Bugging
Me Out
Staff:
Co-editors
Web Development
Copy
lilli black
connor moss white
pan deines
spenser lamphear
lane lallana
ayat’arrahman mahmoudi
kapuananialohikalani barnes
jordan scherr
kaya eisler
sariah hill
Public Relations
Layout
Art
spenser lamphear
valeria mirando moreno
tatum huegel
caine ryan
kapuananialohikalani barnes
lucas pinarie
kate clark
kapuananialohikalani barnes
caine ryan
leslie resendiz
letter from the editors:
Our beloved quarterlifers,
We’ll be honest. We’ve been buzzing around this theme for months, swatting away deadlines and chasing every weird little idea that landed on us. The result? Like any good metamorphosis, the process was worth it, and we’re emerging with something that’s really flying from our cobwebbed-filled brains to yours. This issue dives into all the things that get under our skin: the little irritations, the growing pains, and the moments that make us want to squirm (and grow). So settle in, crack open these pages, and let yourself get a little unhinged. Let the bugs bite. Let the metamorphosis begin.
Buzzing with excitement,
Spenser and Lilli
P.S. This marks our first edition as your new editors...
and we couldn’t be more abuzz. Here’s to
new wings, fresh starts, and a whole lot
of beautiful chaos ahead.
Table Of Contents:
Calen Roming
Asriel Passey
OJ
Lucy Troxel
mozzfeld
Charlie Staudinger
Beckett Gray
Anna Hicks
Kapuananialohikalani Barnes
anonymous
Coco Leusner
Bryn McCarren
Lucy Troxel
Wolf
Milani Filan
Melody Rodriguez
indigo
Peyton Bregstone
Millie Atack
Ronan Repasky
Juno Bellantoni
Steph Hermann
Linna Hopper
a curtain of her silk
Calen Roming
There is a spider outside my window
She has decided that the frame
Is the perfect inspiration for her weaving
She sits, placid, the heat of her empire
Webbing stretched from corner
To furthest corner
I can see her knuckles moving
She is thoughtful
This spider
She owns the entirety
Of my world, of the window frame
Two feet by nearly three
As round as a penny
She is strong and yet
I am worried for her
The wind is fierce tonight
She hangs, calm, in her center
A pendulum swaying erratically
The whole curtain swings
With each white gust
September is not always kind
She has faith in her life’s work
This spider in her steadfast fabric
I admire her
I See the Point
Lucy Troxel
A Bugged Bug
Beckett Gray
A common problem for all spies, narcs, and politicians is how to plant a listening device on someone or something without alerting suspicion. Some may be successful in this endeavor, but others won’t be either out of sheer incompetence or lack technical expertise. I, however, have devised an ingenious solution to this problem, just tape a microphone to a bug. It doesn’t matter what kind of bug it is, I’m not a bug exclusionist, any insectoid or arachnid can do the job as long as a microphone can be taped somewhere on their exoskeleton. It’s a fool proof spy system that any bloated ghoul of a politician can take advantage of. You may be wondering what if someone were to simply smash the bug with a shoe or a rolled-up newspaper, and to that I say, “never going to happen”. The bugged bugs will be trained escape artists that can get out of any deadly situation thrown their way. This invention will be the biggest thing in the spy community since the iPhone. If Richard Nixon used my Bugged Bugs for his Watergate scheme he would’ve got off Scott free, and isn’t that what the world needs more of? Less politicians being held accountable for their actions. If you think so for whatever reason, consider investing in Bugged Bugs.
Anthill
I think that I'm a desperate person.
For what, exactly? That I don't know,
But I know that you made me less desperate.
You made me believe that I was worth so much,
But then you would take it all away.
Maybe I'm not a desperate person!
What if you made me this way? Constantly searching
For those spoonfuls of affection, so saccharine,
That you would feed me from your sugar jar;
Your sugar was the sweetest I had ever tasted.
I think that I'm a hungry person.
For what, exactly? Your sugar, of course!
Even though you always had sugar,
You would ration it for me. But how I wanted it!
So I would be good in hopes of you sharing.
One day, you promised me all of the sugar you had.
How excited I was! You told me to close my eyes,
So I would not know where you hid your sugar.
You began to feed me, one spoonful at a time---
Never once did I open my eyes.
Coco Leusner
I think that you had an ant problem.
Why, exactly? Because the sugar soon became bitter,
And I felt the pitter-patter of ants on my tongue.
The colony marched through me, picking me apart,
To bring pieces back to their home.
Perhaps you didn't know the sugar was bad!
But the ants still crawled through me, nibbling away
At my sweetened heart. I shouldn't have had that much sugar---
The ants didn't mean any harm!
