Strike Magazine Gainesville Issue 12

About Strike Magazine

Strike Magazine Gainesville epitomizes the idea that we are all striking. Collectively, our goal is to curate experiences of dynamic interest that break free from the constraints of convention and provide engagement and active involvement in the realms of fashion, art and culture.

Strike Magazine in Gainesville, Florida, was founded in March 2018 as the first extension of the Tallahassee publication, which has thereafter broadened its reach to 14 additional campuses across the United States. Since then, we have grown to a staff of over 180 members per issue. Strike is a creative outlet and a source of professional experience for our dedicated and ambitious staff. We take pride in striking Gainesville as the first student-led publication of our kind and, now, as the nation’s largest student-run fashion and culture magazine.

As the editors, we are proud to lead a staff invigorated by such creativity, diversity and reformation. Each member works in their own way to contribute to our chapter’s bold identity. Guiding this community through evolving thresholds, we are excited to continue honoring Strike Magazine Gainesville’s legacy of empowering our readers to think beyond.

About The Issue

Spring 2024

Issue 12 embodies the pinnacle of our creative development and execution. With the turn of each page, we aim to transcend conventional norms, starting with our cover that exudes provocative elegance to defy modern collegiate couture. Through meticulous craftsmanship, we challenge traditional boundaries and redefine the standards of creative expression.

Strike Magazine Gainesville serves as a catalyst for magnifying the very essence of artistic platforms, and Issue 12 is at the forefront of this journey. Issue 12 explores the feelings, experiences and glamour our Strike staff encounters in the process of creative production. Through an intense embodiment of our vision, Issue 12 is a mirage of our fascination, the idealized form of our craft that has refocused art to embody provocative elegance.

Issue 12 invites you to explore the maturity of our creation and consider how to exercise a sharp, unconventional expression of your identity.

ISABEL CHENG makeup ALEXA MILLER, JENA POORMAN fashion KEEGAN HANNAN fashion assist. NICOLE TORRES photography KATALINA ENRIQUEZ

Jacob Wall Editor-in-Chief

Idealized Issue 12 Spring 2024

Elevating the portrayal of oneself, fashion transcends clothing to encompass the dynamics of the body and its evolution. When contemplating the essence of humanity, fashion is not merely adornment but an integral extension of one’s being.

design KEEGAN HANNAN

Double Edged

“There will never be another woman like me.”

This tireless affirmation has traveled from one lip to another throughout time and media, imbuing a mutual sense of confidence within women. It asserts that, just like every rose exudes a distinct beauty in its foliage, or like every star emits a light unlike another — every woman possesses strengths and weaknesses that leave a unique mark on human history.

This declaration is meant to fortify our self-assurance by validating our ways of loving, feeling and thinking. One woman’s comfort at the apex of her emotions is another’s fear of heights, but both are valid under these words. Assertions like these weave the qualities inherent to our person into a cathartic self-anthem. What is more romantic than knowing the fabric of our minds, hearts and souls are wholly individual?

The value of this affirmation is also rooted in the historical plight of women. A woman’s individuality has long served as a weapon in a world that has lumped all women under the same misogynistic categories. In one realm, her individuality is a testament to the incomparable facets of her love that no romantic partner could ever rediscover in another woman. In another realm, it’s a testament to her capacity to change the narrative and excel in places once deemed unfit for women. History builds upon the notion that women are all too emotional and weak to be taken seriously, which is why many of us have relied on rejecting sisterhood and embracing singularity to prove our distinctiveness.

However, while there is empowerment in individuality, there is also fear. Our distinctive qualities and actions can feel more alienating than inspiring without solidarity. Does our love dig too deep? Is our anger warranted? Are our tears meaningless? These moments of introspection can quickly spiral into self-doubt as we look towards conventional standards for guidance.

So when is different too different? When does it threaten to ostracize us rather than empower us? Individuality can be a double-edged sword, offering only a thin line to separate exceptionality and abnormality, and often threatened by a lack of empathy from other women. This absence of shared experiences can quickly distort an anthem into a requiem that dissolves our confidence and reduces us to husks.

If you ask me, I desire to meet another woman like me. Rather than soothing my emotional maladies, the retold affirmation intensifies their presence. I could never find refuge within those words, but rather, knowing that time would retell my story about the fearful, hyperaware little girl who had never felt like she belonged anywhere except in the spaces between her bones.

With that being said, we should stop separating ourselves from other women. Female solidarity is a strong engine meant to power us through life’s biggest and smallest moments, such as a late-night conversation in the living room with your roommates about humiliating past relationships or being comforted by the soothing voice of a nameless woman as you sob in a public bathroom. These moments, and more, are the common threads that bind all women, and each one can make us feel less out of place.

“There will never be another woman like me” is a phrase that encourages us to find beauty in our depths, but it should not make us lose sight of the strength in the universal. Embracing our individuality and appreciating our shared humanity requires a delicate balance. Still, we must remember that our shared stories brought us together in the fight to carve out a space for ourselves in this world. Sisterhood might just be the answer to discovering your self-confidence.

words DANIELLA

ALFONSO

“A dancer, more than any other human being, dies two deaths: the first, the physical when the powerfully trained body will no longer respond as you would wish” - Martha Graham.

Lines Curves

Lift Reach

Suck in, “Your lunch is showing.”

Imagine a string passing through the top of your head

That passes through every vertebra

From the ceiling through the soul to the floor.

Look effortless.

Apply maximum effort.

This is not a sport, This is an art.

And to perfect it, you must be a purist.

We begin at the top of the body.

Your neck should be straight and long. Chin lifted, Slightly tilted, Adjusting as instructed with each step. Port de bras.

Don’t forget to smile.

The shoulders should be held back and pressed down, elongating the neck,

With each blade crossing toward its opposite hip. The ribs closed, never protruding beyond the skin.

Vigorously shake your hands, Then freeze —

Let your fingers fall naturally into a flawless, relaxed state. Now, memorize that feeling forever.

Engrain it into your being.

Pointer finger slightly lifted, the others delicate and dainty. With energy shooting through every fingernail.

Your gut is a vacuum.

Energy looping endlessly toward the spine and around.

Hold your torso with poise.

Your core always engaged, Yet always appearing deceivingly soft.

The hips should be tucked under, Never flying or opening when lifting a leg.

Everything comes from the hips, effortless and unseen.

Through the legs, each minute muscle is engaged. From hamstring to heel, each member must do their duty.

Be sure to bend the knee when landing. Plié.

The power behind every movement, the spring for all airborne strides. Disobey the plié, May the body’s artful career be forgotten in an instant.

And always, Always, No matter what, Through each phalange and metatarsal, Point.

Your. Toes.

But not just the toes, The entire foot.

The 33 joints and 26 bones, Collectively performing to form the quintessential structure. Turned out from the master hip, With heel lifted toward the sky, The callused tip of the big toe serving as the foot’s only connection to the ground: Tendu.

Now remember these things, And do it all at once.

I took my first ballet class at 3 years old. I continued until I was 18, then I returned to the barre after a four-year hiatus at 22.

I’ve been doing this routine all at once, or trying to, for as long as I can remember.

I did not know at 3 that ballet would become a defining part of my being. I didn’t know much then at all. At 22, dance flows through my body as naturally as blood — always there.

At 3, you’re ideally taught the plié, and if you’re really lucky, how to point a toe. A ballerina will continue to learn the plié forever.

Plié is a French word that translates to folded in English. To plié is simply to fold or bend the legs. Through every ballet sequence, step and landing, you can find a plié. It is the base, the foundation itself, of ballet. It is so simple, yet if performed incorrectly or absently it can all be over — just like that. Injury. Death of the ballerina.

To me, ballet is not only an art or a sport, but a way of life. I knew ballet before I even began to know myself. At my core, I am a perfectionist. I’ve spent countless hours in therapy speaking of my innate strengths and weaknesses that swamp me daily, most stemming from my devoted perfectionism. At its core, ballet teaches you to be perfect — or to always strive to be.

You must do it all at once — suck in, stand tall, point your toes, plié, be strong, be delicate and all while not showing any struggle. The art of ballet is looking effortless, but the artist knows the effort that goes into such a facade.

I am no stranger to picking at my body. Of course, I want it to be perfect. I want everything to be perfect; that’s how I was raised.

But I also know that my body is my art form. Without a body, my silhouette even, a part of me would die. This is why, beyond the art, a ballerina must do it all.

A ballerina must plié, Because ballet is as much a lifeline to the ballerina as a heartbeat.

Ballet is grit and sweat and perfectionism and comparison and tears and blood.

But it is also so much more.

I escape the world when I do ballet.

I am an extension of myself, a depiction of love and life and a moving work of art. I am every emotion that’s been pent up inside that I often can’t let out and I am focused on so many tasks of pointing my toes and pressing down my shoulders and lifting my elbows and remembering the choreography and still being graceful and smiling and so that for just a minute, my mind may forget everything else.

My knees are already starting to ache, and my hips are worn and tired. And I’m nowhere near perfect.

But as long as I can stand, My body will plié.

words ABBY JONES

As illumination and shadow delicately interact, a contour emerges, illustrating an elegant narrative on silhouette. In this captivating painting of light, we observe how shape can be idealized

The Art of Letting Go

In the quiet spaces of my mind, where apologies echo like a distant memory, I find comfort in the indifference that wraps around me like a shield. Minuscule things trigger memories of you, but I’ve mastered the art of impassivity.

In the gentle curve of your hands, I felt the weight of your judgment, fingers tracing over the flaws you suddenly deemed intolerable.

