SheCult: kaleidoscope by SheCult

SHECULT kaleidoscope

inside cover

TABLE OF CONTENTS +CONTRIBUTORS Letters from the Editors 4 6 Ben Fluet 7 / 19 Casey McIntyre 8 / 20 / 28 Milan Sachs 10 / 22 Sara Barber 12 unscripted Beatrice Black 16 / 32 / 35 / 39 / 45 17 B. Ruthrauff 18 Elise Schloff 24 Skate Date 26 Olivia Townsend Lillian Gendreau 27 Alayna Theunissen 30 Liana Genoud 33 / 58 Kat Garelli 34

Niara Flax 37 Izzy Kings 40 / 54 / 57 Lucy Jermyn 41 MJ Griego 42 Carrot Cake 44 Natalie Harper 47 / 52 / 63 May Blake 48 / 51 Abby Jermyn 49 Lip McDonald 54 Hope Raetz 58 Nicole Lucca 60 Tara McDonough 61 Pixie Kolesa 62 Carolina Rodriguez Kate Nappier 64 36

LETTERS FROM When I first discovered SheCult, a bunch of older, hotter upperclassmen were giggling in their gayness. I will admit I was moderately intimidated, but after the first semester of its conception, organizing open mics and designing our first zine, Ari Anderson (queer nonbinary founder babe) knelt on one knee and asked if I would take over SheCult when they moved to Los Angeles. I hope I have done SheCult justice thus far. While this is not our first print publication, as we have curated two zines so far, this is our first full-fledged magazine. With a variety of contributors from all over, I hope kaleidoscope makes our readers reflect on the varying ways queer identities interchange. There is no sole queer experience, but rather a culmination of the ways the world attempts to ostracize us, only provoking beautiful and creative outputs in return. I am so proud of the work that went into this magazine. The contributors have been vulnerable and powerful all in one breath. We have planned events with bands and artists as a community to raise the funds to print this, and we are so, so grateful that this has become possible. With all the love I have to give, Sara Barber President of SheCult

THE EDITORS One of the things I hear a lot is people saying that the liberal arts is such a queer dominated field. Well, then, where are all the queer people in the arts world? Why is it so rare that we find this representation in media? If the art field is so gay, then where are all these jobs? We cannot let straight people tell our story. I’ve been amazed by the honesty and devotion everyone has put in to this collaborative magazine. I am so proud to be a part of an organization that wants to lift the voices and perspective of queer people and women. Our voices deserve to be heard and all these unique experiences, these different mindsets and attitudes and memories, just come to show that there are so many different stories that deserve to be heard. Willem Arondeus was openly gay when he joined the Dutch anti-Nazi resistance during World War II. He participated in the bombing of the Amsterdam public records office to hinder the Nazi German effort to identify Dutch Jews. Before he was executed after his arrest, his final words were “Let it be known that homosexuals are not cowards.” I am haunted by that sentiment and I hope all queer people find power in that. People have always fought for our right to love who we do. I’m thankful for every single person in this amazing community. With compassion and empathy, Natalie Harper Vice President of SheCult

“first impressions and why i bought a new watch, By Ben Fluet or a critical analysis of personal gender, or who am i?” i am not a boycontrary to my appearance and contrary to what expectations of masculinity and femininity might be preconceived; i am not a boy. there is a certain feeling, similar to the fog that shrouds my bathroom (or is it cigarette smoke; i can’t remember)like a sonic boom, that feeling explodes and rings in my headi am not a boy. i am here now (wherever that is) and i am laying on my back and feeling the texture of the grass and i can hear the arpeggio of crickets, somewhere, every bit of me wishing that my flesh & bones would rot and fall off, like the exoskeleton of any insect; only hoping to understand, why am i in this body?

who is that? or, how many times a week do YOU trim your nails? because i trim mine sixteen times a week and shave my head once every six months, only to remind myself that i am malleable; but i suppose i am not really (at least i don’t believe i am), so i slowly begin to craft a paradise in my skin to make myself believe that this vessel is a ship that is sinking (similar to everyone else) and i am only in it for the self-aggrandizement and self-consciousnessbut as time ticks on, i will buy a new watch and cut my hair, because i am not necessarily a boyor a girlor anything. constant confusion and cranial chaos, only to open the door to my bathroom and let the fog (or smoke?) out, but still understand nothing.

