Stuffed Glory

April 18, 2024

BANG! Plop. The rustle of careful steps.. John James Audubon was not on a typical nature walk here. Ecotourism was not his thing, nor was it a thing in general back in 1820. Carrying out a specific self-assigned mission, he bent over to pick up his prize—a feathered, now lifeless, body that was so full of fluttering motion just a second ago. He was still in Mississippi, behind schedule. If only he could remember where he put that knife, he could hurry up and move on to the next specimen… Eighty-two years later, President Teddy Roosevelt was racing through a similar setting, a forest in Mississippi in fact, on his own hunting trip. Led by his assistant, he made it to a small clearing where his companions had prepared a black bear cub for him, tied to a willow tree. All he had to do was point and shoot, but there was no BANG! only The rustle of careful steps.. as the big game hunter turned around to leave, refusing to partake in such unsportsmanship. Finally, John found his knife hanging from a nearby tree trunk, and not wasting any time, he applied it to the laid-out body, making a clean incision on the equator of the stomach and skinning the corpse with just a few waves of his knife. He then cautiously transferred the fragile skin with all the plumage intact to a hanger, where three more sheets of feathers were already tanning. And without any hesitation, he took up his rifle and set off again to find his next target flying about or perching on a high branch. While Teddy was on his hunting excursion in the woods of Mississippi, the Michtoms were busy making a living in Brooklyn as Russian Jewish immigrants. Having closed their modest candy store for the day, Rose opened up her sewing kit to start her other work while Morris was busy calculating their sales and supplies. Carefully cutting up a piece of fabric with her scissors, Rose stuffed it with wood wool and meticulously sewed up the edges with her crooked needle and trusty thread. Shaping the stuffing as she went, she gave form to the stuffed toy. She skillfully guided the needle to this end, until finally she closed up the last gap between the two flaps of cloth and trimmed off the excess edges. The result: one more toy to sell tomorrow at the store which meant a few dollars closer to managing without debt. Satisfied with the number of skins he had amassed, John started taking them down from the hanger, one by one, and stuffed them with various materials. He used wire to position them into stances that could be found in nature, using images from his photographic memory as a reference. After capturing his figurines in still, live action, John took out his pencil and paper and started sketching their silhouettes. He applied layers of watercolor on top for details, using various colors to add texture to the feathers and shadows to portray depth and motion in their twisting bodies. And with the perfection of the eye, the work was complete; the bird was resurrected onto the paper. Returning to the White House with no kill record, Teddy closed his eyes for a moment before he resumed his duties as President of the United States of America. He would have to forget the embarrassment of the unsuccessful five-day bear hunt to progress through the dense list of tasks awaiting him. What he did not know was that Clifford Berryman, the most popular political cartoonist of the times, was already at work depicting the bear cub incident after hearing from the Washington Post journalist that accompanied the hunting party. Employing his typical style, Clifford took his black ink pen to sketch out a macho Teddy Roosevelt with lowered gun and raised hand, rejecting the confused hunter holding a frightened bear cub on a leash. Soon, the story would sweep across the nation, telling the tale of a heroic and compassionate leader. By now, John had quite an impressive collection of watercolor paintings, all life-size depictions of course. He sacrificed a stable life as the son of a wealthy businessman and time home with his family to focus on this project he named, The Birds of America. Six years later, after miles of expeditions and years of searching for a publisher, one of the greatest picture books of all time would be printed under his name in Europe, with 435 aquatints of his paintings and worth $2 million in today’s value to print a single copy of. Among the species depicted were 23 new species of birds and 12 subspecies, and his immense volume of behavioral observations would be passed on later in the scientific community. His name would be engraved into American history as one of the most famous ornithologists and artists to have ever lived, and a crucial wildlife conservationist group would be named after him, the National Audubon Society. All this, the product of thousands of sacrificed bodies. Spreading as speedily as the word of the times allowed, Teddy’s story made it into the ears of Morris Michtom who was inspired to formulate a way to honor the story’s protagonist. He relayed his idea to Rose who in agreement manifested the idea into reality in the form of a stuffed bear toy. Soon, Teddy would receive a letter asking for permission to use his name for the first toy of its kind, a plush bear cub, which he granted of course, not thinking much of it. What he did not foresee was the exponential growth in the demand for the “Teddy’s Bear,” so much to the point that the Michtom couple would sell their candy shop to start the Ideal Toy Company which was worth $71 million when it joined the New York Stock Exchange in 1971. His name would be popularized internationally as the Teddy Bear made its way into homes around the world, and the Republican Party would make it its symbol for the campaign of incumbent Teddy Roosevelt in the 1904 presidential election. In the spirit of this American ethic, President Teddy would establish 150 national forests and 51 federal bird reserves during his term, and today, millions of children across the globe lie in bed cuddling a stuffed bear in their arms to sleep. This is the toy made in honor of the President who slaughtered, for sport, thousands of beasts on some hunting trips to Africa.

