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By Kendall Spink We all know that the release of Greta Gerwig’s live action Barbie movie was revolutionary, inspiring, and defined the summer of 2023. The story of Barbie on the big screen begins in 2001, years before Margot Robbie ever graced the acting scene. There are 44 movies following Barbie and her magical adventures over the past 23 years. These movies are separated into two eras, ones made between 2001 and 2011 with original animation and consistent voice acting by Kelly Sheridan. The other group are movies made between 2011 and the present, with various Barbie voices, and a modern, and continually updated animation style.  Younger generations of Barbie watchers often prefer the newer content. Which makes sense because that is what they have grown up watching on streaming services. Those of us who grew up watching the original Barbie movies lay our loyalty with them. Netflix, the largest streaming service in the world, does not have any original Barbie content available. It’s not only Netflix. No subscription streaming platform has any of the 2001-2011 Barbie movies.  There are two things I can say confidently as a member of Gen Z, one, the original Barbie movies remind me of my childhood in the best way. And two, I do not own a DVD player. Turning to the media you grew up with for comfort is a natural and shared experience for everyone. This is not something my sister and I can do.  Between my friends and family I have access to all the streaming services you could imagine. This should be all I need in this day and age. Yes, you can rent the Barbie movies, but I thought that as a society, we were past that. Kids can no longer grow up watching any original Barbie content because it is not easily accessible. This is already resulting in generations not knowing any of the classic characters or plots that have inspired the newer content.  The emphasis that the original movies put on female friendship is something that I have not seen in any other kids movies. Being able to see women saving the world, without any consideration of them being incapable, is inspiring. These kids are missing out on Barbie as an actress and a storyteller. Movies like Barbie and Repunzel  or Barbie of Swan Lake  begin with Barbie introducing the story and taking us along on a magical adventure. Those based around classic fairy tales have a predictable structure that allows kids to connect to them without having to “dumb down” the concepts. Barbie as the Princess and the Pauper  is a retelling of Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper . While the modern Barbie movies follow Barbie as a person with her friends and family, taking on, while often exciting and magical, adventures that are based in reality. Netflix has a few TV series that follow Barbie with her friends and family, showing the impressive everyday life that Barbie has. Imagine the additional views those would get following the addition of original Barbie movies. Netflix is always adding movies to their platform as a way to entice subscribers to ignore rising prices and ending password sharing. Adding any of the original Barbie movies would only benefit Netflix profit margins.  It’s time that Netflix gives the people what they want, and deserve. Original Barbie movies are the only thing missing from Netflix. We cannot stand by and continue to allow these movies to be missing from children’s lives.

By Thomas Weaverling Yes, it’s true that you can ask any veteran drag race fan which season of the show is objectively the best and the majority will not hesitate to say All Stars 2 . This season gave us Alyssa vs Phi Phi, the Shut Up and Drive lip sync, Tatianna’s “The Same Parts,” Read U Wrote U, etc., there is far too much to love and obsess over from this season. However, I think that the story of the top three, Alaska, Katya, and Detox, is far too overlooked and not appreciated enough as the cinematic perfection that it is. Each of these three grew noticeably from their original season and represent something so unique, each radiating talent beyond belief. The crown could have grown to any of these three and no one would have been satisfied because the other two were just as worthy.  Alaska took the competition by the neck, annihilating challenges while being laser focused on getting that crown and scepter from Fierce Drag Jewels. Her portrayal of Mae West is still recognized as a top Snatch Game performance that I reference everyday. Her comedic timing, incredible wit, and pure drive for competition are unlike anything that had been seen on the show. Even her idea to bring back Little Poundcake was brilliant and was one of the many things that displayed her raw talent as a competitor.  Katya is easily one of the most lovable, charismatic, and creative queens to grace the werkroom. Her Russian prostitute persona is one of the most unique and versatile aspects of a queen that we have seen. She had one of the fastest All Stars turn around times, with only a few months between her original season airing and the filming of AS2, making her performance this season all the more impressive. Her impersonation of Bjõrk, the makeover with her mom, and her commercial were beyond fantastic. Katya’s journey of being anxiety-riddled on season 7 to the dark horse of All Stars 2 exemplifies her growth as a contestant. Detox is one of the most unique and interesting queens with her aesthetic, camp performances, and intriguing personality being nearly unmatched. Out of this top three, she is the certified look queen that tore up the runway with looks like her breathtaking latex look and her forever iconic, silver-bodied “Future of Drag” look. Her iconic “Tell it to My Heart” lip sync and performance as neon Marie Antoninette are simply unforgettable. She considers herself to be the queen of the weirdos, a sentiment that encompasses her drag persona and all that she brings to the table.  The final lip sync to “If I Were Your Woman” by Gladys Knight and The Pips is what really propelled me to write this. Each of these queens fought so hard through the most talent-packed cast we’ve seen in Drag Race herstory, the Hunger Games of Drag as Chad Michaels would put it. These three queens delivered a fantastic final three lip sync, with Katya and Detox beautifully embodying this ballad, while Alaska literally and metaphorically destroys her image to leave one last impression on All Stars 2.