By Casey McIntyre

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Photographs by Milan Sachs

queer confessions I am still afraid to hold my partner’s hand in public. we have been seeing each other for one or two months or eight weeks or forty-five days, but they used to be my regular crushtomer when I worked at starbucks. I mean, they ordered four ristretto shots, and that’s hot in both barista and lesbian. I’m not sure if I love this person yet but I feel my chest brewing something warm every time I catch their eye from across the boston commons and sense the landscape adjust in focus. I don’t know how to explain to my partner that this hand holding business is not because I am ashamed of our sameness, but rather because the creak in my floorboards still mimic my mother’s voice preaching to keep my sin in the bedroom. I’ve never had a problem making the personal public seeing as I’m a poet, but you know that doesn’t make digesting the sizzle of every stare belonging to each person who suddenly cares who I’m loving but not who this country is fucking and I not knowing how to tell my mother that my love does not belong hung with the clothes never worn, that is is round like the cheeks in the smile we share. that no man has ever made my chest rise like hot air balloon in the late afternoon. that these fingers intertwining should set the whole world on fire only to build it back up, better. 10

Photograph and poem by Sara Barber

unscripted A chat with some queers on their queer experience.

my queerness is most present TARA: Iinfeelthethat overall way that I think and how I perceive the world around me. I try not to judge others and instead try to understand them to the best of my ability. I wouldn’t want someone to judge me based off of my queerness, or any other aspect of myself, so why would I do it to someone else? I’m a writer and I think queerness has affected the way I write in the same way that it has affected my way of thinking. I question things about others and myself and work to view things from all sides. I hope to produce pieces that challenge readers and allow them to learn about people much different from themselves, and more importantly, to accept and respect them. aren’t allowed to be gay. Not really. And if you’re bi or pan, then you’re definitely LIANA: Women not gay. Ultimately, the idea of women providing for each other is so radically perplexing to the patriarchy that it rejects the concept entirely. In the end, we’re ignored; and some queer women and folk on the femme spectrum are totally unacknowledged out of and in the gay community. This rejection caused me to carve out my own space because I felt like a “bad queer”. In response, I make art to bring up questions about the human experience. In exploring the human condition, artists must recognize all facets of people’s realities. Most of the world, however, suffers from a severe case of tunnel vision. There’s an idea that only men have the liberty to be gay; a violent belief that causes many women to never question their sexuality and gender. But, there are so many more gay women in the world than you think. All throughout history, they have always been there. And they will always be there. So, if there will never not be queer women in society, then we must create a platform that disrupts and revolutionizes societal requirements in gay spaces. 13

name is Renee and I’m 20 years old. RENEE: My I am a printmaking student, zinester, and queer person. You may know me from my zine Carrot Cake! I’ve never really been outspoken about my queerness, so I am thrilled to be working with She Cult and finally talking about it publicly. I identify as a bisexual woman but I have only ever dated men so I think many people assume I’m straight. I think this is an unfair assumption and it makes me feel like my queerness is being erased, or seen as “not as queer” as say, a lesbian woman. I am currently looking for ways to feel more connected to the queer community. I’ve performed in drag a couple times (You should’ve seen my Morrissey inspired look!!) and I’m hosting a queer art/music showcase with She Cult in a couple weeks. I am growing and loving my queerness. Also PS I’m single hmu I’m really funny on twitter @carrotcake1996

19, and I identify as a lesbian. I’m a BFA creative writing NATALIE: I’m major, and i specilize in media criticism and transgressive fiction. I can’t ever remember a time in my life where I didn’t know that I liked girls. For most of my life, I felt like the only homosexual around, and for that I was outcasted and treated like a background character in so many peoples lives. To this day, people feel that spending time around me is like outing themselves. Since I’ve been so comfortable with my sexuality all my life, I sometimes forget how much it impacts my day to day life. I feel that it’s made me hypercritical of the people around me who so often treated me like a different breed of human and hypercritical of the homophobic and stereotypical media. It’s made me reject a large portion of popular icons, and introduced me to subcultures of society where i find that people are more respecting and open minded. i feel being queer has shaped my social relations and has made me more aware of how people treat me as someone who is so openly queer. 14

I’m Dee, a non-binary, lady loving, music enthusiast. I’m currently finishing up my last year studying music business at Berklee College of Music. To me my queerness is most impactful in my gender expression. I think I’m most comfortable when who I am on the inside is fully represented on the outside. Whether it be in clothes, hair or tattoos/ piercings, my queerness is impacted by style.

DEE:

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By Beatrice Black

By B. Ruthrauff

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How sex positive feminism has failed women By Elise Schloff

While sex positive feminism grew out of the sexual revolution and a desire for women’s sexual autonomy to be recognized, it has since evolved into a noncritical liberal ideology that upholds patriarchal systems such as prostitution and pornography in the name of empowerment. Sex positivity and the “pro hoe” movement encourages women to have empowering casual sex (conveniently, this view of sex is largely heteronormative) never pausing to ask if the men they’re sleeping with actually deserve to be fucking them.