Folk Songs and Cinnamon Eyes

Louis Boyang

April 5, 2024

Her skin is porcelain. Her veins paint their china ink across her chest. Her nails sometimes bend a little too much. They’re a little too tenuous, the way a feather’s graze can split them in two. Her hazel hair lies in wisps and sits in its knotted cumuli. We whisper to each other sometimes. A hushed breath. Words hidden behind a frigid gust. She’s as righteous as they come. Valiant and inexplicably kind, a sort of warm fuzzy kindness that I want to be too. I wonder if I can taste colors like she does. She tells me I'm a rich amber, but I don’t think a boy too obsessed with his own insecurities can be such a pretty hue. Her stomach sinks its canines into itself. A constant hum. But sometimes that hum turned into a screech, a brief moment too similar to eternity. Fangs who shred and tear worse than hell could ever. She keeps herself caged, locked deep within pitch black caverns; locked behind door after door. I imagine it’s lonely down there, among the heaps and valleys of drowned carcasses of her thoughts. I told her that she shouldn’t tuck them away. Maybe then she wouldn’t be a thousand miles from reality. Once, I told her that nothing is worse than death. That I’d rather suffer eternal pain, as if I could know eternal pain, like I could ever brush my fingers across what she has to feel. She told me a year later that it had split open a freshly sown wound, spilt blood that I never realized was spilt. I can’t say I cared too much either back then. I think I care too much now. We’re more intertwined than either of us have ever been with anyone. But I wonder if it might be because I heard that her 90 could be shrunk to 48, and that her porcelain skin, chronic pain, pinched nose, could mean she’s one in ten thousand. That chasm will deepen, maybe make a pit inescapably deep. I don’t think I should tell her. I don’t think I can.

