Issue 3 - Fall 2026

Sky Odel is a queer poet, teacher, and multidisciplinary artist creating out of Omaha, Nebraska. Her work centers on themes of gender, fatness, identity, nature, and the self. As an English teacher, they believe in keeping the art in language arts and encouraging creativity, empowerment, and self-expression in her students. Sky also cohosts an art gathering, has led writing workshops, and has participated in several art shows. They strive to feel the full spectrum of emotions inspired by living in an exploitative capitalist society yet magical, wondrous world. As a genderfluid person, she loves to dance in the nuances, contradictions, and paradoxes of life.

Ode to My Girlfriend's Fingers

Artmaker crackling and winching

emotion from strangers and me.

I wonder if you mind the admiration. 

Though strangers have only

imagined you in action, or glimpsed 

your visage in passing, I’ve had

the privilege of getting to know you

intimately: watching like a cuck in a chair

as you pluck strings of metal and threaded 

yarn, your fingers throbbing, wincing,

curling, bleeding. Yet you still work 

at me, dragging a gasp as diligently 

as you would granite across paper,

single-minded in the act of creation. 

Bostonian

you are the bustling ghost

of a destitute mall.

you are the rounded chime

a wine glass makes 

when running a finger 

around the rim: 

melodious and happenstance,

to the delight of young children

and drunk adults. you are 

the front-porch light, blinking

in the violet night. come home. 

and i do, one arm wrapped around

your belly and the other in your hair, 

smelling the day-sweat and rice shampoo

that reminds me you are more

than just a distant fantasy. 

Abby Pearson (she/her) is a poet hailing from Omaha, Nebraska. After graduating from the University of Nebraska-Omaha with a BFA in Creative Writing, she went on to work alongside Nebraska State Poet Jewel Rodgers. Together, they kicked off Homegrown, a traveling reading series that has continued to showcase Nebraskan artists from the panhandle and beyond. She was also a key collaborator in the 2026 poetry anthology Calling Home From New York, a joint effort between Rodgers and photographer Kevin Kabore. When she's not working as a grant writer, she's usually dictating for her notes app, playing modded Minecraft, or spending time with her girlfriend. She is not a fan of the endless labor that presupposes social media, but you can find her at @abbyjudepoetry on Instagram.  

Federico García Lorca and Salvador Dali, Barcelona, 1925. Public Domain Media.

The Spanish writer Federico García Lorca was born in 1898 in Fuente Vaqueros, a village about twelve miles away from the city of Granada. He died in 1936 somewhere in the vicinity of that same city, only a few months after his thirty-eighth birthday. To attempt to distill any writer’s work into one word is an exercise in futility, but for the purposes of this essay, I’d like to introduce Lorca’s work as largely being concerned with death. 

The three plays for which he is perhaps best known—Bodas de sangre (Blood Wedding, 1933), Yerma (1934), and La casa de Bernarda Alba (The House of Bernard Alba, 1936)—are all tragedies which end in death. One of his greatest poetic achievements was Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías (1935), a lament for a friend who had been killed while bullfighting. The title he almost gave to his book Poeta en Nueva York (Poet in New York, written 1929–30) was Introduction to Death. It was a persistent thematic preoccupation, one which Lorca conceived of expansively—not merely as the opposite of life, the absence of it, but as its other half, a point on a spectrum of being that is perpetually in flux. Christopher Maurer, in his introduction to Poet in New York, wrote that, “[l]ife is seen in this book as metamorphosis: Ovid read in a deathly light.” Few of Lorca’s drawings represent death directly, but they certainly appear in this “deathly light”: a self-portrait surrounded by skyscrapers and horse-like monsters, the modern metropolis as bullring; spindly, fragile figures vomiting; eerily tranquil nocturnes haunted by the moon; a broad shouldered sailor with a flower growing out of his eye, the figure’s eroticism inseparable from an almost ghostly hollowness.

As Maurer implies in his introduction, that Lorca was concerned with death necessarily means he was also concerned with life, life viewed just as expansively as death. The ant is as important as the human. The forces of nature are animated, paradoxically coming alive even as they symbolize death. The most obvious expression of this might be in Bodas de sangre, in which a personified Death (a beggar woman who does not appear in the cast list) calls upon a personified Moon in the form of a young woodcutter to light the deaths of the play’s star-crossed lovers. Violins accompany this scene, an aural evocation of the forest which will become a graveyard. Unsurprisingly, many of the poetic images of Poet in New York engage in this juxtaposition. “Double Poem of Lake Eden” opens with the stanza “It was the voice I had before, / ignorant of the dense and bitter sap, / the one that came lapping at my feet / beneath the moist and fragile ferns,” the plants concealing a natural sap which heralds heartbreak and betrayal for the narrator, life begetting an emotional death. In his sorrow, the narrator says, “…I’m not a man, not a poet, not a leaf, / only a wounded pulse that probes the things of the other side.” The wound is envisioned as a space where life and death meet, almost in battle, and both in being wounded and being beyond a conventional understanding of life, the narrator is able to access an in-between world. This is expressed again when he says fog, Dream, and Death were looking for him where “…[his] body floats between contrary equilibriums.” That life and death are equilibriums in a static, perpetual state of balance, indicates how, in Lorca’s work, to summon one means to summon the other. They are inextricable: death cannot exist without life, and life cannot exist without death.

Indeed, Lorca’s characters are often so full of life that death inevitably follows them. These tragic figures exist in the confines of a limited and callous worldview constructed by oppressive forces, namely (although not exclusively) the conservative, Catholic culture of early twentieth century Spain. These characters feel too deeply and desire beyond the limits accorded them. They live too fully to survive unscathed. They are pushed to extremes by their circumstances—by the society in which they live—and enact their own ruin.

I think here of Yerma, the titular character of Lorca’s 1934 play. Trapped in a loveless marriage, bound by Spanish Catholic codes of honor, and yearning for another man, she believes that by having a child and fulfilling her duty as a wife, she might find meaning, purpose, or satisfaction in her life. She thinks of this incessantly and is tormented by what she understands as her body’s betrayal: its refusal to give her a child, its desire for one she cannot have. At the end of the play, in anguish and desperation she kills her husband, her only way to have a child and thus her only chance of happiness. His death is at once freedom from a stifling marriage and condemnation to a lonely, loveless future. Yerma’s haunting, agonized cry, the final line of the play, expresses her relief and her despair:

YERMA. Barren, barren, but sure. Now I really know it for sure. And alone. [She rises. People begin to gather.] Now I’ll sleep without startling myself awake, anxious to see if I feel in my blood another new blood. My body dry forever! What do you want? Don’t come near me, because I’ve killed my son. I myself have killed my son! 

It is significant that this, the most emotionally charged moment of the play, the climax of Yerma’s personal and interpersonal struggles, happens in public; “alone,” she says as a crowd of pilgrims flocks to watch her. In this final moment Lorca emphasizes something alluded to throughout the play: Yerma’s personal difficulties in love and family are fundamentally shaped by the watchful eyes of the people in her village, the embodiment of broader society. Yerma struggles vainly to conform to their expectations.

This collision of public and private worlds, related to the “contrary equilibriums” of “Double Poem of Lake Eden,” recurs throughout Lorca’s oeuvre. Yerma suggests what happens when these worlds, these equilibriums, are thrown out of balance, but other works deal with its negotiation: the cleaving of the self into two personas, that which is presentable and that which must be hidden. The characters of El Público (The Public or The Audience, written 1930) exist in a world of masks, masks which become their own kind of death. The Director, with his “theater of the open air,” cannot bear to upset his audiences by showing them the dirty, vulnerable underbelly of his characters, an offense to “public morality.” In the same vein, he cannot bear to reveal himself on stage, to don a mask and perform truth. “The mask would come and devour me,” he says. “I’ve seen it happen, a man eaten alive by the mask.” When the three men barge into his office, they ruthlessly tear down his defenses, revealing the Director for who he truly is, and in doing so unwittingly tear down their own. The relationships between characters shift abruptly and dramatically, from weeping declarations of love to fighting in a matter of lines. But as a conversation between the Director and the First Man reveals, these are not so different:

DIRECTOR (to FIRST MAN). Gonzalo, don’t put your arms round me; your love’s only alive in front of witnesses; didn’t you give me enough kisses in the ruins? I despise your elegance and your theatricality.

[They fight.]

FIRST MAN. I show my love in front of others because I hate the mask, and because I’ve managed to wrench it off you.

DIRECTOR. Why am I so weak?

FIRST MAN (struggling). I love you.

DIRECTOR (struggling). I despise you.

These relationships are never fully resolved, suggesting that they will perpetually exist on unstable ground. The public is disgusted and offended by them, by the truth, but, as several characters argue and as the Director eventually comes to believe, they must nonetheless be shown it. The only options, as El Público presents it, are to withstand the public’s disdain in the name of truth, or to take refuge behind the mask.

In the works that I have discussed, a forbidden love is the catalyst, the mechanism by which Lorca examines societal pressures. In Yerma, it is implied that the titular character loves another man, but she cannot act on these feelings because she is honor-bound to her husband. Marriage in the play is not an act of love but an expression of a restrictive conservative ideology, and this tension informs all of Yerma’s actions. Lorca’s more experimental and ambitious work, such as El Público, engages this conflict between society and the individual to consider the functions of art itself. The Director’s masking of his queerness, done to conform to his audience’s narrow standards, sets the stage for an exploration of the medium of theater, of its history, of its purposes, of its audiences. El Público can be described as a play about homosexuality and as a play about plays, but to do so would be to erroneously suggest that these ideas are separate. In reality, Lorca’s examination of both are intimately intertwined. The political is the artistic is the personal.

I feel reasonably assured in this interpretation because the writer’s brother, Francisco García Lorca, has said as much. According to him, Federico’s life “was an authentic living, if such there ever was.” This living was inextricable from his art. From his brother’s childhood games to his professional work, Francisco saw “...the desire, more or less conscious, of interchanging the planes of art and reality and of welding them, as they were welded by his life’s marvelous impetus.” He spoke of this in the fairly innocuous context of Federico’s integration of poetry and drama and his Andalusian influences, but his omission of more controversial topics indicates that this way of living and working necessarily caused friction. Lorca’s left-wing politics were not the norm in conservative Spain and got him in hot water more than once, but they were at least shared by family and friends and well-represented in national and international discourse. His homosexuality, on the other hand, was by and large deemed unacceptable to the majority, even among loved ones. Certain friends apparently chose to be ignorant of it while others became openly hostile once they discovered it. For decades, scholars who wished to research his sexuality were obstructed by censorship, selective access to archives, and a refusal among many who knew the poet to even acknowledge it. For those aspects of his identity which were broadly acceptable, the “welding” of art and life was fine, but for those which were deemed unacceptable, the negotiation of art and life was problematic to the point of great personal distress.