While this sounds eerily similar to pro abstinence calls to wait for the right guy, bear with me. Why would women want to have sex with men that don’t respect them? If its in the name of personal pleasure, why sleep with men that don’t know your clit from your labia? Sex positive feminism has turned into a get out of jail free card for creepy leftist men, from band bros to film boys, who co-opt the movement to convince women to sleep with them on the basis of liberating themselves. When regarding who has the most to gain from sex positive attitudes towards casual sex, the resounding answer is men. The toxicity of liberal sex positive feminism has never been more apparent than in the wake of Hugh Hefner’s not-so-tragic death. We saw many people, gross men and feminists alike, lauding him for his supposed contributions to the sexual revolution. Not only does this erase the contributions of actual feminists to the sexual revolution, but it also 18 18

glazes over the rampant abuse that occurred inside the walls of the Playboy Mansion, including bestiality, rape, and manipulation. Not to mention Hefner’s influence on dragging pornography into the accepted mainstream, further teaching men that women exist only to give them pleasure and to fetishize violence against women. Sex positive feminism is only a small part of a trend of liberalism to slap the label “empowering” on what was previously understood to be a symptom of the patriarchy by anyone who graduated feminist kindergarten. This narrative is often seen in defense of makeup. Liberal feminists claim that makeup’s expressive qualities and women’s supposed choice in wearing it makes it a powerful tool for feminist self expression. One often hears phrases such as “eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man” that weaponize femininity and elevate makeup as a tool of liberation. These stances fail to acknowledge the fact that makeup, like sex work, developed out of the patriarchy and thus cannot be freely chosen when every aspect of our socialization as women tells us we need to wear it to be respected. While more harmless when it comes to things like the makeup industry, its incredibly harmful to forgo critical examination of the exploitative industries that are pornography and prostitution. Enjoying things like watching porn isn’t an excuse to participate in them uncritically. Feminism is

Sex positive feminists argue that as long as a woman consents to something, then it’s okay. What they fail to recognize is just how fraught the concept of consent is. Can a woman really consent to being involved in sex work if she feels it’s her only option to feed herself or her children? Consent should be freely given and not incentivized with money or survival. When we listen to Vice articles claiming sex work can be feminist and empowering, we neglect the voices of women who are abused at the hands

By Casey McIntyre

hard ass work and requires personal of men who think that consent can be purchased and that sacrifices and interrogation. they have a right to women’s bodies. We ignore the way that pornography grooms men to get off to violence against The issue that many feminists take women. We ignore the statistics that tell us that when proswith sex positivity is not born out of titution is legalized, human trafficking numbers sky rocket, a prudish desire to suppress wom- proving theres no safe way to exploit women. en’s sexuality. We still believe that sex can be fun and healthy. The label ascribed to feminists who are against the pornography and prostitution industries, SWERFs (sex worker exclusionary radical feminists), neglects the fact that it’s entirely possible to be against an industry but still support the people that are exploited by it. Whats exclusionary is not listening to the voices of an overwhelming majority of sex workers who responded that their main goal was to leave sex work.

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Photographs by Milan Sachs

the pleasure of pain girl thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a friend has tongue talking sin on your neck. you learn shame tastes better with your mouth wide, eyes closed, memory retracted from conversation so when she says mistake it is like she doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know you have learned your whole life how to forget.

it was a fling but I wanted to hear her warm whispers into the sunset of the night for as many summer days as I could catch her waves. her touch was pulsating, imprinting in the arch of my spine like pressing flowers in the pages of memory. so when I smell lavender I think of her breeze and me plucking petals, never wanting her to love me or not, just wanting to kiss this body until it bloomed. on the drive back down the mountain, she held me close like our ghosts had met before, finally resting.

snippets of poems by Sara Barber my mother called them private parts for a reason. I call it sunday morning prayer with whomever thinks of god. this is a bowed head, this is a piece of me I can somehow love and hate in one hum of hallelujah.

