top of page
theme spread.png

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

​leslie resendiz

julia freudenberger

pngtree-frame-design-of-purple-clouds-png-image_13217238_edited.png
pngtree-frame-design-of-purple-clouds-pn
pngtree-frame-design-of-purple-clouds-png-image_13217238_edited.png

Dear beloved readers,

​

Welcome to quarterlife is counting sheep, an issue for the restless, the overthinkers, and anyone who’s ever stared at the ceiling at 2 a.m. We’re so grateful you’re here.

​

Thank you to everyone who read, submitted, and trusted us with your work. Your pieces kept us up (in the best way), and we’re honored to share them with campus.​

This issue also marks a change behind the scenes. With lots of love, we say goodbye to Lilli Black as our Co-Editor. Lilli was there through the creepy crawlies and sleepless nights. We’re endlessly thankful for her care, creativity, and late-night labor, and we’re counting on her to continue her great work on Copy Staff.​

06fbba67d77ece97881d036495a772ec-cute-sleeping-kitten-black.png

At the same time, we’re excited to welcome Roman Di Giulio as our new co-editor. Fresh eyes, new energy… no sleep lost there (yet).

Thanks for counting sheep with us, and we’ll see you in the morning.

 

- Your very own quarterlife editors

pngtree-frame-design-of-purple-clouds-png-image_13217238_edited.png
pngtree-frame-design-of-purple-clouds-pn
pngtree-frame-design-of-purple-clouds-png-image_13217238_edited.png

Table Of Contents:

Calen Roming

Aubrey Sue Quinn

Summer Stewart

Elleanor Martin

Jack Bingaman

Emmet Schink

Emmet Schink

Ayat’arrahman Mahmoudi

Miriam  Slonecker

Miriam  Slonecker

Coco Leusner

Lucy Troxel

kapuananialohikalani barnes

Ella Shropshire

Calen Roming

I Dream of Pegasus

Milani Filan

I lie beneath the stars, admiring the many constellations

That haunt me in my dreams. Pegasus is there.

He watches me from his starry home within

The dark sea. Is it He who shall visit me in my dreams?

 

I close my eyes and let the darkness envelope me.

Who or what is it that visits me in my dreams?

Pegasus, are you there? I cry in my sleep. Pegasus,

Is it you that visits me tonight? Are you here

To bring the light into my pathway through

This eerie night?

 

Tis not Pegasus that visits me in my dreams,

But a black wolf, a demon of the night

That watches me as I sleep. This hellhound

Sits upon my chest, suffocating my very breath,

Inspiring the night terror that haunts me within

This night. Its very claws bury themselves into

My chest, clawing and piercing my soul,

Beckoning to take me to its underground lair

To feast on my body and my spirit. It is only Him

Who can save me from this evil, this

Demon that haunts the night.

 

But from the night sky within its constellations clear

Does the white winged horse appear

To battle the demon for my soul

And fly me to heaven, my spirit whole.

 

I dream of Pegasus, the savior of my soul.

a curtain of her silk

Nocturnal

Aubrey Sue Quinn

Faceless morning hails upon us pouring down from the starless sky.

Dawn is coming, violently riding over the mountains, sword aimed

 

at the point where our bodies meet. My arm slung over your hip,

your hand cradling the back of my neck. It will sever us apart.

 

Like that time when people writhed against each other on the dance

floor, sweat sparkling against the neon lights giving a break to anonymity.

 

When the sun came up my head still throbbed to the thunder of the base

and we peeled apart, stumbling home, spent and excited, ready to fall

 

into the mattress on the floor and sleep away the blinding light behind us.

A deep inhale of earthy smoke calms the buzzing in my head

 

but you abstain, saying you want to feel the ache of your body.

You and I, we are not meant for mornings, for sundays or family gatherings.

 

We were built to watch the stars move across the horizon, winking at us

like conspirators. People like us hold onto each other and try not to let go

 

even as the earth moves faster, threatening to rip apart the shaking foundation

of love, or at least adoration. We were stitched together in our separate wombs

 

to lay here, counting freckles, kissing smeared lipstick, mascara, reveling in

the wool sweaters we bought matching last christmas. Ours is the time not taken,

 

the haze filled nights with too much to think about as we lay

our heads to sleep. As the dawn wakes, bustling cars of businessmen

 

who sold their soul to the sun roar to life, and I cling a little closer to where you

wrap around me. There is less danger when night cloaks the two of us

 

in a shroud of misunderstanding. So let's sleep away the mourning,

the dark is ours to regret.

I See the Point

where beds have called home

Summer Stewart

Figure 1: a silent room

(or was it silent? i can’t remember).

purple and pink by the shore,

2000s nostalgia coloring it more.

 

Figure 2: a rainbow room

(new noises too),

many colors through the years.

sleeping amidst raucous cheers,

motorcycles from the north,

and jazz from the south

(a bitter sound — if ear would bend to mouth

— like coffee, it grows on you).

 

Figure 3: a basement

(cold, almost freezing),

the gentle wind now puts my heart to beating.

i’ve never had quite this feeling

(i lie awake at night, still reeling);

the valley never stops its breezing.

