy demeanor is fake. They don’t see me. I am fine. No one questions it. I am fine I am great. Actually I’m so happy. That is what I tell them so they don’t see the real me. The me that is being torn apart inside. The me that is petrified. Petrified that they see the truth about me. The truth that opposes my entire ‘philosophy’. My philosophy that women are strong. I am strong. Strength that makes anything possible. Well. When it came down to it, He was stronger. Stronger than my body. Stronger than me. I am alone.

I drew a brain with a lot of the thoughts I have from anxiety. I colored the eyes black because my depression makes me feel emotionless a lot of the time. I drew tears coming out of the eyes because when I do feel something, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s usually sadness. I drew caution tape over the mouth because sharing my feelings with others is hard for fear of being judged or not being cared about. There are smiley faces all over the face because it is easier to act happy around others than to talk to them about the way I feel. I drew the Zâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s above the brain to represent sleeping to avoid my feelings. Lastly, I drew a small speaking bubble coming out of the mouth as a I cry for help. It is more for fear of nobody caring and being scared of what help might bring. Sometimes it feels easier to live with depression and anxiety than to confront the problems. The different colors on the mask show the different emotions I have been adjusting to in my life. I am usually a very optimistic person representing the yellows and reds. However, the past few months are more accurately shown in the blues, purples, and greens. Right now I feel like the blues are drowning out the yellows, but in a few months maybe I will see it as the yellows are making a comeback against the blues. The bright colors in the eyes and mouth show who I truly am: a bright and happy person. The colors on the face show who I am momentarily: someone unaccustomed to the sadness.

Social anxiety. Just like this mask, lately Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been feeling incomplete, like a work in progress.

The gray face represents the stone exterior I put on to make things seem like I’m solid and put together. The black cracks symbolize the emptiness I feel that is breaking my exterior. The green splotches are equivalent to my personal attempt at healing. The purple eyes with gold iris represent my seeking for enlightenment. The rivers that run from the eyes show the tears that I shed, mostly out of frustration. The red and orange spewing from the mouth symbolize the fire, both anger and drive, that I speak.

When I am depressed everything is harder to see and express. I feel like I’m living in fog and it’s hard to get a full breath. Everything looks dull and I feel cold. There’s too much yet not enough. There’s sadness but there’s color. The cup is half empty but also full. Anxiety feels like you may die and no As a college student I often one will care. Anxiety portrays struggle between choosing a sadness and panic into one career that will pay off my loans and feeling. It makes you look at it cause me to live comfortably or a from a negative perspective. It career that I love. entitles having your heart beat out of your chest trying to escape. It overwhelms you. It consumes your energy and you are left with nothing. It depresses you. Then you are left with two problems so then what? You add color to make it feel less.

At times, I feel all the pressure to figure out how to finance higher education along with tons of work and tests, which do not always showcase true knowledge, and the need to strive for an insane GPA. I fear that I blackout or become so droned in that I fail to enjoy my time here or life in general. The hearts are crushing. The flowers are beautiful passionate thoughts. The tears are stress. The blushing cheeks are nervousness and anxiety.

This represents my college life as of now. I’m happy, but then I’m stressed. As the year is winding down, my stress level is going up. College has been such a life changing experience. I can honestly say that I am no longer the person I was in august. I am now adventures and brave strong and willing. Its almost impossible to say that I am the same. There are and were big obstacles in my way such as money and family, but I’m here for much more than a piece of paper. I’m here to show my family that I, I can do anything I set my mind to and will never back down. I’m just a little bird with big dreams on a branch within the Sorin Oak that raises me high up above Austin. And I wont back down! Never ending, I will be.

I feel these feelings any time I get caught in my own circumstances and fail to treat others kindly. In this situation, ordering food in Hunt CafĂŠ, the left side of the mask shows my reaction to my circumstances: I felt cheated, like an injustice had been done to me, because I felt I did not get the correct amount of food for the price I paid. I was completely focused on my own circumstances worrying that I would soon run out of meal plan. I let this relatively minor instance get the best of me and I treated the people serving me unjustly, inconsiderately, and unkindly - and neither of them deserved it. The right side of the mask shows how I felt afterwards: I was still a bit angry, scowling in my mind about the situation but I also began to recognize a bit what I had done wrong. The tears that were stored up inside me had turned now, after this little reflection, away from my circumstances and a bit more towards the cashier and server. I opened up a bit, became more empathetic, realized my wrongs, and now I am sorry for what I had done and wish to apologize and not act like that again. I think having this experience will allow me to try to suppress these negative moments in times they come up in the future and so I can live in patience, kindness, love, peace, and respect.

everyone sees the smile but no one sees the sadness within.