SKATE DATE

We spent the summer of 2017 evaluating spaces that women aren’t welcome in. Well, that’s not entirely true. We wanted to learn how to skateboard, but we quickly discovered that everyone who feels welcome in the skate park is a bro. In our experience we found that bros typically dislike women unless they’re around to look sexy. Skateboarding isn’t sexy. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it definitely can be if that’s your hot commodity, but it entails a lot of sweating, falling, and getting back up. It was tricky business, but the girl gang took at it with force. Every time we fell, we helped one another back up. We filmed a lot of the tender experiences that were shared, and hope to make it into a documentary someday. For now, we can share the kinship in all forms of womanhood and the practice of learning something new even when the world tells you no. By Sara Barber

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My Vagina: The Trash Can Fire By Olivia Townsend I was skinned-knees and bleeding lips. I wiped my tongue with a Lysol wipe and those tastes still linger. I’ll still be the word “fag” etched onto my friend’s minivan and matches left in the high school bathroom. If I thought I was better than the first hand I held, then what am I but the pink sheets I was held against and stained? It was only a week I couldn’t sit down for and I’ve been standing up since. How long do I have to prove my sexuality if only to be fucked in a frat house bathroom, or choked by a hand I told not to touch me? I’ll still be the bullets found in my high school toilet and trashcan fires in the cafeteria. I am the “fag” written on the bathroom wall while I’m being humped on the toilet seat. A single finger inside me, unsure what it’s looking for and I am that finger too. I am the whispers behind my back before bodies were ever pressed up against me. To everyone that ever knew me: You don’t. I am the scratched off sharpie on the bathroom wall, while you all force-fed me bullets and diesel truck dust. I’m as fluid as your toilet water.

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To every man that wouldn’t go down on me: I will never be yours. My skin will light your fingertips on fire. To the Pink Sheet Prick that thought I liked it: I ripped you from my throat like tonsils and burned you in the sunshine I thought we shared. If I had a second chance, I would have used teeth. But such chances do not exist so my silhouette and bloodstains remain on my pink sheets and your yellow-tinted condom of cum will remain on the floor. You spilled me everywhere. I spill and fill in the “fag” On a minivan door and bite and scratch my Way through sheets and toilet seats. To the girl I fell in love with in kindergarten: You could still have it. I have nothing left to prove. But I can’t undo the bathroom fucks or the skinned knees or the eyeliner that ran down my cheek. I am more than what’s been inside of me, more than what’s been forced inside me, more than what you think you know has been inside me, and I won’t apologize for the trashcan fire my vagina has become. Photograph by Lillian Gendreau 27 27

Photographs by Milan Sachs

BLUEBERRY

PANCAKES Collage & Poem By Alayna Theunissen

W h en I s aw t he b oy I t h o u g h t of rum pled sheet s and heated lips S h o r t mo ment s of int imacy W h en I s aw t he girl I s aw o u r house Ou r ec l ect ic k itc hen st uf fed w it h c olor T h e war m walls H er war mer smile W h en I s aw t he girl I t h o u g h t of mak ing b lueb err y panc akes Befo re s h e g ot up S o s h e wo uld enter in a too b ig nig ht shir t H ai r mu s s ed Yaw n i ng Smi l i ng Sn i f f i ng t h e sugar y air and k now ing I c ared W h en I s aw t he girl I s aw o u r c hild ren I h ad o n l y ever wanted one Bu t h er l ove f illed me so t hat it had n ow h ere to g o b ut to anot her S o we h ad more I h ad n ever seen t hat W h en I s aw a b oy I s t i l l s ee girls S o met i mes I onl y see sheet s I s t i l l s ee b oys S o met i mes I c an see a house Bu t ever s i nc e I s aw t he girl Bl u eber r y panc akes A re o n l y fo r my w ife 31

Artwork by Beatrice Black

Photograph by Liana Genoud

x. i am not home inside myself by kat garelli masochism swallowing crystalline spirits in a pilgrimage to self-exploration. â&#x20AC;&#x153;I heard Janine took four shots of tequila, smoked a bowl and then experienced her own body.â&#x20AC;? How I want to become Janine, who loves herself in each crease, crevice and freckle, who is self-assured with each step, sending ripples through each spot of feminine plush, who cushions herself with love. As opposed to me, who presses jagged, hateful edges like borders into her own gray skin each living, breathing chance. Standing in the room after you, feeling naked despite my clothes, breathing out white hot sex, eating with my eyes for the very first time. Heaven and the walls of you rejoice in guards put down to rest, solace kept in knowing that she lived her days and loved in her nights by that same burning star.