​

Figure 4: a white room

(made whole by my existence).

upstairs, i try to get some rest

while the wind resumes its quest

(that valley charm, its persistence)

and wakes me up, night after night.

so do the planes, flight after flight

(to sleep, i now hold such resistance).

 

Figure 5: a dorm room

(quite possibly in Jewett Hall).

i’ve escaped the breeze, and so

i crack open my window.

now the noise becomes my choice,

whispering like a gentle voice

(the one that brought me here, the call

that set me moving in this fall

and even if i lose some sleep

this bed, for now, is mine to keep).

A Bugged Bug

The House that Jumped Over the Moon

Elleanor Martin

I lived in a house that jumped over the moon

And every night, when the wind blew just right

The house would creak and groan

Until the roof howled just like a moo.

 

A gingerbread house tucked between peaks

And a creek that froze in the winters

That brought with it fields of crystalline snow,

Chasing after my older brother who always jumped

To a boulder to far for my little legs

To carry me.

I’d pretend I was a mouse in a cloak,

And he a badger with a scarf

Wrapped snugly around his neck.

 

I think back to those nights

In our wooden house that mooed

With you just down the hall,

With your favorite green scarf tucked neatly

Into your very own wooden drawer,

And remind myself to find the time to call.

Anthill

i hope you dreamt of me

Jack Bingaman

i grew up sleeping in bunk beds.

 

there was my bed, wooden and white, and scuffed at the lip of the top bunk where the hooks of the ladder chipped into the planks that are supposed to keep you from falling. there was the bed at my grandmother's house, also white, but metal. i never slept on the top bunk at either house, mostly because i was too big. it wasn't so bad. my sister slept above me at Grandma's, and at home, i slept under the glow-in-the-dark stars that Pops stuck on there once upon a time.

 

i probably spent a thousand nights, i probably spent a million minutes, tracing my fingers against the slats of the bed above me. i spent half of my life sleeping Under, sleeping Below.

 

i don't think it's surprising, then, that my eight-year-old self sleeps in my ribcage. it's where she's slept all her life, and she, too, drags her fingernails across the bones above her bed, just the same. 

 

and just like i did, because she is who i was, she pushes on whatever mattress rests above her, except i pressed on an actual mattress, and she presses on the part of me that wants to cry for my mother when i have a bad dream. yes, she presses on the part of me that still sings "castle on a cloud" and "goodnight, my someone". certainly, she presses on the part of me that still slings a blanket over his head when his room gets too dark.

 

some nights, when i climb into bed, i forget which one of us i'm tucking in, and i have to open my eyes in order to remember. 

 

sleep well, A. i'll fight the monsters under your bed, so long as you keep dreaming for me.

Cydia

Doodles

Emmet Schink

I daydream in pencil. 

 

To use ink is to give 

 

I prefer to lend,

 

Perhaps the act of erasure is not quite as perverse 

 

As I imagine 

 

While brushing away the rubber. 

 

I tread over sand mandalas

 

As I sleep,

 

Leaving no line unmarked 

 

Cross hatched graphite 

 

Covering printed lines.

Untitled

Classroom Past Time

Emmet Schink

The best naps are unplanned.

 

Guilty things,

 

Sunbeams striking cold skin

 

AC whirring 

 

Yellow lights flickering 

 

Head fishtailing. 

 

The taste of iron.

 

Mixing with spit.

To The Insects
Park your car

Refrigerator Magnet Poem

Calen Roming

Screenshot 2025-12-15 at 7.09.07 PM.png

It's okay to sleep

​Ayat’arrahman Mahmoudi

It’s winter time, so God is punishing me again

Nothing is actually different

Only that the breeze outside now reaches the bones

And the sun goes away like a young man drafted for war

Quickly. Quickly.

So early and the warmth is all gone away to the house of Sol

We hate to live like the Cimmerians shrouded in mist but must.

As ochre leaves pirouette down to sleep forever,

I must serve God’s purpose when I would rather do anything but

Sleep is rare and I can imagine nothing more ravishing than my sheets

Dark lips say death is coming but there’re soft whispers:

You just need more sleep

Bug Uno

Blankets

Miriam Slonecker

Sometimes, the darkness that fills my room at night is soft and heavy and rich, like velvet falling over me. On these nights, it tumbles over me and into me, filling my ears and my eyes until there is nothing to do but curl up in its warmth. Comforting. Luxurious. On these nights, sleep comes swiftly and easily. These are the nights when my dreams are sweet.

 

Other nights, though, the darkness is like silk. Still beautiful, still precious, but slippery and hard to capture between my fingers. I reach out to touch the fabric, my fingers desperate and clutching, but it shivers away, elusive. It runs away from my hands and dances before my eyes, decorated by dancing beaded tassels of thought. The beads clatter and chatter, and the cacophony fills my head. The noise is overwhelming. On these nights, the darkness does not want to be

caught, and sleep is a distant memory.