BY LILLI HIME

POETRY

DALLAS CITY the city in bursts of color matching the sky’s endless blue noises and smells overpowering all sensations almost crippling, hidden beauty only the trained eye can see what the city is meant to be a haven for lost souls, to someday be found.

BY VANESSA AGUILAR

As a small town girl conquering the world, it is my goal to look for my next adventure. Full time student and part time artist, I spend my free time sleeping, writing, and taking pictures. My writing is inspired by what is on my mind, and my pictures are moments of time captured through my lens.

GHOST HOUSE On the cusp of your beloved threshold I saw you, your sturdy ankles and tremulous steps into the derelict edifice, cobwebbed balustrade gleaming like ebony water under your bonewhite hand, carpet of dust and crumpled photographs like your own sacred altar. I saw you kneeling, and your hands amassed the grave irretrievable. I watched you cradle your forlorn vignettes; a pillowcase with crude seams and thimblepricks of blood, an old sneaker with no laces, pastel candlesticks burned to wicker stubs. I followed your tread towards the broken mantle of our stony youth, where someone has burned shriveled letters, our voices risen in a grey plume of ash. I heard you speak to the kindfaced phantoms seated at your kitchen table. Their gentle answers like smoke while you nod and understand, now and forever, that the arthritic floorboards and spiderlace walls are forsaken aches with no absolution. The ghosts and I watched sadly as you gathered strips of wallpaper and upholstery like a child picking wildflowers, tearing iridescent growth from Terra’s groaning breast. “None of us are going back.” You tell me this over and again while we gather our dead and leave our fingerprints on every window of this brick and mortar mausoleum. I hear you singing hymns and Christmas carols, and then the stark

echo, the house key’s last turn, hear your holy words as you carve our names into the ceiling and drop breadcrumbs down the hall.

BY AMANDA ALDEN

Amanda is a senior Global Studies major who harbors a long-time adoration for literature and languages. She currently writes for the international writing collective Paper Plane Pilots, and appeared in their second anthology Cityscapes in 2015.

If I'm an equation with a 5-digit answer, what does that make you? You are a numeral start to finish. Sterile digits that line up on clipboards and hallways dixie cups with your allotment of fugue and quiet. Skittish eyes (295.60) in the waiting room will hiss that mirrors aren't to be trusted. Miss 307.10 will nod, shivering in her cotton swaddle. You are havoc locked into an odd geometry of needles and query. They will call your name and say it wrong, or say the wrong name altogether. They do not realize that outside the door you all are frenetic molecules in wild entropy, crashing into trees and parking lots with the gospel of vindicated insanity rattling around your skulls, crippled cortex to forehead, but still alive and breathing and dreaming of equanimity and a calendar where x's stand for bells and sex and plane rides, not plastic bracelets stuck on your wrists like costume jewelry. One time someone got it right and said you have, not you are and you cried, human tears, and did not count them at all. There are two languages in your purse, three if you look closely. They won't. Instead they will ask what day it is, who's the president, how to crush a spider (you assume they mean the cornerdwellers, and not the tarantella

of legs and poison in your head) ask you to put a name to the wind. They will ask to weigh you and demand to know why you are fundamentally fucked up chemically altered. You are not obliged to tell them why. It takes you six years to learn this. Someone comes and changes the curtains, folds the sheets. The stark white covers turn your lower body into a ghost. You ask them their full name, what day it is, ask them to explain please the etymology of the word "pathetic". They don't understand the question. Are you sure (you're alright)? Testing, it's simple. You have seen this before. Swallow down the aftertaste, the undissolved tablet of amorphous dimensions without question. The answers may be there in the morning.

BY AMANDA ALDEN

US Pt. 1 Sleeping alone is so much harder after nights with you. I can feel how alone I am in every pillow I put on my bed to fill the void you left. Instead of counting sheep I count the seconds until we can be together again. I put my head on my pillow, wishing for dreams to remind me of your warmth. My body aches, reaching out into the night for its other half to twist itself around and reunite with. I feel breathless without you, and sleeping is a chore. I know soon I'll sleep with you once more. Pt. 2 Thursday night in the summer, I remember skipping and running hand in hand, jumping like children from light to light. We went to that museum and hid, Pretending we were adults looking at art from a 100 years ago, And we kissed in the corners where no one would see us, Perpetually stuck in between childhood and adulthood, Blissfully happy.

Pt. 3 What do you do when road signs are imprinted in your mind like the lines on the back of your hand, where street names leading to your house are second nature and where my car starts turning without me even realizing toward you. What do you do when friendly hellos break your heart, when a smile is enough to bring you down because you know you are not the reason for it anymore. What do you do when music plays and all I hear is your voice, where one line brings back all you have said to me and where one chord can tug on the part of my brokenness that I try to hide every day. What do you do when the hope that you have is not enough, and trust me, I know it's not enough, but you will keep hoping nonetheless. What do you do when memories play in your mind over and over, refusing to leave, pushing out any other happiness you otherwise would feel, where they etch themselves further onto your consciousness, and remind you how lonely you really are.