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By Beatrice Black

Artwork by Niara Flax

A Letter for my Lover, Through the Years

By Izzy Kings

I watched her grow through the windows of my life—if my life were a home I had been building through the years. Slowly and terribly at first. Wind howling through the rafters because I’d forgotten how to hammer, water leaking down the pipes, the door shuttering every time it stormed because I’d used the wrong screw a couple of times. Eventually I got used to the humdrum of life, to the obstacles that come from making a home for yourself. I traded passion for contentment, drama for routine, spontaneity for consistency. I continued to love her as life expanded around me. Like vines spreading on a house or trees naturally growing around telephone poles. It just happened, as I continued on, as easily as breathing, as natural as living. I’d talk to her in the shower, in my thoughts, though she wasn’t there. She became someone I kept within me, someone I’d break plans for, someone I’d think about from time to time when the weather was nice. She became someone I believed in. Someone for tomorrow. With her, I am not disappointed in failures. Because I know life always fails. Suddenly I accept that rafters need to be fixed and doors need to be built. That maybe I am not this cookie cutter idea of perfect that people try to tell me I am. I don’t believe in pathetic ideas of “not worth it”. Because we are worth it. It’s worth it to wait. I understand that to love her comes with growth. So I become what I need and she becomes the finish line. I watch her grow through the windows of life. As we are snatched away by kisses and other lovers. They are great and we are happy though sometimes I hate to see it. I learn my worth. I lost it when I met her—but she was the beam of light trying to peak out from my clouds, to rescue my wrecked ship desperately looking for land. I didn’t understand what I contained so I was too afraid to show it. “I love you’s” were hidden in bursts of excitements, squeals, dancings in place. They were packaged in perfectly placed kisses. In random compliments, in the nights when we’d share cigarettes out in the 37

cold. “I care’s” were tiny slivers of beds because I wanted to give up my space for her. They were show tunes on the radio I didn’t want to hear, restaurants I didn’t care to go to, errands I didn’t need to run. I said nothing but I felt it all. She reminded me that I am worth a laugh. I am worth several. That being silly isn’t annoying, it’s refreshing, it’s relatable. She brought obsession to my life when I felt like there was nothing to get out of bed for. She taught me that wine is good and cheap and so is being happy. That the world is a stage, that while seemingly cliche, it’s true. I believed I could be anything with her—a man, a woman, an old, battered school teacher, a puppy, a jazz musician. I found confidence in every laugh she laughed, every hair I put behind her ear, in the times when I found the guts to kiss first… in the corners of house parties or in the back seats of ubers. She was scared the driver would see us, but I hoped he would. Maybe if someone saw, it could be true. Because sometimes she lived a life far away from mine. A life much more direct and independent. One that didn’t shape itself to fit into the confines of other people’s. While she was climbing mountains I was asking “How high is it?”, “Where’s the first step?”, “How far until the end?” 38

Because I had seen my vomit splashed across sidewalks. I’ve felt keys scrape against my tense spine. I’d given myself to someone and lost it all in the process. I have learned love makes you pathetic and I wasn’t in the market to be pathetic. I needed a direct love, one that’s destination was straight to my heart. One that gave just a little bit more and didn’t leave me wondering if I was worth it. She was a master for making me guess and with her I’d guess forever. But the problem is forever never ends. So I watch her grow through the windows of my life. People become equipped to fix the rafters. To nail the door shut, to clean the piping, to give me a fresh coat of paint. I don’t believe that people fix people, but I believe they help. I gained the confidence to climb my own mountains despite hers looming over mine in the distance. I traveled places and see many things. Without her—although there is a quiet calm to be gained when one understands that there is no possession in love. She has taught me to cherish the moments. That just because she’s not there it doesn’t mean this doesn’t matter. The truth is: love makes you pathetic. It’s pathetic to smile while doing the dishes

By Beatrice Black

because I’ve remembered the way her pinky flicks when she’s being funny. It’s pathetic to wonder and ponder with no guarantee, all for the seemingly heroic notion of doing so to be better. It’s laughable to find thrill in the idea that perhaps, maybe, hopefully, when I turn a street corner she’ll be there.

One day my life will be a home and we will be sated. We will tell tales of our past, reminisce over wine, and lament over what was. One day my walls will be painted and she can come inside, for old times sake, as if she were a home I’d been building through the years. 39

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untitled

By MJ Griego

I’m always learning what it’s like to be two selves the mind and the body: when my heart is f r e e falling in my chest the many eyes of the world get the best of me steal my spark, freeze my feet and vulture-pick at the rest of me. sometimes I hold you so close that i can feel our hearts phase into each other our love a venn diagram Sometimes I hold myself close I tell myself I am the venn diagram @GOD was 3 months of peace too long? @GOD when I breathe in I look down to a mass of flesh heaving, is that me? @GOD somedays I get to “myself” only by coercion @GOD I want to feel both safe and alive, is this how I get there? I feel lost over and over My mind and body try to show me but they mismatch, torn corners, worn print Make me a map again and again

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CARROT cake Renee Girouard is a 20 year old bisexual print maker and zinester. Carrot Cake zines, often black and white printed on flashing paper, quirkily dash between personal anecdotes, pop culture analysis, fun doodles, and niche DIY scene references. They are a perfect fit for anyone who needs a quick witty read. Each page reveals a dashing insight of Renee. She was recently found selling and trading with other zinesters at New Zineland 2017 and looks forward to continue selling her work at other venues. You can find her on instagram @carrotcake1996.