This came to a head for Lorca in 1928 and 1929, when he fell into a deep depression. On paper, this was likely caused by the dissolution of his relationships with Emilio Aladrén and Salvador Dalí and made worse by the sudden and explosive success of a book of poetry, Romancero gitano. This latter point has puzzled scholars. Both Gwynne Edwards and Christopher Maurer have described it as “strange,” but in my view, it is only really strange if these are viewed as entirely separate events. The depth of his depression was caused by the confluence of these events and the way it exacerbated the rift he already felt growing between his public and private selves. Lorca felt that the critics, despite their praise, misrepresented both him and his poetry. This was coupled with a fear that somehow, his poetry would out him to the public. As he wrote to the Colombian writer Jorge Zalamea in summer 1928, he was “trying constantly to prevent one’s feelings from filtering into one’s poetry, because that would be to open one’s most intimate self to the scrutiny of those who should never see it.” He had already spent the last decade hiding his sexuality from friends and family. Now he had to hide it from the world, no one at his side with whom he could weather the storm. A year-long trip to New York City and Havana successfully pulled him out of this depressive episode and led to a period of relative personal and professional stability wherein he was far more comfortable in his sexuality and his mounting professional success caused more joy than anxiety. For a moment, at least, he had found a balance between his art and his life. This was abruptly shattered when, in August 1936, Lorca was assassinated.

Civil war had broken out a month previously, in July 1936, after a partially successful coup d’etat against the Second Spanish Republic by a coalition of far-right military officers and civilians. Lorca had arrived in Granada from Madrid just days before the coup. His brother-in-law, Manuel Fernández-Montesinos, a socialist and the newly elected mayor of Granada, was detained and eventually assassinated by the Nationalist insurgents who overtook the city in the days following. These forces would do the same to Lorca, arresting him at the home of Luis Rosales, where he had been in hiding for several days. No written orders exist to explain why the decision was made, but a 1940 report listed the following accusations: “His political affiliation is unknown but his ideology is frankly leftist [...] he published several poems denying the existence of God and moreover his acquaintances were Don Fernando de los Ríos and other leftist politicians [...] Assessment of his private life: he appears to have been a homosexual.” The assassination was carried out in secret; friends and family made attempts to free Lorca from jail without realizing he had already been murdered. The fascist government led by the dictator General Francisco Franco, which ruled Spain from the end of the Civil War in 1939 until Franco’s death in 1975, deliberately suppressed any information about or inquiry into Lorca’s death, denying any involvement and maintaining that Lorca had simply died in the crossfire. As of October 2026, when I write this essay, his remains have never been found.

In some ways, Lorca’s tragic end was like that of his characters. I don’t say this glibly or to make a trite comparison. What I mean is that he proved to be an extraordinarily astute judge of Spanish society, and Spain did exactly what he in his literary work said it would do. The rising tide of reactionaries could not and would not accept any deviation from their narrow ideas of acceptability. Lorca, in his refusal to conform, made public by published work, interviews, and an ever-growing rumor mill, became one of the first targets of the regime. And of course, he could not conform—for him, life, if inauthentic, was death, but truly authentic living became a political impossibility. His life, which encompassed personal, political, artistic, became a crime itself, a crime the Nationalists felt was punishable by death. This tragic fact (and I mean tragic in the literary sense) also emphasizes the sickening banality of his assassination. It is estimated that during the course of the Civil War and the ensuing Franco dictatorship, over 140,000 people were forcibly disappeared. The fates of most of these people are unknown. The story of Lorca’s death, as much as it is able to be reconstructed, has since become one of the principal tragedies which expresses the injustice of the war and Francoism and the grief and rage shared among those affected by it. 

It is impossible to overstate how significantly Lorca’s death affected his public memory. It drew international attention as soon as word of it left the Iberian peninsula. It was used to galvanize support for the Republican forces, and after their defeat, it was a somber reminder of the evils of fascism. The Franco regime, recognizing how horribly the assassination had affected national and international support, attempted to rehabilitate and depoliticize Lorca’s image by censoring his works and casting him as the poet of a picturesque and touristic rural Andalusia. This was in vain; he was and remains a rallying point to those fighting for justice. Similarly, as one of few historical figures whose homosexuality lacks plausible deniability, he has become a gay icon, frequently found on signs in Pride parades and protests. He has been the subject of poems, novels, visual art, musical compositions, films, and television series. Certainly, this is not all bad—I feel reasonably confident that Lorca would have had no qualms about his memory being used to keep alive the memories of victims of oppression—but it indicates the extent to which his personhood has been abstracted and fractured. A monument in the Barranco de Víznar where it is believed the writer and others were buried reads “LORCA ERAN TODOS”—Lorca was everyone. He has the honor and burden of representing more than himself. In achieving immortality, he has lost something of his life.

Writing this essay, I have re-read books I haven’t picked up in years. I catch glimpses of Federico in poems and plays, fragments of letters, anecdotes from loved ones and acquaintances. I can conjure a vision of him in my head: endlessly inventive, deeply sensitive, prone to dramatics, flighty yet dedicated in the way only artists can be. By all accounts he was an extraordinarily magnetic and charismatic individual. I can imagine sitting at the end of a bar, listening to his impromptu poetry recital from across the room, and hanging onto every word. At the end of the day, though, he is dead, and everyone who knew him best has died. He died suddenly and traumatically, leaving the kind of wound that is impossible to heal and impossible to ignore. Whenever I think about Lorca, no matter the context, I am inevitably reminded of this wound. His absence is a physical presence, one which eclipses any sighting of the man himself. His life is always his death. At the same time, I think of the summer when I first read his work. That summer I, too, was not a man, nor was I a poet, nor a leaf; I, too, was a wounded pulse. I am too cynical to believe that art can change the world. Lorca changed my life, though, and that must count for something.

The author included footnotes that our sites format wouldn't allow. We've included each reference below. 

Francisco García Lorca, prologue to Three Tragedies of Federico García Lorca, by Federico García Lorca, trans. James Graham-Luján and Richard L. O’Connell (New Directions, 1955), 4. 

 Francisco García Lorca, prologue to Three Tragedies of Federico García Lorca, 4.

 “...but towards the end of the decade he became strangely and deeply depressed.” Gwynne Edwards, introduction to Plays: Three, by Federico García Lorca (Methuen Drama, 1994), xiv. “The ‘emotional crisis’ to which Lorca refers in several letters of 1928 had been strangely aggravated by the critical success of his third book of poems, [Romancero gitano].” Maurer, introduction to Poet in New York, xi.

Quoted in Andrés Soria Olmedo, “Federico García Lorca’s final days: ‘Father, please give the bearer 2,000 pesetas,’” El País, August 18, 2026. https://english.elpais.com/culture/2026-08-18/federico-garcia-lorcas-final-days-father-please-give-the-bearer-2000-pesetas.html.

 “Garzón recibe más de 140.000 nombres de desaparecidos en la Guerra Civil y la dictadura,” El Mundo September 22, 2008. https://www.elmundo.es/elmundo/2008/09/22/espana/1222093274.html.

Camryn Moore (they/he) is a professional image enthusiast and amateur moving image enthusiast. They hold a BA in Art History and French Studies from the University of Delaware. 

fuck me like a poem.

not a text message,

not a headline scrolled past,

but a poem.

fuck me like you’ve been waiting all day

to step onto this stage,

palms sweating,

heart pounding,

words trembling at the back of your throat,

ready to leap,

to land,

to burn.

pause—

let the silence stretch,

let the breath draw you in,

let me feel the inhale

before the stanza breaks.

trace me—

like the outline of a verse you love,

like the margin notes you scribble in the dark,

let my curves be your commas,

my hips be your enjambment,

my body the unfinished line

you’re aching to complete.

fuck me like a poem,

like you know language is fragile,

like you know rhythm is sacred,

like you know every motion

is a line break you only get once.

taste me—

not in hunger,

but in reverence,

savoring me on your tongue

as if vowels were holy,

as if I were the only word left

that meant anything.

let your hands move slow—

like turning fragile pages,

each touch deliberate,

each brush of skin

an annotation of devotion.

follow the curve of my spine

like a sentence that stretches

longer than breath can carry,

yet somehow

you want to read it again,

and again,

and again.

fuck me like a poem.

like streams spilling into rivers,

like candlewax dripping down the side of glass,

like smoke that curls upward

and never quite fades.

let the rhythm build—

not rushed,

not careless,

but in waves,

crashing and retreating,

until the shoreline of my body

knows only your tide.

because this isn’t just flesh,

this is language made living,

this is rhythm given skin,

this is breath given form.

fuck me like a poem,

soft as the hush between verses,

strong as the pulse beneath the words,

wild as the moment the rhyme

refuses to end.

Chris Johnston (they/she) is a poet, essayist, and multidisciplinary writer whose work explores identity, belonging, queerness, resilience, and the quiet transformations of everyday life. They have been engaged in the arts and writing for as long as they can remember, with their first publication appearing in A Celebration of Poets (2008).

Writing under the pen name Piper Canon, their work is also available through Writer's Cafe. As C.S. Johnston, they have completed several collections of poetry and prose, including their forthcoming debut collection, Lavender and Lilies (release date to be announced).

In addition to their independent work, Johnston serves as a staff writer for INQUEERY and has been featured in several editions of FRUIT. More of their writing can be found at www.csjohnston-writes.com and on Instagram at @mx.chris.cross.

As a Nebraskan designer, Audio wants to remind people that Midwest has a fashion scene worthy of praise. He primarily works with leather and focuses on gender-free, custom designs. We met at his studio to dive deep into the history and inspiration of this Omaha queer icon. 

