Strike Magazine Athens Issue 08 Allegory

Athens Issue 08

Emma Johnson Ashanti Meadows Stella Turner

Layout Director

Ansley Jordan

Assistants

Isabella Ayers

Skye Boutall

Amelia Hay

Emily Resmondo

Ally Smith

Styling & Design Directors

Vanessa Gissel

Ana Ramos

Assistants

Sophia Bradley

Jermaine Johnson

Julianne Lopez

Louis Miranda

Kanan Parikh

Jamila Reeves-Miller

Kitzia Sandoval-Hernandez

Liam Scott

Caroline Sims

Claudia Vlasoff

Elizabeth Walker

Writing & Blog Directors

Alex Keezer

Blake Witmer

Copy Editing

Madeline Jankowski

Anna Kadet

Madelyn Launer

Writing

Ann Harper Covington

Katherine Fivgas

Hannah King

Lovely Grace Pilibino

Maura Rutledge

Mia Tanner

Stella Turner

Casting Director

Ze Wang

Assistants

Erin Kalinsky

Ashanti Meadows

Riya Patel

Alice Young

Beauty Director

Juliana Hartley

Assistants

Lauren Coughlin

Emma Johnson

Will Johnson

Greta Johnston

Ashanti Meadows

Caylin Payne

Alice Young

Production Director

Sean Corley

Photography

John Atkinson

Emma Lou Conliff

Zahan Hajimohamed

Grace Lang

Maddie Painter

Videography

Gisella Espinosa

Isabelle Farina

Kennedy Reid

Kanan Parikh

Kiyoko Spencer

Eby Harvard

Angelina Lemon

Jordan Long

Macy Mannheimer

Jamila Reeves-Miller

Maryjane Richard

Bella Roman

Morgan Shaw Assistants

Graphics Director

Laura Ross

Erin Shea

Praneet Venigalla Assistants

Community Outreach Director

Chloe Pendleton

Efe Guvenc

Isabella Ayers

Skye Boutall

Kate Riopelle

Karen Shi Assistants

Social Media Director

Richard Tran

Rachel Clark

Alexa Francis

Kayla Pyrtle Assistants

Sound Production

Finance Director

Teddy Goldstein

Finance Director Assistant

Victoria Moreno Assistants

Jenna Cao

Sasha Kaufman

Katie Mackechnie

Merch Director

Greta Johnston

Grace Miller Assistants Assistants

Amelia Hay

Koeda Hayes

Jermaine Johnson

Mya Kirkman

Viv Awesome PR Director

Pace Robbins

Lily Povenz

PR Director Assistant Assistants

Efe Guvenc

Erin Kalinsky

Lily Povenz

Ali Pritsios

Kate Riopelle

Letter from the

To my Strike family,

This has been a very growing issue for me, for Strike Magazine, and for all of us I hope. I am honored to follow behind Nastasia, our previous Editor-inChief, and make her and you all proud! We have accomplished so much with this issue and it would not be possible without all the hard work our Strike staff put into this magazine. Issue 08 is one for the books and I cannot wait to celebrate with all of you so soon!

I do continue to look forward to the future of Strike Magazine Athens and how we can continue to improve and better this wonderful group. Being Editor-in-Chief so far has taught me a lot of patience, honesty, and time management (all of which I am continuously working on), but most importantly I have learned how important the people in this magazine are. I wouldn’t be the person I am today without all of you, and I thank you all for being you!

Thank you for being the best staff ever, here’s to Issue 08!

Caylin Payne,

To My Strike Family,

I wish to express a great deal of gratitude for all of your hard work and creativity on this issue. Every issue has its challenges, and this issue was no different. However, each challenge was met and promptly overcome by our amazing and tenacious staff. This will be the best issue we have ever produced! I say this every issue, probably ad nauseam to some, but it's worth mentioning how difficult it is to do what we as a community set out to do each issue. That is entirely due to our amazingly talented community! I have many anxieties, but the capability and legacy of our Strike Magazine chapter certainly is not one of them. It has been a great honor to serve my final issue on strike as your Creative Director.

To our irreplaceable EIC assistants, Emma, Stella, and Ashanti, I'd like to thank you three for holding us down consistently, keeping us steady, and providing us with much-needed support and input. Without you all, we wouldn't have achieved half of our goals.

To the lovely Grace—every issue you blow me away with your determination. I'm in awe of how far you've come and how effortlessly you make it seem. Without your support this issue, I would have been lost. I'm grateful to have you as both a friend and a partner in crime.

To Ms. Kylie—you have been instrumental in guiding us through challenging times and setting us up for continued growth and success in the future, all while being one of the sweetest people I've met. You're one of Strike's greatest assets and a valued member of our community.

And finally, our fearless leader, Ms. Caylin—If I may be so blunt, you are a badass. I am glad to have been able to work so closely with someone I respect and admire. You have been nothing but kind, supportive, and efficacious this issue. With you at the helm, I know Strike will be in good hands.

During my short time here as Creative Director, I had the pleasure of working with a community of poised, talented, and enthusiastic creatives, who at every chance have blown me away with their work, teaching me many things along the way. Strike will always have a special place in my heart. I look forward to seeing all your amazing work in the next Issue.

Strike out,

Miles Harewood, Creative Director

XOXO

Dear Staff,

Welcome to the latest issue of Strike! As we turn the page to a new chapter, we are excited to share with you our stories, ideas, and unique perspectives. This issue focuses on storytelling and highlights how crucial it is in understanding our journey and the challenges that we face in our lives. As a first-time external director, it has been my privilege to help Strike be able to create this issue. We hope that reading this will spark new ideas, broaden your horizons, and inspire you to take a new look at things.

Thank you for being a part of our journey,

Kylie Bensalah, External Director

To My Strike Family,

It is a great honor to conclude my first issue as Art Director with such an incredible staff of hardworking, creative individuals. This issue, masterfully directed by Miles, will mark my second full year working on Strike. I went through many ups and downs during that time, but Strike was a constant that I could return to, and I am so grateful to past and present Strike families for welcoming me and seeing what I could not see yet.

I’ve watched many eras of this organization and I am so proud of the community we have built, the importance of our collective effort cannot be understated. I take great pride in knowing our striking members, each of you bringing your own story and experiences to our mission. In an increasingly diverse organization and magazine, I am grateful to everyone who has helped Strike become what it is today, and I can only imagine where it will go from here.

To Miles, I am so grateful to have met you all those years ago, and to watch both of us become artists we are proud of has been a special experience. I will miss you greatly, and I will always be grateful for your help and patience when I had none. You will do amazing things, Miles, and I hope to see it all unfold for you. Goodbye is not forever, and it is never the end.

Thank you to the Editors, our lovely creative directors and assistants, and to our external team for ensuring we can produce this magazine every cycle.

XOXO With love,

Issue 08 EDITORS Caylin Payne, Emma Johnson, Ashanti Meadows, Stella Turner, Miles Harewood, Grace Lang, Kylie Bensalah

Caylin Payne, Emma Johnson, Ashanti Meadows, Stella

Wang, Sean

Harewood, Grace Lang, Kylie Bensalah, Esha

Turner, Miles

Parikh, Vanessa Gissel, Ana Ramos, Juliana Hartley, Ansley Jordan, Ze

Pamidi, Kiyoko Spencer, Kanan

Corley, Alex

Keezer, Blake

Witmer, Laura Ross, Richard

Tran, Viv Awesome, Pace Robbins, Lily Povenz, Eby Harvard, Greta Johnston, Teddy Goldstein, Chloe Pendleton

Often what we most desire is not what we need, however, it is in this want that we delude ourselves of what should be and what could be. There is something so seductive about lies and mistruths that man often finds themselves amid situations that were entirely a product of their wants becoming out of line with the realities they live.

CREATIVE DIRECTOR Miles Harewood ART DIRECTOR Grace Lang CONCEPT DIRECTOR Esha Pamidi CONCEPT ASSISTANT Jamila Reeves Miller

BEAUTY Emma Johnson, Lauren Coughlin

CASTING Ze Wang LAYOUT Ansley Jordan, Skye Boutall, Ally Smith

PHOTOGRAPHY Sean Corley

SOCIAL MEDIA Richard Tran

STYLING & DESIGN Jamila Reeves Miller, Kitzia Sandoval Hernandez

VIDEOGRAPHY Izzy Farina WRITING Anna Kadet MODELING Gissell Valderas, Sky Smith, Olivia Person

Julianne Lopez VIDEOGRAPHY Kennedy Reid WRITING Katherine Fivgas MODELING Temilope Aina

STYLING & DESIGN

SOCIAL MEDIA Alexa Francis

CASTING Riya Patel LAYOUT Ansley Jordan, Amelia Hay, Ally Smith, Emily Resmondo PHOTOGRAPHY Maddie Painter

BEAUTY Juliana Hartley

Miles Harewood ART DIRECTOR Grace Lang CONCEPT DIRECTOR Kiyoko Spencer CONCEPT ASSISTANT Morgan Shaw

CREATIVE DIRECTOR

THE FANGIRL'S TRAGEDY

Chisel and hammer meet stone. A surface that can only be described as hard, stark and cold— much like Pygmalion’s own heart.