My body.

My skin.

My presence.

It was at that moment that I realized I had been reduced to an object. I’d been discarded because I no longer met your standards. I desperately craved to be wanted, even if that meant sacrificing my self-respect. But who were you to judge?

You only liked me because it was convenient. Because I was weak and it made you feel powerful. I only craved your lips because his were not there. I guess we both had bad intentions.

“I’m sorry” flowers. “I’m cheating” flowers. “I fucked up again” flowers —but where were the “just-because” flowers? Where were the “I saw these and instantly thought of you” flowers? I wonder how receiving a bouquet on a random Tuesday would have felt simply because you saw them and thought of me.

Apologies were the currency of our relationship, and I was slowly going bankrupt.

In my state of denial, I shielded myself from the idea that our connection was dissipating. I clung to the moments when your actions didn’t betray your words; when your eyes didn’t wander to another girl in search of the features I lacked. Or when your touch still carried the warmth of genuine affection.

I wish I could know how you really saw me, but I know that it would only hurt me more. No wistful promises or vows of change could have ever forced you to stay and love me. I had to let you figure it out, and in the end, it wasn’t in my favor.

Our journey together felt like we were reading the same book but always found ourselves on different pages. I started with the first chapter and you skipped to the last. Finding a meeting point seemed unattainable.

Each imperfection and nuance held against me was evidence of insufficiency. It was nothing more than the residue of your own insecurities being projected onto me. But, in that vulnerability, I found strength. Your opinions, once controlling of my self-worth, now serve as a reminder of your lack of confidence.

In the aftermath, I found myself questioning if any shared moment had been genuine after all. Your betrayal, a bitter pill to swallow, left me dissecting every moment we’d spent together. You left and took my secrets with you, and I was left to hear them from others who were never meant to know.

It’s 4:35 am. My mind is consumed with the thoughts of where you are and who you’re with. I wish I could reach out and ask how your day was, but I’d only be letting myself get hurt again. So, I sit and wait. Hoping your name pops up on my phone so that I can tell myself you were at least thinking of me.

Yet, you don’t. You found better.

She had a better body. Better skin. A more tolerable presence.

And now I’m uncertain of what love truly is. You fooled me once, and I fell for it, but it’s my mistake now because I’ve fallen again. I used up all my words trying to express my hurt, and it was doubted. So, I’ll allow my silence to convey all that my words couldn’t. You knew you meant everything to me, but you couldn’t change. Why?

Years later, reflecting on the effects of your toxicity, I’ve been rerouted to a path of self-discovery. Finding who I am without you. Figuring out who I am alone. Rediscovering aspects of myself that had been obscured by the destructive shadows of our deteriorating relationship.

I have to let myself be happy, and that means being without you and rebuilding what you once destroyed — my confidence.

You made me feel like I was suffocating, and I’m finally ready to come out for air. Pleasing you felt like a task I needed to complete, or else I was doing something wrong. Being with you was tiptoeing on shattered glass and trying not to let out a cry.

Our love felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall captivated by your charm. But that’s the thing about falling — you don’t know whether someone will catch you. And you didn’t.

Now, in the arms of another, I find the safety and warmth I had longed for. He’s mending the parts of me that once lay shattered. Meanwhile, I am weaving threads of self-love and acceptance, crafting a tapestry of strength that intertwines with the affection shown to me by an unseen hand. A hand that illuminates my path forward. Together, these gentle acts of healing and self-discovery form the symphony of my rebirth, each note resonating with the melody of a redefined existence.

My body.

My skin.

My presence.

These are now the features of me he loves most. With every moment, he’s rewriting my idea of what love is and proving that love is delicate. Love is commitment, loyalty, connection and all the beautiful things in between.

And in the end, I’m glad to finally know it wasn’t me. It was you.

STRIKEMAGAZINEGNV

HAILEY POORMAN makeup JENA POORMAN nails CLAIRE COLLIER hair CHRISTINA SPINDLER, LINDSAY STAGNITTO photography GRACE BARNEY

Coils That Fight Back

I’ve spent years consumed by a dense, neverending set of curly wisps. A boundless network of curls danced over my head upon my birth — an outlandish sight for the occupants of Plantation General Hospital during the summer of ’04.

Although my other physical traits were in accordance with those of the average new Earth resident, my hair wavered with my size, demeanor and cry resembling any other. It refused to remain still — literally and metaphorically — constantly twirling, shouting and reinventing itself.

My hair and I could not have been any more different.

As the summer of ’04 morphed into that of ’05, ’06 and beyond, my hair morphed a bit, too. It became ballsier in length. Bolder in thickness. Burlier in intensity. And as its confidence skyrocketed, we began to seriously brawl.

And I became the reigning champion.

Armored with a collection of scalp-pulling hair ties, scorching, brand-new flat irons and endless salon appointments, I left my textured swirls temporarily defenseless every time we interacted. But occasionally, they’d fight back, pathetically taunting me with the words of my tween-aged classmates. Comments along the lines of…

“Why does your hair curl like that?”

“Why doesn’t your hair lay flat?”

“Does your mom seriously let you wear your hair like that?”

… picked at my brain, with my own coils letting it happen.

The curls I once considered slight nuisances in my life became my biggest enemies. They transformed themselves into accessories I would never be able to remove, insulting me in ways that transcended the scope of the mental toolkit I thought could scare them off.

See, despite the sheer volume of sizzling tools and stylers I tried to battle it with, my hair would always reappear — stronger, louder and unable to be tamed to the desired degree. We were 1-1. Then, 2-2. Infinitely tied. So, I eliminated it with the most powerful weapon I knew: Silence.

I muted my curls through complete, absolute coverage. This silencing became the most effective solution I could ever turn to, whether through strategically layered braids, silk scarves, or some other seemingly innocent accessory. In this case, effectiveness became addictive.

Hidden under the guise of impressively crafted braids and concerningly sleek styles, my curls became my favorite burden. I’d force myself in front of my mirror every morning, excited to forcefully shut them up with

a gel, dull them with a blowdryer and mask them with a claw clip. Or even two. When you’re in control, anything goes.

My control found solace in constant reassurance from the people I idolized — cool classmates, loyal friends and kind strangers — who never missed a chance to unintentionally add fuel to my fire. Comments along the lines of…

“I love what you’ve been doing with your hair.”

“I like your new look!”

“Why didn’t you start wearing this style sooner?”

… massaged my brain, equipping it with the thoughts I needed to continue my curl-induced reign.

But gradually, my once-dampened coils built some sort of immunity. The gels were suddenly weak. The combs were suddenly poorly crafted. The blow dryers were suddenly puny.

With a therapy-generated uptick in self-confidence, a more rigorous academic schedule and a heavier social plate, I could no longer call my coils my most pressing problem.

By some divine force, the summer of ’04 resurfaced.

As it became a little harder to mute my curls and a little easier to embrace them in their most natural form, it logically followed that I stopped trying to battle them. And I was okay with that — standing still while finally allowing my hair to become transient.

Because as time had morphed, I had, too.

My newfound personality began to radiate, much like my thick, tight curls, under a bright Floridian sky.

My smile became harder to hide, much like my frizzed-up edges after a light jog.

My confidence grew exponentially, much like the length of the curls I used to suppress.

But I still anticipate the daily interactions I share with my mirror. I still possess an arsenal of stylistic weapons. However, I no longer turn to them to mute, conceal or destroy. They’ve taken on a new purpose: to enhance the bouncy, vibrant coils that permanently live atop my head.

So, my frizz has refused to stand still — both literally and metaphorically — unapologetically existing in its most authentic, incapable-of-being-tamed self.

My hair and I could not have become any more similar.

words HALIMA ATTAH

The Sexiness of Giving a Shit

In a bit of a biased interpretation of Aristotle’s philosophy on the natural hierarchy of people, I posit that hot people are as vital to nature’s equilibrium as carbon and water. They motivate and humble certain individuals while inspiring self-reflection in others, allowing the latter to ponder on what values matter most to them.

As men grow more and more comfortable in a society already designed to their advantage, the standard of what is classically defined as “hot” shifts away from his tangible features and advances toward the impalpable characteristics of a man. The uprising of women who now feel they are attracted to “medium ugly” men is not a drastic switch in taste, but a realization that what makes these men hot now circumvents mere appearance. Categorizing men based on their physical features and tendencies is no longer feasible. Men can act completely against the grain and have it almost backfire in a way that emulates attractiveness and appeal.

Not to be dramatic, but mankind must undergo a necessary reexamination of what defines being “hot” and the contemporary “bad boy.” It is not leather and tattoos that specifically qualify a man to be hot (though there can be overlap). Still, I find three characteristics most common among the class: the exhibition of confidence, comfort and care.

There is a certain degree of dissonance in the imagery of an embarrassed hot man. Why doesn’t that quite sit right? One of the key consistencies in hot men today is their confident demeanor. In moving away from conventional perceptions of confidence, think less of a swaggered walk or mere suaveness; conceptualize more of a raw self-assurance and void of embarrassment and insecurity. This is not the kind of boy who will glare at a pedestrian who may have caught him trip on the sidewalk, but a man who embraces what life throws at him and accepts that everything that is meant for him will find him, whether that be opportunities and fortune or simply losing balance while walking in public. Hot men are adaptable, able to roll with the punches and maintain a good attitude. Radiating an unbothered ambiance and proportionately raises attractiveness. Being a hot man is not merely contingent on your attractiveness; it is a byproduct of being a hot person.