Audio: I am a leather designer in Omaha, Nebraska. I've worked in design for a long time, both as an artist and a clothing designer, accessories designer, for decades now. 

Andres: Hell yeah. Here in Omaha, or? 

Audio: I've worked all over the Midwest—not all over, but a few places in the Midwest—but I've been in Omaha for 15 years. Definitely long enough to call home. 

Andres: Okay, so how did you get started with designing?

Audio: Well, I've been, like, a weird art kid my whole life, so the art was just a part of me. I think I pivoted to design not because I always had a love for fashion. I actually didn't care about it at all. I thought it wasn't for me because, you know, I've been to the mall and it didn't fit.

Andres laughs

Audio: It was like menswear, womenswear, “mall people,” so I was just like, oh, fashion is not for me, because that's the only exposure I had to it. But then one time I went to an art gallery space that was showing a fashion design exhibit, and I just fell in love because I realized there was more to life than the mall in the design world. It just opened my eyes to something new, and I was like, oh, I'm going to do this. I declared my major in textile and apparel design the next day.

Andres: It’s so funny how things happen like that, though. You wake up and you're like, oh, there's more options than I thought.

Audio: Right like, oh, I have a life passion now. Cool! 

Audio: It was a little weird because I definitely felt like an outsider, because a lot of the people I was learning alongside had either sewn their whole life, which I had never done, or always loved fashion, like, fashion is my passion. So I was definitely an outsider. I'm just like, I thought it was cool one day, so I'm here.

Andres: Speaking of feeling like an outsider, what was your experience being queer in the Midwest and being in the fashion world?

Audio: Being queer in the Midwest and being in the fashion world—well, the fashion world in the Midwest is already sort of a running joke. No one takes it seriously. Being queer in it is just an added layer. So you kind of have to defend yourself in general. I feel like the queer aspect wasn't really part of the equation. It was more like, no, there is a fashion scene here. Midwest people do cool stuff.

Andres: Your work is often pattern heavy and bold. Can you tell me a little bit about your designs and the inspiration behind them?

Audio: As far as my designs go, there are two ways I like to design. One is that I do a full collection with a really heavy-handed theme, and I dive deep into that and explore it as far as I can. It would be full looks and a theme or it could be a design technique I'm working through. I did one that was all color because I had a fear of working in color; I had only really gravitated toward neutrals. The challenge was that it was only color, and it was terrifying and beautiful, and I loved it. It was a full-saturation challenge. So, it could be that kind of thing. Or there's another way I design: what do I want, do other people want this, and once I figure that out, I fill that need. That's probably more one-offs or smaller collections. As a business owner who sells products, sometimes those perform better in sales. One's really exciting aesthetically, and one's monetarily exciting.

I feel like, as far as themes go, inspiration is always around. I usually have a running list of things I want to explore, so I can latch on to things. People are like, oh, I'm just excited all the time by the world around me, but that's what an artist's mind is like. I can be on the bus and be like, did you see that? Let's make a collection. Sometimes I'm watching a fashion show online and I'm like, oh, did you see that? Fashion inspires fashion. So sometimes it's cyclical, and sometimes it's very random, out of the blue. 

Andres: Do you currently have a favorite article of clothing to make? 

Audio: I think one of my favorite things to make is harnesses, because I get to help people style them. People really like to send me follow-ups, so I feel like the connection with customers and harnesses is really exciting. I make chokers all day, every day, though, so I can't rule them out because they are my bread and butter.

Oh, another product I love making is—actually there's one on the table right there. I love making leather crowns. That one's my skeletal crown. It's just really fun to make, and it's really fun to wear.

Andres: And that’s actually your logo, right?

Audio: Yeah. I put that as my avatar for a lot of things just because it's recognizable, and it's very cute.

Andres: That’s so fitting for you.

Audio: I'm a Leo, so I'm royalty. I wear my crown out a lot. Audio laughs.

Andres: That actually goes into my next question! How would you describe your personal style?

Audio: I just love layers, and I love multiple textures, and I love the too-many-accessories moment all the time. If I'm not accessorized, I don't feel dressed yet. I'm in pajamas. 

My personal style is layered with a little bit of something unexpected. I usually blend masculine and feminine pieces. I do wear a lot of feminine garments. I also love to put on a bunch of random things, and then people will undoubtedly try to describe it back to me. 

Audio: When I mentioned earlier that I never thought fashion was for me, it felt so binary, and I didn't like anything I was seeing. Once I started exploring, honestly, I went to thrift stores and just explored. I found that helped me find my gender. I didn't know I was trans for a long time; people just kept telling me. Oh, yeah. It was a little bit of a surprise, but then it made a lot of sense. I explore visually. I explore gender visually as well, so that comes through my work. People always ask, is this a men's harness? I'm like, depends what kind of man you are. Put it on. Let's find out. I make a range of styles, and I definitely say I am a gender-inclusive brand because nothing is gendered.

I do think I play off expectations, sometimes on purpose, and sometimes it's just a natural part of who I am and how I think and design. Sometimes it's very intentional. I did a show once where I showed the same look twice in a row: on a model who was read as a girl and then on a model who would be read as a boy.

Andres: Wow.

Audio: Some people didn't even notice it was the same look twice, and some people were like, why am I seeing the same look twice?

 I was walking downtown, and this man pulled up and rolled down his window. I was like, oh, no. He said, I recognize you from the fashion show, and asked me why I did that, why I showed the same look twice. So I got to talk about gender, no gender, what fashion could be, and bodies—all this stuff—with this random guy in his car the next morning after the show

Andres: That’s really sweet actually. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you also offer size inclusive options, right?

Audio: Yes!

Andres: Tell me about that.

Audio: Just knowing that a body is just a body, it is not anything besides that. I try to work as inclusively as I can. I'm not fully inclusive because it's really hard to be a person on the internet and not know what kind of customer is coming to me. But I always have DMs and email available for custom requests.

I've made everything from 3XL, 3XXX, and extra small, all the way up to, I think, 6X or 7X, is where I've historically created things. It's not a full range; it's just where I have operated. Online, the size range is smaller for standard orderable sizes, but customs go wherever they need to.

Andres: I have two more questions. The first is a little pointed because we're a sex-positive, body-positive queer magazine, and you've got harnesses and things like that. Where would you say you align with the kink community? 

Audio: Oh, I would say I am very kink-positive as a person, and I'm very kink-positive as a brand. My pieces, if I were to place them, would be fashion pieces with the kink community in mind. I don't outwardly show my pieces being used in kink play, mostly because I want my social media to continue existing. 

I play it safe online so you can play hard on your own time!

Andres: laughs. Beautiful. True poetry.

Just to finish things out, what's next? What can we expect from you? What are you up to? 

Audio: Wish I knew. Honestly, what I would love to be doing next is showing more in the real world, whether that's gallery shows, fashion parties, or runway shows. I think I'm ready to get back into the real world with my pieces and me. The pandemic shut a lot of things down. I know we're well past pandemic times, but it's been hard to get back out there. So, invite me to your events. Put me on the runway.

Andrés Di Bauer (he/him) is a poet and fiction writer from the Great Plains. As a latine, transgender man, his lived experience profoundly influences his writing and has emboldened him to prioritize diverse perspectives through his medium. He finds himself most interested in detailing the beauty and horrors of the physical world. His work has been displayed in the Joslyn Art Museum ‘After Hours’ Exhibition and published in magazines such as The Orange Rose and Junk Drawer. He is currently pursuing his BFA in Creative Writing at The University of Nebraska-Omaha. Andres is the Managing Editor for INQUEERY Magazine

You can follow his creative journey on instagram @andresdb.writing

17:12. The Smoky City across the Pacific was sinking into twilight. Inside the vintage tea shop lined with faded yellow wallpaper, a thick, gold-leaf beam of late afternoon sun pierced through the airborne dust right on schedule.

Scattered across the wooden table were crumbs of Galette des Rois, a half-eaten Elvis sandwich, and a cooled bottle of Hermitage wine. Beside them lay a freshly fried Mahua (twin doughnut) dusted with fine white sugar and sesame seeds. At the edge of the light, a potted thyme exhaled its bittersweet herbal scent. 

Amor adjusted his watch. Reaching out, he slowly tore the paired pastry down the middle (peh-khui). The golden, crispy crust gave way, revealing a warm, steamy interior whose soft threads pulled and clung to one another before parting. 

He handed the sugar-dusted half to Vane, keeping the other for himself. 

"When I was seventeen, a fortune teller back in my hometown read my Eight Characters," Amor said, his fingertips coated in sugar, his eyes burning with a low, intense fever. "He told me I was born under a solitary star. If I ever wanted to rise above my fate, to prosper and find salvation, I had to bind myself to someone marked by separation—someone who is always running away. He said you were my curse, but also my only savior to bring me fortune and enlightenment. Just like this intertwined Mahua, our birth charts were twisted together in the boiling oil long ago." 

Vane accepted his half of the Mahua and took a bite, letting the warm sweetness and yeast linger on his tongue. Wearing his mask, he still carried the faint scent of peanut butter and cedar that Amor had shared with him. Ever since experiencing a profound emptiness—like the instant a womb detaches from the body—he felt suffocated by any notion of staying or being tied down. Yet he could not deny that only under Amor’s gaze—a look laced with both greed and deep affection—did his drifting soul ever find a temporary landing. 

"You always write me into your destiny," Vane whispered, gently blowing away a dandelion seed from his palm. He was waiting for 17:14—the moment when the light would blaze so violently it blinded everyone. It was his only chance to evaporate from Amor’s burning sight.

"Because you can’t escape, Vane," Rene spoke coolly from the diagonal table.

Standing like a solitary egret hunting with precision in a swamp, Rene remained detached from the surrounding chaos. His sharp eyes harvested every detail, his fingers tracing the faint lip mark on the glass rim and the cold wine stains. "You think you’re voluntarily fleeing this chaotic world? No, Vane. Every timestamp you choose for your disappearance, every bittersweet memory you leave in Amor’s palm, even that half of the Mahua in your hand that grants him his ultimate salvation—they are all clues you leave behind. You run away simply to let him find you again." 

Vane’s pupils trembled slightly as he looked into Amor’s eyes—eyes that saw through everything yet chose to hold him anyway.

17:17. The light reached its brilliant peak before vanishing rapidly, plunging the yellow room back into shadow.

