New Normal

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Outside cover art by Belinda Andrade Title page art by Nicolette Giatras Edited by Maisey Phillips

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New Normal

A zine created through collaboration between The DePaul Artists Collective & DePaul's Writers Guild, Spring 2021

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i am here: daring to dream Written by Linda M. Crate, art by Saskia Bakker i eat raspberries in the sun Written by Emma Littel-Jensen, art by Phoebe Nerem

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Do You Ever Wake Up Reaching Out For Me? Written by Aneesah Shealey, art by AJ Fuller

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i'll illuminate your path Written by Linda M. Crate, art by Saskia Bakker

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#21 Written by Danielle Chmielewski, art by Nicolette Giatras

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I Took Today To Paint Written by Maeve Mollaghan, art by Haylee Keller

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good morning, twentysomething. god bless her, twentysomething.

Written by Aneesah Shealey, art by AJ Fuller

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on big brothers Written by Susie Méndez, art by Taylor Falls 3

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Elegeia Written by Abby Vakulskas, art by Maisey Phillips

ways to destroy me Written by Phoebe Nerem, art by Kimberly Nguyen

Choices Written by Maeve Mollaghan, art by Nicolette Giatras

Cecelia Written by Jacquie Michaels, art by Maisey Phillips

Rose Knows Written by Zach Murphy, art by Haylee Keller

Homesick Written by Susie Méndez, art by Taylor Falls

Wheat Plain Written by Charlotte Pèrez, art by Saskia Bakker

Dad's Brush With Nature Written by Maeve Mollaghan, art by Saskia Bakker

Park 517 Written by Jen Finstrom, art by Nicolette Giatras

volver, volver Written by Salma Alejo, art by Belinda Andrade

shakespearean trauma Written by Angie Raney, art by Mady Fast you poked a sleeping dragon Written by Linda M. Crate, art by Aylene Lopez

Sex is a Woman Written by Jacara Grace Davis, art by Toni Karadjias

Couldn't Break Whatever I Wanted Written by Brooks Harris, art by Phoebe Nerem

Saving Death Written by Patricia Haney, art by Phoebe Nerem

beautylustrage Written by Tessa Martinez, art by Alyssa Snavely

Hollow bed and body rotting from the lack of parasites Written by Jacquie Michaels, art by Maisey Phillips

Car Trouble Written by Riley Jane McLaughlin, art by Miki Kainuma

after the exorcism (depression is coming back and She is not happy, obviously.)

Written by Emily Goldstein, art by Haylee Keller

No Spark Written by Jacara Grace Davis, art by Maisey Phillips

from lake michigan at dusk Written by Naomi Shechter, art by Miki Kainuma

El estado de ser Written by Teodora Preradovic, art by Belinda Andrade Creators...........................................

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i am here: daring to dream

by Linda M. Crate

darkness is comfort when you've been burned by the light, and you realize that darkness isn't the evil and vile repulsive thing you were once taught; sometimes sunlight is cruel but the moonlight has only ever been kind to me— she taught me that i still shine when i am not whole, and that i am always beautiful even when i feel invisible; she taught me that even without the stars i am brave enough to shine in a world which doesn't always appreciate the power of dreams— so as everyone crawls and succumbs to their nightmares, i am here daring to dream; because i have braved enough storms to know that the rain will not fall forever and the rainbows will come again.

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Artwork by Belinda Andrade

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i eat raspberries in the sun

by Emma Littel-Jensen

Light finds grass blades: white dots on green slashes, a sea that parts only for baseball diamond dirt and children chasing.

My thumb is tinted with raspberry juice, a pink circle near but not yet under the nail. I think I am alive

only in the sun, grass, and raspberry pink, alive only in the calm afforded by a nameable moment:

This Is a Day in the Park and It Is Nice. Kiss Your Raspberry Fingers.

A biker on the nearby path has not greased their gears— wind grates as it passes through.

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Artwork by Phoebe Nerem

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Do You Ever Wake Up Reaching Out For Me?

by Aneesah Shealey

“When it’s only in my memory, it don’t hit me quite the same” -Beyoncé, “Pray You Catch Me”

His apartment was a new escape. As I rode the Brown line from Armitage to Diversey, I ate up the view of the shops that I hoped to be able to afford in two or three years. That stretch of Chicago was sparkly and reminded me of Christmas because of the teeny fairy lights that cushioned all of the new richness that came and went with the holiday season. A converted fourbedroom right near an Oberweis. I always remembered the Oberweis because it was where my first real boyfriend had taken me the night he told me he loved me. As I made my way to my new lover’s den, I clung to the idea the warmth of a house other than my own, a bed that I didn’t have to make, and someone’s son smiling as he wrapped his arms around my waist.

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I always savored the steps. They were waaaaay too steep and chipped with a charming, yet tacky blue paint over them. If you weren’t careful, the icy tendencies of winter would trip you up and send you flying face-first into cheap wood that was bound to splinter if you put the right amount of pressure on it. Striding up the stairs, I met him at the top of the steps. We stop in the kitchen and talk for a bit while I take in the fact that it feels so adult. My kitchen is cramped and hardly the space for indulging in my culinary aspirations. Eventually, we make our way to the loving bed and I breathe the freshness of new lust. The high ceilings make the windows stream the winter moonlight in perfectly over the gray walls. There’s a black oak desk where I had been rolling up moments before and as we hit le petit mort, I notice a glint on the desk. The moonlight hits it too perfectly: a small, silver hoop earring.