Notes on Translation

Razan Haweizy

April 5, 2024

“agricolae servōs labōrāre in agīs iubent.”1In silence, the words rose monumentally on the page, bearing the weight of centuries. Sixteen sentences stood in formation as if awaiting understanding. My cursor wandered as my finger moved it to the top right corner of the screen, revealing the hour: 1:00 AM. Blended dialogues and translations pounded my ears and the glow of the screen contracted my pupils. I abandoned the Latin, defying reason, to an elusive muse, nameless. “Servi in agros ierunt.”2A lone bench beckoned me and the leaves cracked under my shoes, retaliating against the rough embrace of my soles. As I sat, nature’s whispers graced my ears – the scampering of a lone bunny, the distant wails of an ambulance rushing through the streets, the laughter of two friends under the impression that they were alone. They could’ve been childhood friends catching up or maybe they bonded over the shared struggles of keeping up with the relentless demands of existence. Maybe they weren’t friends at all and just happened to bump into each other. I could hardly find ‘silence’ in its true form. “Cum laborabant, formicae viderunt.”3On the handle of my chair I spotted an ant. Miniscule and insignificant. Traveling to the very edge of my armrest. A particular evil I have carried within me is my almost natural instinct to kill. To kill ants. Usually “ants,” but this one seemed lonely. I can’t quite pinpoint when this habit developed, but it now feels weird. Ants are a family of insects belonging to “Formicidae,” and ants are further categorized into groups that each serve a function within the family. Latin is commonly used to classify organisms, mostly because it is a dead language, so it cannot change. Stillness. The ultimate human desire. And this desire to never change may have been my greatest source of agony.Their tiny legs scurry them along, looking for food. They lay little eggs, and smaller ants emerge. They dig and dig and dig little holes that only they can fit into. They pace, armed, in front of their colony. Entitlement. A legal right or just claim to do, receive, or possess something. Is a person ever entitled to another? Was I ever entitled to killing those ants? I’m not so sure anymore.They knew they weren’t entitled to me, harbored no claim, but sometimes I wonder if they didn’t. Belief is too ambiguous, I knew they didn’t. Yet as the ant made its way across the armrest, I started contemplating not killing it. The automated act of murder was replaced by something that resembled sympathy. At that moment, sitting alone on that bench with my legs raised to my chest, I felt the weight of being small. Maybe the ant didn’t realize its vulnerability. It didn’t realize that all it took was a single flick, a whisper of pressure. It didn’t realize its fragility. No one does. Fragilitas. The quality of being fragile or easily broken; hence, liability to be damaged or destroyed, weakness, delicacy. I believe I am not fragile until I catch a whiff of the vanilla scented reed diffuser. I was small. I was lost. I was just a girl. I could not survive on my own. I was a girl with opinions. Opinions were wrong. I was a girl who pursued too much. Also wrong. I was a girl who didn’t understand. I was a girl who was naive. I was a girl who knew nothing about anything. I was stubborn. I was complicating my life for no good reason. I was a girl. And I remember realizing that things were going to be different.“Formicas quidem miserae erant.”4Different. In the way they spoke to me, as though we were no longer bound by the definition of “Filia,” “Mater,” “Pater,” the words fading into obscurity. Different. In the way I felt the judgemental eyes that watched over me my whole life, almost protectively, start to shut. The eyes that were not mine before, that were theirs, that depicted me as weird, strange, helpless, disobedient, unnatural, unlovable, inappropriate. Those eyes that one day became mine through which I watched myself. “Servi formicae in agro necaverunt.”5As the wind intensifies, and the night grows colder, I start to accept the ant. It was never waiting for me, yet I imposed so much on it. It might die soon enough, and I’ll forget about it. Its family has probably already forgotten about it. And although its classification might never change, and neither will the human desire to kill ants, I feel like I can mold out of myself.‍‍‍1The farmers order the slaves to work in the fields.2The slaves went into the fields.3When they were working, they saw the ants.4The ants were indeed miserable.5The slaves killed the ants in the field.‍

Fourth of July

Luca Suarez

March 15, 2024

The first rocket exploded right above my bedroom window. There was a blinding flash and a shrill, piercing scream as it soared over the abandoned church next door and past the rusty red fire escape. It screeched and hissed and burst into a shower of sparks that rained down on earth like fiery teardrops and shook the bones of the house and made the walls shiver. I pressed my nose against the glass, feeling its cool, clammy surface on my skin, straining my neck towards the night sky to catch a glimpse of the shimmering lights and the roaring thunder. Another rocket screams out, and then two more. Hellfire shatters the stillness, tears it apart, rips it in half, illuminates the neighborhood with flames, leaves smoky mist in its wake. The world of darkness briefly ignites, shadows stretch across lamp-lit streets for an instant before fading back into oblivion, then reignite once more and make the air shiver with shrieks. The seconds turn into minutes, into hours, into days. The night never ends, and the screams never cease. And then it’s over and the razor-sharp sting of gunpowder and sulfur is left lingering in the air and the city reclaims its domain under a blanket of silence. And I look past the concrete and the rubble and see Prometheus carrying fire, sprinting in the streets barefoot with dreads fluttering like flags, flying through the ghetto on winged steps with wailing sirens not far behind. And then the sounds and smells of the city float back into the summer air like dandelions kisses drifting softly on a breeze, filling my room with the sound of car alarms ringing like delayed harbingers forseeing the past, the cry of babies bawling for a return to rest, the howl of dogs barking at invisible invaders. The sky is full, and the air is alive. Somewhere in the distance, laughter can be heard.