Confidence goes hand-in-hand with comfortability. A secure man in the world around him will experience self-assurance and comfort in his own skin. Comfort is observed when hot men are willing to convey themselves and find themselves relaxed while doing so. This is where the myth of the mysterious hot man comes into play; comfort and confidence often trump mystery in the eyes of attraction. A common misconception in the field of hotness is that your classic “hot men” are the ones who don’t say much and keep a stone-cold face. Hot men should be comfortable expressing themselves and being known for who they are. By expressing himself, I do not refer to chipped nail polish but the comfort of voicing his beliefs and making his identity known – no matter how socially unacceptable.

A vital understanding of comfort is countered by the confines of social standards. Many associate being a “rebel” with the classic hot male.

I would validate this connection only because he is a true rebel, departing from certain expectations and engaging in behaviors like openly acknowledging that he cries or cares about his mental health. Therefore, it is hot to be a rebel; not one who does not care about his grades, but rather pays no mind to how he is perceived. A bit of a redundant notion, the comfort in being oneself directly translates into the comfort of widening one’s horizons beyond the blue and pink boundaries laid out before you. Think big, like Lenny Kravitz. Or think small-scale, like not limiting yourself to specific jobs that seem more male-oriented or clothing that seems too “feminine.” This may seem simple, but some men are so engrossed by their gender image that they refuse to use straws, wear certain colors or even listen to certain music in the comfort of their own solitude. Confidence extrinsically sets the stage for being internally comfortable in one’s identity, setting one’s inhibitions and liberties. And that is hot.

A final assessment is on the real sexiness of giving a shit. Hot people are cool, and it is cool to care! Hot men should have aspirations and be passionate about them. It doesn’t need to be about grades or your Q2 performance at work. It can be about your desire to get through the pile of books in your room or your piggy bank that helps you save up for your next tattoo. It can be as minuscule as caring about your hygiene to as significant as making sure to call your grandma every Monday. Truly hot men feel free to openly communicate how thankful they are for the people they have in their life. This is a pivotal extension of being comfortable with and sharing your emotions with others – a deep-seated level of vulnerability that implicitly signifies heightened confidence and security. Hot men maintain their mental health and stay in tune with their emotions. Telling your fellow male friends that you love them displays that you respect yourself and the beauty of friendship; failing to verbally acknowledge that simple fact limits the life one can live when worrying about being perceived as weak. Hot men still need a shoulder to cry on, so as a friend, they should also be there for their friends.

In reflecting on the common threads between hot men, it can be easily deduced that men, just like women, can emit a degree of beauty that fascinates those around them. They do not transfix people because of their mystery or indifference but because their hotness is projected through confidence in embracing embarrassment, comfort in their own skin and care for others. Upon analysis of what makes a man hot, I am inevitably forced to reflect on how this translates to women. Sure, women, just as men, are also qualified as “hot” based on intangible conditions; however, why does the hot woman seem much more commonplace than the hot man? Why does pondering on the hot woman make the hot man seem much more elusive? Is it because men still build the courage to exhibit comfort and confidence? Or because women are constantly working to overcompensate for their marginalization in a patriarchal society, so much so that comfort, confidence and care are necessary precursors to doing so? Though I may not have the answers, modern men may not be to blame. However, I am sure that men working on the three mentioned traits in themselves could contribute to correcting this disproportionate ratio.

In short, if everyone were hot, the world could be a better place.

ISABELLA SOUTO, KRISH PARIKH, ELIJAH HOLBROOK photography MATT BROWN

Keeping The High

When I signed up for Consumer Behavior, a course required by my major, I thought it would be another boring business class I’d snooze through. I’d effectively ignore the lectures, leave the group projects until a couple of days before their deadlines and rely solely on PowerPoints when studying for exams. There’d be no lasting impact. I never expected to become invested in any scientific concepts my professor would drone on about during lectures.

I never expected to care.

I spent that entire semester wide-eyed, leaning over my desk and learning about how psychology affects the lives of consumers and individuals.

As a college student at an SEC school, I attend my fair share of parties. Whether they be tailgates on game days, date functions at The Range or get-togethers at a friend’s apartment, we’ve got it all.

But even with several college experience opportunities, I felt like it wasn’t for me. I often felt depressed with the weight of socializing after a party, even as an extrovert. In fact, the first time this happened to me I was burdened by confusion. I felt alone. I didn’t have a name for the sudden, unexpected sadness that overcame me. I just had a wonderful time. Why was this happening?

I later found out this is a phenomenon referred to as post-party depression — a term that describes the extreme sadness, loneliness or emptiness that may be experienced directly after a party. It can last hours or days.

Why was I so lonely? Is this what life really is? Are parties just a distraction from all we should focus on?

Here’s what my angsty internal reflections have taught me:

You are not alone. Lots of other people experience this. There’s even a Reddit page dedicated to it. Life is not inherently sad, either. You just attended an event that raised your endorphins to crazy levels, were thrilled by stimulating lights and sounds and then left. Of course your brain got a little confused when the excitement suddenly disappeared.

Through the lens of pop culture, the college experience is almost always centered around partying. So, as college students, we desperately want to participate. Nothing feels worse than engaging in the activity those around you say will make you happy and becoming miserable instead. Even if the party is nice for its duration, I wonder if facing the music is worth it. Because by the time the party’s over, there are no positive feelings left to allocate, and attendees are left with holes in their chests and empty cups.

Why does this happen? Parties give us access to all the best parts of life: a lack of responsibility, friends to toast to and, occasionally, a good DJ. On any given Monday, we hear about Friday’s party and look forward to it all week. We think of what to wear, beg our introverted roommates to come with us and procrastinate all our work — even if it means being late to the party itself. We anticipate how fun the party will be, and that anticipation becomes part of the enjoyment.

A large part of the positive emotion we get from parties is due to our anticipation of them. Think of this excitement like a graph. Simply put, we are excited about a party for hours or days, and this increases our happiness. We go to the party, our levels of happiness peak and then drop drastically once we leave. We experience a real, lasting loss when we leave a party.

Our natural aversion to loss leaves us fighting feelings of difficult-to-understand loneliness — all because of a Friday night party

Post-party depression is an endorphin drop that lies to us. So, the best way to overcome these blues is to provide a way for endorphins to drop less harshly. This can be done in a multitude of ways. We are looking to decrease stimulation, not eliminate it entirely.

Understanding the science behind our actions can allow us to handle them better. I learned to work with myself to overcome things like post-party depression rather than be angry at myself for experiencing it. The good part about taking the time to learn in that psychology class is that I now understand how to avoid artificial loss. I can go to parties without the impending doom; I just have to walk home with a friend.

I’ll have the college experience. I’ll just make sure I don’t have it alone.

With tension comes the feeling of stoicism – the numbness to emotion. Our fashion, once vibrant, now takes on deeper tones, evolving amidst shadows and simmering aggravation. Yet within this darkness, we are compelled to rediscover ourselves, embracing ambiguity as we cultivate a dynamic evolution of character.

Futile Dreamscape

In the hazy alleys of what once was, I wander aimlessly through the dimly lit corridors of my creation — each memory a stroke of paint upon the canvas of my mind. The flickering passage lamps and their subdued glows, each illuminating the exhibition, cast long shadows that seemed to waltz with spirits. Each piece, embodying a fluctuating version of the person I once knew, is resurrected upon each visit, leaving me desperately clinging onto a hint of familiarity amidst the ever-changing canvas.

I reminisce on the thrill of entertaining the thought that you could change, a possibility almost too good to be true. You were an assemblage of contradictions, composed by mystery and entice. With every quick glance and whispered promise, I wove fantasies around you and romanticized your every flaw into a stroke of potential. With each intimate exchange, I found myself falling deeper into the belief that perhaps, just perhaps, you might become the person I hoped you could be.

Within the shadowy corners of my consciousness, I gaze at a distant portrayal of you — a blurry, undefined figure whose every blemish transcends into a masterpiece of resurgence. As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, the portraits I carefully painted of you slowly began to unravel back into their original form. The once vibrant hues of hope I painted began to disintegrate, leaving me with a desire to tirelessly mend every fragile crack, even as the weight of each repair threatened to collapse upon each fix.

I was completely consumed by the forged version of you that had flourished, desperately clinging to the remaining fragments of an artwork I had fabricated within the depths of my fantasies. Out of pure desperation, I ignored the growing cracks in your facade, painting over the stagnation hidden in plain sight. Each stroke of denial only deepened my hesitancy to confront the divergence between reality and my idealized perceptions. Yet, I persisted — unwilling to accept the uncomfortable truths lurking beneath the surface.

My efforts to maintain the illusion became more distressed as if, by sheer force of will, I could seal the fractures that welcomed an abyss filled with regret. Yet, in the midst of my futile attempts to preserve what was never real, I began to realize the necessity to confront the inevitable before it consumed me to the point of no return. Beneath the layers of pretense, my restorative traces were unable to hold together the breathtaking canvas I once loved.

As I stand amidst the shattered remnants of my counterfeit masterpiece, I am tormented by the void that has replaced the canvas — a haunting that could only be brought forth by stark realism.