With each scrape and dent, a shape begins to come into focus, one that feels irreversible. It is as if Pygmalion loses control of his body, for his hands work without the guidance of his mind until the sculpture emerges in fierce clarity before him:

the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

Suddenly, a sensation comes over him from within. His heart struggles at first, but at last musters a beat. Then another. Then another. Is this desire?

Love, even?

In a media landscape that increasingly magnifies public figures and their personal lives, it is easy to form attachments to celebrities much like we would our own friends. As I scroll through my Instagram feed, my favorite artists, influencers and actors’ images weave themselves alongside photos of my best friend, of my university.

Why do we engagein such a tumultuous affair so willingly?

On TikTok, floods of video clips from concerts and edits splicing together the latest paparazzi pictures permeate my mind. Do our brains truly register when we toggle from “Following” to “For you?” According to Oxford Reference, parasocial relationships “psychologically resemble those of face-to-face interaction but they are of course mediated and one-sided.” We have all likely experienced a certain longing to possess a real relationship with someone who does not know we exist. Although unreciprocated, this longing proceeds, spinning an unrequited cycle of love and rejection that we choose to engage in despite its inevitable failure. Why do we engage in such a tumultuous affair so willingly? And perhaps even more pressing, the prevalence of parasocial relationships begs the question: when does it become unhealthy?

One of the most prominent issues faced by public figures since the dawn of celebrity is that of boundaries’ role in the face of fame. There are too many stories to count of stalkers notoriously invading a celebrity’s privacy, harassing them for the chance of a glimpse, or even an ounce of affection in return. When I used to think of these instances, I would scoff and quickly dismiss these stalkers as crazed individuals, people out of their minds with jealousy or desire. However, now I only notice how obsessed we truly are with those people completely unaware of our very existence. Comments like “I would let him run me over with a bus” or “I need her to shoot me” can be seen in the comment sections below any celebrity social media post. When do we cease to joke? Although people in the limelight arguably must sacrifice some degree of personal privacy by the very nature of their occupation, the boundaries of what is socially acceptable for a fanbase are increasingly blurry.

Chappell Roan,

for instance, is a prime example of the recent push-and-pull phenomenon occurring between fans and idols.

Following a summer of exponential musical success, the Missouri native’s life was fl ipped upside down with almost overnight fame. While she has received tremendous praise for the safe, inclusive space she has crafted for the LGBTQ+ community, her recent bouts of mental health struggles as she adjusts to the spotlight have affected her ability to perform, in turn, provoking immense backlash from her own fans.

After taking to Instagram to cancel her set at the All Th ings Go Festival in New York City the day before the festival, many felt anger rather than sympathy over the miles traveled and money spent just to see the artist.

Discourse among her fanbase has ensued, asking questions about what is included in the job description of a famous person. Does having a large platform make our expectations as fans valid? Must celebrities, especially musicians, be always accessible? I would argue that it is almost as if we are infants, demanding to be spoon-fed media and art to consume.

we are infants, demanding to be spoon-fed media and art to consume

When our hunger is left unsatiated, fans throw tantrums, dehumanizing celebrities as they rise higher on their pedestals, considering no regard for their humanity. While I do think it is the musician’s job to produce their art, I believe it is dangerous to concede privacy.

A voice Pygmalion instantly recognizes descends into his consciousness:

“Galatea,”

Pygmalion succumbs to infatuation.

The marble transforms mere inches away, screeching gutturally with potent change. Pygmalion covers his ears. What lies at the end, however, is serenity, the silence that accompanies undeniable beauty. His heart rejoices in his chest.

Galatea peers at him, blood pumping and lungs breathing in her newfound humanity. Recognition floods her gaze, followed by immediate adoration.

The pair rush toward one another.

There is no hesitancy; she was made for this moment.

Aphrodite whispers.

In light of the United States presidential election this fall, it is important to note a critical development within parasocial relationships in recent years: the booming demand for public figures and brands to become political activists.

In June, we see each year more and more brands release merchandise for Pride Month, annually inducing the conversation surrounding “rainbow-washing” as well as criticism that companies not previously politically involved are becoming “too political.”

Target’s pride collection has been the subject of intense debate, resulting in many stores across the country rolling back this collection or even moving the displays to the back of the store.

Furthermore, 2024 especially has triggered an onslaught of expectations for celebrities to reveal their endorsement of a presidential candidate. Taylor Swift, who garners 283 million followers on Instagram alone in her tremendous stardom, trails behind her an enigma of a fanbase—one vast and powerful.

However, the army that “Swifties” are can be just as aggressive as they are joyous when their beloved idol disappoints them. Many have looked to Swift, especially in the wake of her first political speech in the 2018 midterm elections, to voice her opinion for the upcoming November election now that she is bigger than ever. Online speech circulated for months voicing outrage at her lack of announcement, stating that her powerful platform bestows upon her a responsibility to enact political change— despite her job as a musician.

After her intention to vote for Kamala Harris finally came to light, her fanbase split into mixed opinions, some satisfied, others unfollowing her and swearing off Taylor Swift for life (even after spending thousands of dollars to attend the record-smashing Eras Tour). Why do we expect artists and other celebrities to act as politicians? Does having a large platform mean one must be an activist in addition to the role of celebrity? And if the answer is yes, at what following are they expected to do this? It is a mystery to me why so many feel as though they should trust the political opinions of individuals solely because they lie in the spotlight. Parasocial relationships expanding to politics does not just change the flow of campaign media, but it also unconsciously shifts something in ourselves.

If we look up to our idols so much, are we not at least a little susceptible to influence by their political views?

Weeks have flown by in pure ecstasy. Pygmalion is blessed with a love that seems too good to be true. He wakes each day to a woman born directly from his imagination, a woman that was once a figment yet is now tangible to his touch.

Aphrodite’s approval reigns above them.

Galatea’s love bears no cracks; it is perfect porcelain. Nonetheless, a pit of doubt sprouts like weed deep in his belly. Vines twine around the back of his mind.

Although fanbases can provide us with a shared space, both online and face-to-face, to feel a sense of belonging and community, it is vital to

reflect on the nature of our attachment love us back.

building an awareness that just might prevent parasocial relationships from becoming too unhealthy. As we walk the shaky line between fan and more, let us remind ourselves to step back in consciousness for where our feet are, for appreciation of our loved ones— the ones who

One day Pygmalion wakes to look at Galatea with sorrow. Within, the vines wrench open a vault much like Pandora’s box. Doubt transforms into regret, regret transforms into clarity:

True love leaves room for choice.

One day Pygmalion wakes to look at Galatea with sorrow. Within, the vines wrench open a vault much like Pandora’s box. Doubt transforms into regret, regret transforms into clarity: True love leaves room for choice. Pygmalion whispers to Galatea; she breaks free.

Writing: Alex Keezer

Copy Editing: Anna Kadet, Madelyn Launer

Layout: Ally Smith

I never had much of a problem With my long straight hair

But I know that he likes curls

Then I started to care

A brand-new curling iron

Fresh out of the box

On it I place my hopes to fi x

My painfully straight locks

I check my phone Confi rm the time and place

Gaze at the wallpaper of my love

And begin to quicken my pace

So, I start to curl

Thoughts brimming in my head

Of my beautiful boy

And our date that lies ahead

I arrive at the spot

And run to the line Anxiously I wait

To see the boy who’s mine

Finally I see him—

But his attention is elsewhere, I can’t wait for him to see me And how I curled my hair

I get to the front of the line

Towards my boy’s outstretched hands He fi nally gives me a hug And says “I always love meeting my fans.”

Indulgence explores the cyclical nature of relieving unwanted emotions via the act of indulging. In Catholicism, indulgence is a method of forgoing punishment for sins already forgiven. When hardships or conflict bring a person to a state of indulgence, such as binge eating or shopping, one feels worse after coming out of this state because they realize the frivolous nature of their actions.

In an extreme sense, the feelings of shame after a period of indulgence can bring the person back to the state of indulgence, continually pushing their emotions to the back of their mind.

Apoorly manicured hand haphazardly feels around for the buzzing alarm. Knocking it off her nightstand, Marigold reluctantly rolls out of bed to reach it; Seeing the screen glare at 8:00 AM, she gasps.

Running through her cramped apartment, she steps on heels, books and even her poor cat, Hermes. Putting on the first outfit she sees and tossing her cosmetic bag in her purse, she sprints out the door, forgetting even to brush her teeth.

When running late, the average person panics, but not to the extreme as Marigold does. However, her situation is anything but average as the assistant to a world-renowned fashion designer, Thalia Astrapē, owner of the luxury womenswear brand— Olympia. Marigold dreams of being the designer and founder of her own brand, working under Thalia in hopes of gaining some traction in the fashion world. With a mean streak rivaling that of the gods, Thalia makes those around her feel like nothing more than the scum beneath her red-bottom Louboutins.

