Letter from the Editor:
"...Release, release;
between cold death and a fever,
send what you will, I will listen.
All things come to an end.
No, they go on forever."
- Ruth Stone, "Train Ride"
A little less than a year ago, I lost a coworker in the most tragic of circumstances. In many quiet moments, I find myself wanting to write about the tragedy that took place. However, at the same time, I don't feel as if I've earned the right to do so. Even now, as I write this, I am questioning whether or not I should be. It doesn't seem fair for me to write about someone who is no longer here — someone who's permission I cannot ask for. However, as a writer, I also feel as if I have a certain responsibility to do so — that it's important for me to make sure that my coworker's memory lives on. Because if there's one thing I do in fact know, it's that through art and love, someone's presence can last forever. And for this, I believe it is up to me (and others who knew my coworker) to make sure that she stays in everyones thoughts and memories, and that her presence always remains.
As the team and I have worked to piece this issue together, I've come to notice that the contributors in this issue include themes similar to my own beliefs in their work. The reality is that at some point in our lives, we will all have to face what we think is "the end." We will move cities, lose friends, and experience heartbreak in ways we could have never imagined. We will learn how it feels to mourn, how to recover, and watch ourselves adapt and grow from change. Issue 14 is home to pieces that are filled with deep regret, loss, sorrow, and pain. However, every single piece in this issue is also proof that feelings, people, moments, places, and things continue to exist even after they've come to an "end." While it might be true that "all things come to an end," it is up to us to determine if and how they go on forever.
In Vivian Zhu's "Somewhere in Southern Florida," she jumps back and forth between her past and present memories, using a series of vignettes to show the never ending presence of a lost loved one, and in Erin McKay's "Earth Angels" we get a glimpse of just what it looks like to be rebuilt and given the opportunity to start anew after what we thought was the end. Loss hurts. Severed relationships hurt. Change hurts. But we go on forever — and through the beauty of art, the people, memories, and places left in our wake do so too. We thank the contributors in this issue for being so willing to share their forever moments with us.
Marriah Talbott-Malone
Managing Editor
Design Editor Maggie Talbott-Malone
Interview Corr. Lily Bechtold
Poetry Editor Anoushka Kumar
Poetry Editor Madison Lazenby
Poetry Editor Aneska Tan
Prose Editor Em Galante
Prose Editor Alyssa Sherry
"...Release, release;
between cold death and a fever,
send what you will, I will listen.
All things come to an end.
No, they go on forever."
- Ruth Stone, "Train Ride"
A little less than a year ago, I lost a coworker in the most tragic of circumstances. In many quiet moments, I find myself wanting to write about the tragedy that took place. However, at the same time, I don't feel as if I've earned the right to do so. Even now, as I write this, I am questioning whether or not I should be. It doesn't seem fair for me to write about someone who is no longer here — someone who's permission I cannot ask for. However, as a writer, I also feel as if I have a certain responsibility to do so — that it's important for me to make sure that my coworker's memory lives on. Because if there's one thing I do in fact know, it's that through art and love, someone's presence can last forever. And for this, I believe it is up to me (and others who knew my coworker) to make sure that she stays in everyones thoughts and memories, and that her presence always remains.
As the team and I have worked to piece this issue together, I've come to notice that the contributors in this issue include themes similar to my own beliefs in their work. The reality is that at some point in our lives, we will all have to face what we think is "the end." We will move cities, lose friends, and experience heartbreak in ways we could have never imagined. We will learn how it feels to mourn, how to recover, and watch ourselves adapt and grow from change. Issue 14 is home to pieces that are filled with deep regret, loss, sorrow, and pain. However, every single piece in this issue is also proof that feelings, people, moments, places, and things continue to exist even after they've come to an "end." While it might be true that "all things come to an end," it is up to us to determine if and how they go on forever.
In Vivian Zhu's "Somewhere in Southern Florida," she jumps back and forth between her past and present memories, using a series of vignettes to show the never ending presence of a lost loved one, and in Erin McKay's "Earth Angels" we get a glimpse of just what it looks like to be rebuilt and given the opportunity to start anew after what we thought was the end. Loss hurts. Severed relationships hurt. Change hurts. But we go on forever — and through the beauty of art, the people, memories, and places left in our wake do so too. We thank the contributors in this issue for being so willing to share their forever moments with us.
Marriah Talbott-Malone
Managing Editor
Design Editor Maggie Talbott-Malone
Interview Corr. Lily Bechtold
Poetry Editor Anoushka Kumar
Poetry Editor Madison Lazenby
Poetry Editor Aneska Tan
Prose Editor Em Galante
Prose Editor Alyssa Sherry