By Tyler Davis A softball question, how long have you been writing for? Clichely, my entire life. Technically, five years. As in, putting pen to paper and making the thoughts in my head sound intelligent and beautiful. I did slam poetry for a while, but the community in my hometown dwindled with the pandemic, as so many things did.  What are the most common tropes/themes/metaphors that show up in your writing?  Usually I’m writing to or about god, questioning him mostly. I find it funny to imagine his answers, to create the type of person he is. It’s like a weird, messed up form of religion. Otherwise I’m trying to understand love, or at least the way that I experience it. Lately I’ve been leaning toward cannibalism as a metaphor for overwhelming love, which it’s interesting that I’ve only just discovered this considering how overwhelming all the emotions I feel are. Why do you view cannibalism as a metaphor for love?  I mean, isn’t it? If you have a better way to explain the all-consuming, mind altering, life ruining, experience that is falling madly, deeply, irrevocably in love with someone, I’d love to hear it. But seriously, I often think of cuteness aggression. Y’know, the desire to squeeze something that you love so much until it stops being cute and you can move on with your life? Something like that, except I bite your finger off.  You often don’t capitalize ‘god’ or pronouns referring to god in your poetry. Is that a stylistic choice or something more personal?  The god's honest truth is that I don’t capitalize anything. That’s the stylistic choice. And I don’t even really have a good reason for it. I write all my pieces before I type them, and I write in all lowercase unless necessary, usually for emphasis. Then, I type almost exactly what’s written, barring any changes in word choice or sentence structure. I guess you could say it’s a style choice, but I honestly just don’t care enough. Plus, it looks nicer that way. Capital letters are aggressive sometimes.  You know how you haven’t written anything in multiple months? What’s up with that? Brain no work?  You try writing through your second semester of junior year, taking six classes, internship, and multiple on-campus jobs, only one of which actually pays you on a regular basis. Then you can come talk to me about ‘brain no work.’  Sounds like brain no work to me.  …yes, brain no work.  Do you consider yourself a good writer?  I think that people are touched by what I say, and find meaning in my words. I don’t know that I write with the intention of being perceived as good, so much as I write to understand what I feel and then sometimes that resonates with others, which I do enjoy hearing about. Do you write with the intention to be perceived?  On some level, yes. I am perceiving myself through a process of introspection and analyzing the various and numerous issues. Then, I send my writing out into the world – multiple times, for months on end – all of my own free will, all so that a million people will see me and maybe, just maybe, one or two will resonate.  Do you think it’s a little narcissistic to write an interview with you as both journalist and subject?  Maybe, but so is all poetry. This is just poetry reimagined baby.