Vane gripped the brass doorknob, hearing the faint bloom of bougainvillea over the dry riverbed in the distance. He paused, his hand frozen. He realized his transpacific flight was nothing more than a close flyby in the Star Trek orbit centered around Amor.

Rene raised his head, watching Amor in the gloom, still holding the residual warmth and sugar dust from Vane’s touch, and Vane, anchored at the threshold, unable to truly leave. Raising his wine glass, Rene clinked it gently against his water glass, producing a crisp, starry ring in the dim light. 

"Drink hael!" Rene whispered softly. Even beneath overcast skies, as long as someone holds firmly to the helm, we will never truly lose our way in the cosmos.

Yi-Jung Chen (she/her) is a Taiwanese bilingual writer and educator. Her poetry and prose explore queer identity, memory, and the emotional nuances of human relationships framed by regional landscapes and cultural metaphors. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in various international literary publications.

1. When you want to find out what's going on in the world, do not watch the news. It is an hour full of grave voices, wails, and precious things aflame. It is too saturated with horror. Instead, please read news articles that have the same information but no audiovisual components. Words have always been easier to swallow than the feeling of an unscheduled total solar eclipse. Words are what you live by, even when they lodge in your throat. Words are bricks that are steps that can get you out of this. Can’t they get you out of this sick feeling? Isn’t it worth a try? 

2. Don't waste your time talking to bigoted people on TV. You are not supposed to be watching the news, and yet, here you are, watching a clip of a governor talking about protecting the children from trans people. You know he is not protecting anyone; you know that children with their mouths sewn shut will eventually run out of air. You tell him this, but he is one-dimensional and cannot hear you. Men like him can't hear anything in proximity to the truth. They ignore their apocalyptic footprints. They will not care when you enter a men’s bathroom in Texas by mistake one summer, and you go frantic with the fear of being chased. They will not fret when you inspect your t-shirt in the mirror, wondering how oversized it can be before someone sees your comfort as suspicious. 

3. Don't watch straight dating shows even though your family is obsessed with them. It makes you feel even more trapped. The spectacular heteronormativity of it all, the assumption that even randomly thrown like dice, a man and a woman have to be compatible at a basic level—it makes you want to open your little kitchen window and scream. Isn't it enough that you live in a world where your love is endangered? Must you watch thirteen hours of proof that the happy ending society dreams of doesn't include you? Must you be smothered by the steady beat of prom-date-wedding, prom date-wedding? Must you recount how you resented the children around you, for whom attraction never felt like danger? Must you still feel disgusted with yourself for the games you played at recess, defending a certain boy from the class as if he were a prize? Must you still feel afraid of getting tagged? 

4. When you are seething, remember the first time a girl said she loved you. Remember the tenderness of her texts coming through on tiny bubbles, one by one. Remember your soft heart that wanted to go for a walk every day to smell the exact same patch of petunias when you were little. Remember one half of a magnetic BFF necklace, cared for long after the BFF stopped caring. Remember an empty candle jar, still in the back of the closet, because the person who gifted it might have been a crush, might have been straight, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Remember your open arms for a friend startled by a prank. Remember the core of who you are, then inevitably remember that some people you meet will want to destroy you for it. Remember that compassion is a choice some people will never make. 

5. When a man close to you makes a "dyke" joke, deny him the immunity of the comedian. Look at him. Narrow your eyes. Think of the HIV victims buried on Hart Island. Think of all the generations with severed limbs, with questions and no elders to provide answers. Think of all the suffering that merely became his shallow material for winning an audience’s love. Think of your perpetual status in this world as a potential martyr, angel, gone too soon. Realize that word is connected to senseless violence, and he will never acknowledge this. Realize he will insist on using it like he’s not tugging on a string of dead bodies. Realize he will insist on freedom of speech, not knowing that every time he uses that word, its victims are taking one step closer, crawling through his window in the night. Say, “You’ve never been hunted, have you?” If all else fails: SHOW TEETH.

Allissandra Bequette is a writer and educator from Omaha, Nebraska. She received her MFA at the University of Nebraska Omaha. Her work has appeared in Fine Lines and 13th FloorMagazine. Her interests include asking questions, sympathizing with strange creatures, andimagining a better world. She is currently working on her first horror manuscript about the toll of patriarchal violence.

Trans Recess is a space for trans people to get together, have fun, meet new people, and build friendships. From regular recess games at the park to backyard wrestling, swimming at the lake, and watching a movie in pajamas. The goal of this project is simple: give trans people a place to be themselves and connect with others in the community.

Photo by Nolan Ridlon

The mind behind Trans Recess is Isaac Reid, a hair stylist and cosmetologist who has spent the past six years helping people feel more confident through their hair. He calls himself “just a dude with an idea.” What started in 2025 as a birthday celebration for a friend has grown into a space where trans people can show up, connect, laugh, and be themselves. Trans Recess currently happens about once a month, but Isaac wants to keep building. That starts with Trans Takeover on Sunday nights at The Sydney. In these expansions, Isaac is also learning he doesn’t have to do everything alone. Sometimes it’s as simple as grabbing a Sharpie and some paper to get the word out. It doesn’t have to be perfect; it just has to happen.

T4T Backyard Wrestling Event. Photo By Nolan Ridlon

As he brings the idea to life, Isaac talks about existing, slowing down, being, and doing as part of surrender. For him, surrender means putting an idea out into the world, doing what he can, and letting things unfold without trying to control every detail. He hopes others will take the blueprint he’s creating and use it to bring trans people together in their own communities. You don’t need a big budget or a perfect plan to get started. Sometimes, surrender means making room for what comes next, and that’s a beautiful reality that can apply to Trans Recess and to life itself.

Shayne Markell (@ftmagick) is a black trans poet and journalist whose writing explores relationships, connection, and the moments that shape our lives. He is a published writer with the Nebraska Writers Collective and a co-facilitator of Field Therapy’s weekly journaling group. He holds two master’s degrees in Organizational Leadership and Psychology, with a focus on mental health. His education and lived experiences influence the way he sees the world and bring a unique perspective to his work in a thoughtful, meaningful, and honest way. Outside of his writing, Shayne enjoys books, music, boxing, and supporting community nonprofits. No matter what he’s doing, he approaches it with care and a desire to make a difference.

To learn more about Shayne, you can follow them @mark.illmagick or @magickalmoonman

Nolan Ridlon is a fine art photographer and printmaker hailing from northern Wisconsin. He obtained his BFA in photography in 2020 from The Minneapolis College of Art and Design and has been living in the Council Bluffs area for the last few years. His work explores a vast array of subjects from shooting live music events, protests, and portraits, to processed based explorations into the medium of photography itself, but in recent years his focus has been on queer life, joy, and connection. This goes hand in hand with an ongoing fascination with the post-industrial decline of the midwest to bring a familer, yet oddly isolating essence to his images. He hopes to continue documenting his time in queer spaces as more opportunities arise.

The Neighbor’s Husband

I slept with him

but so did the priest

and the neighbor before me.

pushing a baby stroller

caressing his wife’s cheek

he walks into Sambos 

and everyone knows him as Bottom Ben.

how did this white boy end up in this place?

the one by the 8 freeway

where dirt prays for winds to move it elsewhere.

his tight slacks grip his legs, his unbuttoned shirt

reveals his chest. Partridge Family on the jukebox.

his smokes from the vending machine waft

towards the non-smoking section.

I sit at the counter. order a cup of coffee, grab a paper. 

he glances at his wife, baby bottle in hand.

looks my way. 

we lock eyes. 

a bus runs past. suitcase next to my feet. 

I want to kiss him, hold him, make him my own.

tell him to come with me.

baby, too. 

I Press the Tecate To My Lips

I push away. hold myself against 

the deck post. glare at the vast maze 

of little box homes.

there's 3 kids. a house. a wife. 

bills. doctors. school.

kids need new pants. again. 

boxed in homes. steel tracks serrate 

moonlight. break my repose. 

on a hollow metal frame, sore muscles collapse.

plastic straps on a patio chair stretch, strain. 

her requests for touch, for caress. 

my arms. my hands move. in rehearsal. 

empty calories-these kisses.

smiles. I endure her delicate 

back, arms. I wipe my lips 

with another beer. 

drops dot desert dust. my feet slip

slightly. a manicured hand slides down my back.

just one more drink. my shoulders-tense, tight.

I press the Tecate to my lips. 

Ricardo Moran is a past recipient of the Peter K. Hixson Memorial Award for Poetry. His debut poetry anthology, Not Quite Heaven, from Broken Tribe Press, was published in 2025 and was shortlisted for the 2024 Tribe Poetry Award. He has delivered poetry readings in Albania and Ireland. You can find him here: www.ricardomoranwriter.com

Photo by Wolfe Ze

And so you become this stain, worn upon your skin everyday of your juvenile life. Like some calamity adorned upon you. A sermon of sticky leaves and poison ivy but just like water and oil, you and it never mixed well. A chord finally dismembers itself from you as you leave a bitter taste in its host's mouth.

Today, the veil thins as I begin to bleed. I sit in a shamanic haze half here, half there, wherever there is every twenty some days. I remember the dream I had where I noticed a ruby-red, cut-open pomegranate, etched into my arm like some sort of insignia my mind had left just for me.

The day arrives where you wake in some kind of prophetic surrender, you learn to honour the journey as your body begins to strip away all stories of taboo. Because no type of ayahuasca exists like this.

I finally see. I was made to bleed seeds.

Like Persephone and her fabled passage, the consumption of a seed, a quarter of her life, our lives spent in some otherworld. The tree of life held a sacred fruit with many seeds, just like this body. How holy a vessel you are. Where even science shows how regenerative the blood can be, holding the power to heal and cure. Now I swim in seas of celestial wonder, no matter how much ache or memory still simmer in my bones. I live by the moon and the sun and the stars and the sky. I watch as they sing stories of wings, colouring my world with myths and symbols that rain in like medicine, cauterizing wounds where the ivy once lay. Showing me just how holy the fruit, the seed, the juice of the pomegranate truly is.

Wolfe Ze is a mixed medium artist who loves all forms of creative expression, especially that which evokes a sense of freedom. Their seminal years were spent on open mic circuits, contributing to and curating exhibitions, workshops, reshaping community & identity in London. Since 2021 they have been learning to gather space, focusing on the challenges of their health, diving into therapies and reconstructing safety in their life, sharing art and stories collected along the way.