And yet, amidst the wreckage of my creation, there remains a sliver of hope — a coax of redemption through such harsh truths. I find solace in the realization that the illustrations of your metamorphosis were but a mirage, a reflection of my own desires painted onto the canvas of reality.

words MELODY GU

Stoicism

My back is pawned against the hood of his newly purchased, barely used, ruby-red car while the admiration in his eyes fades to the distant silhouettes behind me. He’s talking at me, like the last few months meant nothing, and tears are riding down my face, driven by the four drinks I drained. My hair is expanding from the humidity and his sleeve is wiping away the film of dew on his phone. I marvel at the symmetry of his face and wonder if he ever watched the movie I said reminds me of him. I’m remembering all the times he told me he loved me and he’s telling me that long distance is scary, and all I could hear was the pounding drums of electronic dance music. I always hated how loud it was. The space between us is closing in as he hugs me back, but it’s different this time. His head is upright. His arms are reaching for anything but me. Or at least it seems that way.

He’s been kissed by the sun and his face is as God intended. If I could look at his smile forever, I would never close my eyes. I would never look to the stars in search of beauty. But instead, I’m begging and crying and he’s mooning over his glorious reality that soon neglects me. He’s all I ever wanted and all I can romance. He glances at his saturated screen once more and smiles as though what I told him hadn’t been sulking at the pit of my throat for the past month. As he looks up, he asks me why I’m falling apart. I consider whether he knows that he’s breaking me or if he thinks I’m just emotional. I left, hoping the sweet boy from March would find his way back to me.

He didn’t.

My best friend drives me home and my eyes meld into the sky through her sunroof as I pain myself with the memories of when I said things I shouldn’t have. I’m looking to the stars, but they don’t compare to his grace. I’m rationalizing, reasoning and understanding why he did what he did. I didn’t sleep that night.

Time passes and we’re strangers once more. I’m driving and thinking about what we had while his careless, prideful demeanor lets him do it all so easily. I envied that.

Three years later, I look back and scoff at how much I loved.

How could I have been so naive? My best friend reminisces about how he wore that god-awful striped shirt everywhere. Even his mother hated him. I grieve the time I wasted caring.

Once more, I sit across from someone new, as his love for me dies quicker than the flowers he left on my nightstand. It feels wasteful to throw them out so soon. I’m different now. He’s gazing at me, mourning his failures, as I remember the time my sister told me I was beautiful until I stopped crying. “What could you ever have to be insecure about?” She meant it, too. She’s untwisting a bottle of wine and we’re screaming, yelling and laughing until we forget what had been so upsetting. I remember the unwavering cloak of love I felt when we passed out from feeling — feeling it all.

He’s looking through me now, but I’m remembering how I sat in my bed, hiding from my thoughts until my best friend made my problems her own.

“Let’s smoke a cigarette.”

She knows I struggle with that stuff. Talking about it, I mean. I hate it when she sees me like that. We sit on the porch as she lights the wrong end. I laugh and forget why I was crying to begin with. She tells me everything she loves about me and I look up and ask the sky, “Whatever did I do to deserve her?”

He’s apologizing and I feel the stoicism from the humid night with the red car embody me. My eyes fade. I listen, but I’m somewhere else. The stars are beautiful again. I’m with my sister on our couch and I’m with my best friend on our porch. I’m drinking Pinot Grigio and I’m smoking like a sailor. I’m remembering the familiar feeling of love as I bear its absence.

I look forward to the future and bask in its tranquility. Apathy is now a mug I cannot shake. As I recognize the love around me, I refuse to revisit the bitter reality of the past.

words OLIVIA HANSEN

Mated

The female rips the male’s head from the body.

When the female consumes the male, she starts with the crown.

The mouth tears through the chitin. The antennae.

The brain.

Yet, the male penetrates the female. He spreads his seed for hours after his death.

Even without a brain, the male possesses an instinctual desire to consummate.

His mind was never enough.

She devours the pharynx. The trachea.

The larynx.

His body is the only necessity. His form meets her ends. His corpse nourishes her offspring.

For the betterment of the descendants, The female devours the scraps of his being.

He knew she would annihilate him. But her smell.

She is encoded to slay him. He is encoded to fuck her.

Their anatomy was never designed for union.

Their science is only for their gain.

Their bodies are the only benefit. Their structure is obsolete.

His essence. Her sex.

A doomed dyad.

words ALLIE SINKOVICH

Refocus Issue 12 Spring 2024

Drawing inspiration where every photo and creative decision is a testament to mystery and rebirth. Our vision exceeds artistic influence, explores perplexed stories and breathes new life into personal style. In a wish to navigate the creative spectrum, we seek to build a new tier.

design JACKSON ASBELL

Do You See Me Now?

They’re gathered in the kitchen, calling for you to come take shots. The girl in the mirror only sees acne bumps on her cheeks and the clumpy mascara on her left eye. You break eye contact with her, sighing as you sip your seltzer, trying to clear your mind before you enter the kitchen. You smile as you see your friends and you cheer to nothing, but you’re still thinking about the girl in the mirror as the shot goes down. You’re pulled back to reality when another shot is handed to you, and you match their wild grins as you drink.

Bathroom chatter encompasses nothing and everything all at once: assorted cocktails and mini skirts and big, bouncy hair. Your phone buzzes and a familiar name asks if you’re going out tonight. Your blushing smile gives you away and they yell when they realize who you’re texting. Aren’t you supposed to be no contact? Maybe an hour ago. Seeing his name in the morning is worse than the hangover.

You don’t know who called the Uber and you don’t care, giggling as you’re pulled into the waiting car. C and M snap photos while you and B are deep in conversation. You’re vivacious and emotional, brimming with words you think but never say.

You exit the car with newfound energy and smile sweetly at the bouncer, who lets everyone in for free for reasons you can’t remember. You blow him a kiss and you’re inside, twirling with the pace of the music. A familiar frame is leaning over the bar and you slide up next to it, hoping it’s who you think it is. Mr. No Contact smiles mischievously and buys you a drink, and you’re giddy because he remembered your order.

Another girl recognizes him and they hug for a moment too long, so you start toward them before a hand clamps your wrist. M drags you away, yelling in your ear that he’s not worth it, and can you please get a grip? You finish your drink which you’re sure is devoid of tequila because it tastes like water. (It wasn’t).

It’s dark and loud. You can’t hear your thoughts for the first time in ages as the lights flash, illuminating your face as you move. You’re one of many sardines in a can, and you love it. You aren’t thinking about the girl in the mirror or the name on the phone — only Ke$ha, Rihanna and the DJ pumping his fist to the beat. Nothing is real, and why would it be? You’re young and alive, energy personified.

C appears out of nowhere. You scream at the sight of her and hug her tightly, laughing as a bit of her drink spills. Oh, drinks. There are two? She gives one to you. She saw No Contact and figured you’d need it.

The song shifts and you don’t recognize the hand you’re holding. You disappear, hunting for the girls when No Contact finds you. You remember being mad at him for some vague reason, but it escapes you when he leans down and says something he shouldn’t. His cologne hasn’t changed but your perfume has. Your phone flashes and it’s your turn for a mischievous grin as you slip away.

Reunited at last. The girls are hugging and laughing as you compliment each other and profess undying love. They’re discussing the events of the night when, out of the corner of your eye, a familiar figure catches your attention.

The girl in the mirror.

You’re numb but buzzing as you lock eyes in the haze, and you’re gripping the sink as time stops and the noise disappears. She’s so beautiful and so full of life. You notice dimples and lines around her eyes as she smiles. You no longer see the bumps or clumps, just a familiar fire in her eyes. It’s the same one you see in your mother and your sister. It’s always been so beautiful in them, so authentic and natural. Why were you so quick to find your own flaws when you could never find one in them?

You meet the mirror girl again in the morning. There are fresh bumps, but the clumps are gone and washed away. She has dimples, though, and smile lines, too. Light is dancing in her eyes and she’s as beautiful as ever under the tangled hair you haven’t brushed. You were so critical of her, and for what?

The flaws are there but the fire remains.

words HAILEY INDIGO

ASHTON ADKINS makeup JENA POORMAN photography GRACE BARNEY

I Hope You Remember Me

Recollection is like reawakening in a sweaty, prepubescent body. Linear thought is not my forte.

I am nearly 10 years old, sleeping between my parents. Unbeknownst to me, the terrifying stories of bloody people jumping out of cracked mirrors and killing children in dark bathrooms were the stories that would haunt my childhood.

Act 1: FEAR

The obnoxious, incessant whisper of those memories. Not all were sour, just those with the handprints on the smudged glass. The walls of the rooms that closed in on me, suffocating me between my reluctance to tell anyone out of the fear of sounding ridiculous and the fear that figures of legend would be agitated by me speaking of their existence. Why should a child feel such reluctance?

Was there inherent shame to fear? Was fear merely the conduit of my young, childish mind to try and understand? I seemed to only be able to answer my questions with more questions, an echo chamber, screams bouncing off the walls of an empty room.

I bowed my head, a servant to fear, a servant to modern tales: the internet era. Modern folk tales are the ghost tales I would stumble on online. Like broken glass, the stories punctured holes in my mind, and I could not claw my way away. The stories that seemingly scarred at least one ten-year-old, the one who has barely talked about them since then, and now finds himself writing about them in a fashion magazine in his 18th year of life and 8th year of hugging onto faint pricks of splicing thoughts. The painting of the world that had formed in me was utterly intoxicated, inevitably bound to the moments that I felt that foul dust of fear take so much. I hadn’t even begun to understand how much my fear took away from the experience of being and becoming. Becoming a man that is, seeing no fear in petty chainmail online.

