by Miles Klee | illustration by William Fatzinger Jr.
I don’t visit museums of art, for reasons you’ll understand, and when I do go to other, mostly historical museums, it’s with the hope of finding a room that has no people in it. When that proves impossible, I find somewhere pleasant to sit for a very long time. I lived in Manhattan some months, not far from the American Museum of Natural History, and even a stroll to “get some fresh air” would lead me to its great stone steps, and thence into its echoing depths. On occasions when the museum became quite crowded, for example a Sunday in mid-December, I made my way to the Bernard Family Hall of North American Mammals. It’s there that you can study, in a splendid diorama, two stuffed but darkly alive mountain lions. There’s a polished wood bench a few feet away from the glass, and nobody has the time to sit there—nobody but me.
by Miles Klee | illustration by William Fatzinger Jr.
photos by Ben Simon
Photography has a funny relationship with the truth. Photographs presented alone are taken as fact in the absence of more information. We are comfortable with images acting as documentation. I’m not interested in deception. I play within the medium, shooting nudes in the studio with a pinhole lens and long exposures. The images are presented as negatives, pulling them further from reality.
by Conor O’Rourke | photos by Danielle Gasbarro
The hills of my city made side streets a gamble. Some streets finished suddenly in blunt dead ends, some in spectacular sunlit vistas. Even streets that looked promising could suddenly turn and disappear into a chain-link fence, leaving me with nothing to do but go back and start over from the beginning. I didn’t mind. Walking made me feel free and familiar with this city, this city where I had been living and working for two years but never really spent any time. Walking was slower than riding a bike or taking the train. It made me stop to notice things.
produced by Sarah Herndon
Roller Derby is one of the fastest growing sports in the world; and if you’re not already a fan, you probably know a few basics: tough, rowdy women on roller skates with weird names and provocative outfits beating the crap out of each other. That’s the stereotype, at least. The sport is especially alive in the quads of the Rhinestone Cowgirls’ Dusty Doublewide. Dusty recently won the league’s awards for Best Blocker, Most Feared Skater, Crowd Favorite, and Dirtiest Skater, which can tell you a lot about her persona alone. When the helmet comes off, though, where does Dusty end and Hayly begin?
by Emily May
There’s a small town in southwest Michigan that boasts a University and a Wings Etc restaurant, and parents buy homes in subdivisions where their kids will shoot heroin as high schoolers. There is a megachurch off the freeway and the girls are all long-haired and well-mannered. Everyone dreams of leaving before they learn to drive—for what or where, they’re not really sure. Briefly, this town was my refuge, and I became an international roller hockey star in a league of three.
by Tyler Spangler
Portraying the truth but just blowing colorful smoke.
by Tatiana Ryckman | Illustration by Kyle Butler
There’s a picture of zebras in my mother’s childhood bedroom. A whole safari landscape littered with striped horses. They’re not horses, I know. But dozens of zebras, all horse-like and glass-eyed, romping through that picture. It’s pasted like wallpaper over the nook where someone would end up sleeping over the holidays when we all drove in to Buffalo from Cleveland. There’s a pervasive and unacknowledged respect for zebras lingering among my sisters and I that I can only attribute to that giant photograph and everything those zebras saw.
Audio by Feliks Garcia | Video by Nathan Smith and Austin Tolin | Photos by Patrick Bresnan
Decker Middle School’s fifth annual Fright Night is a monumental night of scares produced by 7th and 8th graders in the AVID program. Hear their story.
by Jené Gutierrez
As I observe the interactions and documented mundanity of my family’s surviving home videos, I search for signs that this life I see, this grainy and familial life, is mine. Representing my childhood from around two to five years of age, these videos document the brief and vaguely recalled time in my life when my parents were still married and we all – mother, father, sister, brother – lived together. Although my parents were unhappily married, these videos don’t indicate that – there are moments of tenderness between them that, if you know them separately like I do, are nearly unfathomable. I know this perceived restoration of wholeness is a myth, but maybe I regard it this way because I almost can’t believe that this was my life, that for a few years I lived with this family, and that everything appears so astonishingly normal.
by Susan Cohen | illustration by Sarah Schmidt
I can’t remember the name of the first boy I ever had a crush on, but I do remember the trauma of witnessing him projectile vomit all over our kindergarten homework assignments. After that, I didn’t like him anymore. I was much more superficial back then.
by Patrick Pryor | illustration by Erin Baird
by William Fatzinger Jr.
Picture the famous wrestling high school. Great glutted trophy cabinet. Tidy gradient of photographed wrestling teams gone by. Photos degrade, go black and white, get ancient, get ugly.
by Emily May | image by Shay Spaniola
My next-door neighbor, over for dinner with his wife at my parents’ house a week before I leave for the other side of the world: “Have you thought about certain things? It’s 120 degrees every day. You might want to cut your hair before leaving.”
produced by Feliks Garcia and Nick Carpenter | sound design by Soundnoodle
Remember those days you just didn’t want to go to school? How did you get out of it? What did you do? In this first episode of The Sound, we share three stories about cutting, told with wisdom found only in hindsight.
Featuring stories by Feliks Garcia, Liz Moskowitz, Nick and Kevin Carpenter.