These events took place in October of 2025

They step to the front of the room, shoulders relaxed, body completely calm, the bustle of the crowded room dissipating into an anticipatory silence. The artist is wearing a dark grey button-up left open to reveal a plain white t-shirt and dark-washed jeans cuffed at the bottom, their medium length hair streaked with shades of silver. At 75, they are still effortlessly cool. They open one of their many books and begin to speak, each word measured, steady, alive.

Earlier that same day, I had watched Eileen Myles, acclaimed author of more than twenty books, from the back of a nearly packed classroom at the University of Nebraska-Omaha. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I can admit I had only ever read their bio for this event and one or two of their pieces via the Poetry Foundations “Poem of the Day.” As they spoke, I became completely immersed in the experience. The first poem, “Western Poem” is a mosaic about their time driving to their new home in Marfa, Texas. I found a copy on Literary Hub and discovered that they had read the poem exactly as they’d written it, a craft choice not often opted for. The abruptness of each lines punctuated the purpose.

“wrecked skinny

tree

my past

photographs

I send home

my indiscretion”

Both in their prose and their conversational speaking, they tell stories like they’re weaving a basket, one intertwining with another and then another and then, right when you think you’ve lost the plot entirely, they loop through to the main point. During the Q&A, one of the students asks about their inspiration. While they start the story with Texas, they also tell us about New York which then reminds them of the 70’s, of their time as a student, of their time with other artists until they’ve traveled back to this moment, here with us. 

When the talk ends, I feign the courage needed to stride to the front. I stick my hand out, which they quirk an eyebrow at but then shake anyways. I say, “I’m Andres. I’m a transgender man and a writer and I have a paper I’m working on, and I know you’re busy but if you have even ten or fifteen minutes, I’d love to write a profile on you.”

They shift their weight from one foot to another and put their hands in their pockets, “Uh, well let me think.” 

I prepare myself for the No that lingers in the air but instead, they say, “Ten minutes? Yeah, I have ten minutes. Are you coming to the reading tonight?” I tell them I am, and they say, “Come at 7 and we’ll talk.”

And we did. 

Cuthwulf, a small rebellion disguised as a name that Myles found tucked inside a Victor Hugo book. “Famous wolf,” they say about the name, one they debated giving to a dog or perhaps a character. As time went on, this name visiting them in dreams, they realized the name was meant for them as a reclamation of their identity. 

 “There’s a Buddhist thing where you put the new name first, it’s like you kind of amend the name rather than erase the past,” they tell me. 

Eileen Cuthwulf Myles has spent a lifetime turning identity, love, and loss into poetry and prose. A renowned queer writer of Chelsea Girls: A Novel and countless others, they explore gender, sexuality, and trauma as living truths, unafraid to touch the subjects that many shy away from. Within their work, you’ll find jarring, yet concise conversations around sexual assault, racism, homophobia, and political unrest. 

When asked if they consider themself to be a lucky person, they replied, “Yeah, yeah, who suffers a lot, but amazing things happen to me. Sometimes, I’m the agent of it but sometimes I’ve just been standing in the right place.” 

It has been said that their “practice of vernacular first-person writing has made them one of the most recognized writers of their generation.” For Myles, writing isn’t simply an artform but a spiritual practice, a way of making sense of the world as well as their place within it. As a child, Myles says they were immersed in the world they built in their mind, a perpetual daydreamer paired with the perfect amount of spunk. 

“I was even a little violent, I liked to fight.” 

Despite their rough exterior, Myles was an artist through and through, always reading, always drawing. They grew up in Massachusetts, an ever so slight accent that still pokes through in the most endearing way. When they talk about drawing, it comes out as drawering. Words like car and yard become cah and yahd. It’s a hint of their Massachusetts roots, a subtle reminder of where they come from. For Myles, maintaining a genuine voice within their writing has always been of great importance.

“When I was in college, I saw my first poet,” they say, their eyes fixed on the ceiling as they recall the memory, “I always liked poetry in this weird way. It was cool and I kind got it, but I didn’t know people really were poets, ya know?”

It was the 70’s, a time of creative fluidity alongside social change. Black English or African American Vernacular English (AAVE) had become more common and the assertion that people had to write in the standard, upper class, Anglo-Saxon voice had begun to shift. “I think that was in grad school that I started to hear about black English and dialects and I just, ya know, became aware of how I’d always— like I come from a, well ya know, working class family, but also a family of creators.” 

Their mother had been the child of polish immigrants and with that came the desire for assimilation. She would often police the behavior and grammar of her children as well as judging others within the community. “The family next door, they were big, rowdy, eight-kid family, with dogs and fights in the alleys and cars and tattooed boyfriends and I loved them ya know they like really—cuz my family was kinda small and alcoholic and ingrown and— they just used all this language. They would say, ‘bare naked’ ya know and just things that I would come into the house and say, and my mother would say what?”

They recount a time they received a letter from their friend who’d been away at summer camp. Their mother had read the letter and said, “Ruthie writes like she talks,” a moment that struck Myles.

In college, Myles had a realization that they “talked in many different languages.” They smile when they tell me this. As a first-generation college student, they knew their mom hadn’t been expecting them to become a poet but they couldn’t deny their compulsion to write, specifically in the various Englishes that they spoke, ranging from the “proper” voice found in literature to the unfiltered authenticity of the common person. “It gave me permission to be a poet because if I sounded like me, then I could do it.” Their poem “Prophesy” reveals the juxtaposition between this raw, unfiltered voice with one that is reflective and terrified.

“I’m playing with the devil’s cock…

I’ve always been afraid of you

afraid you’re god and something else.”

Unlike many writers, Myles doesn’t shy away from their past. In books like Chelsea Girls or Inferno: A Poet’s Novel, they step directly into the narrative, creating a space where identity and truth can be explored without apology. When I question them about this choice, they lean back in their chair, then sit back up, “Repeat the question,” they say as the room fills with people who are eager to eat the poets’ words in hopes of becoming them. Myles pauses before they respond, an answer in itself.

“It’s in response to all the ways in which the self was not invited into the room. Ever. Whether it was in my family or in my education or in the culture. I think so many parts of the way we present in the world are a fiction and so to work with those fictions seems to be to be a completely reasonable gesture.”

Myles is the middle child of three children, raised by their mother after their father died when they were eleven years old. They say this in a matter-of-fact way, just as they did at the talk earlier that day, bordering on rehearsed. It’s understandable given that they’re touring and have also been interviewed frequently for over half of their life. As I pause to scribble down notes, they seem to notice it, too. They say about their father, “He was queer and my mother’s acknowledged it. He would’ve been fine with whatever I wanted to do.” 

Of course, I take the bait and ask for more.

They tell me, “I think he was definitely a transvestite, and I think that he may have had a gay relationship with a man in the military— he was a World War II guy— and it seemed like they were lovers. Ya know, and I think my mother has said she thought he was bisexual.”

This may have been why their mother’s reaction to their coming out had danced between phobic and tolerant, one moment accepting their child and rejecting them the next. “It was almost like she forgot and then it was fine. And then every now and then she would remember and says it’s wrong, ya know.” 

With on elbow on their knee, Myles leans the right side of their face softly into the palm of their hand, cradling themself as they walk back to their mother’s final days. In their collection of poetry A “Working” Life, they tuck notes to their mother inside.

“A world 

without mother 

is a world 

without meat…

I took 

my mother’s tear 

from the 

corner 

of her 

eye. It happened

when she 

died 

I took 

it on my 

finger 

and I wiped 

it on

my jeans”

- Lucky Kittens

Much to my surprise, Myles reveals that their eldest sister is a lesbian. By the end of their mother’s life, she had come to accept the relationship of her eldest daughter, Nancy, and Nancy’s partner, Judy, as though it were as natural as anything else. For Myles, this quiet acceptance was a gift.

I go on to ask them what value they find in writing about ones identities, something that I’ve been challenged on in my own work. Myles says, “All I know is I can’t imagine writing without it.” They shrug, “if it’s in the room with me and it’s part of how I operate, it’s going to be in the description.” They run their fingers through their hair as they continue as they reflect.

“The more detailed a description is, the more people are invited to join in and take part in it. I think being objective and abstract— I think it doesn't invite anybody in.”

"Because the ambiguity kind of leaves people on the other side of the door," I say.

"Yeah, yeah," they reply, "and in a way is more narcissistic."

I think about what they’ve invited me into: answers within the questions, healing within the hurt. Instead of suggesting to play it safe, Myles invites us all to lean into our voices, into our own story, no matter how fractured. 

Someone then approaches with a book to be signed, and Myles, with a flicker of mild irritation, obliges. They turn back to me with an apology as another attendee steps forward, this one not only requesting a signature but also gifting their own book of poetry. I don’t mind the interruption, the room is full now and in just a few minutes, they’ll begin the reading. I mean, they had only agreed to a ten-minute interview yet somehow, it had stretched into thirty. I was grateful for every second. 

I hand them a thank you card I’d made, along with my copy of A “Working” Life, which they sign without ceremony. Then, with the same calm they carried throughout the day, they step toward the stage, back toward the spotlight that has always seemed to know exactly where to find them. 

we ping-pong between bathroom and kitchen

bleach splorts from tinfoil wrappings onto my

ragged Iron Maiden robe tits out

a hairdye pot next to

bubbling pot of buttered noodles

you rinse i check the meatballs

i scrape bleach from my eye you stir the pasta

a purple splort against clear plastic

when the kiddo adjusts the dye-bonnet

to get a better picture of the game she yells at

gotta feed her and rinse that out and its past bedtime

a carnival of incongruous concurrency

unnecessarily simultaneous stressors steaming

with the boil of pot and blot of caustic chemical

but crossing paths in the chaos we kiss

and smile and turn and

in the bathroom mirror

for a fraction of a shared moment

amidst haircolor cooking

vulnerable half naked and stripped of eyebrows

we giggle at what odd shaped creatures us humans are

and later and purpler and a bit less peeved

the food is warm

and warmer still

your company

Kane Ashton (she/they) is a queer she/they writer of plays, prose, poems and motion pictures, who also dabbles in acting and directing. 