ACT 2: A hazy beginning, middle and end

I wish it hadn’t been that every single day for five years. I thought about the supernatural and the possibility that they would someday catch me. I had a genuine fear of death with its long claws and glassy eyes lingering around the corner. My first encounter with anxiety was when I was 10. I read that a ghost would kill me if I didn’t “send this message to five people.” No one warned me of how horrific that would be. Maybe I was gullible. Perhaps I thought, “Why would they lie to me?” Evidently, I lived to tell the tale. But there still lies a strange, sardonic, radically tormenting feeling that the creation of those messages was implemented into a spirit growing within me. FEAR latches and feels like a broken bone grown incorrectly, needing to be snapped once again to receive full recovery. FEAR tainted every step, every conversation, every action. It made me feel subhuman.

Summers lined with sour disruptive memories, within the whimsy of the season remained an utterly dark undertone. I first saw the post in the middle of June 2015 and I sometimes still have my head on a swivel.

ACT 3: Papa, the 2017 black Ford Explorer, and spearheading the unknown

I sat next to Papa as I did every time we drove anywhere. I told him everything. The day I saw writing etched into the bathroom wall. How I ran from the dark and how the light I used to hide from always flickered. I told him all the unshakeable fear I held on to for so long.

So much of who I was, who I am and who I may remain resided in that feverish dream: what I wish wasn’t reality, what I wish I hadn’t felt and encountered. Papa had asked me what was wrong, and even having gone through therapy once, I still had not spoken to anyone of this great weight. I felt weak and defeated in all these moments, as there was so much shame in the idea of even mentioning the root to my weird relationship with the internet.

My eyes were swollen, I cried and cried and I told my dad that I had thought of it every single day. It was painful, but talking to him … pouring my fragility onto the man who I know understands the complexity of being more than anyone I know … was wonderful. It always feels like he’s lived so many lives. Telling him this story, this inescapable grief of strange, feverish, hazy momentum all because of that stupid “send to five people” post, was one of the most relieving moments of my young life. I have never talked about it except in that Ford explorer on that fateful summer night. That sticky, sweaty, loving and embracing summer night. I had hidden from the thoughts that haunted me, in the halls of every memory lie the mutilated body of oppressed fear.

Those fears now seep into my perception of self. It is as though, for so long, I did not know what it meant not to be afraid. As a kid, I was fearful of the dark, scared of using the bathroom alone and sleeping in my own room, but I can reflect on the fact that fear is something I am afraid to let go of. FEAR was the thick, tar-like fog that covered the kaleidoscope of memory, an ultimate connection to the past. It felt as though that fog was a defining feature of remembering what was, what it meant to evolve.

To be a man is to understand that even through fear, strength resides. To be a man is to know that the delicate balance in every day is not defined by the things we happened to stumble upon as kids, but by the ways that we stay conscious along that journey. The narratives we choose to tell ourselves ultimately become the ones that shape our reality.

In a childhood crafted with the utmost love, fear, with its mangled, wrinkled hands, attempts to warp the version of life that I continue to better understand now—the feeling of the past, sometimes better understood in the future.

We’re all just children playing a part. “Acting” the part. Congratulate yourself. And even if the glassy eye looks upon you, in your long-forgotten truth, forgive the boy. You are he and he is you. You hold his hand through it all, or maybe he’s been here much longer than you thought. FEAR is what our spiffy education system calls a “transferable skill.” It is useful to understand and it can lay its hands on many facets of being. Maybe keeping that nugget of truth close to you will transform your soul. FEAR is only a conduit for growth. Although it burns the letters of its name on your heart, I promise that the ghosts in the corridor can’t hurt you now.

words MICHAEL ANGEE

The Kiss

There can be something degrading about looking at great art.

It’s meant to be beautiful, to evoke emotion. But it just leaves you standing in this grand hall, staring at a work that feels so empty.

Head angled to a 30-degree tilt. Looking up. Batting your eyes at the painting in wonder. You want to look like you’re in causal rapture. As if the painting before you has seduced you. You want the people around you to think you’re someone who is moved by a Rembrandt. That you can stare into the eyes of a nobleman from a 17th-century portrait and feel … something.

Art, or rather the discourse and culture around it, is moralizing. There are these expectations — these oughts. Notions of what ought to be valuable and what must be beautiful. These supposed ideals provoke the same confusion and shame which underlie all forms of desire. The idea of the artwork is former to our actual perception of it.

The beauty of art is cheapened when it becomes plagued with expectations for it to be beautiful. I believe art is erotic — I believe, essentially so. Though not in an explicit sense. I have yet to find myself in a museum. I’ve blushed at some and grimaced at others. The erotic nature of art is inherent to its capacity to move us.

Some art unabashedly seeks to be beautiful. There was no subtlety in the way it glimmered with gold. It reminded me of churches that were decorated in precious metals as testaments to their love and devotion to God. But this was honoring a different sanctity — one that celebrates our capacity to worship each other.

Gustav Klimt’s “The Kiss” is distinctly and universally considered beautiful because it conveys a simple richness. Everything about it is an effortless indulgence. The painting, covered in gold leaves, can’t help but catch your eye. Then there’s “The Kiss” itself, which appeals to what we most clearly and passionately desire — love and all expressions of it.

“The Kiss” is tied up in so many different elements: the gold, the bliss and the intense yet soft beauty of it all. The appreciation of the art closely aligns with our understanding of and desire for kissing. “The Kiss,” a kiss, is not erotic in the sexual sense of the word, but is part of a delicate complex of desire and intimacy. We are loving creatures. We are always in pursuit of satisfying some desire. Kissing is part of a much larger framework of wanting and fulfilling a need.

The calm, vulnerable ecstasy contained in “The Kiss” is a picture of desire fulfilled. When we stand before the painting, the beauty we see represents our own desire for love and intimacy — pleasure realized in oil paint, gold leaves and tender embrace.

Though “The Kiss” was considered to be pornographic at its inception,the delicate nature I admire was perceived as crass. So, we return to the same confusion: How can art evoke beauty while remaining subjective in its universality?

Is it a simple question? One that we encounter everyday? Can we say, “But of course, there is a beauty that we as individuals are personally struck by.” Isn’t that what it really is to desire someone, to fall for them? That’s why you don’t understand why your best friend falls for the same type of pretentious English major and why your roommate only brings over frat boys who want to work at Boeing. And it’s why you love both those girls regardless.

I think that in some ways, the answer is yes. Beauty is a force that moves us. It inspires us. It’s a perfection — our ideals and values are somehow caught up in the beautiful thing before us. Some desire we have is embodied and reflected back at us through that object. Thus, it must be subjective. It is situated in a larger context of what we find to be perfect. Now, that must be shaped by our culture and upbringing; these are the sorts of things we were taught to be beautiful.Our environment largely shapes our unique, shared ways of seeing the world.

But there’s something more. I believe in the shared nature of beauty. I think that while many of our desires and values look very different at the outset, there is a unity and way of making sense of them all.

words NAINA CHAUHAN

my mementos lie tucked in a drawer; my secret rebellion

The Evolution of The Closet

Diva cup in my sock drawer.

Younger me would probably think I’m a whore.

Interlaced with mementos from my youth, Lying right near my first baby tooth, Are the items harshly reminding me

That I am no longer just a baby.

I once cut my Target briefs into a thong, Since I knew my mom thought they were wrong.

Now, the memento of my rebellion lies tucked in a drawer, Surrounded by undies my mom would abhor.

I was in such a rush, wanting so badly to be old, “Enjoy your youth,” they would say, my eyes always rolled. If only I could, I’d go back and scream, Stay young. It’s not as great as it might seem!

Soccer cleats still caked with dirt, Blood-stained jeans from the college night I got hurt. They took me to the ER, but it was too late, I guess I’ll just live with this scar that I hate.

“Drinking is dangerous,” my dad always warned, I guess the best way to learn is to get yourself scorned.

Heartfelt letters spilling out of a shoebox, From friends so close, we exchanged hair locks. But their handwritten birthday cards no longer come, Generic “HBD” texts are still sent by some.

Friends who promised they would never leave, Turned to faces I see out in public and weave.

A plastic princess toy slipper

And a spill-resistant kiddie sipper, Replaced by heels meant to stomp on men

And a half-empty bottle of gin.

One night, we filled sippy cups with “adult juice,”

Thinking it was the only way to let loose.

But looking back, I don’t think I’ve felt quite as free

As when I would run around the playground yelling, “You can’t catch me!”

It’s the night before a field trip, what will I wear?

So endearing to remember how much I would care.

Pink head to toe, that’ll do the trick!

Oh no, which headband should I pick?

The events have changed, and I sure have too, But sometimes, I still dress like I’m going to the zoo.

My sweet little closet all stuffed with things, Necklaces, bracelets, earrings and rings.

Shoved deep in the corners are flaws I’d like to forget, Painful reminders of what I still regret. I try to move on, I try to move past, But mistakes always haunt you. They will always last.

Maybe I shouldn’t push little me to the side And try to replace her with ego and pride. Maybe I’m still that innocent girl, Who dreamt of a fancy closet where she could dance and twirl. Ribbons, bows, barrettes and clips, Don’t have to be thrown out for tops that barely cover my nips.

I’ll make room for it all. I don’t have to choose, My childlike wonder is not something I’ll lose.

words OLIVIA EVANS

People-Watching

In a thick cloud of smoke and lights, I’ve finally found her. Leaning against a bar stool at the far end of the room, her signature blonde updo and tinted sunglasses remain unmistakable. Her hair is twisted and fixed to sit atop the crown of her head, and her curled bangs frame her face delicately — how is it that she always manages to make something so intricate look so effortless? No doubt she also doubles her G-string as a scrunchie, just like Pamela Anderson did.

