Mohoetry:the mount holyoke literary magazine

2013-2014 Editorial Board:

Editor-in-Chief: Emma Ginader 15

Poetry Editor: Erika Onusseit 14

Non-Fiction Editor: Ailsa Sachdev 14

Art Editor: Sarah Burgert 15

Fiction Editor: Hattie McLean 16

Photography and layout Editor: Bianca Caro 17

Assistant Fiction Editor: Becca Frank 16

Public Relations Representative: Jing Huang 15

SGA Senator: Melissa Payne 14

Cover art:

Ltranger by Kalyani Nedungadi

With special thanks to:

Cindy Meehan

Donald Weber

The MHC English Department

Everyone who submitted their work

Table of Contents:

Invictus by Nell Maynard...pg 1

The Criss-Cross by Amal Fahem...pg 2

The other woman by Amra Sharif....pg 3

A Rhapsody in Blue by Kalyani Nedungadi...pg 4

Burst by Nell Maynard...pg 5

Bread by Carrie Carter...pg 6

Reaching for the sun by Bianca Caro...pg 7

X-Ray of the Soul by Amal Fahem...pg 8

Goosepimples by Zo Crabtree...pg 9

The Runaway by Kalyani Nedungadi...pg 10

Woman construction worker, Peru by Reagan Brown...pg 13

machete by Carrie Carter...pg 14

Cape Florida Lighthouse by Bianca Caro...pg 15

Seven Days walking back... by Sadia Khatri...pg 16

MoHoetry: noun

1: A fusion of the words Poetry and Mount Holyoke;

2: Poetry about Mount Holyoke College or by Mount Holyoke students;

3: The bi-annual literary magazine produced by

Moneta: the Mount Holyoke Writers Collective.

Invictus*

1

Flutter eyes to stippled whitewashDead mosquito on the sillAnd were breaking all the nights lawsAs the house with light refills

Morning sun to morning toesBellow as the sleeper rises Please, just jelly on my toastMorning fists to morning eyelids

Bare feet on the carpet landingUniverse of dust arousedPlastic horses rearing, standingIn the closet, settle down

Three steps to my bedroom doorLeft hand to banisterwrongOnce moreBottom step left, third step right, then my right hand to the wall.But if my mind carries the wrong thought when I touchRedo them all

Back to the bedroom, try againTo the bathroom in good timePower over all my lifeTo get it wrongto get it right

Now Ive made it past the stairsProper prayers inside my mindRight hand turn the bathroom handleRight elbow turns on the light

I stand and brush my teethIn perfect patterns, perfect thoughtsPerfect adjectives releaseThe perfect life that has been locked

So these rituals are distantBedroom, bathroom, out the doorAnd I was loyal, though resistantSo I trust that Ill find more

Anxious brain with hard ideasI had no power but to sateAnd how the way I touched my doorknobsCould alter my unwritten fate

.

by Nell maynard

*Invictus is a reference to the William Ernest Henley poem Invictus, 1875

2 T

he C

riss-

Cro

ss

by A

mal

Fah

em

the other woman

3

My belongings are cramped into a cardboard box that lies in a dusty corner under the faded criss-crossed charpai. A brand new comb, a bottle of sickening sweet perfume, and pairs of glistening, dangling earrings are strewn across the sooty wooden table, which would sparkle clean when it used to be mine. I continue to carefully stitch up the tablecloth. Last night Mumtazs thick, oily braid had knocked down the candle and had burnt right through it while Jhanzeb had been too mesmerized by her serpentine hair to put out the fire. Now here I am, stitching up the hole that she had created. The jingling sound from her anklets, announces her entrance. She glides across the room; the pain-ful music from her feet resonates in my ear. Poising herself in front of the long, cracked mirror, she swishes her orange dupatta_ around her voluptuous waist. The reflection of the tiny kite shaped mirrors, dance to the jangling silver bells that clank around her henna-painted feet. I continue to work away; the sharp, pointy needle playing hide and seek with the cloth in my hand. A soft thump draws my attention, and I notice the clump of fresh yellow flowers she has dumped onto the filthy table. Slowly sliding her fingers into them, she unearths a red rose whose soft petals shimmer with wet dew. She ties it into her braid; the water droplets glide into the black river that meanders down her broad back. She catches me staring at her. Her almond-shaped eyes, laden with dark kohl, sneer at me through the grimy mirror. Mumtaz! Jhanzebs deep voice calls out through the half open door. She continues to stare at me. A grin slithers across her face. With a sudden twirl, she swings herself out of the room. I look down at the cloth in my wizened hands. The haphazard hole has vanished; a thin, taut line is now in its place.

by amra sharif

4A Rhapsody in Blue by Kalyani Nedungadi

Burst

5

Old-fashioned Nordic tracks of a three-legged skier scrape up the

snowcaps. They left bush behind miles ago, climbing above tree line without hint of a road-how can heaven compare?