 

When the darkness does not want to be caught, I must teach myself to be tricky. I lie very still. (If I am motionless, the beads do not chatter so loudly. If I do not raise my hand, they have nothing to run away from.) I distract myself, pretending not to think of my prey, although I am desperate to grab onto it. (This irritates it. The shimmering, silken darkness is vain. It wants to be seen, to be chased.) I close my eyes in imitation of sleep. (I am luring it in now. The darkness is curious and jealous. It is nearly close enough to grab onto.)

 

Carefully, gently, ever so slowly, I raise my hands to grasp ahold of the fabric. If I move too quickly, it will flutter away, propelled by the breeze created by my desperate, reaching hands. But if I am slow enough, if I do not allow myself to jostle the beaded strands of thoughts that have finally gone silent, if I pretend that every moment is an artless accident, then sometimes I can grab ahold of the silk.

 

And then finally, the darkness flutters down to cover me. Captured at last, it is docile and

delicate and smooth. I am warm, nearly fevered from the frantic thrill of the chase, but the

darkness lies cool against my skin, soothing the uncomfortable heat. And now, finally, sleep

finds me, a long-lost friend I am eager to embrace.

 

On these nights, my dreams sound like the clattering of beads.

untitled cs

Wool

Miriam Slonecker

My mother is a knitter.

 

I inherited my racing thoughts and tapping, fidgeting fingers from her. Our minds are shaped the same way, moving too quickly, nearly impossible to capture and observe. But she has taught herself to pin down her thoughts with the jab of a knitting needle, to pen them in with a fence constructed out of cables and worsted weight yarn. When she is knitting, the idle fidgeting of her hand transforms itself into quick, purposeful motions. Every motion is meaningful: each flick of her wrist and twist of her finger serves to guide stitch after stitch into their proper places.

 

My mother loves sheep.

 

It comes with the territory, I suppose. She wants to know every step of the path that eventually leads to her favorite sweater. The sheep’s wool that is carded and dyed and spun and finally stitched together by her own two hands. In the back of my closet, there is a large trash bag full of wool, given to us by my sister’s friend who raises sheep. Although my mother does not spin her own yarn (yet — I’m sure it’s only a matter of time), she was eager to own the wool just for the sake of having it. She dreams of retiring and going on a trip to the Shetland Isles: not to go on a cruise, but to visit the sheep and buy their yarn and look at people’s sweaters. Sometimes, seemingly out of nowhere, she will text me pictures of sheep. I think if our backyard were a little larger, she would buy some of her own.

 

My mother knitted me a sweater once.

 

I picked out the pattern and the yarn myself. It is purple (my favorite color), with a lacy yoke and sleeves that remind me of princesses. She spent hours on it, crafting it specially for me. I didn’t wear it very often. It was slightly itchy, and I discovered too late that I didn’t like the silhouette. But every time I did wear it (only for special events: a flute recital, my sister’s honor society induction), she would smile and comment. When I left for college, I left the sweater back home with her. I think she will wear it more than I would.

 

My mother is a light sleeper.

 

When I got home late at night, all I would have to do is tap lightly on her door and she would wake up. One time when I was especially late, I decided to let her sleep. In the morning, she was angry. She would rather have me disturb her already fitful sleep than not know when I was home safe. When I was younger, when I had bad dreams, I would knock on her door with the same light tap, and she would let me crawl into bed and curl up against her. When I got older and stopped coming to her with my bad dreams, sometimes she would come and lie in my bed instead.

 

Now her door is too far away for me to knock on in the middle of the night, and I wish I had packed the sweater she had knitted me.

detritus

The Chime

Coco Leusner

The grandfather clock goes,

He tocks and he ticks,

The hour strikes ten,

But he needs to be fixed!

 

He continues to tick,

And gives a half-hearted tock,

For no one has helped

The old grandfather clock!

 

He is missing his chime,

The sweet bell, his soul!

He wishes to sing,

But his voice is not whole.

 

“It’s past ten o’clock!”

He said with a weep.

“But no one will know,

For I cannot speak!”

 

A little brown mouse,

Just three inches tall,

Lived right by the clock

In a hole in the wall.

“Can you keep it down?

I’m trying to sleep!”

But the grandfather clock

Continued to weep.

 

She scurried up the clock,

And asked what was wrong.

Then the clock told her

About the loss of his song.

 

She scampered in the clock

And fiddled with his gears.

She found and fixed the broken chime

That had caused all of his tears!

 

The grandfather clock cheered,

And thanked the little brown mouse.

His chime was finally back,

Though it woke the whole house!

untitled anon

Sheep Scratch

Lucy Troxel

Sheep Scratch (1).jpg
overwhelmed

Limbo

​Kapuananialohikalani Barnes

Limbo color.pdf.png
flea.

Oh my god! Elita One from Transformers and Sabrina Carpenter from Real Life are friends and shake hands!

IMG_5274 (1).jpeg

Ella Shropshire

The Plague of the Locust
QL Table of Contents (Draft_) (1).pdf.png
........
......
Thanks for reading!

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, Smartpress, for making our work visible.

​

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.

bottom of page