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I should’ve known that it was over when I saw that earring.

It sure as hell wasn’t mine; I don’t wear silver and I sure as hell don’t wear small earrings. He hadn’t been mine to begin with, just on loan from her. He kissed me on my forehead and sauntered off into the kitchen for water and as I sat up, the grayness of the walls and the silver of that earring ate me alive.

The navy blue ocean of his blankets drowned me as he walked back in. “Rain” by The Teskey Brothers streamed slowly in the background as he slinked back next to me, cradling me and nuzzling me as one does to someone that they’ve loved for a long time. The room suddenly felt too big and the escape slowly became nightmarish as he snored next to me, completely at peace under the now-too bright Chicago moonlight.

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Artwork by AJ Fuller

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i'll illuminate your path

by Linda M. Crate

if you didn't want a faerie then you shouldn't have climbed into the fairy tale of me, and if you didn't want my magic to wound you then you ought not have awoken all the rage in me; you laughed when i told you i had a temper— can you feel it now in the breath of every sunrise and sunset? can you feel it now in the angry eyes of the moon? can you feel it now in your memories and your dreams? you were a prince who lost his kingdom long before i arrived, i thought i could help you find your light and ambition; seems like you prefer to work in the darkness so i'll illuminate your path with all the shiny fangs of my fury.

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Artwork by Saskia Bakker 15

#21

by Danielle Chmielewski i miss missing my alarm. sprinting breathless early morning beat the clock, parting flocks of school kids with fingers buried in the dirt & voices chirping loud, giggles pinball down narrow city boulevards remember a desperately needed train peeling away from the platform & callously thrown expletives & cheap coffee & not being able to find a seat when i wore the wrong shoes last night & jostling that makes me aware of the starch on the collar my nose is pressed/against/packed/tight & moving quickly depositing bodies in underground landscapes suck in the masses to spit them back out or a room of joy full shared experience & the warmth of proximity, spacesprinkled w/ sweat, interlaced w/ cutting gratitude, the immediate sheen of the present, of time, of now the significance of a single moment.

please forgive me if this new normal gets stuck as its digested, i’m trying my best to swallow but have nothing to wash it down with but memories that are far too precious to waste on a luxury like comfort, remembrance: all that keeps me fed & makes me hungry, an appetite unsavory, so forgive me if it takes me a minute to settle down here as i’ve forgotten my landing gear in another world didnt know i’d be needing it so soon & its cold here & the walls are bare & the light is far too harsh & the only soundair heavy teasing tightly sealed windows i’d like to wake up in an empty house to the remnants of last nights company & abide by the insistence of sunshine in beckoning me beyond my front door; splinter the rails of my back porch escape to cry out into the wild in the dead of night watch it pivot down sharp city blocks & slide down glowering streetlamps, bask in their glow detailing what happens in the dark take me back. i’ll love you profoundly & hold your worth so tightly to my chest that my clenched fist will come to reveal its victim gasping for air choking on yesterday what i was promised by no one but myself.

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Artwork by Nicolette Giatras 17

I Took Today To Paint

by Maeve Mollaghan

I took today to paint, fix up the place

hung small installations

got sliced by blinds falling off of my window

my wound bled onto the inside of my knee

and the water in the rusty wok

also smelled like blood. Things connect,

spiral, sail beneath my brush

red, blue, white, and purple.

I took today to paint,

fixed up the place

small hanging installations

leaves, berries, and flowers.

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Artwork by Haylee Keller

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good morning, twentysomething. god bless her, twentysomething.

by Aneesah Shealey

“Maybe I should kill my inhibition, maybe I’ll be perfect in a new dimension” I painted my room in my apartment green because green is supposed to bring peace, yet here I am, up at 7 after falling asleep during a Girlfriends binge that went too late. There is no natural sunlight in my basement bedroom, so in the morning, I rely on a special sleep lamp that mimics an island sunrise a million miles away to wake up. Every morning, I ponder why I spent $170 to get what my roommates upstairs get for free in our little brownstone. Sometimes, I even chuckle when I think about the lizard man who runs Facebook reading my sleep tracker to sell some kind of data off. The rich get richer and the slimy get slimier. Thus is life.

“Do you even know I’m alive?”

Three texts from an unsaved number and an unsent message to my ex beckoning for the chorus of an old Marvin Gaye

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song that we used to listen to in the deep, deep cold of winter while we were warmed with indica smoke.

“I want you, but I want you to want me too…”

I wonder if he misses me, but that thought is dashed when I jump in the shower. Usually, although my classmates and coworkers can’t see my whole outfit, I still delve into vanity daily so that I feel normal in such a digital world. Today, not so much. I choose my robe and slippers and slink upstairs with the weary weight of this day and my daily bread on my spine. My landlord will be swinging by later to put rat traps in my kitchen and I shudder because he described ripping rat offspring off of glue traps. I fucking hate rats and rodents as a species freak me out, but I have a reverence for the life of innocent things. Babies can’t help what species they’re born into and baby rats certainly can’t help but to do what rats do.

Nonetheless, a rat is still a pest. Our friend in the walls is ever-looming reminder that Chicago has the potential to be just as foul as every other city everywhere and that rats, like men,

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seek someone to leech off of when summer turns to fall and the comforts of the warm season turn into preparation for burrowing and mating. The rat and the man are one and the same, for they don’t realize that pillaging the wrong house means a snapped neck at the hand of what used to nourish you.