A Moose, a Cake, and Unseen Eyes

Luca Suarez

March 15, 2024

The bottom of my jaw rumbles like a bony jackhammer as I press it against the car window, a feeble attempt to merge with its glassy surface and disappear forever. For an eight-year-old boy, a four-hour car ride feels like an eternity. One can only be entertained by the twin LED screens of a Nintendo DS for so long before the inevitable queasiness of boredom and car sickness sets in. I struggle to unglue my rear end from the fossilized layer of gum, wax, and candy covering my seat while my brother snores nearby. The radio rings out incoherent chimes, and a blurry sign whizzing past informs me that we have just entered Queensbury, NY. I sigh and lean back onto my sticky throne, drumming impatiently on the transparent walls that imprison my hyperactive nerves. But eventually, the car stops, the bags unload, and the doors of childhood paradise slide open with a shuddering squeak. Our luggage glides soundlessly across the musty brown carpeting, eternally damp from the sweat and spilled drinks of a thousand squealing children. A stout old porter with a voice like sandpaper leads us past the lobby’s yellowing walls, which are covered in a thin layer of grime with the same consistency as a smoker’s lungs. As he points out the bathroom and the entrance to the lockers, a tumultuous battle between stale cigarettes and overpowering chlorine rages on in my nostrils. Nearby, the arcade glows in bright neon sin, tempting me with the promise of expired candy, plastic toys, and useless trinkets. While my parents argue loudly with the woman at the front desk, I initiate a staring contest with the faux moose head mounted above the seedy gift shop selling shot glasses adorned with cartoon critters and hoodies marred by gaudy designs. I try to peer past the moose’s hollow ping-pong eyes and see beyond the peeling walls and the humming lights, past the hotel’s decrepit shell and my mother’s exasperated sigh. Welcome to The Great Escape Lodge. It wasn’t really my idea, anyways. In fact, I would have much rather preferred to be spending my time with friends in New York instead of staring at phony taxidermy. But my mother had insisted that we “do something special” for the occasion, and thus my protests fell on deaf ears as we piled into our Honda Pilot and set off for the third largest indoor waterpark in New York State. Sitting just outside the Adirondacks (yet still “Adirondack-themed”), The Great Escape Lodge opened in 2006 as Six Flag’s second venture into the resort business. The hotel was greeted by to minimal fanfare and mediocre reviews, boasting a number of second-rate amenities and poorly-aged attractions like “Tak-it-Eesi-Creek” and “Tip-A-Kanu-Beach”. There were greasy fast food restaurants, subpar spas, moldy sports bars, and some kind of strange indoor hiking trail that was just a single carpeted hallway with trees painted on the walls. But the real star of the show was the state-of-the-art water park inside, which featured over 16 waterslides, a lazy river, and a comically large bucket that groaned and tipped over every 30 minutes, drowning anyone nearby in a deafening roar of ice cold water. I watched it empty its contents onto a group of unlucky guests through the sliding glass doors that separated the dingy hotel from its artificial Arcadia. My mother turns to me with approval shining in her eyes. “Isn’t this fun?”, she pleads. I shrug apathetically. The bucket apparatus sat atop a nest of pipes and girders that looked one loose screw away from a million-dollar lawsuit. A tangled mess of metal tubes spiraled out of its steeple and snaked down its sides like the brightly colored intestines of a dying animal. Children spewed out from under its limbs like hornets from a nest, howling maniacally as their pudgy feet slapped against the wet concrete floor. I grimace at the sight of the swimsuit-clad horde and try not to think about how much urine was currently stewing in those pools. Instead, I turn my attention to the Family Agenda PowerPoint Presentation, which had pinged my inbox a few minutes prior. My mother’s greatest passion in life is not going on vacation, but rather the delicate art of planning it far in advance. She finds solace in spreadsheets, spends weeks spinning webs of numbers and codes, until it all fell neatly into place and produced the illusion of ease. Our only glimpse into the full extent of her plans was the Family Agenda, a detailed catalog of events, dates, and dinners that was expected to be reviewed prior to the Morning Debrief. I never truly understood why she would do it. Why would she torture herself with self-imposed deadlines and color-coded calendars on her breaks when her job already demanded the same level of organization on a daily basis? My eight-year-old logic concluded it was the same degree of adult madness that forced me to make my bed every morning, or made me talk to my grandma when I couldn’t understand Spanish. I skim the itinerary as the porter guides us through the carpeted labyrinth to our room, his aching lungs wheezing like a broken accordion under the weight of our luggage. The door to Room 313 demands three incorrect key card swipes and a violent