By Peyton K. Dortch I have always wrestled with the shame of being sensitive. I have heard all the advice. “Don’t sweat the small stuff”, “Don’t let it get under your skin”. All of it I have heard and tried to do. But I always fall back into my sensitive ways. I had an awakening while I was somberly taking a walk listening to Frank Ocean. What is so wrong with being sensitive? What’s wrong with feeling a lot? Frank Ocean is my favorite musician because his songs capture emotions effortlessly. They make me think of my own feelings. If Frank is allowed to be sensitive why am I am limiting myself? For the longest time I did not recognize how sensitive I was. It was probably a mix of consciously not recognizing it and subconsciously. But I can put an estimate of when I realized it when I was in middle school. Like most people, middle school was the depths of hell. But it was especially terrible because I just felt so much. Every emotion hit me like a ton of bricks. I was never just a little melancholy; I was fully depressed. I was never just angry; I was filled with rage. Between hating myself and feeling like everyone hated me I was a complete mess. But I came to know that I was sensitive during this time. I was just one of those people that felt a lot. Ever since that realization I have actively tried to be less sensitive. Then the new buzzword “nonchalant” comes into the cultural zeitgeist. Now being nonchalant is the best thing to be. So like most people my age I also tried to be nonchalant. I tried to not care when a boy didn’t like me, I tried to not care when I lost friends. But all that did was make me more sensitive. You may be wondering what my astrological sign is by now, I am a Pisces. Yes, as a water sign I can veer into the dramatics. But no matter what sign you are, you too can be sensitive. I argue that being sensitive is not a weakness but a strength. All of the best literature is written by people who are acutely aware of their feelings and thus they can write those feelings into the characters we love. The best actors of our time are sensitive to depicting emotions on the silver screen. But how could they do that without first being a sensitive person in the real world? The best musicians have a particular skill of writing lyrics to match an emotion. This takes introspection and sensitivity. The world needs sensitive people, people that aren’t afraid to wear their emotions on their sleeve. To get philosophical for a second, what is a life lived without feeling? Who wants to go about life and not feel anything? That’s not a life, that’s a warm body. I want to sweat the small stuff. I want to let things get under my skin. I want to feel. I want to love. I want to be angry. I want to be sad. I want all these things because why not? Why go through life like a robot when I am not? I want to feel the depths of every emotion because that is also where wisdom is plundered. How would I come to know that I am sensitive without being sensitive to start with? Another thing to consider. If you are actively trying to not be sensitive aren’t you then hyper aware of everything so as to control your emotions. Therefore, you are actually just being sensitive. To all my sensitive people out there, embrace it. And to people who aren’t, feel the feelings without fear. Watch a movie and cry. Listen to Frank Ocean and let a salty tear fall down your face. Get angry about something (within reason). Embrace having a crush on someone. Let the feelings come. Let it wash over you like a violent wave. Let the wave pull you out to sea. And when you come to shore let the remaining water stay on your skin, in your hair, soaking your clothes. Let the emotions run through your body without shame.

By Maggie Melnik - Linger by The Cranberries (this one is mandatory)  - Slow Dance by Clairo  - Blue Light by Mazzy Star  - Re:stacks by Bon Iver  - Smoke by Indigo De Souza  - Any Pheobe Bridgers song ever  - Between the Bars by Elliot Smith  - Forwards beckon rebound by Andrianna Lenker  - About You by The 1975 (Also mandatory)  - Halloween by Noah Kahan  - Change by Big Thief  - Blouse by Clairo  - I Know You by Faye Webster  - Motel 6 by River Whyless  - Watching Him Fade Away by Mac DeMarco  - Trouble by Cage the Elephant  - Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division  - Hard Times by Ethel Cain  - Seventeen by Sharon Van Etten  - Bathroom Light by Mt. Joy  - Spit in the Sink by Haley Heynderickx  - Glue Myself Shut by Noah Kahan  - Nectar Of The Gods by Lana Del Rey  - SPEYSIDE by Bon Iver  - Bags by Clairo

