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“Each of us is a book waiting to be written, and that book, if written, results in a person explained.” ~ Thomas M. Cirignano



Irene Omboke


Laura Evans

   There is a certain type of beauty that comes with ignorance, I have come to find out in these last few years. The term ignorance is bliss never really had much meaning to me until I was in my sixth period Language Arts class junior year. Who knew that in those sixty minutes my entire perception of myself and those around me would be changed forever.


     Throughout the past year, our society as a collective has been going through changes, rough ones especially.

There has been a gradient of good and bad; from quick bursts of happiness to heartbroken moments that leave our souls torn.

    In this issue, we wanted to explore those shades of emotion and showcase that even in times such as these, you can still find the beauty in the gradience of it all.

   Non Fiction offers a look into the mind of many; readers are able to see how another person views the world through writing. No matter if it's just one paragraph or 12 pages long, being able to step into some else's shoes and experience life as they perceive it is a wonder in itself.

In the early months of 2020 I was working as a server in a restaurant downtown.  The building itself was a former house, converted into an eatery, and it still had an air of comfortable hominess to it, with hardwood floors that reverberated on busy nights, picture windows, and a cozy fireplace on the front patio.  It was a family-owned place so, along with the rich aromas of tomatoes stewing for homemade dishes like the popular sugo di carne, there was also a high vibrancy in the air, the kind that comes when a family is working together to pursue a common creative interest.

Monica Krause

   I was sitting in the classroom, sometime around the fourth grade, and we were about to begin one of those standardized tests with the bubbles and the number two pencils. The paper was stiff and thick, and the pencil squeaked when it went over the bits that were already colored in. There were roughly thirty of us in that classroom, all wordlessly focused on filling in the circles that would tell some machine who we were. 



Danielle Witt

            As most days drew to a close the house would fill with the smell of strong coffee as my father brewed his favorite Italian dark roast, the smell of dark chocolate with a sweet twinge of vanilla wafted through the air. As he toggled the light switch the lights would dim from glaring white to a soft amber glow. He would ignite the fire and settle on the couch, book in hand, always on the left-hand side, the side worn in by the weight of time.

Ana Ochoa

   When I returned to the bakery from the nightly deliveries, it was empty of both bakers and light. They hadn’t thought to leave the light on for me. The darkness was filled with the whirring of the freezer and the slow hum of the oven that clicked every so often. I used my memory to grope my way to the set of switches on the far wall and carefully felt for the ones that would bathe the open space in a soft, warm light instead of the blinding fluorescent lights that left you feeling exposed and examined. I hadn’t showered in three days and after an eight-hour delivery shift, I did not want to be examined.



    I exist in a scape of men's dreams and of mildew basements, of my fathers hands and of my love’s sacred heart. I build them bridges with my spine merging memories and perceptions. Closing gaps more like boundless chasms and voids that feel just shy of infinite. 

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