tug on the handle before shuddering open, and we are greeted by a tiny motel room stocked with cardboard couches and styrofoam beds. A painting of an unidentifiable landscape hangs on the wall, a smoke alarm lets out a shrill shriek, and a folded greeting card on the counter hopes that we enjoy our stay. My mother beams proudly as my brother approaches the pièce de résistance of her grand scheme, a tiny indoor shack covered with cheerful woodland creatures that takes up half of the room’s square footage. Included in the “Klub Moose Suite” package, it features a pair of bunk beds that are practically touching the popcorn ceiling and a small outdated television that buzzes with static electricity and minor radiation. My mother turns to me with a smile on her face as I stare at the inside of the closet-sized cabin and begin unpacking my bags. “Well, what do you think of your surprise? Isn’t it awesome?”, she chirps as I meticulously place my stuffed animals in the correct order on the bottom bunk. I shrug in response. “Are you excited for your presents? We can open them now if you want”. I focus on adjusting the sitting position of Baxter the Bear instead of responding to her question. A murky yellow silence hangs above us in the air. Her smile cracks slightly on the edges like a porcelain doll, and I wonder if this is what I want to be doing to my mom. She steps out of the wooden mockery and walks over to my dad, who whispers something to her that I pretend not to hear. I follow her out of the cabin and into the room. The TV is stuck on the hotel channel, cycling through an infinite loop of families plunging down innertubes and splashing happily in the water on loop. My mother has a strained expression on her face instead of a joyful one. Her voice is shaky but stern, her lips tightly pursed. “I know this isn’t what you wanted for your birthday. I know you’re tired and cranky from the drive. But don’t ruin this vacation for everyone else. At least pull it together for the next three days and try to make the best of it, okay?” I feel bile boiling in the back of my throat. A million burning thoughts rush through my head and obscure my vision. But I swallow my pride and nod. “Yeah, it’s alright”, I murmur. “Alright? I work hard for this, Luca. The least you can do is be appreciative.” The floodgates open and my thoughts come pouring out. “Yes, I appreciate it! I’m just tired from the drive, okay? I don’t even want to be here, and I’m just supposed to act like I’m happy? Why are you always so crazy? Why can’t you just relax or something?”, I snap back angrily. I regret the words the second they leave my lips, but it’s too late. My mother’s mouth drops open to respond and her watery eyes shimmer in the light. I feel my heart drop into my throat. Before I can say anything else, there’s a loud knock at the door. My mother walks over to open it, and I can hear her quickly mask her emotions with the phony enthusiasm she uses at her job. I hear heavy footsteps and frantic whispers behind the wall. I rise from the couch to see who has just come in. My heart sinks further into my stomach and does a triple backflip off an Olympic diving board. It is Spruce the Moose, the lodge’s mascot, and he is standing in our room. Accompanying him is the woman from the front desk, awkwardly grasping his elbow to lead him inside. His antlers scrape the top of the door frame and threaten to gouge the light fixture swinging overhead. I take a step backwards as he lumbers into the room, his unblinking eyes staring directly into mine as he fills the space. I look at my mother, and she looks at me with tears in her eyes and a smile plastered onto her face. I don’t think I can ever forget that look. The silent mascot holds out a cake decorated with his smiling face, and the woman from the front desk informs me that Spruce heard it was my birthday and wants to celebrate. I look up at the figure towering over me and think about the costumed employee inside. I hear him panting inside the mask, feel the gaze beneath his eyes. I think about the costume’s weight resting on his spine, the cold sweat trickling down his back, and the self-imposed binders narrowing his vision. I wordlessly opt out of the hug he offers me and shake his hand, feeling the grip inside his glove and the blood coursing through his veins. He stares at me for a moment before his head bobs up and down, his hands form a heart, and he shambles out into the hall as the front desk lady shoves a gift basket into my arms and scurries out behind him. The room lingers in stillness for a moment before dissolving into hysterical laughter. We couldn’t believe the absurdity of it all, my mom’s final surprise interrupted the one thing she couldn’t plan for. Tears trickle down her cheeks as she hugs me tight and my voice cracks in the middle of my apology. I am officially nine years old, and a chlorine-filled oasis is waiting for me beyond the musty walls of the hotel lobby. Tomorrow, I will plunge down twisting tunnels, float alongside my brother in a man-made lagoon, and squeal as an oversized bucket dumps freezing cold water down my back. But right now, the only thing that matters is that I am with my mom, and I am loved.