By McKenna Casey A man named Blue is walking across the desert. He’s still a boy really, or at least somewhere in between a man and a boy, but everyone has taken to calling him a man on account of his carrying a gun. It’s a revolver, real Wild Wild West, and it matches the rest of his getup. Ever since he’d broken the law, he’s taken to dressing like a cowboy, with the hat and the boots and everything. It seemed that cowboys used to break the law all the time but still got to be all smooth and cool in movies, so Blue went ahead and made himself an outlaw, too.  He’s in search of something, but he’s forgotten what. The desert can do that to a man, make him forget his job and family and even his own name. Blue has been in the desert for a long time, maybe. Or maybe not. He thinks, just keep walking, and you’ll find what you’re looking for . So he keeps walking. At some point in his journey, the mantra gets louder, and Blue realizes he’s started saying it out loud. This makes Blue frown. He knows that crazy people talk to themselves, and he’d rather not be crazy by the time he gets wherever he’s going. Also, it hurts his lips to talk, since they’re all cracked and dried by the sun, just like the ground beneath him. Blue knows he has a pretty face, and he’d like to still have it by the end of his journey, if he can. There are no buildings here, only desert-things: rocks and sand and cacti and scraggly bushes low to the ground. But Blue is not lonely. He likes the quiet, doesn’t really mind the heat. Not much to eat or drink, but Blue didn’t need much of that anyway, not since he broke the law all those years back. It gets kind of boring, though, the same walking through the same desert day after same day. On the fourth day – maybe – it rains. It comes out of nowhere. The sky just opens up and lets all its crying out. Blue gets drenched down to his very bones, but shelters his revolver so it doesn’t get all rusted up. He turns his face up to the thundering clouds and drinks. Takes his communion with all the angels weeping down on him. It is a kind of pilgrimage, this journey across the desert, Blue thinks. Whatever waits for him at the end of it must be holy, that much he’s sure of. What else would send a man into the desert with no one but himself to talk to? The rain turns the whole world blue, and when the sun goes down, it all becomes a shade of violet that he’s never seen before. The storm soaks the earth well into the purple night, turning the dirt into wide swaths of mud. Blue sinks a bit with every step, until he’s taken so many steps that he’s buried up to the hips in mud, and no longer able to take any more. Blue holds his revolver above the clay, and wonders if this is the end of his trek. This didn’t happen in any of those cowboy movies he’s seen. It seems there’s not much that’s smooth and cool about being half-swallowed up by the hungry desert. Blue thinks that if this is the end, he ought to have some good last words. Not that there’s anybody there to hear them, but it’s the principle of the thing. But the only words that come to mind are these: just keep walking, and you’ll find what you’re looking for. Blue has forgotten most other things, but he hasn’t forgotten that. His mantra, his prayer. He figures he better not decide to stop listening now, because it’s probably important. He throws the revolver gently to the safety of solid ground, then throws his hat after it. Blue grabs a scraggly bush, pulls. The bush pulls back, and Blue gets his hips free. He claws and shimmies and pulls. By the time he gets his feet out, it’s day again, and then rain has stopped. Blue lays on the ground beside his gun and his hat and stares up at the sky. He spits dirt out of his mouth and tries to wipe most of it off his pretty face. Then he gets up and keeps walking.  At the end of the fifth day (perhaps), with the sun at his height behind him, Blue sees the church. It’s a small little steeple, glowing white with sunset against the dark background of the desert. Beyond it, lights in the black, the lights of houses, flickering determinedly against the oncoming night. When he sees it, Blue’s memories start to rush back in like a rising tide. His job, his family, his own name. What he’s been searching for all these days in the desert. Blue breaks into a run. When he gets to the church, there’s only one other person there. A man, or a boy really, or a boyish man, sitting in a pew. He’s wearing a bandana and singing a hymn softly to the altar. He, too, has broken the law. Blue sits beside him, taking off his hat because he was raised that way.  The man turns to look at him. He puts Blue’s pretty face into the cup of his upturned palms. They stare at each other, rememorizing familiarities they had forgotten, learning new ones. The man brushes a finger against Blue’s cracked lips. He looks like he wants to say something that both of them know not to say in a church, even when it’s empty, but instead he says, “Did you walk all the way here?”  And Blue wants to not-say the same thing back, but smiles instead. I love you , Blue thinks.  “I’d crawl to you,” Blue says.