Am I so lucky that every labored breath is greeted by alpine bird-call? Lakes settle in crevasses puncturing the verdant topography and the custodial foothills give way

to scorched plains, caught in a dry heat yester-morn.

In the descending low-light of dusk, if one holds ones gaze quite still, the earth begins to writhe. The dirt begins to write with utensils of bone and fur,

the live ink of the trees is squeezed from their leaves, night creatures surging from tree-crown palaces,

novel characters leak vast over the landscape in an unfamiliar calligraphy,

written in the hand ofthe land and readily

seen only until the blink.

by Nell Maynard

Inspired by El Anatsui. Alter Ego. 2009. Sculp-ture of found aluminum and copper wire.

Breadwe lived in a farmhouse and everyday we baked bread and it was good

I sat by the windowand waited for the sun to melt into the earth

so that I could feel coolso that I could eat

and we ran outsideas soon as it did

and you fed mein the big peacefulocean of the prairie.

by carrie carter

6

7 Reac

hing

for t

he S

un

by B

ianc

a C

aro

Goosebumps

9

goosepimples scan my nervous system/clavicle to knee joint/they are copy-machine light beamsrecording mental .CRV files on a 16G dendrite

by Zo Crabtree

8 X-R

ay o

f th

e So

ul

by A

mal

Fah

em

Goosebumps

9

goosepimples scan my nervous system/clavicle to knee joint/they are copy-machine light beamsrecording mental .CRV files on a 16G dendrite

by Zo Crabtree

10

the runaway

The Neighbour BernardHamiltonwasafineupstandinggentlemanwholivedinthesuburbsnottoofarfrom,butnottoocloseto,thecity.Hewasknownforhistweedjackets,neatlytrimmedhairandhisfamilysSundaybarbecuethathadbecomeaneighbourhoodtradition.ThepastmonthhadnotbeenagoodoneforBernard.Half of histeamhadbeenlaidoff andhefoundhimself strugglingwiththelongerhoursandtheaddedworkload.Andthenhischildrenneededtobedroppedoff forpiano,tennis,horse-riding,school,thelistwhenonandon.Hiswifewasstillplanningtogetthefloorsredone,eventhoughtheyhadgottenthehouserenovatedtwoyearsago,anditwasaconstantheadachetomakesureshedidntmakeanyrashdecisions.Godforbidif hewokeuponemorningandfoundeverythinginthebathroomthemedinfuchsia.Totopitoff,theneighboursnextdoorhadbeenparticularlyloudoverthelastfewdays,yellingatoddhours,slammingdoors,andthewholethingwasjustwearingonhislastnerve.Hewashalf temptedtowalkoverandaskwhattheproblemwas,buthetoldhimself thatwhathisneigh-boursdidinthedarknesswasreallynoneof hisbusiness.Andsohecontinuedreadinghiscopyof Self-HappinessforWealth-Happinessinsilencebeforehewenttobed.TheShopkeeper Thatllbeeighteendollars,TonyWaltersrangupthecashregister,smilingwidelyinathoroughlyfakemannerthateverycustomerseemedtofallfor.TonyWaltershadareputationforbeingacharmer,oneheupheldwithapridethatcamefromlovingtobeloved.Ashisnextcustomerwalkedup,hissmiledroopedslightlyatthecorners.AnyonewhohadknownTonylongenoughwouldhaveknownthatthatwashisdeepestfrown. Tonygenerallylikedkids,buthewasntsosureaboutthisone.Sure,hismotorcyclejacketandfloppybrownhairwouldspelltroubleformostshopkeepersandTonyhadhandledhisfairshareof thattoo.Butthisboywasntlikethat.Hewasjustquiet.AndthatunnervedTony. Idliketheseplease,theboyaskedpolitely,almostshyinhismanner.Hehadputatorch,apackof cig-arettes,afold-uptent,acheapcellphoneandanenormousamountof chocolatebarsandchipspacketsontothecounter.Ashewenttotakeouthiswallet,Tonycouldnthelpbutnoticethewadof cashthathadbeenthrownhastilyintothebag. Fixingtheboywithhistrademarkgrin,hecashedtheitemsandthensmiledserenelyastheboystumbledoutwithhispurchases.Hefingeredtherollof moneythathadfounditswayintohispocket;oneof hisbetteraccom-plishmentsfortheweek.Nobodywascharmingfornothing.

