By Victor Omojola The first time I met Sophie Paquette, CC ’23, she told me a story. She spoke of a girl named Belladonna from a small town called Shoegaze Station, haunted by a specter from her youth. Perhaps this account is slightly misleading. First of all, Paquette did not read this tale aloud. And secondly, Paquette’s narrative wasn’t directed towards just me, but rather an entire Zoom-box-filled computer screen of Columbia students who had gathered to workshop one anoth
By Claire Shang A peculiarity reveals itself in this month’s pieces. Maybe it’s just the ever-wistful advent of the semester’s end, but it seems like we’re sincerely happy to be here. How anti-Columbia of us! Something like gratitude is stitched into the spine of this issue, our longest print edition yet. In its pages, Amogh Dimri thanks Roar-ee the Lion for his spirited service; Jazmyn Wang pens a lyrical essay, the second in our magazine’s history to adopt Dodge Fitness Cen
By Dominy Gallo When I met Mae Butler, CC ’21, then ’22, then ’23, she was embroidering flowers on a denim jacket in the John Jay 11 lounge. She’s one of those unhappy few who’ve known me since I was a first-year—and, worse still, who kept me Residentially Advised. She hammered my bedframe to hip height, told me never to take a lecture class, and never made fun of my Paris wall tapestry, despite her blanket aversion to France. She spent one of her three semesters off bartendi
By Eris Sker “the trouble with the city fog,” you say, “is it feels like pre-grieving: trading one pearl tear for another and pressing down where the wrist bone penetrates skin.” you say it with a lisp, a tell, a little undone. “in the forest,” you say “the fog turns trees to schemes, vertical traps. the shadows sticky with emptiness like the sea behind the scenes; contagious like a body or the space for murder just off-stage.” & I recall the multiplying undergrowth, how we s
By Margaret Connor Joe Orton makes it sound so easy, and Laud Humphreys makes it sound normal, but in the time the man’s been standing in front of the mirror, all he’s observed through the layers of graffiti is the sweat blooming under his arms and creeping along his collar. The white cotton will catch the wind and feel clammy when he walks back to his apartment. An express train makes a horrible sound on the tracks and in his ribs. The subway bathroom smells like stale skin.
By Eliza Rudalevige A small farewell from one of your literary editors. My father and I, we sing loudly in church; it's one of the few things we still have in common. And even then, it’s a rare occurrence when we both sit in the pews of my lazy, lovely, disjointed youth and harmonize, literally. He always sight-reads the bass line. I would say he gets it about two-thirds right, on a lucky day. On these unlucky days, it’s the good part of church: the faith laden in the music,