“Don’t you want to care? Ain’t it lonely out there, baby?”

“Jesus H. fuck, dude. I hate Tuesdays.” A groan from my heathen roommate. “Don’t say “Jesus” and “fuck” like that. It’s unbecoming.” I muse, half-joking but wordlessly apologizing for sacrilege. With that, I make my descent back downstairs into my green walls and retreat into my space for the day.

“Jesus, maybe I do fucking hate Tuesdays.”

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Artwork by AJ Fuller 23

on big brothers

by Susie Mendez

when i left the check in section of o'hare, and moved towards the security check area, i got a text from my brother telling me how proud he was, how he was going to miss me, how if for whatever reason i wanted to go back home, if i wanted to quit and drop everything, he had some money saved aside—$1,000—just to bring me back home.

this is love i thought as i made my way through the line at the security checkpoint, this is love i thought as i swallowed down the lump in my throat and blinked through my tears as i dumped my electronics in the bin.

this is love.

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Artwork by Taylor Falls

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Elegeia

by Abby Vakulskas

I dreamed you made love to him in my backyard.

I saw you kneel under the lilac bush, head tilting back beneath lush leaves, letting its branches cradle your torso and leave scratches on your arms.

Your body was not what I expected, but I loved you just the same.

Now the weather is cold and the yard is empty.

God knows where you are; not here, not anymore. Somewhere with mild Januaries that don’t suit you at all. You will forget those old days, and I will remember them enough for the both of us. That’s okay.

If you think of me when the cherry blossoms snow at the end of winter, if you decide to marry him—and I know you will— all I ask is that you send me a postcard to hang on my refrigerator. Watch over my kitchen and over these new days.

Linger in my walls and follow when I move.

Let me let you haunt me sweetly for the rest of my life.

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Artwork by Maisey Phillips

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ways to destroy me

by Phoebe Nerem

1. Look at me like you know me.

2. Pop raspberries into my mouth, freshly picked.

3. Read Margaret Atwood essays.

4. Burn sandalwood incense in my room.

5. Look at me, sincere as a dog.

6. Grow your hair out long.

7. Furnish a bed for us that’s just a little too small.

8. Write me a poem. Or a song. Or a eulogy.

9. Take off your shirt, then mine.

10. Look at me and tell me what you see.

11. Give me what I want, but with conditions that threaten my integrity.

12. Make me your nemesis, your muse, your enemies to lovers to enemies.

13. Edify your vices. At least try to.

14. Talk to me, all the time, don’t miss a beat or I’ll notice.

15. Look at me and smile like the devil.

16. Join me in sabaism. The sun, moon, and stars— they’re looking down at us, waiting.

17. Dodge me so the arrow pierces the apple and not your head.

18. Walk the line between lust and authenticity without picking a side.

19. Run like your life depends on it.

20. Look at me. No, not like that.

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Artwork by Kimberly Nguyen

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Choices

by Maeve Mollaghan The wreckage of this year; summer, spent, wading through small shards of aloneness.

Once, this year, I tried to write a poem about the rainbow cast by the window in my bathroom.

I found it in the sink, then I found it hiding in the corner, behind the toilet.

I search for inspiration among the wreckage and I find these shards of aloneness.

Something falls three rooms away, but I know there is only space.

My boyfriend slept in my bed for three nights.

Yesterday, he laid beside me as I watched the reflection of two lit-up door frames and my window circle like a symbol of my choices on the ceiling fixture in my bedroom.

Stay, go, or drift in this oblivion

The third is always reflective: I cannot control the sun turning on, off, the space between day and night.

Even when it’s dark at four o’clock light lives inside the glass.

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Artwork by Nicolette Giatras 31

Cecelia (A tribute to the youngest sister in The Virgin Suicides)

by Jacquie Michaels

Hot, so hot and that tree is staring at me spilt nail polish and remover in the girls’ drawers “C, clean it, jeez.”

Barracudas in my front yard

Hummmmmmm dead trees

peach schnapps, prom queen luxurious white floral sheets (a broken razor, squeeze)

What has happened in forever? handprint sick trees.

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Artwork by Maisey Phillips 33

Rose Knows

by Zach Murphy

Every autumn day Rose passes by the hot air balloon field in Stillwater, wishing she had enough money in order to go up for just one ride.

Last winter had not just taken a toll on Rose, it took nearly everything she had left. Now, she has a frostbitten toe and a frostbitten heart.

Rose knows that even the happiest golden leaves grow weary when they catch the first gust of winter’s harsh might. Rose knows that if the sun ever decides to go away for good she’ll try to make it promise to come back. Rose knows that if she would have had her life together, her adopted boy Frankie would still talk to her.

Across the air balloon field, sits a pawn shop. A pawn shop is a depressing place when you’ve got nothing to pawn, nothing to sell, and not enough means to buy anything. A job application turns into a hopeless slate the moment you see “Three years of experience needed.”

After staring at her weathered reflection in the pawn shop window, Rose turns around toward the field and observes an unattended hot air balloon. She crosses through the dewy green grass, looks around, and decides to hop into the balloon’s gondola.

The balloon is much bigger than Rose thought it would be. Her eyes widen as she gazes up at the balloon’s bright rainbow colors.