The Bus Driver SaidKhanwaspushingseventy-five,andhehadntaninklingastohowhehadendedupdrivingthiscon-traption.Hisfatherhadfoughtforindependence,andthentheyhadsurvivedthePartition.Howdoesalifeascolourfulasthatturnintooneof drivingabus?Heshouldberetiredandstrivingtogainapotbellythatcouldrivalthatof hisIndianneighbour,Manian.AndManianhadalreadygottenaheadstart.Suddenlyintherear-viewmirror,hecaughtsightof aboyrunningafterthebus.Now,havingrunafterafairfewbuseshimself inhislifetime,hehaltedthebusgently,givingtheboyachancetocatchupandclamberontothevehicle. Stop?Saidasked.Eighth.Theboyhandedoverhisticketandwalkedtowardsthebackof thebus.JustasSaidwasabouttoshutthedoors,anoldermanslidbetweenthemandontothisbus.Saidaskedforhisticket,butthemanwavedhisques-tionaway.Haveyouseenaboy?herasped,clutchinghisside.TherewassomethinginhiseyesthatmadeSaidsay- No,no.Noboy,sir.Ticket?Noticket,nobus.Saidsawnouseinbeatingaroundthebushwhenconcern-ingthesesortsof things. Nono,themanseemedentirelydistracted,peeringintotheemptybus.Saidcouldseefromhisrear-viewmirrorthattheboyhadsomehowdisappeared.Themanrakedahandthroughhishair.If youseehim-hisnos-trilsflared.Henoddedoncecurtlyandthensteppedoff thebus. ItwasafulltwentyminutestillSaidsawtheboysitupinhisseatagain,hisfacechalkwhiteagainstthedarknessof thebackof thebus.

by Kalyani Nedungadi

11

The Passenger SometimesRonnieWalkerwouldcatchherself thinkingaboutthingsthatshereallyhadnobusinessthink-ingabout.Aboutwhetherherbosswasabouttogetadivorce,whetherherdoctorwaspracticingonanexpiredvisa,whetherthewomaninfrontof herinthebushadevertakenashower,andwhethertheboynexttoherwasevergoingtostopgrippingtheseatinfrontof himasif hewantedtoriprightthroughtotheplasticcovering.Hisknuckleshadgonewhiteawhileago,andRonniewasworriedthathewouldeitherdamagetheseatorhimself. Shethoughtforawhile. Thensheopenedhermouthandsaid,Iseverythingokay? Theboyjumped,apparentlystartledtohearsomeonetalkingtohim.Helookedaroundforasecond,osten-siblytryingtofigurewhohadjustaddressedhim.Yea-hepaused,clearinghisthroat,Yes,yesImfine. Ronniewatchedhimkeenlyashereleasedthechairinfrontandclaspedhishandstogetherinhislapin-stead.Heremainedstaringathisintertwinedfingers,soRonniedecidedtoleavehimalone,andturnedherthoughtstowardsthepotentialthreatthatloomedahead.If herdoctorleft,shewouldntknowwhotogotoforthoselittlepurplepills...

The Teacher LaurieBrentfeltherheartsinkalittlewhenshesawtheemptyseatattwo-thirtyintheafternoon.Hehadnevermissedherlessonbefore,andshewasworried.Shehadbeenconcernedabouthimforawhilenow.Theun-explainedbruisesandhisgeneralsilencetroubledher,andthehauntedlookinhiseyestroubledherevenmoreso,particularlysinceshedidntknowhowtomakeitgoaway.Lately,ithadseemedlikesomethingwasabouttobreak.Mostprobablyhim. Lookingatherregister,shefoundhisnamewithacirclearounditcalledinsickwasscrawlednexttoit.Theweightinherheartseemedtogrowheavier.Uneasy,shecalledhishometheminuteshegotachance.Noth-ingwrong,justtheflu?...Nonotatall,Ijustwantedtocheckuponhim...Hesbeendoingfabulously,hispaperonHamletwasquiteremarkable...Of course...Yes....Thanksverymuch...IsthereanywayClick. Icantalktohim...?Dialtone.

