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by Barbara McGaughey, Senior, Writing & Linguistics My car is an island. It’s New Year’s, and the parking lot smells like cardboard and glue, alcohol yet to be spilled. It’s Christmas, and the parking lot smells like...
by Michael Conner, Senior, Writing & Linguistics Hollowed riverbeds and blood red plains beside copper cabins, rusted away, crushed on railroad tracks oxidized to black, so heavy trains wheezed and howled with exhaust, like families burning...