Suddenly, a pair of balloon tour guides run toward her, yelling “Stop!”

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Rose quickly unravels the ropes from the ground, boosts the propane flame, and takes off into the sky. From this view, the falling leaves look like fluttering butterflies. Rose knows that when she comes down she’ll be in a lot of trouble. So she squints up at the sun and gives the balloon some more power.

Artwork by Haylee Keller 35

homesick

by Susie Mendez

being homesick is like being possessed. this spirit enters my body in my weak moments, and makes me do things i would never think of doing when i’m in control of my body and mind.

in this moment of possession, where my body and mind aren’t my own, i put some sweet potatoes on my lunch tray because it reminds me of mami and the sweet potatoes she eats during cold winters of the midwest that are so, so, so different from the hot summer i’m experiencing in southern china.

i only get through one bite of the sweet potato before homesickness loses its grasp on me and i come back to myself, because even though i'm half a world away, and i miss mami, i still don't like sweet potatoes.

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Artwork by Taylor Falls

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Wheat Plain

by Charlotte Pérez

I took the Amtrak through a wheat plain in the Southern part of the state.

Stalks of bristled gold, peppered white, flew past the train window and told me You can stay here if you want to.

Yellow water bleeds from our crops.

Come get lost in the river.

Ears of braided flower did ache from winter winds.

Perhaps they needed a paper girl, run with muddy color and drained of all her hues, to rest her head on their tawny straw arms and all the seed that they could stomach.

If I stayed, I’d graze amongst the cattle and live in solitary bliss.

I’d peek through the brush to see children chase the malformed beauty that they think belongs to them.

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Artwork by Saskia Bakker

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Dad’s Brush With Nature

by Maeve Mollaghan

I was looking for this one bird

It’s called the Gold Finch

They migrate from Europe in the winter

They have a little red cap, beautiful birds

I walked outside yesterday—

A whole flock of them, flying over my head!

As I was walking down the gravel the gravel path.

I’ve seen everything, all the birds of Ireland.

The Blue Tit

I told you about the Blue Tit, right?

And I have a Robin who’s my friend,

And the Wrens,

They all have their little personalities.

And today……..

DUN DUN DUN 40

Mr. Rat came by.

I was afraid to put the rat poison by the bird feeder

I just threw it out the door this little disc he came right up and ran away with it!

So it went to the right person!

Or… or…

Animal.

I even put birdseed on the fence

And the Black Bird comes, he's like the gentle giant

And there’s his little girlfriend she’s, she’s,

You know, the females are brown.

They eat off the fence they don’t bother anyone.

Did I tell you about the Crow Wake?

There was this Crow that landed on the gravel outside

It was a cold day, he was, he was dying.

I just left him there.

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The next day, there’s forty Crows

And a couple of Magpies,

The Magpies kind of hang out with them

They’re up on the wire all looking down

And two Magpies are trying to move the Crow

Trying to, kind of, lift up its wing.

They were there for about… two hours!

And I thought……………

So when they were gone, that’s when I

Took out the shovel, y’know

Buried him under a tree.

That’s my brush with nature!

Right outside my window.

It’ll be a different experience when you come here again.

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Artwork by Saskia Bakker

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Park 517

by Jen Finstrom

All night I dreamt of bonfires and burn piles And ghosts of men, and spirits behind those birds of flame.

–Ada Limón, “Sharks in the River”

This morning you go to sit in the park that’s as perfect as a painting of a park, settling yourself on a bench in the shade where you write this poem on the back of an envelope you found in your purse.

Yesterday, you were at a man’s condo in the suburbs recovering from a hangover, throwing up in his bathroom while he worked from home, the paper Whole Foods bag you’d packed with half a bottle of vodka, your phone and laptop chargers, two notebooks, and a chapstick on the floor of his bedroom. And when you text a friend about how you’ve been sick all day while he’s bringing you water to drink and the grape popsicle that’s currently melting on a plate next to your face, she says “GIRL, he is completely your boyfriend. Now he just needs to pick you up at an airport sometime.” Six months ago you went on a first date with him and told him three times over a charcuterie board at the Palmer House Hilton that you didn’t want a boyfriend. But for now it’s enough to be sitting in your neighborhood park that doesn’t even have a proper name, watching the orange flowers on the pergola lift in the lake breeze, these words on the envelope small and nearly illegible, as if written by someone who isn’t you.

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Artwork by Nicolette Giatras

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volver, volver

by Salma Alejo

She holds the coffee cup with both hands and shivers in a crowded room.

Her eyes bounce back and forth.

Glaring at the mariachi that just won't stop singing, and gulps down the drink in one sip.

I watch her wince as she swallows.

Mama catches me.

Stop staring mija!

The adults at the table begin to whisper words I don't understand.

Tia hears them all, As the mariachi continues on; ...voy camino a la locura...

She pushes past the couples dancing and her bright red five-inch stilettos crush a woman's bare foot

I jump out of my seat and trail five feet away from her, afraid to get too close.

The music fades away as she exits the venue, and all I can hear is the faint voice of the powerful singer belting ...yo se perder, yo se perder…

My tiny shoes with frilly socks poke out of the doorway, and she sees me and holds my hand and takes me outside.

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She lights a cigarette with one hand, the other rests on my shoulder.

The sound of my teeth chattering breaks the silence.