The Preacher AlSimmonsknewwhenpeopleweremiserable.Hehaddevelopedaknackforitwhenhebecameapreach-er.Happypeopledidntgenerallywanttohearthewordof Godfromamanwithascruffysalt-and-pepperbeardandawornovercoat.Butwhentheyweremiserable,heownedthem.Hehadthemtwistedaroundhislittlefinger.Anythingtomakethepaingoaway.Eventhewordof Godfromamanwithascruffysalt-and-pepperbeardandawornovercoat Inanycase,todayhehadspottedsomeonelookingparticularlydesperate;ayoungboycoughingoveraciga-rette.Hiseyesweresimplybeggingforthehandof Godtotakehimupandcarryhimthrough.Lookedlikehehadmoneytoo.Aperfecttarget.Youngman,thepreachercalled.Youngman!Theyouthstopped,hesitantly.DoyouknowwhatGodhasinstoreforyou?.Theboyremainedimpassive. Iassumethatyoudont,AlSimmonscouldbarelycontainhisglee.Comesitdearboy,sit.Theboysatnexttohimonthesidewalkobligingly.Tellme,thepreacherrubbedhisbeardthoughtfully.Tellme,whathasgottenyousowoebegone?Theboyseemedreluctant.Noonewillhearyoubutmyself andGod,Alassuredhim.Hewaitedintentlyfortheboytoanswer.Hecouldntwaittosinkhisteethintothematter;theboysproblemhadtobegood.Youknow,Theboysuddenlyseemedtorethinkhisdecisiontoconversewiththepreacher,Youknowwhat,Imokay.Hestoodup.Alfrowned.Butsurelyboy,atthistroubledtimeyouareinneedof afriend,andwhatbetterfriend- Imsorry,theboyinterjectedquickly,Imsorry,Ihavetogo.ItsjustIjustIjustneedtogo. Andwiththat,thepreacherAlSimmonswatcheddejectedlyastheboydisappearedintothecrowd.Anotherwastedenterprise. The Father Stupidboy. Hehadupendedtheroomtwicenow.Stillnoclues.SamuelParkersworeloudlybeforekickingoverhis

12

sons desk chair in his anger. There was no sign anywhere of what the fool had been planning to do. He had almost caught him this morning, but the sneaky rascal had rounded the corner and disappeared before he could get a hold of him. It took Samuel a while to suspect that the boy had indeed been on the bus. The idiot had somehow hood-winked the bus driver into hiding him. Samuel had driven the bus route twice that day, but still hadnt seen the boy anywhere.Andnowhewasinhisroom,lookingforanything,aflyer,areceipt,orevenawebsitethatwouldtellhimwhere his son had whisked himself off too. Ungrateful bastard. He had even stolen Samuels credit card! Though perhapsthatwasagoodthing.Theminuteheusedit,Samuelwouldbeabletofindhim.Andhewouldfindhim.If the boy didnt return today, there would be some serious consequences. Samuels teeth ground together audibly. He was so furious, he could barely see straight. He let out a scream before sweeping everything off the boys desk and ontothefloor.

The Homeless Man As a veteran scrounger, Jack Curlington, or as he liked to call himself, Colonel Jack, felt that he had learnt the rules of the world the hard way. It was very simple really. Eat or be eaten. The animals at the dumpster knew it, includingallof hisfriends;thecat,thepigeonandthecricketthatseemedtobemoreorlessapermanentfixtureonthewallnexttothedumpster.Thereusedtobearat,butthecatateit.Moreproof. Colonel Jack took these rules very seriously because they made sense. And so, when he saw a posh young boy in a leather jacket trying to pitch a tent in his corner of the alleyway, he felt no anger; he just knew what he had todo.Takingaswigfromhisbrownpaperbag,ColonelJacksaunteredtowardstheexceedinglybrightbluetentand toed it with the edge of his scruffy boots. The boy, who hadnt noticed Colonel Jacks presence, nearly jumped out of his skin in fright, which Colonel Jack was rather pleased to see. The colonel was just about to send the boy packing, when he noticed the nice food and the fancy gadgetry the boy had placed inside the lopsided tent. Not to mention, the tent itself was quite wonderful. Always thinking on his feet, Colonel Jack changed tack. Taking another sip of his whisky- in -a -bag, he pulled out his most treasured possession. Daisy, his knife. Now listen sonny, he slurred slightly, We both know that this alleyway isnt big enough for the both of us. He staggered closer to the boy, who looked scared out of his wits. The Colonel smiled. Now since Ive been here longer and this is my turf, Im gonna suggest you get outta here. The boys eyes were wide with fear and he nodded vigorously. Colonel Jack almost laughed when the boy went to grab his backpack. No no. He laid Daisy against the back of the boys neck. Leave it here, the Colonel sneered. The boy straightened up slowly. On your way now, Colonel Jack felt his ribs would crack from laughing as the boy ran out of the alleyway to God knows where.