And sometimes, Marigold truly believes she may be nothing more than that scum;

right now is one of those times.

Sitting on the subway, using the window reflection as a mirror to apply her makeup, she thinks about what Thalia would say if she saw her right now.

“How will you make it in fashion if you cannot even show up on time, let alone look presentable?”

As she makes her way through the building into Thalia’s office, Marigold sees that she is waiting for her, which is never a good sign.

“Now, where have you been? I have been waiting for my coffee for over an hour. Where is it?” barks Thalia.

Marigold stumbles, “I slept past my alarm. I am so sorry, it won’t happen again.”

“It won’t happen again. Seeing as you are fired, you may see yourself out. And remember to give your door key to the front desk,” says Thalia, barely looking up from her computer. Shocked into silence, Marigold walks out the door through the lobby, tossing her card onto the security desk as she passes.

Her dreams and soul alike are crushed. She spends the rest of the day wandering until she realizes what time it is and that she has not even eaten, let alone considered what she will do about paying next month’s rent.

Defeatedly walking through her complex and stabbing the key into her door lock, she walks into her apartment stunned.

It is full of her closest friends, decorations, and what she believes is a lovely handmade cake.

As she walks in, Marigold questions the occasion. Her friends are taken aback. It's her birthday.

How could sh e for get her own bi rth day?

After indulging her friends' need for a party, leaving them all exhausted and their chests sore with laughter, they remember that she needs to blow her candles.

Marigold wishes for things to start going her way, for the Universe to give her the big break she's been waiting for, or else she may have to admit defeat.

Lips pursed, stained with yesterday’s lipstick and today’s chocolate icing, she wishes for the life of her dreams.

Marigold sleeps in, even as the sun rises since she has no job to get up for. She peacefully wakes up for what may be the first time since she has moved to the city. She opens her eyes, immediately realizing something is wrong. She is lying in a California king bed, fit with what feels like silk sheets rather than her 1500 thread count sheets from Target that she’s had since college. She brings her hands up to her face, seeing perfectly manicured acrylic nails, precisely like the ones she had saved on Pinterest the week before. Before she can even panic, her phone, now the newest model, rings.

“Hello,” she says tentatively.

“Hello, ma’am. I am just calling to remind you that you must be in the office by 2 pm for your meeting with the fabric suppliers.”

“I’m sorry, who is this?” she asks.

“Ma’am, are you okay? I’m Percy, your assistant.”

Not knowing what to say, she says, “Yes, Percy, I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well and am still a bit out of it.

“Very well, Ma’am, see you.”

f a s h i o n d e s ig n er an d owner o fthe brand Midas.

r e n o w n e d

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Mind racing, she thinks back to last night; her wish must have come true. The Universe finally recognized her. Elated, she begins to explore her new penthouse apartment, all of the best decor, clothing, shoes and accessories a girl could ask for—

not thinking for a second about her friends sleeping in her apartment the night before or her beloved cat, Hermes.

She attends the supply meeting, but Marigold does not stop there. Next is a fashion spree, and then she gets texts from designers and celebrities she is apparently friends with to attend all sorts of events.

The next few weeks pass quickly, accompanied by gluttonous meals, $30 drinks, $4,000 heels and more.

Marigold stumbles out of an event venue, a purse full of money, lipstick and more left on the table inside with a pathetic tip for the servers, heels thrown over her shoulder, hair matted and makeup smeared. Marigold turns her head. Hearing someone call her name, assuming it is more praise for her most recent launch. However, in Marigold’s words, she is a pathetic, jealous girl spewing comments about her company's unethical practices. Marigold stumbles, head held high. She is Marigold Vasiliou, founder of Midas and she is the girl everyone envies, yet something nags at her.

Maybe it is vanity, pride and her conscience’s most recent attempt at being known again, but she begins to google herself again. Only this time, she sees headline after headline defaming her and her brand’s consumption and

production habits. She walks home, dreadfully upset, and looks through her contacts, hoping to find someone to talk to when she realizes she has no one to talk to at all– or at least no one that will care enough to listen.

or at least no one that will care enough to listen.

Marigold may have everything she wanted and painfully yearned for, but she has nothing:

no one to talk to or laugh with.

She begins to yearn for her cramped apartment, limbs tangled in bed with her friends, chests sore and mouths dry from laughter.

Back at her penthouse, she is shocked at its state. Stuff is thrown everywhere, not taken care of, or not appreciated. Opening the fridge, hoping to fi nd a pint of ice cream or two to drown her sorrows, but she is shocked to see the homemade cake her friends made sitting there, untouched. Marigold thinks back to how she got into this mess, a wish.

She rummages through the drawers of her penthouse, turning everything over to fi nd a candle and lighter. Maybe the Universe is feeling kind because she sees a single candle and a lighter soon after her search begins. Lift ing fi ngers of broken acrylic nails, she fl icks her lighter on, pursing lipstick-smeared lips, breath lingering with the scent of her last drink; she blows out the fi nal candle, wishing for her life to return to normal.

As the sun shines through her pulledback curtains, Marigold awakes, scared to open her eyes and face whatever may be before her. She feels something brushing against her face — soft and warm. Hermes has come to greet her for her return. She pulls him into her arms as she gets comfortable in her bed. She fi nally feels relieved. Marigold may not know the future, nor will she have what she yearns for, but she has what she needs.

And that is more than she can ask for.

Tomorrow morning, she must visit her local newspaper’s classifieds section. She may be happy, but that doesn’t mean her landlord is.

Writing: Maura Rutledge

Copy

Editing: Madelyn Launer, Blake Witmer

Layout: Ansley Jordan

The ends of silk curtains brush the polished floors. Patterns of craftily soled shoes grace the grounds, accompanied by the light sway of silk dresses. Powdered wigs adorn the foreheads of the wealthy. Decadent meals and delicious desserts line tables as long as the eyes can see. At the head, a small woman grins from ear to ear, laughing even. The promiscuous queen, boasting. All this while people are living in starvation. Filth. Poverty.

This is late 1700s France.

This is modern day life.

The cycle of the rich indulging in a plethora of items and goods is one that continues throughout history. This can be seen in the Marie Antoinette era, and in modern times. Those who have the means to over indulge, will do so at the expense of others, and even the planet. Overconsumption and overindulgence is so prominent in modern culture we barely even notice it. Social media spearheads this through microtrends and by dictating what items are “trendy,” at rapid speeds. Every week there is a new “aesthetic” people must fit, and therefore shop to fit. Or instead, ten new items you need from Target. According to the Guardian, people are devouring the planet’s resources at a rate 1.7 times faster than it can regenerate.

We are eating the Earth alive.

its accessibility and variety of styles. However, many of the producers of these fast fashion items are doing so un-ethically and unsustainably.

This leads to a whirlwind of issues, ranging from pollution, over-use of resources, worker exploitation, among many other problems. Despite the amount of hardships that go into the production of fast fashion products, many of these items go to waste due to their cheap materials or the lack of

This mountain is made entirely

Tons of garments lie in heaps.

Scholastic writer, Jess Romeo, describes this dump as “a mountain— but not a natural one.” Stating “This mountain is made entirely out of discarded clothes! Tons of garments lie in heaps: hiking boots, sun-bleached jackets, bathing suits, Christmas sweaters, sneakers, and more. Some still have the price tags attached. This clothing junkyard spans nearly 3 square kilometers (1.2 square miles)— about the size of 580 football fields.”

According to Earth.org, the average American throws away 81.5 pounds of clothes each year. Where does this waste go? The answer is these masses of clothing items are shipped out to various counties, and into clothing dumps, such as the Atcama desert clothing dump in Chile.

Dumps like this are scattered throughout the Earth, and are continuing to grow as fast fashion becomes more and more popular.

A revolution the size of the one guilty for the death of Marie Antoinette is not necessary. Instead, people can help in their own ways. Reusing an old water bottle instead of getting the hottest Stanley tumbler. Investing in second hand clothing instead of a $500 SHEIN haul.

In small ways and with tiny changes, we can all slowly begin to share our cake, and eat it too.

With time and with wisdom one can start to see through the haze of such intoxicating and temporary delights. Effectively breaking this cycle and cutting through the sickly-sweet miasma. Its ensnaring nature is, of course, by design. That is where the journey truly begins, on the outskirts of desire mislead.

CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Miles Harewood

ART DIRECTOR Grace Lang CONCEPT DIRECTOR

Kiyoko Spencer CONCEPT ASSISTANT

Bella Roman

BEAUTY

Greta Johnston, Caylin Payne, Ashanti Meadows, Will Johnson

CASTING Ashanti Meadows LAYOUT Emily Resmondo, Bella Ayers, Skye Boutall

PHOTOGRAPHY Grace Lang

SOCIAL MEDIA

Rachel Clark

STYLING & DESIGN

Ana Ramos, Liam Scott, Claudia Vlasoff

VIDEOGRAPHY

Kennedy Reid WRITING Madeline Jankowski MODELING Arya Brown, Sam Bromwell, Isabelle Binder, James Rivera

Tanvi Gujral

VIDEOGRAPHY Gisella Espinosa WRITING Hannah King MODELING

Ana Ramos

STYLING & DESIGN

PHOTOGRAPHY Zahan Hajimohamed

Alexa Francis

SOCIAL MEDIA

Alice Young LAYOUT Ansley Jordan, Ally Smith, Amelia Hay, Bella Ayers

BEAUTY Alice Young CASTING

Maryjane Richard

Grace Lang CONCEPT DIRECTOR Kanan Parikh CONCEPT ASSISTANT

Miles Harewood ART DIRECTOR

CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Valiance and Vitriol, akin to Pride and Prejudice, signify a community challenge rather than an individual one.

The Golden Apple symbolizes the aspiration for acknowledgment of one’s abilities; however, its possession is accompanied by conflict.

Hostility and trivial actions aimed at surpassing colleagues arise when it is the observers from positions of authority who ultimately derive amusement from our struggles over a prize they would withhold.

Within corporate environments and capitalist societies, individuals frequently perceive themselves as the most deserving of recognition, exacerbated by a collective sense of individual underappreciation.

When the apple is ultimately secured by the man amidst the turmoil, the women assemble to confront him— representing the patriarchal system that consistently elevates white men above others.

13:10

THE BOOKKEEPER 13:11

Consequence, I think to myself. I wonder, of all the words I know from all the books I’ve read, why this word is so relevant to me. Maybe I’ve always seen the world like that, just not consciously. It rains, so flowers grow. People lie, so we lose trust. Like supply and demand, constantly oscillating between cause and effect. There is something so grotesquely transactional— so economical— about consequence.

I assassinate the thought; e Secretary, all charm and subtlety with a smile that melts and a touch that lingers a bit too long— hovering over my desk with a question in her mind but not the courage to ask it. I look at her light, almost absent eyes and feel bad for her. People talk about her, but no one speaks the truth.

13:12 13:13

“I-I have something to show you,” she says, panicked. I’ve never been approached by her like that. She looks scared, kind of familiar in a way. I want to help. I am a xer. “Go on,” I say, in ecting my voice when I speak the word ‘on.’ She shows me a note. It reads, “To the fairest.” I take it from her delicate hands and inspect it. A smear of ink passes through the s and t, and if you didn’t look close enough, the note could’ve read, “To the fairesf.” So, it’s fresh.

I check the time. 13:13… A bad omen, I say internally. You see, I am The Bookkeeper. I am a numbers person and digits have meaning to me. I like to think of numbers as the intersection of order and outcome. Sequence and consequence. 13 is Judas’ number. He was the thirteenth disciple to join Jesus for the Last Supper, and Jesus’ ultimate betrayer. All because of that ancient sequence of events, 13 became a signal of bad luck and disloyalty. Would it be the same if he were the twelfth to sit? The sixth? The first? Potentially yes, but because it’s not, I don’t believe it should be— consequence is subjective in that way. It always follows a pattern. So, as many things have, this number has initiated itself into an institution of superstition, commemorated by disgrace. And we mistake this number, a mere semblance of sequence, for consequence. And I watch. 13:13

VALIANCE & VITRIOL

13:14

“It looks recent,” I start to tell The Secretary, “But I have no idea what it could mean.” She looks at me like she has an idea, so I maintain my silence in the hope that it urges her to fill the gap in this conversation.

She doesn’t, though. I watch her mind wander and watch her legs follow.

THE SECRETARY

13:17

I knock on his door. I wait for his permission to enter before knocking again, only this time with more force. More fear. I don’t think anybody else in this office could understand the gravity of this note — not like he does. I am his right-hand man in a way. His little helper, but now his little helper needs a little help.

13:18

My ear is pressed against the door now. I can hear him having a quiet conversation on the phone. I didn’t answer this call, though. I didn’t transfer this call to line one. I didn’t tell him, “Mr./Ms. [Insert name here] would like to speak with you.”

He’s pretending to not be here, or maybe to be too busy. He’s hiding something from me.

I know that now.

The Boss

13:18

13:19

“I don’t think we should talk about this here,” I say under my breath. That’s the thing about The Lawyer, she has a permanent sense of urgency. She barks, “You’re going to choose, one way or another.” My phone sings the tune of an ended call, but the device lingers next to my ear for a moment longer. I don’t want to answer the door. I know The Secretary is out there. I can tell it from the weak sound of the door when her thin hands grace the wood, but her knocks sound nervous today. Maybe she found the note. If that’s true, she’s going to come in here all fragile and helpless. She’s going to do that thing with her eyes. Seduce me. She must think it makes my choice easier. In a way it does, but I know it’s wrong. It’s something about the way she fawns over me; It works.

She knocks once more. I wait. I catch my breath to prepare myself for what’s going to happen.

THE LAWYER

13:18

I hung up the phone, livid. That’s the thing about The Boss, he has no sense of urgency. Normally, he can come to his senses over something like this, but not this time— he’s cautious about something. I know what it is: There’s only one person who makes him get like that. It makes my blood boil, and I have to stop it.

13:23 I buckle my seatbelt and white-knuckle my steering wheel before I start my drive over to the main office down the road. I inhale for 10, hold for 10, and exhale for 10. I wonder if I ran the last stop sign I passed, distracted by my anger. I could just be working this whole thing up in my head. He’s going to choose me, right? His right-hand man? His fucking lawyer? I am fair— no— I am justice, and justice will be served.

THE BOOKEEPER

13:19 13:20 13:21

I watch The Secretary from the corner of a wall. Just my right eye can see her frantically knock on his door. She’s checking her surroundings now, so I inch further from the corner where I could be caught spying. She’s going to turn around until his door opens, just a crack.

She slithers into the crack between his office door and the doorframe. If I were a better person, I’d go back to my desk and crunch my numbers — I would call it a day right now. I’m not a better person though, I’m nosy. I like information. Gossip is like data in a way. I check my surroundings now, and permit myself to approach The Boss’ door once I’ve seen that the coast is clear.

I press my ear to the cold wood, and let them do the talking.

THE SECRETARY

13:19 13:20 13:21

“Finally,” I let out an exasperated sigh and shoot a wary look to My Boss, who won’t look at me. He looks… stiff. He’s walking to his desk now with much less confidence than he normally walks with. He takes a seat on the edge of his office chair and motions me, with a shaky hand and eyes to the floor, to sit down as well. So, I do.

I sit on the edge of my chair too, placing my elbows on his desk in front of me and saying underneath my breath, “I have something I want to show you.” I wait for his eyes to work their way up to my face before I continue, watching him relax back into his seat as he takes me in. I’m not conceited— I just know that’s what he’s doing. I quite love that, actually. My form is not enough to ease his nerves completely, but neither is his.

I clear my throat to remind him of my business being here, and I pull out the note from my pocket. He cups my hand when he plucks the paper out of my palm, letting his touch linger. He nods once, and suspense lingers in the air before he begins to tell me what I can only guess would be an explanation.

VALIANCE & VITRIOL

12:30 12:28 12:31

I slam my car door aggressively and march into the building: My personal Hell. I scan my keycard to get inside, and go immediately for the stairs. Maybe cardio will help me blow off some steam.

I break left for the women’s bathroom to tidy myself up. Inside, I know I am ‘the fairest,’ whatever that means, but I have competition. I readjust everything, and exit the bathroom. I turn left around the corner to The Boss’ office and see...

THE LAWYER THE

I inhale for 10, hold for 10, and exhale for 10 when I get to the door that leads to the 14th floor, which is really the 13th floor but some superstitious idiots just decided that 13 is a ‘scary number’ one day. I fling it open like it had no business being in my way. And just as I thought, I’m not being greeted by our golden girl, sucking in and smiling: The Secretary. I make my way to The Boss now. My hair is probably a wreck. My tie feels looser with every step. The white button-up I tucked into my slacks slowly escapes with each stride.

13:33

THE BOSS

This damn woman. The Lawyer points a finger at me when she demands “I told you you’re going to choose, one way or another. Do it. Now.” I am too stunned to speak, thoughts racing through my head. Is my tie straight enough? Is my fly down? Is it obvious? I think to myself. “Ladies,” I say looking at The Lawyer and The Bookkeeper, who is suspiciously quiet and somewhat embarrassed.

VALIANCE & VITRIOL

THE BOOKKEEPER

13:31 13:32

I see someone in my peripheral. I look to my right and see The Lawyer. She’s almost never here, so now I know she’s here because of the note. I quite like her, actually. I feel like we’d have a lot in common if I got the chance to know her better.