Tienes frio?

I nod my head and continue to shiver.

Quieres? She shoves the cigarette in my face and I smell her bitter breath.

It’ll keep you warm.

My eyes widen in disbelief.

My heart races in uncertainty.

Yet I found myself slowly going on my tippy toes and reaching towards it.

Tia jerks her arm away from me and tells me No te creas.

A dry laugh escapes her mouth, followed by a cough that echoes in the parking lot.

Her tears drip down onto the top of my head and I stand still, watching white puffs of smoke fly into the dark night.

Artwork by Aylene Lopez 47

shakespearean trauma

by Angie Raney

i thought i was writing love poems, inspired ingenuity oozing from my pores.

drunk in love, high off of affection-my work was enamored by the thought of you.

you held a match to my wick and lit my body aflame, all the while sonnets melting off my tongue.

but the flame died out and now I am mute, suffocated by a shattered facade.

i look back now at sickeningly sweet dedications, and wish for no heart at all.

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Artwork by Toni Karadjas

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you poked a sleeping dragon

by Linda M. Crate

you weren't looking for a queen just a pawn that you could toss around in a game of chess that you claimed was love, but it was nothing more than lust; and i was nothing more than a game to you— but for you i will become the siren, and shed the scales of my softer mermaid skin so you can know every lyric of pain you shot through my heart; because you were a man untrue and if there's something i cannot stand it's somehow who cannot be honest— would've respected you more had you been honest with me about falling out of love with me or about the cheating or both, but you poked the sleeping dragon

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in her eye; be prepared for my flames to destroy your castle and your armies and your dreams as i return every nightmare back to sender with interest.

Artwork by Aylene Lopez

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Artwork by Toni Karadjias

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Sex Is A Woman

by Jacara Grace Davis

Sex is a woman. Smooth and sleek. Fearless and bred to bring men to their feet. Sly and foxy, slippery as dew. Slithers into your heart and makes her cocoon.

Sex is a diva. Sultry and sweet. Taste her if you dare; she's a deadly treat. Meek and mannerly, shy like flames that lick lightly at every corner until they devour the remains.

Sex is a womb. Small and tough. Built to withstand growth, death, and love. Expansion at the highest caliber of the bodies that we were all born of.

Sex is a queen. Bow down to your leader. She is no tyrant, yet you should still fear her. Shaking and moving at the slightest hint of her sound, dance to the rhythm of the queen and her drums, NOW.

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Couldn’t Break Whatever I Wanted

by Brooks Harris

O how I’ve wanted to be the watchdog In your front yard Waiting for you to get home, when the Bright lights from your Headlights would just Dome me with affirmation That you were home.

I’ve wanted to be a coyote Prowling the canyons for dropped Flowers. But in the early hours between 2 and 6:30, it gets to be so lonely after A while.

I’ve wanted to find a room in my house that’s Never been opened before. Just one day, here’s this door That I can open, Never before.

I’ve wanted to be A million dollars Riding the subway home, In my baseball cap and blue jean heritage Mouth filled on the inside with Foam.

One moment The bright lights

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From your Headlights Hit me; I’m lying in the street The next, Dying to catch My breath, Never so badly have I wanted To rest, than when I Slammed my elbow On the impenetrable table

When I was just a little over three years old. No one had bothered to tell me that I Couldn’t break whatever, Couldn’t break whatever, Couldn’t break whatever I want.

Artwork by Phoebe Nerem

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Saving Death

by Patricia Haney

“Misery has come home, and men appear to me as monsters” — Mary Shelley, Frankenstein I. II. After the breakup, The first woman I slept with he made me give after the breakup back the necklace. tasted of maraschino Spanish silver chain cherries drenched in milk adorned with chocolate.

Amethyst plum pendant— The label promised pitless he told me he got it but I took each bite on sale at Macy’s. with caution anyway.

He promised, She held me how We can still be friends, the toddler holds but the dying wind of leaves the broken winged butterfly— danced across my cheeks and carefully, but without winter came with no calls. knowing her own strength.

All I had left of him was The guilt reeked in my hollows the rotting bouquet— and I felt parts of myself mold dripped roses perishing. She told me, and cascading pedals it’s okay, as she filled took up more space in the cracks with my apartment than I did. perfumed tissue paper.

Like all dying things, Like all dying things, I tried to save them. she could not save me.

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Artwork by Phoebe Nerem

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Artwork by Alyssa Snavely

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beautylustrage

by Tessa Martinez

when the aliens injected our evolving bodies with consciousness were they aware we would become beautiful? therefore lustful, the only known species to make love. i think that’s more than fucking for pleasure? i don’t know. does it make them uncomfortable? living with a mistake that they can’t take back? like the way it can eat us, unless you’re one of them. those immune to the human things reaching the marrow of our bones. making us weak, making us strong. the crux in our animalistic drive to keep on. act bad when things don’t go the way we want them to. scream, fuck, love, kiss, touch every part of me.

i don’t want to burn. i don’t want to burn. i don’t want to burn. but i am made of fire. so hot your fingertips can’t resist giving up the hope of being a better lover. so hot your cool waves washing over me burst into steam. the chaos of your being will forever ring in my ears. turn up the volume, the blood is already cooling, hardening, crusting. the wound is healing, but i’m not done believing in the way your eyes communicated the existence of telepathy, a world belonging to us alone.