She widens her eyes, touches her fingers to her lips and shakes lightly like she always does when she laughs. I can tell it’s something the bartender said that she laughs at. I can also tell that whatever he said probably wasn’t even that funny, but she laughs anyway to make him feel better. That’s just the kind of person she is.

As she raises a small amber glass toward her, a blurred figure pans across my view and robs her of my attention: it’s him. I give him the once-over, taking in his bold choice of flared denim trousers paired with that god-awful chunky belt that sits on his hip every night. He struts over to the girl just as she finishes her shot of courage. Slamming the empty glass onto the countertop, she takes a moment to compose herself, playing with the loose golden strands coiled by her ears. When he finally enters her view, her face beams and she runs to throw her arms around him. They giggle and holler and my body is immediately overcome by jealousy and a twinge of disgust; I should be the one who excites her. How could she be so needy? Fawning over someone else — it’s embarrassing, really.

They chatter and sway their bodies to the thrum of the music, heading to the middle of the dance floor. Their hips take on lives of their own, the rest of their bodies falling in sync with the rhythm. The strobes of light slice through the darkness, hues of red and purple bouncing off the walls. Life in the room buzzes as each person moves hypnotically to the beat of the song, washed over in a sense of ecstasy.

But as always, silently and tucked away into the corner, I stand and watch.

Another friend of hers whirls in beside the two. Her ink-black hair cascades past her shoulders, the perfectly healthy ends extending to the small of her back. She brings their three faces together, printing red-stained kisses on each of their cheeks, and grins. The trio cries with joy and continues to spin and swing all night — they are beyond compare. They are pure magic, sensational and unique. They are everything that everybody else wishes to be.

I chuckle, thinking to myself, “If only everyone here knew just how ordinary they really were. Maybe then they wouldn’t be so infatuated.” But then again, I find myself back here in this dingy little college bar every Friday, just to watch and imagine what it might be like to be them for a night. So, I guess I’m not one to talk.

The night goes on until the bar’s ugly, yellow overhead lights flicker on. I take this as my sign to move outside and back into the shadows where I won’t be seen. I wait. Head down, I watch as every person makes their exit. The three eventually pass through the door, bidding the bouncers goodbye and stumbling toward the street. I hang back until they’ve made some distance and start to move once they’ve turned the corner.

I watch her, and her two friends say farewells and part ways. The boy and dark-haired girl head in one direction, and the blonde continues on to the short path toward her house — a route I’ve become familiar with over the past few months. She glances over her shoulder, shooting a look in my direction, but misses the sight of me completely. Her pace quickens as we get closer and closer to her front yard, and she sprints up the steps of her porch, works her house key into the lock and throws the door open. I hear the click of the deadbolt.

Once she’s inside and out of view, I stroll beneath a tree at the far end of the block, facing the back of her house. The light in her bedroom turns on, and I peer past the fence to spot her through her window. Exhausted, she sits on her bed and picks up a folded piece of notebook paper from her nightstand — the letter I left in her room after she’d departed for the night. Her eyes scan the page intently, holding onto every last word. She freezes when she reaches the final line, dropping the paper in her lap. Wearing a mask of horror, she looks outside, inspecting every inch of the scene before her.

She looks for me.

Issue 12 Spring 2024

In a world marked by contention and adversity, fashion emerges as more than a simple outfit. It surpasses the realm of fabric to embody an intricate interaction between inner rage and external impression. Here, texture evokes a visceral dialogue, forging a profound connection between humanity and materiality.

Frôler [verb]: to touch lightly in passing

design KEEGAN HANNAN

On Display For All

Today, I stand proudly, as I always do. My legs are inches apart, chest pushed out, chin held up, arms straight by my sides and eyes fixed ahead. My friends are around me wearing a uniform of blinding smiles and bright faces. We all stand in a line, proudly, as we always do.

But I stand slightly behind.

From this position, I can see the confidence radiating off their backs, oozing like sap from an old tree. Yet my sap is all dried and cracked — it tries to escape the cavern. It claws and bites, but to no avail.

I stand slightly behind my friends, and my chest doesn’t swell with the same vigor. All I can focus on is the air, heavy with the scent of expectation. The fluorescent lights pulsate throughout the room, making my eyes sting and burn like chlorine. The room smells of ammonia, and I can almost taste the foul hints of bleach in the back of my throat. I widen my eyes, hoping the wildfire spreading across them won’t spill down my cheeks. But I keep my smile wide, back straight and legs apart.

A young girl walks past us. She stops in place and turns toward our group in one vigorous movement, causing her pigtails to dance whimsically in the air. The ammonia vanishes and instead, the scent of apples hits my nose with her presence, souring me as she gets closer. Her dry eyes burn into my soul, and I wonder if she also feels the stinging in her chest.

There must be something wrong with me — maybe I’m defective because I stand there with wet eyes and cemented legs while my friends revel in the attention. I can see from behind how their smiles glisten at this young girl while my blood runs cold and my ears ring. I try to blend into their smiles, but my eyes betray me.

Her gaze only focuses on me, though, clouding over as she acknowledges my imperfection. A dark shadow eclipses the youthful sparkle in her eyes within an instant, dissipating the second she looks away.

It must be me.

I’m the one who takes away her sparkle because my confidence is merely a veneer, and she knows it. She stands on her tippy-toes and whispers something in my friend’s ear. Maybe she’s talking about me, telling my friend the truth. Whatever she says lights up my friend, making her beam brighter than the fluorescent lights above us. She suddenly leaves.

A few moments later, the expectant air becomes more rancid, and my fear resurfaces as a man comes into my view. I try to take a step back, but my legs are anchored down. I can hear the air conditioner whining: incessant buzzing that’s all too reminiscent of my own thoughts.

He stares me up and down, and suddenly, I’m a prey, trapped in a corner and unable to escape his scrutiny. He closes in on me and mouths something I can’t hear due to the suffocation that feels like the pressure of a sea.

The words fall indecipherable.

Is he luring me to an unknown destination?

Frozen with both fear and complicity, I mindlessly agree to his ask. He takes me in his arms and leads me away from my friends, who are there standing proud of me. They always told me with excitement that this day would come — the day I am swept away for an exciting future. Yet pride remains foreign as I’m carried off.

I wonder if it’s normal for someone to feel this much emotion. At that moment, fear hits me like a tidal wave of disgust far too big for someone my size. Suddenly, I am submerged and the water freezes over. Under the ice, I can’t move or break the ceiling. It holds me captive. There’s nothing I can do to crack it, so I do the one thing I know I can without fail: I stand proudly with a great big smile and fearful eyes.

He takes me in his arms to an unfamiliar domain. His grip on me is akin to sandpaper, rubbing roughly against my arms. The fluorescent lights shine slightly brighter, but the air is lighter here, and the buzzing from the air conditioner quiets. I can spot sunshine from the corner of my eye — or maybe I’m imagining it. A flash of red meets my eyes as he speaks to a strange woman. Our location changes, but it’s like my mind has not caught up with my body. There are no more fluorescent lights or putrid expectancy.

Or is it my eagerness to leave my proud friends?

I stand as the man cuts the ties bounding my arms and ankles. My chest swells with unbeknownst pride as the cardboard backing behind me disappears. The world clears as he removes the layer of plastic that has obstructed my view.

For how long? I’m not sure.

I lie still as he hands me to his daughter with the youthful sparkle in her eyes and bouncy pigtails. The playroom lights dim after some time and I wonder if this will be my life indefinitely — a mere object to throw around and look at, designed solely for the play of this little girl.

Was my fear a forewarning?

Today, I lie with a facade of pride, waiting for my time to come. I’ll wait. I’ll wait.

The Feeling of Everything and Nothing

Having a conversation with the person in front of you is hard enough when you’re young. You can feel how their eyes linger on yours and smell the scent of the last drop of the stale liquid they ingested on their breath. It’s even harder now. You see their lips move and you nod your head to incoherence, but really, all you catch is the fade from one thumping house track to the next. You walk away, and — what was their name again?

The number of times I’ve found refuge in the bathroom is alarming. Some guy, deeply concerned, is knocking on the door asking if I’m okay. He thinks I’m throwing up. It feels like I might. It is a cold January night, yet I’m caked in sweat from the mass of bodies packed together like sardines in a can. I look back at an unrecognizable character in the mirror with massive eyes smudged with dark eyeliner and cheeks stained cherry red from blush and the last drink. The thin piece of fabric I call a top is stuck to my skin, waiting to be ripped off like a week-old bandaid, yet I re-adjust it before returning to battle. Maybe if I do it just right, the guy behind the door will stop to look for just a second longer. I’m alone in that bathroom for a moment. The knocking gets louder and louder until it seems to match the steady bass of the song everyone is slurring the words to. The voice on the other side is less understanding now, coaxing me to come out. So, I swing the door open to the sickly scent of artificial fruit and the haze of neon lights mingling with smoke.

Everything is a little blurry now. I look down at my white shoes, stained brown with what I hope is not the vomit covering the corner of the kitchen. Is that what I smell? The drink I’m holding could be my third or my fifth; they all have the same underlying burning taste of pressure. I want to go home, but which way is it? I am trapped in the middle of this tiny house that, at the moment, seems larger than anywhere else. It is too dark and too bright, and nobody stops to ask if you are really okay except for when they need to use the bathroom or want to see what they can get from you, but I can’t even hear what they’re saying, so I just pretend I do and nothing ever stops, I just want everything to STOP.