How To Be In a Long Distance Relationship

By Natalie Harper

I. Cry right before her flight back home. Cry in front of airport security, even though it’s against your own philosophy to ever cry in public. You won’t see her for another month, five days, twenty-three house, six minutes, and seventeen seconds. Let that knock the air out of your stomach. Take the shuttle home from the Logan airport and feel like you’ve just cut all of your fingers off. Be jealous. Hate couples that live with, near, or in proximity to their significant other. Think about how nice it must be to see her every day. What it must be like to think that a five-minute drive is too far away. Imagine what it would be like to have someone that always wants to be around you, that never gets tired of you and your pessimism. Someone who says that’s stupid to the same

things as you and feels pangs in their chest at the same novels as you. Someone who wants to go to that dive Korean restaurant down the street from you, see different movies with you every weekend, and have someone feel hollow with you. II. Stare at the same pictures of her over and over again. Especially the one of her wearing that green jacket that you bought for her at a thrift store in Maine. She wore it on your date that night. You split a lobster roll at a diner in Portland. You split the check in half. Everything you do you do together. Remember what it felt like to walk down unfamiliar streets with someone. How you jumped from store to store, perusing the isles of tourist junk. Ask her how many factories must exist to manufacture plastic toys that nobody ever touches

face everywhere so it feels that you’re never without her, that she’s manifesting in your space. Never make her invisible. III. Put a countdown on your calendar for the next time that you’ll be together. Act like these visits will be permanent. Tell yourself that she’s getting off her plane with all of her belongings to move in to your room. She would make your room so beautiful. Think about how you’ve never known how to define the word home. Never tell yourself that another countdown will inevitably begin. Pretend that it will be like the summer again, when you woke up to her every single day. When you didn’t mind driving to work because she was in the

By Beatrice Black

again once they’re home. Hang these vacation pictures up on the walls of your room. Put her

car with you. You couldn’t afford to fix her car so the inspection sticker was always expired. You always thought you would get pulled over on the way to work. If anyone could talk their way out of a ticket, it would be her. Always forget that there is a reality of separation. Tell her that you miss her in moderation. Don’t overload her with feelings of “what if.” Don’t doubt the relationship. Never say that distance is a factor. Ignore it completely. Tell yourself that everybody is like this. Don’t ever make her think that things couldn’t work out because she is five states away. IV. Feel strange with her when she’s tangible again. Learn the difference between typing your words and suddenly saying them again. Feel the skin of her face and accept that

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you couldn’t tattoo that softness on your fingertips so your muscles lost the memo-

get your point across. How you always feel like you’re answering the wrong question. Be jeal-

ry. Get angry with her after working twelvehour shifts for minimum wage. Raise your voice, but don’t scream. Let the veins in your neck pop; let your knuckles go white from gripping the sheets. Tell yourself that being upset with her is just depleting your fossil fuel time with her. Think of how hard it is to beg for her to be closer at night and then suddenly want to push her away. Don’t ever forget how much she’s added to your life, how much she has taught you about things you never thought you would understand. Apologize. Take responsibility for frustration with your environment. Remember how much she has changed you. Remember that you are a better person because of her. Remind yourself that you are the person you have always wanted to be. V. Reflect. Think about how hard it is for you to be understood. Think about how much time you spent in isolation or how you tried to combat loneliness by forcing connections with anyone around you. Think about how often you put your foot in your mouth. How hard it is for you to

ous of all the people around you who are able to

feel like people are listening because they’re genuinely intrigued and want you to keep

you’re with her. Think about how easy it is to laugh with her. How the next sentence comes

talking. Juxtapose those feelings to when

without thinking about it. How everything is a topic of conversation. How she wants to see every movie with you. How she wants to hear all your opinions about books. How she wants to cry with you when you tell her about what losing your Dad was like. Know that so many things feel possible now because she’s here to work through it with you. Know that you’ve always been so sure of every single thing with her.