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Hollow bed and body rotting from the lack of parasites

by Jacquie Michaels

Distorted intimacy my body does beget to be a harlot in looks, glances and mindset

I earn in commodity when my bed is full— full of skin and a heart and no longer a lull

I sell my warmth to make commodity by heartbeat, another smell on my pillow, morning breath, body heat.

I am terrified of an empty bed and a noiseless night and my hollow pain so out of sight.

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Artwork by Maisey Phillips 61

Car Trouble

by Riley Jane McLaughlin

jumpstart my car in the wet of a grey summer rain morning, we pull up hoods to shield bedhead and kiss away the droplets that fall from nose tip to bottom lip. maybe we slept in jeans that night and awoke to denim twisting in bedsheets at three am. the downpour washes this away and now it’s just a matter of untangling the black cable from the red. fuck this car is all I can think as I watch your back body hunched over the battery, let’s pull our savings and buy a motorcycle so we can feel the pulse of those hairpin turns.

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Artwork by Miki Kainuma

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after the exorcism (depression is coming back and She is not happy, obviously.)

by Emily Goldstein

when She first left, She said goodbye.

She tucked herself into my flesh, used my freckles as a night-light.

but now i am, apparently, the one who shoved Her deep. hand over mouth, smuggled Her with all Her blood luggage and got to play pretend while She was gone. got to make house within my own body, invent a home with blue windows and cinnamon kitchens and soft skin. used yellow paint to cover the scars, lined the walls with yoga mats and calendars full of people i told myself i liked.

when She tells me this, She describes the house in perfect detail, down to the ants i could never bring myself to kill and the flowers i refused to admit were dead. when She saw my pink hair She didn’t flinch, as if it wasn’t a surprise in the first place –

if i really think about it, the house always smelled like Her. after a while, after i got used to the stench, i would come home from work to find dirty pots in the sink and ripe laundry on the couch. i blamed my memory, of course. i willingly accepted less-perfect picket fence 64

in exchange for the quiet peace of forgetting. after a while, after i began to realize that dirty socks are more than coincidence, She left me burnt cinnamon scum half scrubbed on shower floor, rotting yellow drywall only just beginning to scab over, white gauze curtains looking more like used tissues every day.

funny thing – how easy it is to explain away the poltergeist until you finally become the ghost.

Artwork by Haylee Keller

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No Spark

by Jacara Grace Davis

Where is the force that pushes me in your direction?

Where’s the side of me that dies to be around you?

I feel you rush through my fingers like you were never there.

Where’s the love that’s supposed to be in the air?

Why am I so irritated by your presence?

Why is it that every moment with you I regret?

Is this what the feeling of having no connection is like?

The spark never existed, it’s dead and won’t light.

Maybe if I leave you alone I’ll be fine.

But I’ll be lonely, again searching for someone to be near my side.

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Artwork by Maisey Phillips

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from lake michigan at dusk

by Naomi Shechter

quiet cancellation, and then all at once the water collides, its crests combine and flinging freshwater in all directions, the darkness embraces the last water crib. primordial mother drags its beacon with frigid hands, for it to dip down below the horizon.

at this time, i find i have sat in the one place the mounting white waves will not reach. subconscious but constant is how i extract myself from largeness. how i search for planets to forget my shoes are wet and i think my socks will not grow mold from ignorance. there is nothing to greet me out in the eastern sky but the fear and void i am making my life in. by day, i study facts and figures, quantum probability and calculus, and how our earth-reality falls apart near light speed. by night, i still feel called to all grandeur in the universe that will not reject me. i, of all people, should not fear infinity. but at this edge of the world, a cliff, a lake that has mummified so many in its graveyard of ice water, i feel like freidrich’s wanderer above a sea of fog. i feel like every romantic era painting i have ever seen and have yearned to be. i feel like and remain something that cannot hold emotions bigger than itself, and so i encase in time my avoidance. with love i fashion it into a cameo locket so i can contort myself inside, and from that one location every place i could ever go, every emotion i could ever feel is limited by the stillness i face, by the ability of me to observe that for which i ask. not always did i have this fear of being seen through. of permeation and an utter skin prickling dismantling,

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old skin sloughing off, of something that every human is blessèd to encounter, of telling the earthly divine that i will not be not afraid. i just always forget to name that feeling. not discontent, not ennui. more like, my life is a tickle in the throat of a dead god. more like, my logic folds in on itself as a poorly made mobius strip, determined to prove a paradox. i am a study in contradictions. and so to pull myself from that shipwreck in the lake- the thought of change for the risk of warmth and life and living- does none, and will do none, but to freeze the marrow of my bones.

Artwork by Miki Kainuma

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El estado de ser

by Tea Preradovic

El sol se pone a través del lago.

En una cartera de centenas fue centavo como un sueño dulce escuchaba su octavo.

Miré su postura alta; mi Chicago.

Canturreaba la misma canción— se inclinaba en la toalla— el arrendajo azul no falla despertarme desde la ilusión.

Mi vista de arriba, mirando el nuevo banal como una batalla; las arenas corren cuando

se levanta el sol sobre las dunas mientras las olas colisionan contra mis huellas esparcidas.

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Artwork by Belinda Andrade

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Creators

New Normal: A zine created through collaboration between The DePaul Artists Collective & DePaul's Writers Guild, Spring 2021.

DePaul Artists Collective President: Phoebe Nerem.