She gives me a look, but not one I could prescribe a specific emotion to; It’s like a half smirk with a raised brow. She wants confirmation that I’m here for the same thing she is. I nod at her, and she approaches me.

Without even speaking it aloud, we agree to open the door together. The Lawyer turns the knob and jerks the door open, like it was in her way. The Secretary’s head swivels almost a full 180 degrees and The Boss looks scared of The Lawyer.

VALIANCE & VITRIOL

THE BOSS

The Lawyer interrupts My Boss, “Actually, it looks like you’ve already chosen.” I can imagine her face — repulsed. He’s looking at me now with shame, not desire. I can feel The Lawyer and The Bookkeeper staring holes into the back of me. I look down at my watch to avoid eye contact with anybody. 13:33. I sigh as I think, My unlucky number. 13:33 13:33

This damn woman. The Lawyer points a finger at me when she demands “I told you you’re going to choose, one way or another. Do it. Now.” I am too stunned to speak, thoughts racing through my head. Is my tie straight enough? Is my fly down? Is it obvious? I think to myself. “Ladies,” I say looking at The Lawyer and The Bookkeeper, who is suspiciously quiet and somewhat embarrassed.

THE SECRETARY

Irina crossed the threshold of the outside world and stepped into the concrete jungle she called her workplace, each drag of her feet a reminder of the dread that settled in her chest. It was September 28, 2024, and only two days remained until her project proposal was due. A cascade of doubts and fears trapped her in a mental fog as she made her way to the elevator, each passing moment heavy with anxiety. By the time she arrived at her desk, any spark of enthusiasm had vanished, leaving only a dull ache of apprehension.

As she entered the office, the air felt thick with scrutiny. Coworkers’ whispers and pointed stares pierced through her like arrows, and Irina shrank inward, wishing she could disappear into a shadowy corner. Was there something visibly wrong with her? Taking her seat, she buried her head in her hands, hoping to shield herself from their gazes. Surely, they couldn’t be talking about her.

But as panic surged, her throat constricted, and she gasped for air, each breath feeling like a struggle against an unseen weight. The walls of the bathroom felt like a sanctuary, yet even there, she could sense the lingering eyes of her colleagues. The spiral of her thoughts deepened until a sharp knock on the door pulled her back to reality.

“Hey, Irina, are you okay?” a voice called softly from the other side.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she croaked, the tremor in her voice betraying her.

“Oh, um…” A pause hung in the air, laden with unspoken concern.

Irina got up to unlock the stall, she came face to face with her friend Niya.

“Don’t worry, it is nothing that concerns you. I promise you I am okay.” Irina was lying through her teeth. “Anyways, let’s get back to work.”

The two made their way to their cubicles, and Irina opened her project on her computer. She quickly scanned the document, her heart racing as she zeroed in on every flaw she could find. Suddenly, a quiet voice crept in from behind, whispering her darkest fears. “Just give up,” it taunted. “You aren’t worth their praise; you’ll never succeed.” Irina’s head quickly snapped up and looked around to see who the voice belonged to. She found no one. The ghostly voice disappeared. She wondered if she would hear the voice again.

As the workday ended, the office around her emptied out, yet Irina remained, oblivious to the passage of time. She tirelessly poured her heart into her project, rearranging details, rephrasing sentences, and questioning every choice she had made. The light from her computer screen illuminated the growing shadows in her mind, and with each revision, her anxiety twisted deeper.

Hours slipped away unnoticed, and fatigue tugged at her eyelids, but she pressed on, driven by an insatiable need for perfection. The deadlines loomed like dark clouds on the horizon, threatening to unleash a storm of judgment that she feared would drown her. Each keystroke echoed her insecurities, a relentless reminder of the expectations she believed were placed upon her shoulders. “What if it’s not good enough?” the voice teased, Irina was battling the suffocating pressure that accompanied the thought. What if they find out I’m a fraud?

She was held prisoner to her thoughts of self-worth. Was she truly worth her coworkers praise, or merely a placeholder in their lives? Each compliment felt like a fleeting shadow, vanishing before she could grasp it. Doubts whispered in her mind, telling her that her value hinged on their approval, that without, she would dissolve into nothingness. She longed to break free from the chains of comparison, to discover a sense of worth that her worth wasn’t contingent on others.

It was only when the clock struck midnight that she finally leaned back in her chair, exhaustion washing over her like a wave. The document stared back at her, its imperfections glaring in the cold light of her screen. With a deep breath, she saved the file, but as she did, the weight of her self-doubt lingered, whispering that the worst was yet to come. She knew the real challenge lay ahead—not in the presentation itself, but in the confrontation of her own insecurities.

Writing: Lovely Grace Pilibino

Copy

Editing: Blake Witmer, Madelyn Launer

Layout: Amelia Hay

As Irina left the office, she felt a momentary surge of triumph, proud of her hard work for the day. But as she stepped into the cold air, the familiar voice returned, insidious and taunting. “It won’t turn out well,”it whispered, slithering into her thoughts. “They all hate you. They’re just being polite.” The night was long and Irina could not get the thought of her project proposal out of head. Eventually her exhaustion took over her body and she woke up to her blaring alarm.

Today was the day of her official project proposal, and as she prepared, the anxiety coiled tighter in her chest. She could hardly eat breakfast, her stomach twisted with uncertainty. The shadow loomed larger, whispering a litany of fears that made her feel small and inadequate.

When she arrived at the office, the familiar buzz of conversation felt muted, distant. Irina’s heart raced as she approached the conference room, the stakes feeling impossibly high. She took her seat, her palms slick with sweat, and tried to focus on the task at hand. Yet, the voice burrowed deeper into her mind. “You’re going to fail. Everyone will see you for who you really are—a fraud.”

As her colleagues began to gather, the atmosphere grew tense, and she felt the walls closing in. With every passing moment, the shadows in her mind grew darker, feeding on her anxiety. She was engulfed in a swirling fog of doubt, and the thought of presenting her work sent her heart plummeting.

When her name was called, she stood, trembling. The room felt suffocating, the air thick with scrutiny. As she began to speak, her voice faltered, and her thoughts spiraled. The whispers of self-doubt crescendoed, drowning out her own words. She could see the faces around her, their expressions unreadable, and in her mind, she envisioned them rolling their eyes, whispering about her inadequacies.

But then, something shifted. As she forged ahead with her presentation, pouring everything she had into her ideas, she began to notice the flickers of engagement in her colleagues’ eyes. They leaned in, nodding, their expressions shifting from indifference to genuine interest. Irina pressed on, and with every word, a small light pierced through the darkness of her self-doubt.

Finally, she reached the conclusion. As she finished, a moment of silence hung in the air, and her heart raced, waiting for the verdict. And then, like a tide, the applause erupted. Her colleagues rose to their feet, clapping enthusiastically, their praise washing over her like a balm.

“Fantastic job, Irina! Your creativity really shines through!” one colleague exclaimed. Another chimed in, “You nailed it—this is going to make a huge impact!”

Each word of affirmation resonated deeply, but as she absorbed their praise, she also felt a profound sense of accomplishment within herself. She realized she had done the hard work, taken the risks, and laid bare her ideas. This recognition was validating, but it was also a reflection of her own journey and resilience.

As the meeting wrapped up, Irina felt a warmth spreading through her, filling the void left by doubt. She had faced the darkness and emerged not only unscathed but empowered. The voice would likely return at times, lurking in the shadows of her thoughts, but she now understood that it did not define her. With newfound resolve, she smiled at her colleagues, gratitude filling her heart, but also a sense of self-worth that was unmistakably her own.

Today marked not just a successful proposal, but the beginning of her journey toward self-acceptance. No longer merely a specter of insecurity, Irina was ready to step into the light, fully embracing her place in the world. The applause from her colleagues was wonderful, but it was the recognition of her own capabilities that truly ignited her spirit.

A masquerade is a false show or pretense.

Th is concept is focused on the masquerade of beauty ideals and the confl ict it presents to the singular character, a person of color with ethnic features. Masquerade’s Epilogue depicts the fi nale of the masquerade for the character, with a rise, climax, and resolution that bring this character to realize the sham of white beauty ideals and how beauty is innate and everywhere.

Despite the social hegemony conventional beauty has, this concept removes the rosecolored glasses and subsequently reveals how tainted and flawed succumbing to Eurocentric beauty standards can be to people of color.

Tanvi Gujral

How has “What is beautiful?” changed over time? What has the media done to personify its concept of conventional beauty?

I think beauty has changed over time. Beauty standards specifically have changed a lot. I think especially when I was growing up, models were always one size and one color. That was kind of it. There wasn’t much diversity. And today, we’re so lucky that we see so much diversity in, not only race and ethnicity, but also people come in all different shapes and sizes. And I think that’s starting to be represented better and better. Not to say that we’re there yet, but I think we’re moving in a very progressive direction.

Why is beauty today so one-dimensional? How did we reach this point as a society?

