Category: March 2024
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An Open Letter To Champlain College
Written by Aminah Carrington Art by Aminah Carrington Most of you will not read this whole thing. Most of you—not for the first time—will put your comfort over the suffering and murder of others. Many will find this harsh, but it’s the truth. I’m speaking to every student and faulty…
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Why You Should Give Me Your Dads Money
Written by Randolph Trow Art by Eva Colabatistto Every day I look at my bank account and say, “Mother…fucker! Today’s gonna SUCK!!!” And to all the rich blueblood pricks who don’t say that shit, fuck you, and give me your money. I grew up going to an all-male, southern, K-12…
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The Art of Kintsugi as Survival: Stillbirth
Poem by Sarah Chack Art by Lillian Anderson A baby was removed from its mother last night. Its unformed, bird-like, bone fingers grappled for something to hold onto as it wailed and weeped, burrowed deeper into the flesh of her womb: a dying leech, a lost treasure, failure of a…
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Prompting a Personality: a Chat with GPT
Written by Audrey Orenstein Art by Greta Scheff As a creative writing major in 2024, it probably goes without saying that the advancements of AI are greatly unsettling to me. I’ve messed around with the technology a few times and while it’s made for some good chuckles, the underlying principle…
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March Horoscopes
Written by Madeleine Minks Art by Hadley Rae-Balmes Happy March, dear reader! If you’re looking for a horoscope reading that will spare your dignity, close this tab immediately. I will not spare you. Aries: You need to stop blacking out in a rage and letting out a stream of curses…
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Did TikTok Ruin Music or Are You Just Petty
Written by Madeline Minks Art by Justin Bissonette Like most people on this planet, I have a special relationship with music. Somewhere deep in the crevices of my brain are forgotten church hymns and songs learned for Chinese school. The soundtrack of my childhood–a mix of classic rock, eighties pop,…
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On Joan Didion
Written by Sarah Chack Art by Seven Descheneaux I am eighteen the first time I read Joan Didion’s words and think that I understand them. Freshly graduated, I stand in the backyard of my aunt’s house; my cap and gown are thrown on haphazardly, my clothes smell like the inside…
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