Finally, I find my friend in this jumbled puzzle where I am just an extra piece. No one would really notice if I left, except her. My friend. I reach out my hand to touch her warm shoulder, feeling the heat radiate through every bone in my body. She turns around, and I flinch as my heart jumps into my throat. Some guy is all over her, her warmth mixed with his. I am filled both with dejection and envy. That guy may only want one thing, but at least he wants something. Her mouth brushes my ear to yell the only words I have actually heard all night: “I’m going home with him. You’ll be able to get home – right?” Right.

Once again, I’m alone, surrounded by everyone and no one, feeling everything and nothing. I want to go home, but I know the numbness of the cold air will feel worse than that of another shot.

It turns out it is not so hot, loud or bright in the real world. It’s an endless walk back to my apartment, but I’m greedy for the taste of fresh air in my lungs. My vision is focused on the peripheral, blurred street lights and “closed” signs. My throat burns like a raging fire waiting to be released, but when I open it to speak, nothing comes out. If a sad girl on a dark street cries out and no one is around to hear her, does she still make a sound? The only thing I can feel now is the eyes of strange men crawling up the back of my legs, picking me apart like their next meal. Now I remember why I went out tonight in the first place. To feel seen, to feel wanted … but it doesn’t feel like I thought it would. With the freezing air creeping down my shirt and the smell of cigarette smoke curling through my hair, I feel childlike, fearful of growing up. I notice the ache of my feet through my shoes, and suddenly, there is another pair of footsteps trudging in unison behind me. They are getting faster. It is getting darker. I am beginning to feel again. Fear. I start to run until I find the first place I see with those god-damn lights.

Here I am again, in the middle of a club filled with people who share one commonality: the desire to feel nothing. When you feel nothing, you are more loose and free. The things that once terrified you start to seem less scary. I am free. Safe. When the next song plays, I follow my feet to the dance floor and allow myself to be protected by the bodies brushing against one another. I am dancing alone until I am dancing with them, and then dancing with him. I feel the softness in his touch, so when he offers to take me home, I oblige.

As we continue the trek back, he asks me, “How do you feel?” I feel everything … I made it out alive, holding a nice boy’s hand. The signs are clearer now. The street lights are rich shades of green and red. He wraps his arm around my waist, and I now have a shield protecting me from the world. Approaching my apartment, I feel his grip around my waist tighten. Suddenly, the safety I had cultivated turns to anxiety. He looks in my eyes and I can see the hunger lurking. But, it’s cold outside and I am hungry too. So, I lead him through the door to my apartment’s bright, warm lobby and, once again, the feeling of everything turns to the feeling of nothing.

The Texture of Affection

Descriptions define me. I type the days away and try to make people think or feel something new. Today is no different, except that today, I have been tasked with illustrating the people in my life. I can tell you that Anna is beautiful and that Sara is sarcastic, but I’m finding that words simply don’t do them justice. My most important people, and I’m sure yours too, are far more than words. They are feelings; textures and senses that carry memory.

Emma feels like wearing a soaking wet dress. Like smeared makeup and ruined hair on a hot summer night. Like a sunset with all of your best friends. It’s a moment so fun and so liberating that you abandon all responsibility and just start running. Running as fast as possible and laughing as loud as your body knows how. Feet pounding on a rickety dock. You throw all of your worries to the wind and jump into a lake fully clothed. Then suddenly you are all drenched, warm, happy and peaceful. Floating in the water with your dress clinging to your skin, your life is suddenly in balance. She’s the dress that always sticks to your side and that you never want to take off because it was a part of life’s best moments. When you have felt this, you have felt what it is like to know Emma.

Not everyone is as lucky as I am to experience that feeling in their lifetime.

Jasmine, my dear friend, is a bit more of a familiar feeling. Watching Jazzy go through life is like watching your hair fall onto the floor as your stylist snips it away. The anticipation to see how everything is about to turn out lands somewhere between unbearable and exhilarating. Blowing that one too-long-looking chunk of itchy hair off your shoulder and pretending like you didn’t see it. Holding your breath until your chair is turned toward the mirror and seeing a haircut better than you could have imagined. She is transformative and rejuvenating. Being with Jasmine is like a weight off of your shoulders. She’s ever-changing in scary and beautiful ways. Once she’s going, you just can’t stop her.

Sara and Rylee are two parts of an outfit that looks fabulous for no reason. Sara is like a crazy patterned, flowy skirt that you never stop getting compliments on. Rylee is the top you borrowed from a friend and never gave back because it fits you like a glove. Both pieces hug you tight in all the right places. You’re always flattered. It’s an outfit that would never work on paper but makes you feel better than you ever have before. They are the outfits you wear when you know it’s about to be a good night.

Nick feels like rain during a drought. Like you’ve been waiting forever for a sprinkle and instead, you got a storm. You could get cozy while the rain taps on your window and let the rhythm put you to sleep. But you’d rather rush outside and feel the droplets on your parched skin. It’s the long-awaited embrace of nature herself. He’s like the rain that washes away all of the dirt and grime. It’s being clean and feeling alive in a way you’ve never experienced before.

Annie is the sweetness in a perfect strawberry after a day at the pool. Anna feels like a big kiss on the cheek from your grandma that leaves lipstick all over your face. Madi is like holding your friend’s calloused hand and running for your life after ding-dong ditching a neighbor. My parents feel like the comfort of an old carpet when you lie on the floor instead of a couch, just because.

I could do this all day, but I digress.

No matter how eloquently I try to articulate it, words will always fall short of conveying the richness of my relationships. They simply transcend language. It’s the textures of our shared moments, the feelings of warmth, laughter, and understanding, that paint a more vivid picture of who they are.

words GINGER KOEHLER

Featuring cover model Isabel Cheng, our Issue 12 Archive delves into a provocative elegance. By dissecting the intricate details of Strike’s definitive image — the cover — we meticulously explore the essence of our brand identity with the utmost care and attention.

ISABEL CHENG makeup ALEXA MILLER, JENA POORMAN fashion KEEGAN HANNAN assist. NICOLE TORRES photography GRACE BARNEY

ALEXA MILLER, JENA POORMAN fashion KEEGAN HANNAN assist. NICOLE TORRES photography GRACE BARNEY

Part of You

Golden rays of the spring flashed the silver metal that tore through his hair. I was seduced by the vascularity of his hands and the way his bracelets fell from his forearm to his wrist with every gesture. Baggy sweats draped effortlessly over his leather-crafted sneakers as he whipped around, revealing everything else I craved to see.

Supported by a soft grin, he glanced at his phone nonchalantly. Several entangled chains draped over his loose-knit sweater, swaying as he fell against the bar. A thin byzantine cord led the clutter down his torso, with a pendant indenting his shirt just above the shadow of his abs. The jewelry that decorated him elevated his lean persona to a great stature, regardless of whether or not his silhouette could resemble a trash bag. But the way it all fell. The way his smooth arms and lengthy fingers were all dominated by metal. It all felt so effortless. The minimalism, his soft swagger and even the way the air vent rustled his locks. I was entranced, but not by his charming demeanor. The details – the accessories and the hint of smooth physical charisma – make him the boy from the coffee shop etched in the forefront of my memory.

In the summer, the yellowed pages of my book received little attention as sweat dripped down my clavicle and stained their hue. Hundreds of meters from the nearest boardwalk and dominated by the crash of water onto the rocks, the energy of the unknown trickled through the cushion of my headphones. The distraction prompted my focus to shift to a new figure. A girl not too far from my age had set up her temporary home just to my left.

Her green crochet tote spilled an unlabeled sunscreen, a ripe blood orange and a micro handbag with a logo I can recall too well. White acrylic lenses sat just below the bridge of her nose as she twiddled the gold ‘V’ pendant that hung at her breasts. The electric yellow one-piece suit captured a spotlight that beamed from my gaze, one that had no desire for anything but her fervor. It was complemented well by a ruby gemstone that attached a thin bracelet to five supporting chains, stringing a web that connected each of her fingers. Her cacao-colored nails — clearly manicured within the past 48 hours — were reflective enough to indicate their perfection. A rounded bubble popped as she posed for a selfie, pursing her lips and batting her eyes with such ease.

As she returned from the water, sand encrusted the lower portion of her body and her brown curtain bangs were replaced by a dark wet curl. She carried a thin chain that once adorned a foolproof updo, now repurposed to accessorize the sway in her walk.

I envied women. Unnaturally, of course. The way curves saturate their step with confidence. How deep they can take their zealousness without conforming to the offputting and demeaning standard men adhere to.

Thrashing back onto her towel, she rejected any sense of balance or desire to flaunt. It was just her. In a brief 15 minutes, she showed an abandonment of expectation. While the intricacies that aided in this woman’s finesse were not alien, they created a character I knew I could never achieve. So I stick to the little things: the texture, the color, the sense of rejection. This is what I will remember. She is the girl from the beach with the presence I ache for.

Every winter, I return to the cottage in the forest with my mom. The North Carolina hillsides see few faces aside from us this time of year, amplifying my hunger for interaction.

I hiked to the lodge on the mountain and set up my journal fireside with a warm cup of joe. On the oxblood couch to my right, a quiet figure broke my concentration.

I thought he was an old soul reading the Independent Tribune until he unveiled a laptop and an electric pencil that he poked at a supporting screen. His futurism startled me, yet made my own youth feel at home. Only minutes into his work was he able to capture my undivided attention.