She and We and Us

Anonymous

March 1, 2024

“Are you going to do anything reckless?” The girl was curled up in a tight ball on a rigid chair somewhere on the first floor of her high school, having been left there by her history teacher a few minutes before. Her eyes drifted back and forth between a blurry sort of darkness and the tired worn out faces in front of her and she attempted to pull herself back into reality by focusing all of her attention on the collection of fidget toys fighting for space on a small round table on the left side of the room. Popits, stress balls, and a little box of sand with a small rake precariously balancing on its side were strewn on top of colorful pamphlets about topics ranging from having divorced parents, to anxiety, to something about gender identity that she couldn’t quite make out. She could feel her heart pounding against her legs as she tried to focus on the little round table. She drew them in closer, hoping that if she made herself into a tight enough ball the pain echoing between her skull would go away. She closed her eyes, letting the soft stroke of darkness dissolve into her mind, and let out a long shaky breath she didn’t know she was holding. For the overwhelming numbness, she thought, was at least better than endless pain. “Honey…” The woman in front of her started again as she pushed her glasses farther up her nose while continuing to stare at the ball-like figure in front of her. The woman's voice was softer this time, as if she were telling the girl a secret that the other people in the room weren't supposed to hear. The kind of secret that you tell someone hoping you will receive one of theirs in return. “Honey, please answer the question.” The girl was aware that the woman was talking but couldn’t think of a reason to muster up the energy to actually figure out what the words tumbling around the room meant. Someone behind her cleared their throat and began whispering softly. Whispers that no longer reached close enough to form into words, sounding more like the soft gurgling of a mountain stream during springtime than conversation. But it was these murmurs that pulled the girl's head out of the darkness and back to the face of the woman in front of her. “What? No. No. I’m good. Sorry, I’m good…Can I please leave? I’m sorry.” The woman leaned in slightly, looking as though she wanted to comfort the girl but hadn’t quite worked out if it was the right thing to do. “You aren’t planning to do anything reckless?” the woman repeated, her voice rising slightly. “No. Yeah no, sure. Can I just leave?” “Sure honey.” The woman sighed, leaning back in her chair, the concern on her face not leaving as the girl rushed out of the room. She was concerned because she did not believe the girl. Believed that the girl really wouldn’t do anything reckless once she walked out those doors.

Legacies, Gratitudes, Foundations

Laine Bechta

February 22, 2024

Though hundreds of fieldstone walls exist across New England, this one is different. As I cruised on my bike, searching for a gate, the sheer height of the stacked stones meant I was looking almost straight up to see the trees peeping over the edge of the Swan Point Cemetery wall. No casual farmer stacked these boulders; only cranes could do such a thing. When I was little, my mom would send me to daycare on an old farm, where tiny hands attempted to clamber and undo what calloused hands had constructed centuries before. These rocks are much more grandiose than those smaller, more practical walls and are free of creeping moss and time. There might be a legacy of work here, but it’s hiding under the money it takes to keep such a thing “clean.” I find the perfectly painted wrought-iron gate and turn in. Swan Point Cemetery is a stunningly picturesque place in the original, artificially constructed “unconstructed nature” sense of the word. Gentle sloping hills make Providence in miniature, with paths dipping in and out of sight. I hear the babbling of what is undoubtedly an asymmetric little pond. Lining the smooth and rolling paths are scattered American dogwoods, pin oaks, false cypress, and honeylocust. English Holly sits by almost every road sign. There are towering eastern white pines and younger trees in suspiciously symmetrical rings. There are neat name tags attached to each tree. One of the tallest oaks drops a leaf on my head. These ancient trees have been quietly watching the dead from before this country was a country. They wave a solemn hello in the breeze. They are still getting used to these name tags thrust upon them. I can see a cedar slowly attempting to swallow hers as she greets me. Trees are the great watchers of change, a quiet legacy. The chapel that greets me is freshly power-washed with high, neo-gothic windows letting autumnal light into the mid-century modern pews. The crows and the robins debate loudly in the branches, but here, on the ground level, I am very much the only visitor.