It was my fault for eating the sugar.
I think that you got new sugar for me.
Why, exactly? To make up for the ants, perhaps.
Unfortunately, my belly aches from ants and sugar,
And the sweetness doesn't matter now;
All I can taste is ants.
Cydia
Wolf
The codling moth doesn't know it's a pest,
it just lives its life at nature's behest.
Newly hatched larvae, writhing around,
boring holes in the skin of the apple it's found,
eating the flesh and stunting the growth,
infesting the orchard and dooming them both.
But one rotten apple spoils them all,
and one rotten tree means they all could fall,
so expel the larvae from the fruit that they cling,
and hope the orchard recovers before spring.
Untitled
Melody Rodriguez
To The Insects
(An Original Song)
Millie Atack
The summer husky
And its strange little bugs That float along the breeze
They make fun of
Our hands as they
Hold out for the light that leaves
‘Cuz they find our footprints And we can see them if we squint
‘Cuz tonight
They’ll fly
And when tomorrow comes They’ll litter the sky
Watching all we’ve built
And wond’ring why
I have habits
I dare not tell the bees
They’d let me off with
A thank you and a please
For cutting down the trees
And we say we’re trying
But this is more than surviving
‘Cuz tonight
We fly
And when tomorrow comes Our smog with choke the sky Watching all we’ve built
With a smile
So you’ll wait
In circles
As we name
Your life cycles
Barbies
To mangle
‘Till one day
We wake up without you
Alone I cannot change How we carry our knives So I
Just came to say goodbye
‘Cuz tonight
You’ll fly
And when tomorrow comes You’ll empty the sky
Dying as we build
And asking why
Park your car in my garage
Steph Hermann
Love is like a beehive, buzzing and full
But all I’ve ever had were wasp nests
And even they have high-tailed it
Angry little hotrods, busying themselves away
So now I’ve got eaves and beams and roof shingles
Home to only me
No bee to love, not a wasp to hate
No honey on my tongue or welts on my skin
And now even the flies are asking
“Do people still live here?”
Bug Uno
Asriel Passey
untitled
Charlie Staudinger
There is a bug on the floor.
I don’t know what kind.
No one pays much attention. I bend down, kneeling on the soft carpet, to look at it. It's stripped
and oblong. It has that color of motor oil in puddles after it rains. I don’t know what that color is.
I
don’t know what bug it is. I reach my hand down and gently pick it up. The bug hesitates and
then scampers up my wrist, trailing over my arm while I twist awkwardly to keep it in sight. It
moves up my shoulder, my neck, my chin, until it makes its home in my mouth.
There is a bug in my mouth.
I don't know what kind.
It’s cold and warm and hard and slippery. They tell me to spit it out but I don't. I can't. I try and
try but the bug won’t budge from the bottom of my tongue. I feel it crawl around, it crawls
through my mouth, my throat, my lungs. I feel it under my skin. It itches. It begs me to call it by
its name, biting and scratching. But I still don’t know what bug it is. it makes its home in my
mouth, in my throat, my lungs. I will adjust and move on. It's easier to not even think about the
bug. I can even forget. until it lays eggs in my tonsils. they grow and grow and grow and they
burst.
It’s only when I scream that they fly out. A million baby beetles in the air. Only in this fiery
agony
can I finally tell what the bug is.
detritus
Anna Hicks
I sit and I listen
to the sound of the creek
I am wrapped by the dark
the recent rain smells wet
smells like dead leaves
like soil
like earthworms
the wind rustles through crunchy leaves
dead leaves
it is fall
things are changing
and dying
though I look and
the yellow and orange ones
next to me
on top of the green green grass
(thanks to whitman’s weariless watering)
have bug eggs on them.
is there hope for new life
Ants are crawling on my windowsill
and up my wall
But I see they found
sweetness
in my plant
the place you think is home
can harm you
is there hope for new life
I spot a
bright green leaf on the ground
and my heart sinks
Did you fall too early?
Did someone cruelly pluck you?
though when I went to touch this leaf
it was only a weed,
rooted thoroughly
in the dirt
is there hope for new life
untitled
anonymous
eat me inside out,
then break me down and wear me thin,
take the remaining life my bones clung to,
leave gentle touches all over my skin,
then abandon the rest of me to rot when you’ve decided you’re
full.
you are nothing but a decomposer, my love,
with an exoskeleton so tough, i felt myself shatter when we
collided.
despite my early grave, here i am still awake,
wondering when our decay began, watching you gaze upon me
from the grass above.
when the day comes that i am truly gone, i hope the insects are
kinder to me than you have been.
my heart wilting, my flesh peeling, my empty chest drowning in
soil
must certainly be more peaceful than your faded devotion.