Photograph by May Blake 47 47

Artwork by Abby Jermyn

photograph of the ghost of my girlhood: bonaventure cemetery, savannah, georgia, april 2011 By Lip McDonald

after cassandra de alba there is a phenomenon referred to as “angel orbs” within paranormal groups, in which circles of light, sometimes containing miniature faces or figures, appear in photographs, supposedly indicating the presence of a spirit

i wonder which parts of me have been severed off and left in patches of grass in the middle of ghost filled cities which headstone belongs to the woman who once lived in me, what her autopsy table looked like, the cause of death listed on the certificate (murder, suicide, drowning?), the mortician’s face as he surveyed the damage i’m not even sure when she died, when the rot finished festering and this haunting began 13 years old chest carefully tied down and hair stuffed up, in front of a cracked mirror chanting bloody mary, hoping for something to appear in the reflection and pull me straight through 49

11 years old a week after christmas, standing in the bathroom, finding one more present flooding out of me, staining the white floors with all of this red “womanhood” 9 years old wincing in the hairdresser’s chair as she shorn my locks while mourning their length, like she wished to be a necromancer 7 years old running through my mother’s house, shirtless, tasting the kind of freedom this flat chest could bring me while i still had it, calling myself ‘boy’ like a child possessed. whenever it had happened, there i was in a strange city, staring down her apparition, this light flecked photograph of a graveyard at night her angel orb no larger than the tip of my finger she was so small, i could hardly tell it was her except for the way she cried to me arms outstretched and grasping the way her side was ripped open, like half of her had been torn away.

Artwork by Abby Jermyn 51

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Photographs by May Blake

by Hope Raetz

Twas a real shame when amid the all the glorious fire and destruction a figure emerged from the cave of oracles clothed in robe and with his head wreathed in flowers. The whole entrance was rather disappointing when things were taken into consideration. It was supposed to be the eve of the world’s destruction, the oracle was supposed to be wreathed in fire, the personification of the end of days but he surfaced, not as a demon, but as a hippie. Something had obviously gone wrong along the communication channels of the mystics. That something was now an unacceptable abomination. Lucifer looked up at it from his throne room in the darkest depths of hell and sighed. Oracles just weren’t as they used to be like many things. Several millennia of poorly used time and the world had reached its current state. This stage was really a shame, sins just weren’t what they used to be. People could engage in mystics one day then be a proponent for world peace the next. Idiots. The oracle in question was an out of time hippie of about fifty who seemed to think the world was an illusion and also that whales were worth saving. Ridiculous considering saving them as pointless when soon the seas would be boiling if things went as planned. Already the antichrist was in its strategical place, at the head of the nation of the free. Soon all would fall into place and then apart.

By Lucy Jermyn

Apocalypse

- Twas a rainy day in Washington which put a bit of a damper on the hellfire. But on the brighter side of things the rain in question was accompanied by dark gloomy clouds a definite plus. Weather was a mysterious, uncontrollable force so you had to make the best of it even when it didn’t cater to a proper evil brooding. A bush rustled as one of the hounds of hell took shelter in it from the rain shaking off it’s steaming skin before slipping in the open window. The mass soot black fur and blood red eyes warping as it walked becoming a man straightening his red tie nervously. It was getting increasingly hard to cover the tracks of his fellow hell hounds and the anti-christ. The meeting took place in the oval office behind gilded curtains. The rug had been rolled back as well to reveal a fresh pentacle lined with candles. In the center of it sat the antichrist skin aflame and even more orange than was typical for him. His father’s hell hounds surrounded him in their human skins each demonic being glowing as they took their places in the meet. It had been a long road to the office but it had been reached sure enough. They meet now to discuss that which came next on the road to humanities coming damnation, namely the destruction of healthcare. Hell’s plan had been forced to adapt over the years with humanity. Apocalyptic inhalation wasn’t what it used to be, it now had to be arranged through political campaign and deceit. The four horsemen were currently busy getting the political climate ready for the coming days. War egged on North Korea daily. Famine was busy—as was typical—in Africa. Pestilence was doing his best to keep medications out of reach through expense hikes. Meanwhile Death was collecting taxes in his time off. Runt of the hell hound litter Spicy wasn’t having the best of

days, he’d been rained on and shamed. His bark had slipped out when he’d been addressing the press and he was down to the chewy remnants of his favorite rubber ball. When stressed he chewed. Currently it wasn’t helping that he’d been held up by the press—fake news he corrected himself—and was once again late to the seance. Already the plan had been changed yet again by the temperamental antichrist. “But what about the death, I like the death.” “Repealing healthcare is what results in death,” his side hellhound explained gruffly, “Death good repealing—not replacing—healthcare good.” The struggle was real in the oval office because in hell’s quest to make a politically inept masterpiece they’d succeeded. It was only now that they found that complete political illiteracy made carrying out Lucifer’s plan harder rather than easier. A knock on the door drew glances from many in the inner circle. Side hound brought his nose taking in a deep sniff, “Whiteout.” “Let him in.” A snow white poodle was allowed to lope into the room and transform respectively, “I’ve checked all the closets.” A collective