We sit watching the fire die slowly in front of us. The hot tongues contort and twist against each other until they break apart and rejoin to share their heat. I scratch at the hair on my chest to make sure it hasn’t been singed off in the time we’ve sat. Occasionally, we break free from the mesmerizing fire long enough to look into each other’s eyes. I’m looking for something in there. As if at any moment, he’ll suddenly come up with a decision. There’s an opening behind us, and there’s never been one before. I never knew there could be an exit to the cave, but it's being revealed to me now. More light is coming through than the usual crack in the wall allows. We don’t know how long the cave will stay open and if it will ever open again. We might even be trapped out there. I just want him to tell me if he thinks it’s safe to leave because I can’t decide this alone. The cave is the only place either of us has ever been. It's scary to find anything more.

He breaks the silence first. “I think the fire is nice.”

I’m annoyed. He’s trying to ignore the one thing to talk about. “Yeah. There could be fire out there too.”

“We cannot be sure.”

“Do you think we should stay?”

His hands twitch until he snaps his right hand across his body to caress his left thigh where I cannot see. “I am not sure. I do not want to regret it if it closes.”

“I wish we could just know.” I rummage a hand through the sleeping moss carpet that creeps along the ground where the floor and the wall curve into one thing, for a moment. 

“Know what?”

“What is out. It would be easier to know before we leave the cave.”

He flinches to his thigh again, then stands and faces the opening. His left thigh is turned towards me now. I can look at the scar. It’s been healed for some time now, but I can still make out what was there once. I reach up his leg slowly and gently glide the tips of my fingers across his scar. There’s a way to touch him here just tenderly enough that he doesn’t flinch. 

I look up at him. He still hasn’t looked away from the opening. His hands are restless, and he allows his fingernails to battle each other until one remains shorter than the other. I hate watching him do this; it seems so violent.

“What if it is bad out there?” he asks.

“We would not know if we never found out.” I reach my free hand up to get between the fingernail fighting and take his hand in mine, squeezing it tightly.

“I am not sure I want to. What if there are others out there? What if there are people just like us but much meaner? Not so soft and sweet as you. What if they hate me and hate what I am even though I am them?”

“Why would they hate you at all?”

“What if they have mean words and loud voices that I cannot understand? What if they throw things in anger? What if they hurt you?”

I don't like his questions. I look back down from his face to his scar, understanding. “What rock did you fall on again? Point me to it?”

“We do not need to go out! That is all I am saying. We are happy in the cave.” He breaks his hand away from mine and walks heavily to the sleeping moss. He lays on his side and brings his knees up to his chest. “I am happy with you.”

I follow him into laying without a word. I do not press myself against him tonight and he seems to understand. I will see outside when he is asleep; I will go without him.

When he's deep in sleep, I stand slowly and without waking him. I turn and head for the opening. It's still there, but there's no more light coming in. Instead, I can see an inky, dark, and distant image dotted with small white somethings. I hoist myself over the taller rocks and walk slowly to avoid the littler ones. The fire has sizzled itself away, leaving me stranded with my other senses, so I rely on my hand sliding along the wall to guide me. 

My legs begin to quake, and I feel a sickness in my chest that feels like failure. Moments before I am able to leave, I don’t want to. I think it’s time to leave, as scary as it is, but not without him. I head back for the sleeping moss to wake him. If I have to brave the hate of the outside, I want to do it with him.

Ethan Daly (he/him) is a third-year student at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. He's a Creative Writing major with a concentration in fiction and poetry. He was born in Omaha, lives in Omaha, and very well could be in Omaha his whole life. If he's not utterly invested in a movie at that moment, he's most likely writing. He loves writing fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction as a hobby but making some type of writing his career would be his life-long dream.

love isn't monochrome

spent too many

years in uncertain waters,

tried praying a part

of myself away but the 

gods and goddesses

said no;

this is who you are and you

should not be ashamed—

love is beautiful

in every shape, form, 

and color she takes;

i am no longer ashamed

of my rainbow heart—

i will not beg your permission

to exist as who i am,

i am going to take up space;

and i am not ashamed 

of how i love or who i love—

because love was never

meant to come in one 

boring monochrome hue.

even vampires know 

let the sky be ours,

when our lips

collide there will be 

new constellations 

birthed;

i love you 

and have loved 

you for eighteen years—

all this longing and

yearning 

makes me hungry

for

something more than silence,

cut myself on so many

thorns through the 

years;

perhaps this will all end

in rejection—

but i've had dreams that

we're wives in other

universes,

so just this once;

let me hold your hand

i want my lilies to spill into

your roses

forever—

a love so immortal

even vampires know our names.

Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has eighteen published chapbooks the latest being: crescent moon (Fae Corps Publishing, July 2026).

Meredith Ann Johnson is a Lincoln, NE based self-taught artist. Their practice functions as medicine, helping them cope with the daily challenges of Dissociative Identity Disorder. They hope for every person to develop a creative practice some day. They're begging you to feel something without running away. They believe in your strength and the power of Creativity.

Springfield’s second annual Pride on C-Street brought an estimated 2500 people to the historic district, adding a fall celebration to a Pride tradition that began nearly three decades ago.

Photos by Chris Johnston

On September 26th, C-Street looked a little more colorful than usual.

Vendors filled Springfield’s historic district while drag artists, musicians, dancers, theater groups, and singers provided entertainment for the thousands of people who came together for the second annual pride on C-Street.

An estimated 2500 people attended this year’s festival, according to Aaron Kitchens (he/him), executive Director of the GLO Center. That marks substantial growth from the roughly 1200 to 1500 people who attended the inaugural Pride on C-Street last year.

And Pride on C-Street isn’t a replacement for Springfield’s longstanding Ozarks Pridefest. It’s a second celebration. 

Springfield still celebrates Ozarks Pridefest each June, carrying on a tradition that began in June 1998, when approximately 400 people gathered at Phelps Grove Park for Tolerance Fest. The timing of that celebration has shifted over the years. In 2019, Ozarks Pridefest moved to October to coincide with LGBTQ History month. Following the pandemic, it returned to June.

Pride on C-Street gives Springfield’s LGBTQ+ community to gather later in the year. According to Kitchens, there is no particular significance behind its September date. The timing offers the advantage of cooler fall weather, while the location itself carries meaning: historic Commercial Street has been home to the GLO Center for the last 30 years.

This year’s festival was itself a sizable community effort.

Pride on C-Street brought together 102 vendors and 10 sponsors, with 46 volunteers and eight staff members working to make the event happen. Entertainment included seven drag artists, one musician, one belly dancing group, two theater groups, and the Men’s chorus of the Ozarks.

The impact of the festival, however, is not captured by attendance alone.

“Pride is something we all carry year-round, and yet seeing all the vibrancy, tenderness, and collaboration that Pride on C-Street showcases warms my heart,” attendee Sterling C. (they/them) said. “As the sun sets earlier with each day, I cherish being reminded that our community has more than enough light to keep us all going when it gets dark.”

For Petyr “Peewee” Cruikshanks (he/him), a vendor and owner of Peewee’s Party, Pride on C-Street offered a place where his art and identity could exist together.

“Pride on C-Street has been a wonderful place where I feel my art and queerness have a home all together. It shows a side of Springfield that I wish everyone could get a chance to sit and bask in–belonging, community, and hope, where we can celebrate during a time where society would rather us shut up and disappear. I felt seen, heard, and loved, loud and clear.”

“As a member of GLO, I’m thrilled that we’re able to bring Pride to Commercial Street. It’s the street The GLO Center has been able to call home for 30 years now, and there’s certainly no shortage of things to see and places to visit along this historic road.” said Teddy Bennett (he/him), a staff member with GLO. 

He continued, “Also, as someone who personally struggles with heat sensitivity and overstimulation from those crazy summer temperatures, Pride on C-Street has given me the opportunity to fully enjoy everything I love about Pride in June — more comfortably! Accessibility is very important. It makes people feel seen, and it allows for more people to celebrate with their community.” 

Looking ahead, Kitchens wants Pride on C-Street’s growth to benefit more than just the festival itself. He hopes to see C-Street continue to flourish, for the event to make a greater impact on the historic district, and for those who attend to become connected with the GLO Center and its community beyond Pride.

For LGBTQ+ people in rural communities who might look at a festival like Pride on C-Street and wonder whether something similar is possible where they live, Kitchens acknowledged that organizing one will not come without obstacles. There will be barriers and challenges, he said, but there are also solutions, and organizers should expect that a vocal minority may try to stop them.

“Do it anyway. Search out people who can help you overcome those barriers, those challenges. Tap into your network, reach out to whatever the nearest Pride event or queer organization is to you and ask for advice.”

Kitchens also emphasized that a community does not need the resources for a massive festival to create something meaningful. It does not have to begin with a closed downtown or a major pop star.

“It absolutely can be a picnic in the park, and it can grow from there, and so my advice would be to just make it happen.”

Springfield has already lived that progression.

In 1998, about 400 people gathered for what would become Ozarks Pridefest. Today, that celebration continues each June. And now, thousands are gathering again in September, creating another place on Springfield’s calendar for LGBTQ+ people to find community.

Pride on C-Street doesn’t replace what came before it. It adds to it.

Another festival. Another season. Another reason for the community to come together.

The first thing Ana noticed about Lia was that she never slept under the blanket.

One foot was always outside, as if even in sleep she needed an escape.

They had been roommates for almost a year when Ana realized she had memorized the shape of Lia’s absence.

The empty chair at breakfast.

The second mug in the sink.

The soft click of the front door when Lia came home late.

She knew which silences meant Lia was tired and which meant she was hurting. She knew how Lia took her coffee, which songs she skipped, and how she laughed harder when she was trying not to cry.

She knew Lia was gay.

She also knew there was someone else.

A man.

Ana learned his existence slowly, through a name that appeared too often on Lia’s phone.

At first, she told herself it was nothing.

Then Lia began smiling at her screen.

Then she began changing clothes before going out.

Then one evening, while brushing her hair in the mirror, Lia said, almost casually, “I think he likes me.”

Ana stood behind her, holding a towel.

“Do you like him?”

Lia’s smile appeared in the mirror.

“I think I do.”

Ana smiled too.

It was the kind of smile that cost something.

“Then I hope it works out.”