Writers Guild President: Abby Vakulskas.

Zine Editor: Maisey Phillips.

Writers: Abby Vakulskas

Abby Vakulskas is about to complete her final year of the MFA program at DePaul and is looking forward to getting more involved in the Chicago literary scene. She has been working on her manuscript thesis and propagating her plants during quarantine--they are slowly overtaking her desk.

Aneesah Shealey

Aneesah Shealey is a writer based in Chicago, Il. She is a thirdyear African and Black Diaspora Studies major and Creative Writing minor at DePaul University. She is also an associate editor at Fourteen East Magazine, where she writes about culture, entertainment, and music. You can find her on social media @azshealey.

Danielle Chmielewski

Danielle is a 22-year-old Chicago native who doesn't know how to drive and wants to abolish the police. She is currently studying Acting and Communication & Media at DePaul University. She hates Zoom.

Salma Alejo

Salma Alejo is a 19 year old Marketing major. She has been writing poetry for six years and is the Marketing Director for Zenerations. She is a green tea enthusiast and in her free time she spends time with her cat.

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Emma Littel-Jensen

Emma Littel-Jensen graduated from DePaul in 2020 after facilitating Writers Guild for 4 quarters. She attended the Columbia Publishing Course in Fall 2020.

Jacquie Michaels

Raised outside of Los Angeles in the South Bay, Jacquie Michaels is a current undergrad student at DePaul University where she studies Literature and Psychology. She is a freelance poet and nonfiction writer who works additionally as a writing tutor and staff member for her university’s literary magazine. Her work has appeared in GAP Magazine and DePaul University’s Crook & Folly amongst a few features in small independently published zines—read her work and contact her through the Instagram account @jacs_pour_heart.

Emily Rose Goldstein Emily Rose Goldstein (she/they) is a Chicago based poet, media producer, and self-proclaimed “Nice Jewish Girl.” In their work, Emily draws upon her experience as a queer, Jewish femme, and uses their poetry as a method of exploring the connections between their religion, gender, family history, and mental health.

When they're not furiously meal prepping or doing headstands in her bedroom, Emily enjoys listening to NPR, reading Ada Límon, and wearing fun socks.

Naomi Shechter

Naomi Shechter is a sophomore physics major at DePaul, with an interest in astrophysics and a curiosity about almost everything else. In her free time, Naomi plays old folk songs on the banjo, plays D&D and collects weird facts from Wikipedia.

Pat Haney

Pat Haney is a writer from East Lansing, Michigan and much of their work is inspired by the exploration of their queer and biracial identities growing up in the Midwest. Now, Patricia is a senior at DePaul University double majoring in Writing & Rhetoric and Creative Writing. Over the past several years, they've had work appear in Chicago-based magazines such as Injustice Watch, 14 East, Eclectica, and Crook & Folly.

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Tessa Martinez

Tessa Martinez is a senior English Major concentrating in creative writing. She stays in Rogers Park and produces music in her free time. She interns with SLAG GLASS CITY magazine and is a nonfiction section reader for CROOK AND FOLLY magazine.

Angie Raney

Angie Raney is a junior at DePaul, originally hailing from Hopkins, Minnesota. She is majoring in English with a concentration in Creative Writing, as well as a double minor in Spanish and Anthropology. Angie specifically loves writing poetry and creative non-fiction prose and she hopes to turn this into a career in the future.

Zach Murphy

Zach Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in Reed Magazine, Ginosko Literary Journal, The Coachella Review, Mystery Tribune, Yellow Medicine Review, Ellipsis Zine, Drunk Monkeys, Wilderness House Literary Review, and Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine. He lives with his wonderful wife Kelly in St. Paul, Minnesota.

Jacara Grace Davis

Jacara Grace Davis betters herself during social distancing by streaming on her Twitch channel 'bearynervous', where she plays video games, talks about the trivialities of life with her friends, and gets over her camera phobia. She maintains the blog LittleExpectationsBlog on WordPress and started it during college, having graduated said college of DePaul in 2020 with a Creative Writing concentration in English and a Game Design minor. She's carrying all her current knowledge into the content she's writing and will allow others to reach out to her email kuudere1writes@gmail.com for any questions, comments, or collaborations on it.

Maeve Mollaghan

Maeve is from Brooklyn, New York, and currently lives in Chicago with her two roommates. She studies acting and English at DePaul and works as a peer tutor at the university's Writing Center.

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Teodora Preradovic

Teodora Preradovic is a curious contemplator of the world around her. As a Serbian-American born and raised in the Chicago suburbs, she’s gained an appreciation for the Western and Balkan perspective (even though there’s much from both that she doesn't agree with). Teodora is intrinsically dedicated to lifelong learning and eager to conduct international work that advocates and promotes cultural competency.

Jen Finstrom

Jen Finstrom is both part-time faculty and staff at DePaul University. She was the poetry editor of Eclectica Magazine for thirteen years, and recent publications include Atlanta Review, 8 Poems, and Escape Into Life. Her work also appears in several Silver Birch Press anthologies, including Ides: A Collection of Poetry Chapbooks.

Charlotte Pérez

Charlotte Pérez (she/her) is a 20-year-old queer writer and poet pursuing a Masters in Writing and Publishing. She practices varied forms of writing but finds her greatest comforts in poetry and fiction. Charlotte enjoys reading, learning, and making highcalorie desserts.