The man took off his inner fleece, revealing a spectrum of detailed, hand-drawn tattoos covering both arms. I imagined how they would look in other places, but it was how his arms leaned on the leather and contrasted against the fire’s embers that entranced me. Looking past his scruff and the metallic glasses that framed his face with maturity, I was able to analyze the stark difference between us. Putting aside our physical similarities, he utilized permanent adornments to project his identity. It was dominant and unyielding, with a story told by pictures and glyphs running down his upper limbs.

I judged the bareness of my skin. It was mundane. But his. Provocative, assertive, exotic. It was just a detail — only a part of him — that exuded a fresh identity. He was just the man from the lodge, but also the man with the inked veins I desired.

Winter has passed and I’m 22 now. My memory is defined by more disorder than ever. There are too many important things to remember and a concentration on everything that isn’t. The rings and chains. The strut and wavy hair. The tattoos and the veins. Those are the details that keep me full and yearning for life.

These details, what I have learned, are not just a daily operation to those that wear them but a token of infatuation to another. When a ring lies tattered on a side table at the end of the night, another is gripped and prodded until the moment of slumber. When an off-putting color gets traded out for a trendy hue every two weeks, its memory lives in the espresso-shaded sconce on the wall. And when a tattoo gets buzzed off for replacement due to a lack of space, its impression metamorphosizes into a small stamp on the tricep of its admirer.

Details are transformative. They are the key to identity and are the malleable parts of us all. They can become suffocating or distant, yet carry a reason for attainability. It’s how we see another’s fingers tap aggressively at their keyboard from across the room using nothing but muscle memory, and how their worshiper will focus on each of their shifts or commands because of the delicacy of their rings that clink at every motion.

It is one of life’s challenges to craft a character. But that is where infatuation and desire kick in. I had a byzantine chain roped in sweat around my neck at the beach. I had a red ruby stone forged into a gold ring bed and stuck onto my pointer finger as I journeyed to the lodge. And now I undergo the pain of ink that seeps into my skin, poisoning my blood due to the memory of a stranger.

It’s pieces of them, but now it’s all of me.

From The Editor-in-Chief

To my Strike community,

I am consumed with the greatest honor, pride and gratitude as I reflect on my Strike experience and write this letter. While this issue and my final bow to Strike Magazine Gainesville is a testament to hard work, tremendous passion and unwavering appreciation for this creative craft, I could not express these emotions without a tribute to the journey that led me to feel this joy.

When I joined the Strike team as an Issue 05 Content Assistant, I was unaware of how significant this publication would impact me. My first-ever Strike photoshoot in October of 2020 was a momentous occasion I will never forget; it served as the catalyst I needed to recognize my calling: an immersion into the spirit of this magazine. Over the past four years, I have made sure to honor that moment.

In all respects of my time with Strike Magazine Gainesville, I have seen others experience this same enlightenment. This publication, founded in 2018, has grown to cultivate the most supportive and dynamic community. I can confidently say that this experience has had the most life-changing impact on my identity as a leader, professional, creative, student, teacher and friend. With this, I am forever grateful for the foundation my predecessors laid for me and for many other driven professionals to find their calling.

While Strike Magazine works to provide its student-run staff with a 360-degree pre-professional immersion into the art of fashion editorial, I have witnessed and experienced the beautiful impact creativity can have on identity. Being a part of the transformation of radical thought into effervescent, tangible art has been the most exciting experience of my life. With this, I would like to thank every single one of my previous team members, directors, staff and editors who have appreciated my contributions, made me feel valued and have had trust in my vision; this care has metamorphosized into the most special pages I will ever turn. While my time partaking in this craft comes to a close, my memories and the passion all of my teams have applied to Strike Magazine Gainesville will last forever.

As I offer tremendous appreciation and gratitude to the magazine that has made me into who I am today, I could not move forward without thanking the people who have made this experience all the more meaningful. I am eternally grateful to my current Creative Director, Keegan Hannan, and External Affairs Director, Isa De Miguel for their trust, diligence, passion and loyalty. I can never tangibly express my gratitude for these individuals who cared for my vision and leadership with such kindness. Their commitment to helping me build and expand the Strike community through tireless work and support has made creating Issues 11 and 12 the most unforgettable experience. To my predecessor Erin Hu, thank you for your mentorship, guidance and support. I am grateful for what you and my past editors have built for us, and I am excited to watch our legacies live on together. To my Assistant Editor-in-Chief Denisa Fluturas, I value and thank you for the care and great vigor you embody, which has promised a beautiful spirit to our Strike staff. To my friends and family, thank you for accepting my sacrifice for this commitment and your willingness to support me every step of the way. Your love radiates through my creativity in every issue; I don’t think I would have succeeded without our relationships’ support. Finally, thank you to my Gainesville staff and the network of talented Editor-in-Chiefs across the country, led by Strike Magazine Chief Executive Advisor Emma Oleck. All of your wisdom, thoughtfulness and appreciation have built this craft into what it is today.

From time and time again, Strike has illuminated my personality. It has fueled my mind’s cogs for four years and taught me how to thrive. From generating production ideas at the start of my journey, finding my vision as Assistant Creative Director to embodying what it means to be a striking leader in my year as Editor-in-Chief, I am confident that this involvement has revolutionized my identity.

Before I open a new chapter, I will leave Strike Magazine Gainesville with pride. It has been the greatest pleasure to carry along the legacy of so many Strike greats that have come before me, but now it is time I leave my final mark. I am certain that this staff and community will flourish for many issues to come. With that, I am excited to see the tremendous impact this publication has on so many more talented people. I am the most proud. Strike, thank you for everything.

Strike Out,

Jacob Wall

From The External Affairs Director

Reflecting on who I was three years ago when I first stumbled upon Strike, I was lost, unsure of where my passions lay or my future might lead. But let me tell you, joining Strike has been like stepping into a whirlwind of transformation. It’s been more than just joining a publication — it’s been a journey of self-discovery that’s changed me in ways I never could have imagined. Strike has become my rock, and I owe so much of who I am today to the incredible people and experiences I’ve encountered here.

I joined Strike’s staff during my sophomore year, starting as a Sales Assistant for Issue 07. From the outset, the Strike community welcomed me with open arms. The passion and dedication I saw in everyone I met was inspiring. I immediately knew that Strike was a community I wanted to be a part of for the remainder of my collegiate career.

I want to extend my heartfelt gratitude to the editor board — Jacob Wall, Keegan Hannan, Denisa Fluturas, Nicole Torres and Sophia Johns — for their unwavering support, dedication and commitment to this publication. Each of you has played an immeasurable role in shaping my experience at Strike, and I am grateful to have worked alongside such remarkable individuals.

To our Editor-in-Chief Jacob Wall, I am endlessly thankful for your leadership, creative vision and guidance. Throughout my time at Strike, I have always looked up to you, and working with you has surpassed all my expectations. Your mentorship has been invaluable, and I’ve learned so much from you, even when you may not have realized it. You put your love and passion for this publication above all else. Your potential for greatness is evident, and it’s been an honor not only to collaborate professionally but also to consider you a friend.

To Creative Director Keegan Hannan, your boundless creativity and infectious positive energy have been a constant source of inspiration. I’m deeply grateful for your support and honored to have witnessed your creativity flourish and to see our shared vision come to life under your direction. I am so thankful for the dynamic you, Jacob and I shared, and working with you both has been a pleasure.

To Assistant External Affairs Director Sophia Johns, thank you for being my right-hand person and for your valuable assistance in leading my last semester. I could not have succeeded in my role without you. You bring such a light and lively presence to the external teams, making every day a joy to work with you. Thank you for gracefully stepping into this role and always leading with kindness. Watching you grow over the past semester has made me feel so proud to have witnessed your journey and your potential for the future.

To my external teams, you are the heartbeat of my experience. Thank you for embracing my leadership and demonstrating receptivity to my ideas. Leading and collaborating with you has been inspiring and rewarding, leaving me in awe of your hard work, passion and dedication. I couldn’t be prouder of each and every one of you.

To all of those amazing, striking individuals who came before me, I am so thankful for your creative vision and for providing a foundation for years to follow. I am grateful to Erin Hu and Lauren Casole for their passion, leadership and example. You both provided a solid foundation for leading the chapter with kindness and sharing your love for this publication.

I am thankful to the staff across all editorial, creative and external teams for all the relationships I have formed with the passionate individuals who make up this organization. Every conversation I’ve shared with each of you will not be forgotten. Your consistent passion and dedication do not go unnoticed, and I am deeply grateful for your profound impact on me and the chapter.

In closing, I sincerely thank Strike for the countless opportunities, friendships and memories I will cherish for years to come. While my time with Strike may be coming to an end, I am excited to see where the future takes this publication and will continue to cheer from the sidelines.

Dillard’s Campus Collective

SHOP AT DILLARD’S

GAINESVILLE LOCATION: 6495 W NEWBERRY RD (OAKS MALL )

Models & Partners

Models

Ashton Adkins

Fred Anduze

Joey Anhorn

Jacob Barrera

Tabitha Bishop

Isabel Cheng

Zoe Chu

Gabi Donati

Ryan Esterás Escobar

Lina Filkin

Cade Guerrero-Miranda

Amy Heaton

Elijah Holbrook

Shane Intihar

Abbey James

Maggie James

Recquel James

Aïta Koundé

Megan Laffey

Aishani Koyel Lahiri

Rebecca Martin

Samuel Mason

Krish Parikh

Hailey Poorman

Ash Ritz

Victoria Skervin

Alexis Smith

Isabella Souto

Alvin Tuma

Juliana Velásquez

Benjamin Wilson

Partners

Riley Blair

Thank you to our Issue 12 contributors.

Contributors

design JACKSON ASBELL