Lia turned around and hugged her.

That was the worst part.

Lia trusted her enough to hold her close.

Ana closed her eyes.

For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine that the arms around her meant something else.

Then Lia pulled away.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Ana laughed softly.

Neither did she.

She had never planned to fall in love with her roommate.

Love was supposed to announce itself. It was supposed to be flowers, confessions, hands reaching across tables.

Instead, hers had been made from smaller things.

Half of a sandwich left in the refrigerator.

A blanket placed over sleeping shoulders.

A message that said, Are you home yet?

A toothbrush beside another toothbrush.

An ordinary life accidentally becoming sacred.

Weeks passed.

Lia began going out with him.

Ana learned not to ask when she’d be home.

She learned to sleep through the sound of keys turning in the lock.

She learned that jealousy could be quiet enough to pass for loneliness.

One night, Lia came home glowing.

“He asked me to be his girlfriend.”

Ana looked up from her book.

For a second, she forgot how to breathe.

Then she closed the book.

“I’m happy for you.”

And she was.

That was the unbearable truth.

She was happy that Lia was happy.

She just wished happiness had been something they could have shared.

Later, Lia fell asleep on the couch, her head resting against Ana’s shoulder.

Ana stayed still.

Outside, the city kept moving.

Inside, the room was quiet except for Lia’s breathing.

Ana looked at her and thought about all the things she had wanted to say.

I love you.

I have loved you for longer than I should.

I know you could never love me that way.

Instead, she whispered, “Goodnight.”

Lia stirred but didn’t wake.

The next morning, Ana moved her pillow to the other side of the bed.

It was a small thing.

Almost nothing.

But for the first time, she understood that letting go did not always mean leaving.

Sometimes it meant making a little space between your heart and the person who had unknowingly occupied all of it.

Lia was still her roommate.

Still her friend.

Still the woman whose foot would probably be outside the blanket tonight.

Ana would still know how she took her coffee.

She would still know when she was hurting.

But she would begin learning something new:

how to live in a room where loving someone did not mean waiting for them to choose you.

Ann Fulleros is a Filipino writer and English as a Second Language (ESL) tutor whose work explores love, loss, healing, and the quiet complexities of human relationships. Her writing often draws from intimate observations of everyday life, with a particular interest in the stories people carry silently. She is the author of Every Bit of My Heart and continues to write across poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction.

I stand outside and underneath the shadows of your walls that tower over me

I sit down, my back against them

My fingers picking the melody of our love song on my guitar

I do not force my way over or through

I hum and wait till you let me in your space

To dwell with you

I place my hands flat against your walls, my head resting, nose almost touching 

I am contently on your time

Sophia McAndrew (she/her) is a 23 year old here in NE just trying to help promote and support queer art and community. She loves creating and is also the creator of BIPOC Queers of Omaha.

Xander is a 25 y/o hobby artist from Omaha who likes to work with combinations of different mediums to create pieces that help them work through emotions and difficult life experiences. 

First, 

Mikayla zipped up her leather jacket before easing her window open to gain access to the fire escape. She’s not quiet about the ordeal, but she’s careful not to knock over the ashtray she kept out there. Her boots clanked loudly on the metal platform, but Gabe didn’t storm over to yell through the opening, so he must still be asleep. Vindicated, she continued into the night after sliding down the cold ladder. 

The walk to Romeo’s was so simple Mikayla could do it in her sleep. She always thought that was a stupid name for a club. It sounded more like a classy restaurant rather than a place she’d seen a rat nibble on a ziploc bag containing colorful powder. 

Entering the joint, she was instantly greeted by the colors and noise of club life. The night was already bustling as several bags of meat made fools of themselves on the dance floor. Mikayla was eager to join the food herself, but first, a drink. 

Her favorite part of the night was catching the eye of someone cute and the innocent flirting that followed, before they’re aware of what she’d do to them. Tonight, Mikayla was on fire, because before she even ordered, she caught the eye of a dark-haired beauty, twirling the straw of her drink. 

“Hey,” she slipped out when she returned the eye contact. 

“Hi,” the beauty said. “You’re pretty.” 

She was very straight-forward, which Mikayla liked. “Not too bad yourself. My name’s Mikayla. You?” 

“You can call me…Lewis.” 

“That’s not your name,” Mikayla said, observantly. Lewis cackled.

“No, it’s not. What do you drink?” Lewis held up a hand to catch the bartender’s attention. 

Your blood, hopefully. “Whatever you’re having.” 

As Lewis spoke to the bartender, Mikayla took the opportunity to examine her further. Her straight hair was pulled into a high ponytail, the end of which trailed over her gray tank top. It exposed a sleeve of tattoos that brandished her tan skin, starting at the top of her shoulder and ending right before her hand. It looked like she stole someone else’s arm and sewed it onto herself, like a punk-rock Frankenstein. 

Before she knew it, they were both several drinks in and dancing in the middle of the club. The music was loud and awful, but Mikayla couldn’t stop swaying her hips. Twisting and turning, but always returning to Lewis’ side and letting her drape her tattooed arm around her waist. At a certain point, she remembered she was supposed to be killing Lewis, but she decided she wasn’t hungry tonight. There will always be other prey, so they danced the night away. 

Second, 

Mikayla returned to Romeo’s the next night without anything trying to stop her. Her stomach ached, and she could hear her powerful blood pumping in her ears. The club seemed even more lively than before, the weekend in full swing. As usual, she found a spot at the bar and prepared to order when the bartender was ready, but something caught her eye first. “Mikayla?” Lewis sat exactly where she had the night before. 

“Oh, hi,” was all she offered, but Lewis seemed to take it as an invitation. “Gonna be honest, didn’t think I’d see you again.” Lewis smiled, shrinking the space between them. 

“Well, I live here. I frequent here,” Mikayla said matter-of-factly.

“Oh. That makes sense. I can’t remember if I told you last night, but I’m not from here. I dropped out of college and decided to take a trip to see what I’d find, I guess,” Lewis explained. “Trying to find yourself in the big apple?” Mikayla tried to joke, but it came off too dry. “Yeah. I guess so.” Lewis deflated slightly. Mikayla, God help her, took pity on her new friend. 

“I live with my brother up the street. It’s not super glamorous,” Mikayla shared. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be,” Lewis was completely invading her personal space, but instead of wanting to tear her head off with her teeth, Mikayla felt a warmth inside her. “Do you wanna dance?” 

She hadn’t even had her drink yet, but Mikayla took her hand and let the glitter on the floor wash them away as they danced. 

Third, 

“Again?” Gabe leaned on her doorframe just as Mikayla was about to open her window.

 “What?” 

“You’re going out again? Where do you even go?” Gabe wasn’t mad, he sounded defeated, like there was nothing in his life he could control. 

“None of your business,” Mikayla muttered, but she could never lie to her brother. “The club. I have to see someone.” 

“You know it’s Sunday, right? Whoever you’re looking for won’t be there.” Gabe ran a hand through his greased back hair. “You have to stop looking for things that won’t be there.” “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.” 

She also wished she could help him understand, but Gabe was never a people “person.” Mikayla left through the window as soon as he walked away.

She easily found Lewis again at the bar, dressed head-to-toe in black. Before she could tell her anything, Lewis dragged her to the center of the club to swivel her hips. Gabe was partially correct, the club was much emptier than the previous two nights, but there were just enough people that they could disappear in the commotion. Lewis held her close. 

Mikayla lost herself in the music, in the smell of sweat, and in the feeling of Lewis’ skin against hers. She was more than grateful to forget about her brother, her species, and her status. “Wanna get out of this stupid Italian club?” Lewis leaned in to ask, like it was the easiest thing in the world, but Mikayla instantly stiffened. It was like a glass of cold water was thrown onto her. She was such an idiot, she couldn’t just forget that she’s a vampire. A hungry, pure-born vampire. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I just.” Mikayla couldn’t possibly explain it to her. This had never happened before. For once, Mikayla was terrified she’d lose control. If she had Lewis in her most vulnerable state, she would have no choice but to rip her throat out. “I have to go.”

“What?” Lewis sounded betrayed, but Mikayla was already pulling away from the warmth of her arms and practically sprinting back home. 

“Shit!” Gabe was sitting still in her room, scaring her halfway to purgatory. “Gabe?” “I didn’t mean to scare you, I didn’t think you’d be home so soon,” The lights weren’t on, but her eyes were trained for this. She realized Gabe was holding a portrait. She recognized the frame from their little living area, and her heart ached. “So, what happened?” “Nothing. I’m just tired.” Mikayla tried to sound convincing, but her voice wavered. “It’s only 3 A.M.?” Gabe was impossible. “You don’t have to tell me.”

He stood up, taking the picture with him. A part of Mikayla wanted him to stay, comfort her like when they were fledglings, but the larger part of her wanted to curl into her coffin and waste the rest of the night away. The larger part always wins. 

Fourth, 

“Don’t go out.” This time, Gabe stopped her while she was still styling her hair for the night. Mikayla was questioning going anywhere herself, but now that she knew Gabe wanted her to stay, she had to get out. She can’t linger when he gets all melancholic like this. 

“Just because you never leave the house, doesn’t mean I have to stay here with you,” she shot back, and could instantly tell it hurt. 

“I just want you safe,” he tried again. 

“You know I can handle myself,” she scoffed. “I’ve taken on hunters twice your size.” “Mikayla, humans…they’re unpredictable.” she continued to spray hairspray, having heard this millions of times before. “I know what we’re capable of, but humans will lure you in, and if you’re not careful, and they find out about the poison we carry-” 

“No one is taking my blood,” Mikayla spoke firmly. “She’s not like that.” Gabe’s mouth was open like he had more to say, but he faltered. He slumped, his eyes falling to the ground. He spoke, barely above a whisper, “Just don’t end up like mother and father.” 

Mikayla knew better than them, knew better than Gabe. But as she watched him walk away, her stomach twisted. 

She had a lot to think about on her short walk to Romeo’s. If she went to Romeo’s, there were very likely chances that Lewis would be there, and she wouldn’t be able to avoid her. But if she decided to go somewhere else, she might as well be giving up her territory. To add to it all, she still hadn’t eaten. But as Mikayla considered these issues, she realized some very important things. She knew Lewis would be upset with her, but she doesn’t want to avoid her. She wants to see her again. Her own feelings were beginning to make her feel nervous. What made her feel worse, however, was the fact that her need to see Lewis again clouded her feelings of hunger. Hunger would have to come later. 