Susie Méndez

Susie is a pisces who isn’t down with all the fish imagery automatically associated with pisces. She wrote the poems in this zine as a way to deal with the big emotions she felt while living abroad and away from her family from September 2018 to July 2019.

Linda M. Crate

Linda M. Crate's works have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of seven poetry chapbooks, the latest of which is: the samurai (Yellow Arrow Publishing, October 2020). She's also the author of the novel Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Books, June 2018).

She has published three full-length poetry collections Vampire Daughter (Dark Gatekeeper Gaming, February 2020), The Sweetest Blood (Cyberwit, February 2020), and Mythology of My Bones (Cyberwit, August 2020).

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Brooks Harris

Brooks Harris is a junior studying creative writing at DePaul University. He is from Los Angeles originally, but currently resides in Chicago (and loves it there). His work has appeared in 14East Magazine and the Orange Couch, and he is very excited to contribute to the DAC+WG Zine.

Riley Jane McLaughlin

Riley Jane McLaughlin is a DePaul graduate who majored in English-Creative Writing and minored in Professional Writing and Women's & Gender Studies. Riley also worked at the university's Writing Center, and held the title of the Poetry Section Editor of Crook & Folly, DePaul's literary magazine. In her free time, Riley enjoys yoga, shopping for crystals, and doing crafts.

Illustrators: Phoebe Nerem

Phoebe Nerem (she/they) is a visual artist and writer from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and is studying Art, Media, and Design at DePaul University in Chicago. They have been writing and creating artwork ever since they can remember and explores themes of romance, spirituality, and how their personal experiences reflect the world as a whole. They have been published in The Orange Couch Literary Magazine, Crook and Folly, and Emotional Alchemy.

Maisey Phillips

Maisey Phillips is an artist who works in many mediums, including pen and ink, charcoal, watercolor, oil and acrylic paint, digital painting and illustration, graphic design, photography, sculpture, video art, tattoo design, textile art, and neural network-based art. In her education at DePaul University, Maisey’s studies are also multiplicious, including art, chemistry, physics, and intersectional womens’ studies which engage with sex, gender, race, and class. Maisey Phillips holds the title of Secretary for the DePaul Artists Collective, through which she acted as Editor of New Normal. Currently in the early stages of becoming a full-time working artist, Maisey divides her time between Los Angeles and Chicago.

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Taylor Falls

Taylor Falls is a Chicago based artist specializing in ink and charcoal drawings that play with the concept of light and shadow.

She is currently a Senior at The Art School of DePaul University, majoring in Art, Media, and Design and minoring in Graphic Design.

Nicolette Giatras

Nicolette Giatras is a part-time artist who primarily works in acrylic/watercolor paints and pen. She is a Junior studying Marketing and Art History, as well as the DAC Treasurer this year.

Kimberly Nguyen

Kimberly Nguyen is a Vietnamese-American visual artist from Chicago, Illinois. Through still and moving image, her work is driven by the convergence of technology and self-concept.

Nguyen has shown her work at small to large-scale group exhibitions at DePaul University, University of Illinois at Chicago, and Columbia College Chicago. Her artwork has recently been featured on the cover of Creating Knowledge, DePaul University's annually-published journal of undergraduate scholarship and creative activity, the 39th edition of Crook and Folly, an awardwinning arts and literature magazine, and the third installment of WERKS Contemporary Art Magazine: Chicago Artists Survey Special.

Belinda Andrade

Belinda Andrade is a Junior at DePaul University studying Public Relations and Advertising with a minor in Graphic Design. She focuses her creative work, which ranges from zines to personal essays, around her life as a queer Mexican cis-women. Her focus is to amplify the work of social change organizations, artists and projects.

Miki Kainuma

Miki Kainuma is an artist who is a photographer most of the time. She indulges in other endeavors—writing, eating, reading, knitting—in other times. In a difficult chase for constant cosmic change all of the time. Currently working on and off out of Chicago and Los Angeles.

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AJ Fuller

AJ is an animation student, with a prospective career in illustration for animation. Her artwork features lots of bright colors and fun characters with an emphasis on atmosphere.

Though primarily a story and character artist, AJ loves to illustrate for fun and has plans to write a graphic novel.

Mady Fast

Mady Fast is an artist who works in several mediums, including digital art, mixed media, and acrylic paint. Her art can be found on her Instagram account @madyfastart.

Toni Karadjias

Toni Karadjias is a senior at DePaul studying Psychology, LGBTQ and Women and Gender Studies. As an artist, her main goals are to transcend heteronormative expectations of art and LGBTQ people through representation and by encompassing their own experiences through their work. They mainly focus on digital collage, color and painting as a means to tell different narratives about their life, sexuality and gender.

Alyssa Snavely

Alyssa Snavely is a Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania native currently living and working in Chicago, Illinois. She works in a variety of media including drawing, painting, and sculpture. Her work explores notions of reality, blending self-experience and fantastical creatures.

Saskia Bakker

Saskia Bakker is a Chicago-based artist who studies in The Theatre School at DePaul University, class of 2022.

Aylene Lopez

Aylene Lopez is a Mexican-American artist who enjoys working in multiple mediums to create bright colors and bold shapes. She finds inspiration in her Mexican heritage, pop cultural events, and the objects around her that tend to turn into her canvas. She is currently studying cinematography at DePaul University.

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