The Policeman Ronald Bergman was surprised to see one of the kids from his neighborhood in such a bad area. All on his ownaswell.TheboywasstandingatanATMmachineandhadyankedoff oneof hisshoes,fromwhichhewaspulling out a credit card. Now Bergman knew something was wrong. He didnt know what the kid was planning, but he knew it was his duty to return the boy safely home. Getting out of his car, he walked up behind the boy. Son, he clasped the boys shoulder. You wanna tell me what youre doing? Just as he thought, the boy had no defense. Helookedtiredandwornandstankof cigarettesmoke.Hewasshaking,whetherwithexhaustionorwithfear,Bergman didnt know. You know you cant use your dads credit card like that, dont you? The boy said nothing. Bergman sighed. Ill let this one slide- you look like youve had a rough day as it is. Lets just get you home. The boy didnt utter a syllable as Bergman steered him towards the police car and took him back home.

The Neighbour ThenextweekwasagoodweekforBernardHamilton.Hehadjustbeeninformedthathewasbeingmovedintooneof themoreswankyofficesonthefourthfloor.Suddenly,thework-load,thekids,thewifeandthere-decoration all seemed like such trivial problems. Even the neighbours had been keeping deathly silent, all part of what he imagined was a wonderful stroke of luck. Humming to himself, he grabbed his copy of Self-Happiness for Wealth-Happiness before walking out the door to his car. He was pleased. Things were looking up for Bernard Hamilton.

13

.

Woman Construction Worker, Peru by Reagan Brown

MacheteI took a machete to my hipscut off big hunks tossed them in a ditch somewhere off Route 9

I hit the bone marrow where the ugly livessliced right through it like nothing else ever did

if I am buried in an unmarked gravemaybe people will remember me as a pretty and good nicesmartporcelain sweetheartsmiling girl

by carrie carter

14

15Cape Florida Lighthouse by Bianca Caro

16

Seven days walking back through the street with almost the same and sometimes imagined company

I

Your rain painted city gets more and more unreal, maybe since its close to departure date. The city is match-ing its mood to mine, saying, you will not dent my air anymore. You will not leave tram ticket traces, or tread incorrect directions or leave unexpected (but pleasant) marks on peoples corners (since you noticed them); even your experience of the present keeps in mind memory and avoids stamping events too clearly, in case they get glued to your idea of happiness. Since you are feinting this, your city says, this exercise, I will too. I will fade away slowly before you, with you, or summon winds to pretend to.

II

In a letter to you, I wrote that I felt your streets had an expiry date. I didnt feel that exactly, the thought did not occur to me when I was walking past the last lit bulb to take a left (I didnt look up to see the bulb, its yellow lay on the ground, grainy). It came to me as a description of that feeling in retrospect. How I would like to describe it, had I said something aloud. But I could say nothing except old clichs, I know that the need to feel passionate hampers our ability to feel.

III

Look up from medina streets and the sky is an incomplete painting, you know, where the painter plasters blotches of oils in paintbrush clumps, smudging them only slightly, hell come back and rub the colours against each another later. The sky looked like this then. When we walked a bit forward, the view, through brick sand-castle brown, was one of those life-sized photographs, its colours fake and vivid, its clouds a sharp outline. The city in the sky moves, like were in a movie, and singing in public is just an excuse to hear yourself on the street, to say, yes, I am as much part of this streetscape as the sky and the stones.

IV

If you want to experience a place with someone, walk behind them with stealthy attention. You know, what do they gaze at for two seconds longer than you? You will begin to notice how the is place touched and remem-bered by memories other than yours.