The club was practically empty, but there she was, at the bar nursing some colorful drink. Her chest was positively aching, so she approached the bar. 

“What do you want?” Lewis was more passive than aggressive, but she made her point clear. Mikayla wasn’t sure she had an answer. 

“Just to talk,” she produced. “But not here.”

Lewis had a look in her eye like she wanted to toss her drink in Mikayla’s face, but she stood up anyway and took her hand to lead her to the dark hallway outside the bathrooms. “Go ahead.” 

“I couldn’t go home with you last night because I’m a vampire,” she admitted in one fatal breath, spilling her guts. “I thought I might hurt you.” 

“Oh, that makes sense,” Lewis said simply. “Why didn’t you just say so?” 

Mikayla was so concerned about admitting the truth, she forgot to be scared that Lewis wouldn’t believe her. Now that she was here, she didn’t know how to process Lewis’ almost apathetic reaction. 

“What do you mean it makes sense?” Mikayla was under the assumption she masked into humanity very well.

Lewis huffed a short laugh, “Mikayla, you’re so weird. It’s the only explanation. Your eyes are literally red right now. I’m not scared, though, so don’t worry. I saw way scarier stuff in the midwest.” 

“Oh.” Mikayla is almost underwhelmed by her reaction. “Am I your first vampire?”

“Yeah, I guess you are! That’s so cool! Not many people can say that anymore,” Lewis’ grin is impossibly wide. “And don’t worry, I won’t blow your cover. But you do have that whole Alice Cullen haircut going on, that kind of gives you away.” 

“Alice Cullen…from Twilight?” Mikayla was baffled. “You realize saying that is, like, kind of offensive, right?” 

Lewis giggled but didn’t quit there, “Does that mean your brother is Edward?” “Nah…he’s more like Count Orlok.” Mikayla let herself smile as well. Lewis burst into a fit of laughter. 

“Listen, vampire, if we don’t get crazy on that empty dance floor right now, I’ll stake a clove of garlic through your nasty jacket.” Lewis pulled Mikayla along before she could even respond. She’d never heard Lewis speak like that, but she couldn’t help but be charmed further, completely under her spell. 

In the center of all the neon lights, Mikayla kissed Lewis. She felt a tug in her chest and realized for the first time, this was a new type of hunger. 

Fifth, 

“Turn me.” 

The next morning, before Mikayla could even process where she was and the fact that there’s daylight streaming through the blinds, she’s jostled by Lewis. 

“What?”

“Turn me into a vampire.” 

Her eyes shot open. 

“No. I can’t do that.” 

“Why not? You can’t or you won’t?” 

“I-” Mikayla chose her words carefully. “It’s not as simple as it seems. It would completely change everything about your life. Also, I’ve…never done it before.” “But I’m okay with those things.” 

“No, listen,” Mikayla sighed. It was easy to explain, but she hated doing it. “I…I was born a vampire. My blood is poison. If I change you, you’ll be hunted. You’d never be safe.” “Oh.” Lewis was clearly disappointed. 

“Why would you want me to do that?” 

Lewis took a moment before she answered. “I’m supposed to go back to Chicago tomorrow. I said if New York didn’t change something about me, then I’d go back to my parents in Chicago. I need to change.” 

Mikayla had a million follow-up questions and comments, half of which consisted of her begging her not to leave, but instead she quietly said, “I can’t change you.”

“That’s okay,” Lewis told her, sounding honest. She leaned over to kiss Mikayla for the final time. 

During Mikayla’s long, shady walk-of-shame home, she thought maybe she shouldn’t have let her get away so easily. Halfway through the brooding, she realized there was a piece of paper in the front pocket of her jeans. It had a girl’s name and a Chicago address written on it.

Olive Schumacher (she/him) is currently in her third year at UNO studying creative writing. He has formerly worked as a bookseller, but is currently working as a beauty consultant. She usually writes fiction, but often enjoys writing poetry and creative non fiction. In her free time, she enjoys working on her YouTube channel, reading, and supporting the local music scene. His goal is to publish a novel or a poetry collection. 

Springfield’s second annual Pride on C-Street brought an estimated 2500 people to the historic district, adding a fall celebration to a Pride tradition that began nearly three decades ago.

On September 26th, C-Street looked a little more colorful than usual.

Vendors filled Springfield’s historic district while drag artists, musicians, dancers, theater groups, and singers provided entertainment for the thousands of people who came together for the second annual pride on C-Street.

Photos by Chris Johnston

An estimated 2500 people attended this year’s festival, according to Aaron Kitchens (he/him), executive Director of the GLO Center. That marks substantial growth from the roughly 1200 to 1500 people who attended the inaugural Pride on C-Street last year.

And Pride on C-Street isn’t a replacement for Springfield’s longstanding Ozarks Pridefest. It’s a second celebration. 

Springfield still celebrates Ozarks Pridefest each June, carrying on a tradition that began in June 1998, when approximately 400 people gathered at Phelps Grove Park for Tolerance Fest. The timing of that celebration has shifted over the years. In 2019, Ozarks Pridefest moved to October to coincide with LGBTQ History month. Following the pandemic, it returned to June.

Pride on C-Street gives Springfield’s LGBTQ+ community to gather later in the year. According to Kitchens, there is no particular significance behind its September date. The timing offers the advantage of cooler fall weather, while the location itself carries meaning: historic Commercial Street has been home to the GLO Center for the last 30 years.

This year’s festival was itself a sizable community effort.

Pride on C-Street brought together 102 vendors and 10 sponsors, with 46 volunteers and eight staff members working to make the event happen. Entertainment included seven drag artists, one musician, one belly dancing group, two theater groups, and the Men’s chorus of the Ozarks.

The impact of the festival, however, is not captured by attendance alone.

“Pride is something we all carry year-round, and yet seeing all the vibrancy, tenderness, and collaboration that Pride on C-Street showcases warms my heart,” attendee Sterling C. (they/them) said. “As the sun sets earlier with each day, I cherish being reminded that our community has more than enough light to keep us all going when it gets dark.”

For Petyr “Peewee” Cruikshanks (he/him), a vendor and owner of Peewee’s Party, Pride on C-Street offered a place where his art and identity could exist together.

“Pride on C-Street has been a wonderful place where I feel my art and queerness have a home all together. It shows a side of Springfield that I wish everyone could get a chance to sit and bask in–belonging, community, and hope, where we can celebrate during a time where society would rather us shut up and disappear. I felt seen, heard, and loved, loud and clear.”

Looking ahead, Kitchens wants Pride on C-Street’s growth to benefit more than just the festival itself. He hopes to see C-Street continue to flourish, for the event to make a greater impact on the historic district, and for those who attend to become connected with the GLO Center and its community beyond Pride.

For LGBTQ+ people in rural communities who might look at a festival like Pride on C-Street and wonder whether something similar is possible where they live, Kitchens acknowledged that organizing one will not come without obstacles. There will be barriers and challenges, he said, but there are also solutions, and organizers should expect that a vocal minority may try to stop them.

“Do it anyway. Search out people who can help you overcome those barriers, those challenges. Tap into your network, reach out to whatever the nearest Pride event or queer organization is to you and ask for advice.”

Kitchens also emphasized that a community does not need the resources for a massive festival to create something meaningful. It does not have to begin with a closed downtown or a major pop star.

“It absolutely can be a picnic in the park, and it can grow from there, and so my advice would be to just make it happen.”

Springfield has already lived that progression.

In 1998, about 400 people gathered for what would become Ozarks Pridefest. Today, that celebration continues each June. And now, thousands are gathering again in September, creating another place on Springfield’s calendar for LGBTQ+ people to find community.

Pride on C-Street doesn’t replace what came before it. It adds to it.

Another festival. Another season. Another reason for the community to come together.

Chris Johnston (they/she) is a poet, essayist, and multidisciplinary writer whose work explores identity, belonging, queerness, resilience, and the quiet transformations of everyday life. They have been engaged in the arts and writing for as long as they can remember, with their first publication appearing in A Celebration of Poets (2008).

Writing under the pen name Piper Canon, their work is also available through Writer's Cafe. As C.S. Johnston, they have completed several collections of poetry and prose, including their forthcoming debut collection, Lavender and Lilies (release date to be announced).

In addition to their independent work, Johnston serves as a staff writer for INQUEERY and has been featured in several editions of FRUIT. More of their writing can be found at www.csjohnston-writes.com and on Instagram at @mx.chris.cross.

i carried the weight
afraid to ask, i chose fate
until i could not 

my body needed rest
pride put my strength to the test
i learned to receive 

hands held me through pain
i let go of the strain
and allowed myself grace 

surrender is not loss
nor a bridge i must cross
but a softer embrace 

i once stood alone
now i know i am home
in the arms of release

Shayne Markell (@ftmagick) is a black trans poet and journalist whose writing explores relationships, connection, and the moments that shape our lives. He is a published writer with the Nebraska Writers Collective and a co-facilitator of Field Therapy’s weekly journaling group. He holds two master’s degrees in Organizational Leadership and Psychology, with a focus on mental health. His education and lived experiences influence the way he sees the world and bring a unique perspective to his work in a thoughtful, meaningful, and honest way. Outside of his writing, Shayne enjoys books, music, boxing, and supporting community nonprofits. No matter what he’s doing, he approaches it with care and a desire to make a difference.

To learn more about Shayne, you can follow them @mark.illmagick or @magickalmoonman

If you're reading this, you've made it to the end of our third issue of INQUEERY MAGAZINE. 

This issue truly had it all: Boudoir, complex family dynamics, lesbian vampires, and so on. 

More than anything, it spoke to the queer instinct to persevere, to surrender only as a means of self-actualization and opportunity. We are so grateful to the contributors in this edition for sharing their work with us and we wish you all the best on your creative journeys.

Thank you, also, to our staff writers and our submissions team for volunteering their time to curate this time capsule of queer artistry. Everything we do is for the love of our community and it wouldn't be possible without the help of our crew.

If you enjoyed this issue and would like to support the magazine, please consider donating through the link below.

Thank you for supporting INQUEERY and Queer Liberation <3