I feel like that’s just kind of how things were for years and years and years. And no one really came in and said, ‘Oh, I want to change things.’ While I think there have always been people who wanted to change things, there was never a space for them. There was never room for them to bring that diversity in. I think over the years, we slowly introduced more diversity in entertainment and fashion. And so because of that, things are moving forward. I think people have also just become more open-minded and more accepting.

How do we as humans, and you as a person feel that you mask the parts of ourselves that we feel don’t fit into society’s standard of beauty?

I feel like I don’t do that really as much anymore, as I express myself how I want to, I dress how I want to, I do whatever I want. But I think a lot of the time, especially, immigrants and children of immigrants do mask that a lot. It can be small things like maybe pronouncing your name the American way.

I came to the realization that maybe I should just embrace Indian makeup and the way that it looks on me because that looks so much better.

Or it can be, you know, introducing yourself the American way, or it can be not sharing parts of your culture that we would normally share. I would say that was a big one growing up.

For example, the clean girl aesthetic has always been a trend, and so I would always try to do that clean girl makeup until I realized that it was not meant for Indian skin tones. We look great with dark eyeliner with darker makeup. So it was even small things like that, where I realized I don’t need to do that to fit in and that I can do what looks good on me.

Have you felt that you have had to succumb to Eurocentric beauty standards?

I remember, even during prom, my mom asked why I didn’t want to wear a beautiful Langa, which is the Indian attire. I said no because no one does that and everyone just wears gowns. And so that’s what I did. But now looking back at it, like, how cool would that have been to have worn a beautiful Indian outfit? Today I see girls wearing saris to their graduation, instead of white dresses. I think that is so beautiful.

At what point do we have our climatic moment when comparing ourselves to beauty standards? Is there a moment in your life where you felt that you had reached your masquerade finale in terms of your relationship with beauty standards?

I used to religiously watch the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show every single year, and I know it’s coming back this year. I used to watch it every single year since I was very, very young. One day I remember watching it and thinking, oh my gosh, there are very few people of color in the show. The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show used to be the epitome of beauty, and the epitome of runway fashion, which is more accessible to the public. It’s not so high-end. But I remember thinking, there’s not one Indian girl. There’s not. Maybe there were one or two Asian girls because it was in Shanghai at the time. But I remember seeing that and thinking,

wow, this sucks.

I remember them labeling Barbara Palvin as Victoria’s Secret’s first plus-size model and she’s a size six, and I’m a size six. I just thought to myself, ‘How does this make any sense?’ I would love to see an actual plus-size model walk this show. I think that was a big moment for me when I realized that change needs to happen.

I think it was after that show that the fashion show actually got shut down, and now it’s coming back. I would love to see some change in the show coming back. And the crazy thing is, I know there are so many beautiful Indian models who want to walk the show. It is not like there’s no shortage of talent. Why are they not walking in it? Why are we not seeing more diversity?

I think another pivotal moment that I realized that things were maybe actually starting to change was when I was in Target in the makeup section and saw Live Tined, which is a South Asian brand. I, for the first time ever, saw Indian models in a makeup section of a store. I think I’ve seen a few in Sephora as well, but I just remember thinking we’re finally getting somewhere. This is it. I just felt such a sense of pride seeing that.

How do you stand up against and combat the notion of superior Eurocentric beauty standards?

I think getting into modeling kind of started that for me. Representation has always been everything to me, and so is being a part of that– being a part of the change and helping to see more diversity in the space.

In high school, I did some extra work for fi lms. I was the background actor. I was an extra in Cobra Kai Season Four. I remember being the only brown girl on set. When I went back and watched it, I just thought the next brown girl watching that show is gonna see me there and see some kind of representation. I thought about how that girl would feel seeing that. But yeah, I do try to be a part. That important representation in fashion and entertainment today is why I want to hold myself to a high standard. I don’t want to mess it up and I don’t want to ruin things. I don’t want to represent myself or my culture badly, because, again, we’re still kind of tiptoeing on that line.

being a part of the change and helping to see more diversity in the space.

I feel like we’re not fully there yet, but we’re still trying, and so I always try my best to represent myself well.

What recommendations would you make to our media and society as a whole that would aid in creating a more inclusive beauty standard?

I feel like giving credit where credit is due. Cultural appropriation has become such a big thing today, and I’ve never been opposed. Th is might be controversial, but I’ve never

been opposed to non-Indian people wearing Lenghas, henna, or Indian jewelry as long as that credit is given and you’re acknowledging what you’re wearing. I think it’s great when I see my white friends wearing Lenghas and wearing saris, and they’re posting about it. That’s awesome. I think that’s cultural appreciation.

I think it’s a problem when brands use that to make money off of it, and it just feels wrong. It feels very wrong. They don’t know the cultural significance or anything like that. I think it’s fi ne for people to take inspiration from Indian culture. I just think it’s wrong when that credit is not given.

I think just doing something as simple as that, just by giving credit you’re being more progressive when it comes to diversity.

Writing: Madelyn Launer

Copy Editing: Anna Kadet, Madeline Jankowski

Layout: Emily Resmondo

Amanda laid, sprawled across her bed, phone screen illuminating her face. Atop her dresser sat months worth of empty bottles: “scientifically proven” retinol serums, skin enhancers, and lip plumpers.

“ ThIs sTuFf….iT rEaLlY Is mAgIc.”

Amanda’s eyes followed her best friend, Naomi, who had recently gained an enormous following for her online persona.

“SeRiOuSlY, i dOn’t kNoW HoW I liVeD WiThOuT It,” nAoMi reGuRgItAtEd.

It was difficult for Amanda to keep track of each product her friend promoted, but this didn’t bother her very much. Surely, by the next morning, something different will have changed Naomi’s life. Amanda closed the live stream, frantically opened a new tab and submitted her resume for a daycare program.

The following week Amanda received her first paycheck: $100. On the other hand, her friend made thousands of dollars effortlessly.

Naomi was confident— and even more disturbingly — she

was

Amanda decided she wouldn’t spend her Friday night at Naomi’s like usual; she did not want to sulk in comparison. Instead, she opened her computer and spent her newly acquired finances. Gua Sha, freckle pen, bronzing stick, and a damage-erasing hair mask. Arriving on Monday.

Half-satisfied, she shut her eyes. Monday was soon, wasn’t it?

A month later came her cousin's wedding. Amanda never enjoyed attending family events like this. There was too much opportunity for relatives to measure her with her younger self — she used to be more vibrant.

“Cheers to the newlyweds!” Amanda’s mother toasted, wine spilling onto her gown. She didn’t like looking at her mother for too long. Her nose didn’t dip in the right spot, and her forehead scrunched in all of the wrong places, an unforgiving illustration of her age.

Seeing her mother in this light reminded Amanda of her own flaws, and of her inevitable decrepit fate. Insulted by her mother’s appearance, she excused herself from the table. “AMANDA! My goodness, sweetie, you look gorgeous!” Her aunt called out to her.

In line for the bathroom, Amanda wiped her sweaty palms across the curtains. "wHeN DiD YoU gEt prEtTy?"

her younger cousin asked, tugging at her thumb. Amanda wiped her hands again. Catching her own gaze in the mirror, she locked eyes with the ones in the reflection.

The pAiR In tHe mIrRoR

wErE ThReAteNiNg, yEt she couldn't look

Amanda’s under eyes began to droop, and from their depths, excreted a purple ooze which crawled down her cheeks. Her nose sprouted pores that protruded in and out of her face, taunting her. Her eyebrows awkwardly danced underneath the fluorescent light. Amanda decided she didn’t like mirrors, either. Her gut churned at the thought of her family’s “pity” compliments.

Nauseated, she looked down; her cousin smiled up at her.

That night, Amanda ornamented her vanity with pictures of her favorite celebrities. She couldn’t bear to be goaded by her own reflection anymore. These will serve as good reminders.

away.

Amanda’s senior year had come and left just like any other year. She didn’t feel good about herself, which wasn’t surprising.

But it was spring, and the birds were chirping, and people were gathering outside, and the sun stuck around for a little longer.

She was hopeful for her year abroad; she liked to imagine dancing on rooftops, twirling through streams of strange faces, and flirting with opportunities to reinvent herself. Amanda forced a smile for her passport photo as the camera violently flashed. Approaching the secretary, she held her breath, awaiting her glossy new ticket to freedom. BuT sOmEtHiNg wAs vErY wrong.

“No, no, this isn’t correct. This picture isn’t me,” She exclaimed.

“We just took that photo. Of course it’s you,” the confused employee replied.

Amanda looked fixedly at the photograph of a face she could not recognize. The girl’s hollow, perfect eyes begging for recognition. This wasn’t right. The girl in the photo wasn’t her. “But that’s not what I look like…” Amanda muttered.

“I don’t know what to tell you, honey.” The secretary waited for Amanda’s reply, but the girl only nodded and turned away;

OWith all illusions dispelled, malice is what remains. If these lies are beautiful then the truth is not only ugly but cold too. Steel yourself. When your vision is cleared, your position on the board will be revealed to you. And with that, so too will your true adversaries.

CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Miles Harewood

ART DIRECTOR Grace Lang

CONCEPT DIRECTOR

Esha Pamidi

CONCEPT ASSISTANT

Maryjane Richard

BEAUTY

Greta Johnston, Will Johnson, Emma Johnson, Alice Young

CASTING Erin Kalinsky LAYOUT

Ansley Jordan, Emily Resmondo, Bella Ayers

PHOTOGRAPHY

Emma Lou Conliff

SOCIAL MEDIA

Rachel Clark

STYLING & DESIGN

Sophia Bradley, Jermaine Johnson, Vanessa Gissel, Lizzie Walker

VIDEOGRAPHY

Izzy Farina WRITING

Stella Turner MODELING

Ann Davis, CG Sigman. Ria Lisso, Matias Flowers

Nina Watson, Luke Soule, Roshan Roy, Efe Guvenc

MODELING

Mia Tanner

Izzy Farina WRITING

VIDEOGRAPHY

Vanessa Gissel, Louis Miranda, Caroline Sims, Kanan Parikh

STYLING & DESIGN

John Atkinson

PHOTOGRAPHY

Richard Tran

SOCIAL MEDIA

Ansley Jordan, Emily Resmondo, Bella Ayers

CASTING Ze Wang LAYOUT

Juliana Hartley, Ashanti Meadows, Lauren Coughlin

BEAUTY

CONCEPT ASSISTANT Morgan Shaw

Grace Lang CONCEPT DIRECTOR Kanan Parikh

ART DIRECTOR

Miles Harewood

CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Invidious is grounded in the narrative of Queen Elizabeth Bathory, a historical figure alleged to have committed serial killings and who purportedly immersed herself in the blood of her victims to preserve her youth. This examines the impact of envy and insidiousness—defined as actions or situations that are likely to provoke resentment or anger in others— on unjust motivations. Furthermore, it explores both the physical and metaphorical significance of disparagement in characterizing antagonists within narratives.

“But jealous souls will not be answered so. They are not ever jealous for the cause,

But jealous for they’re jealous. It is a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself.”

Emilia, Othello Act III, Scene IV

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful queen. She spent her days within the confines of her lavish palace, becoming indifferent to its opulence. Upon the wall of her bedchamber, the Queen kept her prized possession— an ornately carved golden mirror. Growing up, the Mirror had always been a trusted friend to the Queen. Each morning it reflected her wealth and beauty back to her, whispering

to her that she was the most exquisite, wellendowed girl in all the land. Revered for her beauty status, she wanted for nothing. Nothing material, that is.

As of late, the Mirror had begun to sow seeds of jealousy within the Queen. Its voice had grown louder, despite the cover that the Queen had ordered to be draped over its silvery surface.

Each night, it would hiss to her...

In your own vast lands, it seems,

Live three girls of greater means,

Seek them out and you will find,

Better things than you call “mine.”

Envy began to weave itself into the Queen’s heart. Day in and day out, she sent out messengers and soldiers and anyone she could find to turn the kingdom upside down on her behalf. She hoped to discover these three girls and seize their “means” so that she could once again live in peace.

beingdriventomadnessbythe

S he waited an d waited, a llthe while

itaerciv t yA.hton re hda srae , bnerra fo glo d , b u t t h a t l i s t e n e d in te n t ly .

Mirror ’ s murmuring, untilatlast , newscamefromher messengers .Th e yhad d iscovered

The last possessed lips from which beautiful songs and riveting stories poured, almost as often as the kind words she spoke to others.

Eyes secured, the messengers led the Queen to an apothecary in the village, where another young girl stood behind the counter.

The people in the shop seemed to light up when speaking to her, as though

they had never been so truly understood

The Queen concealed her bloody knife and began to speak to the girl. She entranced the Queen with her kindness and immediate offering of friendship.

But the brief enchantment with the girl only fueled the Queen’s searing anger. She led the girl to an alley outside as they spoke, where she would remain for some time.

The Queen wiped the blood from the knife and moved to her next victim.

The third girl was an aristocrat’s daughter, found singing the sweet music that was promised of her in her family’s peaceful garden. Numb to the gruesome cruelty of her actions at this point, the Queen brandished her knife and slit the girl’s throat. She hit the earth, blood seeping into the collar of her pastel gown as the Queen knelt beside her. The knife finished its duties for the Queen, and was thus discarded in a nearby fountain. She rinsed her bloody hands in the same basin and left the house, looking haggard.

Heavy rain had begun to fall as the Queen completed her task- the skies seemed to be weeping for the beauty that had been lost that day. Beneath the shelter of a wooden lean-to, the Queen began the task of imparting her new treasures onto herself. Out from her purse she lifted a spool of black thread and a long, glistening sewing needle. With laborious effort and wavering hands, she stitched each severed feature onto her own face, seemingly impervious to the pain. She emerged into the storm—

broken fragments of many wholes fitted haphazardly to her once beautiful face.

Thunder clapped as the massive palace doors swung open. The dragging gait of a limp echoed through the endless halls as a shadowy figure made its way to the throne room. As it moved into the dim light of a torch, the servants recognized the fearsome silhouette. Deftly avoiding the scurrying rats between her feet, the Queen lifted herself shakily onto her dilapidated throne. Her crown slid to the side as she lifted her head.

“What say you now, Mirror?” she cried out inwwto the silence.

She awaited a response. Just as she began to think there would be no reply, the Mirror seemed to draw a shaky breath and uttered,

goes and beauty fades, All the world a foul charade, Who you are is what you do,

got the best of you.

Money

Envy

HISTORY’S DEJA VU

Throughout history, we’ve witnessed countless examples of how unchecked greed can lead to devastating consequences, yet humanity seems doomed to repeat these mistakes.

“Those that fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

–Winston Churchill

Winston Churchill’s profound observation serves as a timeless reminder of the importance of historical awareness. The statement encapsulates the notion that understanding our past is crucial for shaping a better future. Yet, time and time again, we witness the repetition of historic mistakes, often driven by an insatiable force: greed.

Like Icarus of Greek mythology, who flew too close to the sun in his hubris, many individuals and entities throughout history have allowed their avarice to blind them to the lessons of the past, leading to their downfall and ultimately, the suffering of others. The consequences of unchecked greed echo through the ages, serving as stark reminders of the cyclical nature of humans as we fail to heed the warnings etched into history.

The Greek tragedy of Icarus serves as an enduring cautionary tale, reminding us of the perils that await those consumed by greed and an insatiable desire for power. Icarus, in his hubris, ignored his father’s warnings and flew too close to the sun, his wax wings melting as a consequence of his unchecked ambition. This mythological narrative has transcended time, becoming a powerful metaphor for the downfall that awaits those who reach beyond their means without heeding the lessons of restraint. The phrase “flying too close to the sun” has since become synonymous with the dangers of excessive pride and ambition, serving as a stark reminder of the consequences that await those who fail to temper their desires with wisdom and caution. Icarus’s tale teaches us that while ambition can propel us to great heights, it must be balanced with humility and a keen awareness of our limitations, or we may also plummet from the heights of our achievements.

To truly break the cyclical nature of greed and its devastating consequences, we must go beyond merely acknowledging historical cautionary tales. We must actively internalize these lessons and apply them to our present-day decisions and systems. This requires a multifaceted approach: enhancing education to emphasize critical thinking and ethical reasoning. In doing so, we can create a framework that not only discourages the repetition of past mistakes but also promotes proactive measures to prevent new forms of exploitation. Our ability to learn from history and apply its wisdom will determine whether we can forge a more equitable, sustainable future or whether we will continue to stumble into the same pitfalls that have plagued generations before us.

The choice is ours, and the time to actisnow . Onlybytrulylearningf rom our p a s t c a n w e poh e ot eerfkaerb lacilcycfoselkcahsehtmorf deerg dna etaerc a ycagel fytirepsorpderahsdnassergorpfofroerutu itareneg no s .

Copy Editing: Madelyn Launer, Alex Keezer

Writing: Blake Witmer

Layout: Skye Boutall

Mephistopheles, right-hand to the Devil, finds himself answering the call of a man seeking mastery and notoriety. The esteemed scholar, Faust, grapples with dissatisfaction for his life and work. In the whispers of promised ambition and success, a pact is created. Faust pledges himself to the demonic figure, sacrificing his soul for supreme knowledge. Desire is all-encompassing, and reason is scarce.

However, it is said that Mephistopheles himself is already damned, enslaved to a life of collecting souls just like his. He, too, is not free from the consequences of forcing a path that is not true.

The inherent nature of ambition questions whether fate is dictated by the shadows of our dreams, or if we possess the power to reshape our very existence.