Overwhelmed
Lucy Troxel
flea.
indigo
it scuttles beneath my skin,
skittering in my chest
with six sets of six legs;
the sensation spreads and swarms,
a spasm, a hissing wince—
my body is not mine:
possessed.
the pierce of a parasite,
it pesters and molests,
an irrepressible tick, tick, twitch
for every poke
and every pinch.
i scrape and scratch,
doing my best
impersonation
of sanding paper,
until the damage surpasses
that of the proboscis
that punctures my epidermis.
i slap and swat to stop
the hives of your probing,
my shoulders hike to preserve
my neck. in spite of
me, you
seem persistent.
in the end,
i am spotless,
and you are nothing
but a cowardly pest;
an abrupt escape—
yet altogether unsurprising—
you flee.
The Plague of the Locust
Ronan Repasky
The Plague of the Locust
From the west winds blow a foul wind, an ill omen. The bell of judgement tolls, the strings of fate twist and contort, to pave the way. From the heavens, from the divine, a rot is cast down.
The Plague of the Locust
The light of dawn is stolen by a great, dark cloud. The cloud descends, writhing and crying out. An insatiable hunger, a desire with no end, a disease with no cure. From above, the reaper of life descends, the great equalizer of nature.
The Plague of the Locust
Rolling across the fields, takes all it can reach. A swarm of mouths, a swarm of consumption, an eternally ravenous void, leaves nothing but dust behind. A calamity of nature, a curse without origin. Who is to blame for such a decay? Who is to blame, for our final breaths? The source is none, no one is to blame. Only the wrath of nature, the hunger of
The Plague of the Locust
Then, all at once, the dark cloud is gone. The newly seen sunlight reveals a sea of withered fields, damaged homes, and sickened men. The wind blows, dust dances in the air. The bell of judgement tolls, the strings of fate twist and contort, to continue the torment. The curse has only just begun to take form. A form, that was once
The Plague of the Locust
Day becomes night, night becomes day. The fields will not grow, the roots have been torn free. A shroud of hunger descends upon the victims, a gnawing, inescapable hunger. A hunger that tints the sight, a hunger that decays the mind, a hunger that erodes the soul. The hunger of
The Plague of the Locust
Mothers give what little they have left to their children. Fathers search day and night for anything to feed the future. But there is nothing left. All has been stolen from them, the divine have turned their backs. The children sob for food, for anything to appease the hunger. The fathers madly scour the lands for anything to appease the hunger. The mothers beg for a miracle, anything to appease the hunger. But they will not find what they seek. All has been taken by
The Plague of the Locust
Day becomes night, night becomes day. The only sound left is dust flowing in the west wind. No one was left to bury the dead. No one was left to mourn the passing. No one was left to continue the prayers. And yet, within the very soil, the dust in the air, something remains. The hunger continues to fester, never satisfied, never satiated. It lurks in the abandoned homes, in the barren fields, in the western winds. And from these restless spirits, a new swarm is born. A new swarm, to hunger eternally, to consume and consume and leave nothing behind.
The Cycle Begins Anew
The Hunger Never Rests
The Plague of the Locust
Cowboy of the Forest Floor
Linna Hopper
Monopoly Man
OJ
I’m scrolling,
scrolling,
scrolling,
down this white hot
machine screen light.
And I don’t know when
this scrolling stops
‘cause I go
and go
and go.
Always something new
down
the
light.
It’s there,
it’s calling.
The inventory
of all I am seeing
would make this a Silverstein poem.
I don’t think I’m right
to scroll like this.
And I know it’s not news
that the two-forty blues and the hues on view
charring fight in the iris
are sucking me up
and spitting me out
in the dirt with the bugs
I’m empty, weak,
gone,
long past when I said “I’m done.”
‘Cause for the Monopoly Man,
in his tall, tall tower
the less I am,
the more I’m worth
and so are you
a view to be won.
In blurry eyes crystallized,
the like, click, swipe,
that of which frosted
the world beyond.
Effervescent
dancing rainbows.
The infinitely libidinal
moth to the flame.
From the jaws I came,
you will too.
Lie here in the torrid stripped soil:
Mother Nature’s barren womb.
Red hot sun
beats down.
Parched air
hitches in the lungs.
I guess here they will build
a data center or two.
Nothing else can rise
from hardened clay so lifeless.
No God, Mother, Lover
No Teacher, Neighbor, nothing so virtuous
can dance in this dust.
Only for the shadows
of a Biblical, beastly greed
can this land toil.
Only for the cannibal Man
can this place make home.
Once, I realized how he built
that tower of his.
Take the heart in velvet twine,
hang it up, wall to wall.