BY KAILA BRINCKMANN

Kaila Grace, 19. I love dogs more than almost anything. Writing is more of an outlet than anything else, so do forgive me if you find you can relate to my jumbled sense of self.

EYE CONTACT When I see you around I do everything in my power to avoid you But I accidentally make eye contact And you walk over trying to start a conversation And I fall into your arms once more

BY CGC

I LOVE I love 7 am sunrises and 6 pm sunsets It brings me peace I love the way the trees look in the sunshine And how the campus smells like purple jolly ranchers It makes me smile I love when the breeze blows through my hair while I’m walking to class It makes me feel strong I love listening to 70s songs It brings out the hippie side of me I love The Revolution It makes me feel like I’m part of something I love my independence It makes me feel like I can take on the world And I love myself But I do not love you

BY CGC

SUPERMAN A man looking like Clark Kent walked by And he was beautiful He reminded me that I will love again I will love and be loved You were the first But never the last

BY CGC

A LOVE TOO HOLY i know you wake up with cold hands and you need someone warm but every warm body you’ve ever loved has been set aflame in the end, turned to ashes in your open hands, fell through your fingers and left a powdery death residue under your nails (maybe that’s why you bite them). your lost angel never set fires, but her eyes were dark and you noticed that only when she left you. you told me all of this, in more words, over warm tequila in september. i listened like a sermon. your gospel could save so many souls. you don’t even know you’re singing sorrow when you’re drunk serenading me in the kitchen, but i hear it in every rough finger strum. my angel flew away too. my love was too holy, my hands clenched too tight. she pried her heart from my fingers. she broke my knuckles. you and i, we both saw the holy light and it broke us both. lie here with me, warm desire, and i promise not to play with matches

or with your sorry tired heart. we all have scars from the burning buildings we've escaped and although yours are healed, i know you still trace them. you’ve been left to burn so many times but you still break down doors and stay until the smoke chokes you, craving so badly the closeness that comes before the goodbye. i know you wake up with cold hands, but you still smell like smoke.

BY SARAH DUNAVANT

My name is Sarah Dunavant and I'm a freshman at St Ed's. I love language. I enjoy working with different forms of creative writing, but I love poetry more than anything. The poems I submitted to this issue deal with the complexities and intersections of love, loss, and desire.

WATER RINGS my parents moved all my shit out of my old bedroom two days after i left for college, so my brother could move in (it’s the biggest bedroom and it's an ensuite). my mom works out of the spare room next to my old bed the one that saw me through puberty which is now covered in quilts sewn by greatgrandmothers i never met. i'm a guest now on holidays and the old brick house isn't warm the way it once was. it never smells like cookies in the oven or bacon on the stove. now it smells like lemon Lysol. and i think it always did, but now i'm scared to leave water rings on the tables. since i moved to this city, with its drunken tourists stumbling on concrete sidewalks against cotton candy sunsets, i’ve been forgetting more often how it feels to be real.

i am not concrete, sure or solid footing, but soft clay, wet and waiting and yearning to be shaped. but you, you in this city, you who calls my chest home, you who warms my tired hands when i come back to you after long easter weekends spent not leaving water rings. you are a solid place to stand and i pray to something in the sky that you hold me gently and mold me into something sure, and sweet smelling, and you never ever clean with lemon Lysol.

BY SARAH DUNAVANT

A WOMAN'S FIST Is hard to miss Once let loose and flyin Determined as a storm formed Upon the knees of grandfather sea who sees only beauty in dyin Soothsayers and mystics Mister rights and holy appetites Cant drain the pain she squeezes between her fingers like lightnin Only a strike will do, maybe two To dissipate the evil built up in her wounded womb Really just a tomb For now Storms always return If not boyfriends Gotta be strong enough to bend they say else when the winds blow in Snap is the last thing you feel Until all that remains in her puddle of shame is a scared little girl Cast upon the horizon swirl Kind enough to leave the best sunset Youve ever seen Burnt from the skin streaks of her divine knuckles Only too late do we find she was God A test A burden we failed to address And such Destined to forever mourn The carnal knowledge of why the sun chases the midnight storm Will never catch her For she cant help but to hate the light

Of mortal bliss We, fools aching Souls ripe for the taking Doomed to long for the awaking of our woman's kiss Even settle for her fist If only to know that we too are missed

BY BOBBY GARCIA

Bobby Garcia is an SEU student and has been for quite some time. His poetry surfaces in fits and spurts and always from the cover of night. Words spill out to sometimes form coherent sentences. Sometimes even a point. Mostly, they serve to exorcise demons and, very rarely, bestow the grace of a full belly.