grumbled like underlying thunder went through the room at the announcement. The poodle had been paranoid ever since he’d infiltrated a sermon about gay demons though there was no such thing. Their preferred rainbow frontal only increased his fear. Turning away from the poodle dismissively the cult went back to their wrangling. It was a hard job because in order to wrangle they had to have the antichrists attention and in order to have it they had to continuously name him. “What about Nuclear and Rocket man?” “There needs to be a build up so the demons have time to rise with the chaos and sin.” “And my wall? My big wall?” Most people would have only imagined the feeling of steam coming out of their ears but such things aren’t imagined with demons they are. Before the smoke alarms could go off with the combined efforts of hellfire and black candles the demon gripped his ears. For a blissful moment before the flames went out there was nothing but the screams deep in hell’s den to be heard. Meanwhile the antichrist had seized the chance to—like most children of this dismal century pull out his phone and begin to fill

the room with the strangely chipper sound of birds. Of course it was not the preferred hours for this activity, the best tweets were composed on the tail of the demons hour on the antichrists golden throne. It was at that deep dark hour that he didn’t have to worry about the succubus, hellhounds, or secret service monitoring his genus. For the forces of evil any time after twelve was entirely too early. Meeting so drag. But I suffer….not like OBAMA. Work! #Kenya. He went it out into the embrace of his many great followers and waited for their praise to follow. Someone named Adolf liked the post and he added the loyal subject to his roster of souls. His black also liked the post and his whites but none of his reds—they were still mad about a pipeline. If he could get them and the blue he’d have all the colors.

Art by Lucy Jermyn 57

Towers

By: Nicole Lucca Our last free night, we spiral around the turret, Plotting how to pick the lock, Or stand on each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heads And totem pole cartwheel over the brick wall, Parallel to the infinite ladder, into the watchtower. We find a tree made of giant ants, Thoraxes swollen with bark, We wave at the peach sun, Blurring farm fields with heat. The carving tree was here all along. I look for familiarity in sanded initials; They are lost in the time travel, illegible. I pretend to recognize the names. A swan smacks the water, Skating on a conveyer belt over the orange, In too much of a hurry To feel water seep into its feathers, We flap along until we coast over the tower, Free until night ends our story.

Photographs by Liana Genoud

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By Tara McDonough

SNAPSHOTS OF MY FIRST LOVE I looked up everything on the internet I could find about “how to know if you’re a lesbian or not.” My heart is not my own and my mind left me long ago. I still don’t see what she could possibly see in me, it’s crazy. I was willing to take anything I could get. As much as it scares me, I want it so badly. I trust her so much, that I know she wouldn’t let this turn into something horrible. Summer began, but I’d never been colder. She makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. You feel like she truly does care, even if she might actually not. I never once thought I would be the one she would choose. It’s like something got inside of me and it just keeps digging deeper and deeper and I can’t get it out. She was the sun and nothing stopped me from looking directly into the light. Her smile scares me just like everything about her does. She told me she loved me, how could everyone ignore that? I don’t care how drunk she was she still said it. Say it again. I know it meant nothing, but please say it again. She had everyone fooled. “I didn’t think you’d end it.” She is nothing that I ever could have imagined, and yet I felt like I’d imagined everything that had happened between us. Three months passed without a word between us. I felt the loss of her every day as she walked past me without even a glance in my direction. I did everything I could to piss her off or just get her to notice me. She hasn’t talked to me since and I don’t think she ever will again. 60 60

By Pixie Kolesa

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Piper

By Caroline Rodriguez

Is all paper cranes and Popped gum. Is Peanut butter M&M’s and Books stacked in boxes. Piper Is made of the secrets she tells, but She won’t tell yours because she Has a boyfriend she Loves very much she keeps saying That and you think you believe her. Piper is asking you to Jump off this cliff with her. Piper can Fly, and you know that cuz you’ve seen, Cuz you know Piper has Never touched the ground. Piper is Always moving, always somewhere new, but She always comes back, she promises. You See her and think it’s fate. She sees You and thinks it’s funny. Funny how You’ve changed and she hasn’t, funny how She’s still all legs that get tangled up in Each other, funny how She still says she could love you if She didn’t love her boyfriend who she Loves very much. Piper Is still all books and M&M’s, is Portuguese food cooked Over your oven, is men’s blazers with the Collar popped, is Chewing nicorette, doesn’t Break it between her teeth anymore. Is Still moving, hasn’t stopped, is still asking if You’ll take the dive, as if You ever knew how to fly.

Photograph by May Blake 63

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Photographs by Kate Nappier 65 65