Take the skin and hand,
loot the body.
Rob the feeling,
dull the eyes.
All so our blood-soaked flesh lining his hearth
don’t recognize kin,
in fact they scramble
over the other
closer to the fire.
Monopoly Man, so clever
keeping the other
from the other.
If you weren’t listening:
I’ve scrolled,
scrolled,
scrolled.
Because I was offered a deal
my attention, for a quick thrill.
So I got picked,
plucked,
fucked.
Came to in the dust
I’m bleeding down my thighs and it’s mixed with the sand
And I know the Man is done because he’s taken it all,
my heart, my fun.
My self and yours.
But now I’m empty,
I’m bored,
I want this feeling to stop, so I’ll go on my knees,
tuck my chin,
pull up the screen.
Anything
to make this feeling
Stop.
scabies.
mozzfeld
get in, get in
skittering and screaming pounding against the door and you cling to me
millions of legs
in collections of six or thousand chipping the wood away
and two legs suffocating my limbs and digging
into my bleeding skin
i can smell your fear
pungent
the door eases open
pull, push
your eyes well up
get out, get out
skittering and screaming you pound against the door i cling to the wall
your two legs can’t outrun them mine collapse and i
itch at your indentations
scratching a lottery ticket, furious and frantic, and maybe this one is different
i can smell your fear
pitiful
i open the door
pull, pull
your eyes well up get in, get in
get in
Girl with a BUg
Kapuananialohikalani
Barnes
untitled
Bryn McCarren
Lacquer on hardwood so no swarms eat it’s frame Lavish sheets made of silk upon which is blamed The boiling of bodies belonging to those who remain To chew through the cloth of the bag you’d first save God forbid you need flee from the fire and flame And take flight in the night to escape the parade.
Three distinct assailants on my colony’s name As corruption seeps through me in burrowing pain And the blood-sucking brain-biting infection is made As apparent as swelling of stings on my face And this house isn’t home when I cannot feel safe.
Whatever you do don’t go into the light
Don't be lured by the sugary pit of delight
You can’t let your transmission cure crystalline white God can’t save the queen but I think you just might If you track down her pheromones and kamikaze in spite
The Spider, The Crow, and The Snake
Milani Filan
The dead tree sits amongst the abyss so cruel and evil,
Nothing living dares to dwell among it.
It is living death, this tree; no life may dwell in it.
Upon it, there be a spider of eight legs that
Cling to the bare limbs of the lifeless tree.
It works its web of interwoven silk between the limbs
Only to find itself at the mercy of a crow of black watching its every move.
The crow tilts its head in wonder at what this spider is.
Its blackened eyes like its darkened soul creep up to its prey.
Its talons cling to the naked limbs of the tree
As it outsretches its neck to the silk web
And devours the spider until nothing is left.
The web now destroyed fades away to nothing just as the spider once was.
Yet, this cursed tree is not done with those among it.
For though the crow hath devoured its prey,
The prey to prey upon is the crow itself.
For in that tree, a snake of scales,
The color of the night,
Be watching its every move.
The crow, at ease from its meal
Is unaware of the predator that lurks amongst the limbs.
The snake with its wicked eyes upon the bird,
Slithers and creeps to where the web once was.
Its forked tongue tastes the air and knows
Of what is to come.
The bird shall die and
Die shall the bird.
The snake positions itself
At the feet of the crow and opens its snout wide.
From above its head, fangs of poison appear, and with one strike, the snake
Pierces the crow at its leg.
With great wailing,
The crow screeches to the moon in the cruel abyss.
With its lasting breath,
The crow faces the snake of evil,
And with its talons,
Pierces its hide
And breaks its neck.
It is a living death,
That tree.
WARNING:
DO NOT ENGAGE
Peyton Bregstone
Roadkill
Juno Bellatoni
the parking lot saint, haloed
in the streetlamp limelight;
good enough for gore.
blessed be the scavengers, come
the angels to feast on squirming
snakes of gut and bloating heart
limp veins strangle
the bleed through the pores, nails
dipped in rot and festering asphalt
maggoted marrow a feast
as hooked beaks and dull teeth
bow their heads to carcass
haloed in the streetlamp
limelight; good enough
to burn
quarterlife would like to thank the Associated Students of Whitman College (ASWC) for their financial support, without which the production of this magazine would not be possible.
Our utmost gratitude goes to the our printing partner and to our advisor, Professor Gaurav Majumdar.
A very special thanks to our staff artists who produce the wonderful art shown throughout this issue.
All work featured in quarterlife magazine or on the website is displayed by express permission of the author or artist, who holds all relevant copyrights to their work. Don’t steal their stuff.