Temptation never dissipates

A universal and timeless battle arises from the legend of Faust and Mephistopheles, plaguing stories of both fiction and actuality. Temptation never dissipates, lingering and capturing our minds in moments of vulnerability. We are always reaching beyond our capabilities, desperate to leave a legacy of inimitable glory. Relentless need for validation and the romanticization of suffering for art exists within us, transforming into a state of neurosis where our reflection is shattered and reality is blurred. Man’s hubris and fears become intertwined, metamorphosing into one kingmaking body.

Pride tiptoes between the threshold of self-respect and enabling unattainable hunger.

When I was a child, my mother told me of a lake. One of crystalline blue— with calls of temptation echoing from its center. Each ripple of the current glistens in the moonlight while carrying damned souls to a perpetual life of subjection.

She warned me of the power that rests in the water.

“Divine creation,” she said, containing a Godly ability to grant despairing individuals a second chance at glory and arcane knowledge. It is known that detrimental consequences come from calling on the basin,

but that does not deter any man from seeking its offerings.

I, like many, sought this mythological beauty out of curiosity— and possibility. My life was plagued by unshakable dreams and seldom talented endeavors. Along with the entirety of humanity, I felt the inherent desire for significant prowess.

I’ve always wanted to be a writer— a great one too. A praised poet or novelist, putting to page my greatest fears and passions. I observe life around me, writing of lives I can never live.

I observe life around me, writing of lives I can never live. I used to create characters from the people I encountered, detailing fictional narratives of renown artists. I wanted them to mirror myself; my aspirations, my prospects.

All that came from my words was dissatisfaction and disbelief.

Each page I lled was overshadowed by scattered resentment, undeniably peaking through to reveal intrinsic unrest. Sentences took the shape of demeaning phrases, and my eyes could not discern reality from the workings of my mind.

My own work trapped me in a prison of self-deprecation, tossing my body between short-lived moments of clarity and resentment towards my abilities — or lack thereof. Sleep evaded me as I prayed to any higher power that would listen.

I asked, “What is the purpose of this life, if not to give rise to our most capable self?”

In the silence that followed I took cognizance of my brewing hatred— the ame within that had existed before as a mere spark and nothing more. But now, a brush re paralyzed me. Eerie whispers entered my head. A thousand voices of assorted nothings grew louder, until a familiar image formed.

The lake.

I believed the tale to be true in my youth, and as I grew older the memory disappeared. It dawned on me that its existence was not physical, but manifested in the minds of those yearning to encounter the healing properties. In an instant, a moment of weakness, I closed my eyes and succumbed to the

LULL S OF THE CURRENT.

When I approached the water, a wave of solace washed over me. My feet reached the edge of the water, dipping into the coolness. A re ection emerged from the depths. However, it was not my own. It vaguely resembled the girl I am, but she seemed to be the idyllic picture I wished to become. By simply gazing into her eyes, I could feel the content inside of her. Her skin glowed from the absence of worry.

Her voice was seductive, promising a life of self-satisfaction. Of virtuosity and fame. She presented a glimpse into the utopian world she o ered, for only a small price. To accept the lake’s gift of the very things I desired was to sacri ce personal growth.

I would be condemned to reach a plateau in my development as an artist, cursed to be con ned to a xed position of skill as my energy would feed the lake rather than my work. Notoriety would only last a short few years.

Notoriety would only last a short few years.

A hand reached out to me requesting a decision. I grappled with the consequences, struggling to see past the facade of a perfect world. Giving up the opportunity to grow, and even fail, on my own, the two things that make me human.

Is that worth anything?

I couldn’t think plainly; my mind and body were no longer my own.

I was exhausted from this turmoil. I was tired of feeling unworthy, and insufficient. I was fi nished with the uncertainty of pursuing fantasies.

But I did not take the hand, nor did I walk away from the lake Instead, I waded into the water, bringing my relaxed body to float on the surface. Every ripple was cleansing–aiding in my rehabilitation.

All I take in is the piercing breeze and screeching birds–well, perhaps they sing too.

On my back I lay, with the current cradling, a hum low on my breath. A tune of blue and heavy heart comes through, but such healing waters transform my song anew.

My hair is long, like it was when I was young Drift ing into a broken halo, I am made into an angel, a sort of peculiar divinity.

I did not fall to the seduction of utopian off erings or instantaneous triumph, and in the end the lake is nothing of physical signifi cance. But I believe in the existence of a similar symbol within all of us that plants seeds of self-destruction. A force that wishes to incessantly take, perpetuated by our own invention

until we drown.

Over and over, I wrap the tape over my sore and damaged foot. Overstressed and overworked, it’s bruised and bandaged. Round and round, the cycle continues until the tightness leads to numbness. It makes no difference if I can’t feel the pain. At this stage, they are immune to the disease.

I stand, form a balanced position, one arm outstretched, gripping the bar, the other curved in an invisible circle around my body. I repeat the steps in my head, and begin to move.

Toes pointed, Elodie. Knees locked. Posture straight. Lift higher, Elodie. Higher!

It’s never high enough, not even on a simple step.

Stretch, she orders me. Stretch and stretch until pain and pulling is all you feel. And so, I stretch. I stretch and stretch until pain and pulling is all I feel.

My body carries me towards the curtain, even though I know I shouldn’t. Comparison is a fool’s game. And yet, my envious eyes follow the dancer on the stage.

Giselle, once young and naive, falls for a conning prince until his betrayal ends her life. A mindless girl, falling for the fairytales that never come true. The anguish and treachery became too heavy for her to endure, only to be risen again to mark her revenge. How ironic it is, that the very revenge she seeks out is exactly what is killing me.

Keep dancing.

The melody and graceful movements urge my mind to follow the story, no matter how much each turn fi res a shot into my pride. It feels as though I’m bleeding out alongside that very dignity.

She’s better than you, she hisses in my ear. You are worthless. Worthless.

I remove my gaze and focus towards the center of the room. Lining up my feet, I balance my weight onto my toes, keeping my torso upright and poised.

Core intact, Elodie. I do not tolerate laziness.

Eyes lined forward, I engage my core until I shake. Tighter!

Eyes lined forward, I engage my core until I shake. Tighter!

I wave her out and force my mind into the world of direct tunnel vision. No one and nothing else exists except the tiny light in the distance. I spin and spin, trying to detach her voice from my mind and into oblivion. The quicker the turns, the sooner she leaves. The sharper the movements, the more likely to cut her out.

I must achieve perfection. I demand perfection. Nothing but perfection.

Lazy! Wrong! Weak! Tighter. Elodie. Tighter! 32 fouéttes! No less!

There is never a minimum. Only the peak I can hit until my body gives out. I break position and fall to my knees.

Shut up, I tell myself, my face falling into my hands. It’s just a voice, I know, living solely in my mind, feeding off each insecurity and failure. She gains strength from my weakness.

So, why can I see her? Honey coloredstrands, sleek and fi rm, framing her stoic face. Striking blue eyes, so icy the hair on my arms begins to raise. Her ribs flex, in and out, with each breath, the small movements even visible through the black leotard’s stretchy material. Creases in her forehead, formed through years of judgment and fury, her stare shooting like daggers toward my chest. Dare to look away, and the knife will reach you.

It’s not enough, Elodie. You are never enough.

Shut up, I beg. Shut up, shut up, shut up!

I manifest like a prayer, in a twisted world where I’m forced to plead with the devil.

She never shies away, though. She simply turns and walks further in front of my aimless gaze.

Again, Elodie. Again, until it’s perfect.

I give up, the fight too draining. I just might be more like Giselle than I ever thought.

Writing: Ann Harper Covington

Copy Editing: Blake Witmer, Stella Turner

Layout: Bella Ayers

I accept submission and line up on my toes once more, spinning and turning until the world around me ceases to exist.

That very escape was how I fell in love with the art. I became an addict, losing myself the drug of choice.

It’s for this very reason that I dance. To temporarily escape my world, my stress, my responsibilities, my very existence. For an impossible minute, to escape myself.

Isn’t it?

If I love to dance above all else, why do I feel like I’m dying? Darkness and emptiness; the two principles awaiting me if I do not succeed. Would anyone truly miss me if I was gone?

Not Elodie, only Giselle.

23 years of my life devoted to this carousel, a slow and repetitive cycle towards an impending demise. Yet, there is still nothing to show. My body is a cage, a vessel for endless work and strain.

There seems to be no soul left inside, taken away with each piece of silk that rubbed off my pointe shoes. No matter how much you try to replace the fallen piece, it’s never the same as it was before.

If my mind has been severed from my body, where’s the blood?

I vaguely see a time when life was simple. Ballet, as innocent as I was, required nothing more than the beat of my heart. Like a smile, it was effortless. Like a laugh, it was carefree.

Like happiness, that time was fleeting. The lights dim on the stage, a panel waiting to decide my fate. Will she live or die? Not even I know.

She stares through me, a rigid expression carved in stone that infi ltrates through my eyes and ears, so quick I can feel her in my soul.

There’s only one option, now, Elodie.

Take your prize or disappear

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