Malled

Sarah McGrath

February 9, 2024

Much has been made of the Going Out Top: its straps, its crop, its color. Because a Good Going Out Top, which is different from your typical Going Out Top, is a critical component of the evening Getting Ready: a sacred liturgy of girlhood. Roommates squealing, music blaring, mixie poured – it is terror, it is ecstacy, it is rapture. The unofficial pregame to the pregame, the customary Getting Ready has become a transcendent pre-show ritual for dressing up, being viewed, being known. However, without a Good Going Out Top, there is no hope of a “Good” Getting Ready – evenings devolve, tank tops fly. Still, a Good Going Out Top remains cloyingly elusive, a tangled up mass of contradictions: Sturdy yet effervescent, eye-catching yet unbothered, both effortless and ravishing. And more than once I have confronted this paradox in moments of frenzied, unmitigated panic, rifling through shirts and deciding that I simply have no good shirts, but more importantly, that everyone else has plenty of good shirts, and what type of person even am I to have made it this far without any good shirts? So the next day I wake up with a dull, existential nagging, which by noon grows into an urgent, pressing impulse. An itch to forage, an itch to consume, an itch to feel new. This is all to say that the quest for Going Out Tops remains ongoing. And today, this quest brings me to the Providence Place Mall.

In Black and White

Mizuki Kai

February 3, 2024

1. I’ve spent the past few months chasing for feelings. Something stronger than vodka in my throat and the scent of that American Eagle perfume I sprayed all over that one snowy night in the Rock. Something stronger than Tell me about yourself in under three minutes and Keep trying, you’ll get there. I've found that maybe there is a place between the hunt and this armchair in my hometown café where the flat white on my tongue feels just right: not too much milk, not too much espresso. Where his tears feel salty not just to my taste buds but to my arteries, where my heart pumps red blood just as mom told me it does on that dining table eight years ago. I’m learning that there is only a sheet of paper that is sandwiched between freedom and sadness, but I cannot read the words I once could, its scribbles not illegible but rather foreign. I’m looking for the future and the past as an escape from the present, but they exist only in myself, a place inaccessible to me. I think I’m starting to spot themes beyond my English lectures. How summer falls into autumn slowly, and then all at once. How day is light and night heavy, and how the devil doesn’t play so well in my idle hands. How the books I’ve read recently are points in a connect-the-dots game, constellating a projection that I’ve underlined and highlighted, but I’ve still yet to understand. I’m grasping at these fickle lines, but it’s as far and made-up as the Saturn I saw in that telescope ten Decembers back. 2. When I started college, I began looking for something I didn’t know I lost. I searched for it everywhere: in the third floor room that only you and I know about, in Saturday mornings, in eavesdropped conversations in the Blue Room and in every black pupil I’ve stared into. I realize now what I was looking for was left somewhere on I-10 between Houston and San Antonio and I was reaching for something that melted right as it hit the asphalt. Up in Providence, snow sticks and stays until it’s gray, so I’ve since learned there’s no such thing as black and white. Here, spring is pink and autumn orange, but there is nothing more monochrome than my desire to make angels from what falls. I’ve learned that after dusk always comes dawn, and so I’ll leave bite marks in the moonlight until my teeth break. Providence thinks I’m pretty, and I think it’s pretty, too. 3. I was told not to over-explain myself but I don’t know how to exist without justification. My mom always said that I had a loud presence, so I’m just hoping she was right.

Portrait of Allie Hurtz

Deeya Prakash

December 30, 2023

I am overwhelmed by art. Show me a painting and I want to run my fingers over the surface, feel the paint under my skin and breathe the scent of the artist, the paprika in their hair from dinner and that chalky smell from that fight with their father. I see the city through the eyes of acrylics and I falter. I see the hills in pastel and there I am, hair in two braids watching the stars like they’re my own personal snow globe. Something breaks within me. Take me to a museum and it is one of the few times you can watch me cry.