FAITH BUFFET There is a temple in the world Not far from the wanderer's curb Where deities have come to rest Which now I have disturbed Forgive me Sirs, I did not know Nor was I honestly seeking To find the home of such great men To whom now i am speaking Jesus, Budha, mohammed, confucius all stacked up as a whole One atop the other placed A sort of holy totem pole Who knew such figures could assemble So neat and orderly Especially when their followers Pour strength to anarchy What purpose is there i must ask To the priests who've settled thee Upon this most divine of ladders Aside from confounding me Sorry to say no answers gathered Though i tried my best To understand this strategy Of hedging bets I guessed Maybe if one hears your prayer He will spread the word

Until then kindly move along The line is long ive heard

BY BOBBY GARCIA

DEAR GOD Dear God, Just let me bury my head in the sand. I want to drown in a sea of filth trodden dirt and mediocrity Let this dry soil around me excuse my seed from sprouting If I plant it deep enough, I can take root in ignorance Won’t hear the nag of potential any longer Won’t know the pain of want, of passion, and of failure I might go dormant if I’m lucky As others keep trying to claw their way to the surface With sprouts of sturdier stuff than I As they agonize and toil for an upper world they’ve never known But dare to hope for again and again. What cruelty they impose on themselves To knowingly oppress themselves with that injustice of hope And yet Nothing looks more romantic, more desirable Than to grapple with the dirt with which we have been planted To self nurture the seed of humanity within each of us So we can realize a destiny, a sky so endless, so blue A world so vast and bountiful, so ours There’s something inside us, our seed of humanity, of potential That refuses to be forgotten, refuses to be ignored

Dear God, Let me blossom

BY LILLI HIME

Between writing, running, and dogs, my life is complete.

SOUL NEXT DOOR My body is a house, my soul the inhabitant And my soul, she can be a bit of a brat She hasn’t the ability to care for the whole house yet. She’s still a child, still learning Who she is, what love is, how to be. See, when my soul sees you, she thinks love is scooting over on the couch Inviting your soul to sit beside mine She thinks love is when your soul Reaches the top shelf she is too short to reach When your soul moves furniture around the house she is too weak to move When your soul completes all those household tasks she struggles with daily Fills the empty spaces she is too small to fit Because it’s a big house with many chores And she’s a small soul with much to learn Like the sound of the door shutting gently As your soul leaves, retreats “I can’t do this anymore” She didn’t realize by filling my house You’d left yours She didn’t realize there were other houses on the block Other little girls and little boys trying to manage And a neglected house that your soul would have to return to

When your soul left, the chores piled up The ones she was too small, too weak, not enough for Even the responsibilities she could manage slowed, some stopped altogether The next visitor was not a soul but an idea A desperate idea that maybe she could hire someone for these tasks Work, running, work, sleep, school, work And it worked. Until it didn’t. These visitors had a strict schedule to stick to and left once over Nine to five, eleven to eight, two hours a day, etc. And still the hardest part was when they left Because the emptiness of the house resonated louder than any soul could speak And it wasn’t until far later that she finally grew up Grew up in the absence of others Grew to fill all the duties she’d once asked of others Grew to make a home out of this house of hers

BY LILLI HIME

Between writing, running, and dogs, my life is complete.

A POEM FROM A RESTAURANT CACTUS If I had hands where hands could touch; I would. If I had legs where legs could sit; I should. But my hands where hands could be are thorns And my legs where legs could be are worn If I could I would dine from a far, Instead I must sit within a jar.

BY GABRIELLE WILKOSZ

Gabrielle Wilkosz is a writer of many genres including historical non-fiction, news writing, personal narrative, and rhetorical criticism. In her free time, Gabrielle enjoys critiquing the font choices of local Austin businesses, finding license plates with her initials G.W., and snacking on free cheese samples from Whole Foods. Gabrielle's ideal vacation would be traveling around the world in pursuit of various cryptids like Bigfoot and the Lochness Monster even though she knows they don't exist. (Yes they do.)

SPELL I would like to make a formal complaint to you Despite our previous friendship relationship brotherhood sisterhood camaraderie understanding kinship the time has come for you to take your leave go on your way hit the road leave well enough alone Just go I wake too many mornings shrugging off the feeling of you like a metal scaled shawl from cold shoulders Be Gone Fair Devil. It’s like a line from the Crucible. But I mean it. So I would like to make a formal complaint to you Despite the eons centuries decades years months weeks days

it’s been a while since we talked, or caught glance of one another, I need your specter to find a new home not with me, not on my time. Just go I’ve found my peace It’s time for you to find yours

BY GABRIELLE WILKOSZ