The person before you will become a sculpture, voluntarily chipping away so you can see every claycrumb of the process, note down splitsecond changes that make them nothing like anyone else you know. E, for example, always lingered the air spaces ruffled by hanging scarves, Ms footsteps would grow quiet when they neared a cat, or buildings with blocks of shadows, and G switched directions if wed been walking one way too long.

V

Last bits of tungsten glinted at the edge of drapes, a closed shop waving to the moonlight; I stopped thinking except let this walk last forever how else would I remember it: the image demanded a photograph, you know how sometimes life does that?

by sadia khatri

17

VI

Sky is bland but straight ahead: shop tents (white during the day) glowing yellow made of plastic, and shadows of everything like a running film. Also a cat. A hooded man in front of me, walking slowly. I can swear music playing in the background, something about home.

Walking towards the ocean, but I cant see the ocean or hear the waves unless I tilt my head. A bird is enough. Below me the city, its glitter subdued, but insistent, making up for the citys loneliness. Before the Oudaya en-trance I think I see a man crumpled on the floor it turns out to be a shadow.

VII

Every part of the medina was an elegy of its own. Lights in perfect dance stone colours happy to the eye ex-panding in all directions like they were skyscrapers. You know, like Rabat was letting me in on a secret before I left.

Never have walks felt so meaningful; I see what Thoreau was talking about.

Contributors notes:

amal fahem 14: She is a double major in Art Studio and Technology & Media Entrepreneurship. She witnessed the Tunisian Revolution on January 14th, 2011). In 2013, while studying abroad at Royal Holloway, University of London, she lived in Founders Building, then in the fol-lowing summer interned at the Chateau de Chantilly in France.

amra sharif 15: She is an English and Economics double major, an international student from Karachi, Pakistan. She enjoys all things creative; writing, theatre, and espe-cially dance (Bollywood is my all-time favorite!). She is currently learning French and Bengali.

Kalyani Nedungadi 14: She is completing a History Major and a Studio Art Minor. Her focus in her historical stud-ies pertains to minority groups in Turkey, and her Studio Art work over the past year been an exploration of the screen-printing technique. While her main passions are writing and art, her interests include literature, film, run-ning, and playing the saxophone.

carrie carter16: She is a English major with a minor in Education. She likes listening to Bruce Springsteen and befriending local dogs.

Contributors notes:

Zo crabtree 15: She is a Gender Studies major, aspiring stage director, and chronic pragmatist.

reagan brown 17: She expects to declare an Art History major with a minor in Photography (Art Studio). Her work has been shown in the Warner Gallery and The Flagger Memorial Chapel in Millbrook, NY. Currently, she is the Photo Editor for The Mount Holyoke News-paper and creator of Humans of Mount Holyoke.

editorial board:

Emma ginader 15: She is an English and Politics double ma-jor. She enjoys Emily Dickinson, watching movies, and workshopping her poetry with other people.

Erika onusseit 14: She is a Biology major with a minor in English. She is excited to be the literary magazines po-etry editor because, as many mhc women should be published (and encouraged) as possible. She suggests new writers keep writing as well as bee open-minded to critique, but dont lose your sense of self (itll make you bitter).

Ailsa sachdev 14: She is an English major. She is current-ly binging on some E. E. Cummings poetry and Bitch magazine articles. She advises new writers to, Stay cu-rious and hungry. Also check out 642 Things to Write About.

sarah Burgert 15: They are a Literary and Visual Commu-nications major.

bianca caro 17: She is a Film Studies major. She loves Walt Whitmans Leaves of Grass and feels like she needs to take it with her everywhere. Her favorite poet is Edgar Allen Poe.

editorial board:

hattie meclean 16: She is an English major. Currently, her favorite writer is Jeffrey Eugenides. She also loves the poets Seamus Heaney and Kay Ryan, and the art critic Peter Schjeldahl. She advises young artists to, write/create as much as you can, and always keep a small jour-nal with you to jot down funny or captivating things you hear on the daily.

Jing huang 15: She is majoring in English with a minor in Theater Arts. Her favorite writer is Oscar Wilde and her favorite book is The Portrait of Dorian Gray. She finds inspiration in taking showers and having mochas.

melissa payne 14: She is a English major.

becca frank 16

first edition, 2014

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