By Abigail Weidenfeller As the air gets a little colder, the sun sets a little earlier, and the leaves begin to exude warm colors, fall begins. As a firm believer that there is a playlist for every mood, or a soundtrack for every season of life, I have collected some songs that feel like fall. Now what does feel like fall even mean? There is no science to it, it is purely based on vibes, but I like to think that they all have an element of coziness. The leaves may be starting their dying process, but that just means they will be ready to grow again in the spring. To represent this I included a mix of older and new, some songs you have probably heard, and maybe one or two you have not. I hope you give some of them a listen, whether on a fall walk, right before a cozy nap, or maybe even drinking a hot chai latte. My Love Mine All Mine - Mitski Leaving on a Jet Plane - Peter, Paul and Mary Sun Self - DoomFolk StarterKit cowboy like me - Taylor Swift Clay Pigeons - Michael Cera Landslide - Fleetwood Mac Reflecting Light - Sam Phillips  Bags - Clairo So Far Away - Carole King  In time - Tyler Burkhart Fall With Me - The Wild Reeds Quite Like You - Andy Shauf 1999 - beabadoobee

By Kendra Papanek Huge thanks to my dear friend Jack Dickinson ‘27 for the cover image. I. The bed frame gives a benign, cheerful chirp as I slide off the mattress and trot over to the sink on my tiptoes as I usually do. I was too beside myself to remember to close the window last night, so I can hear the sound of Sunday morning’s emergencies while I wash the weekend away. The call of an ambulance wanes as it rushes by. I don’t recognize the dialect. The “wee” is the same length as the “woo.” And it’s a shrill one, too. Red eyes open. The sink is all choked up again. I don’t think she likes the taste of chunky mascara. I rest my convulsing hands against her cool, healthy skin. She doesn’t need concealer like I need concealer. I withdraw and shoot her an apologetic look, and she responds with a resentful gurgle as she finally swallows the cloudy water. At least she knows not to talk with her mouth full. II. I leave home and wait in the Metro’s hollow den with my feet pressed together and my lip quivering like a homesick child. I let my wet gaze waddle amongst sparse garbage nestled like plaque in the arteries of the track. I like to think that if I ran my hand along the third rail, I’d feel the mumbling of a heartbeat. The urge scuttles away to safety as the platform lights up and a train groans into view. She’s a new one. I can tell. I wonder if she and her sisters resent the voice that speaks for them with its inhuman timbre. I wonder if she, too, rouses in the fragile hours of the tar-black night and prays for a failure, a friend. I fix my foundation and let her cradle me. She whistles a tone-deaf tune and rocks me back in her warm, whispering womb, echoing beneath indifferent earth. She has a certain stench about her.

By Abby Tredway In recent years, it has become routine for people to term their music taste as “everything but country”, but I feel that is a fatal mistake. I simply disagree that all country music is inherently unlikable and therefore of no value. In actuality, a lot of country songs are not that different than songs of other genres like indie, folk, etc. Additionally, people of the AmLit audience should have some degree of appreciation for country music, as the storytelling in many songs shows some real talent! As a Texan myself, I just cannot support the rejection of the whole genre itself. So, I am here to provide some of my favorite country songs to hopefully open your mind a bit more to the genre. Angel from Montgomery - John Prine, Bonnie Raitt This song is up there for me as one of the best of all time. Angel from Montgomery was originally written and released by John Prine, but is more famously covered by Bonnie Raitt. These two got together to perform this song live, and something beautiful happened! The lyrics themselves are enough to make a grown man cry (my father), but the voices of these two excellent country singers finish it off beautifully. Always on My Mind - Willie Nelson When making a list of the best country songs, Willie Nelson always has to be included. Although I will admit I could be displaying some bias, as he currently lives in my hometown. In this song, Willie is lamenting about a past lover that, although he may not have treated as well as he should have, was always on his mind. This song perfectly encapsulates the overwhelming feeling of regret many have when thinking about past relationships, and Willie’s voice holds all the needed emotion. Certainty - Big Thief Certainty is another song for me that has to be in my top five of all time. I love Big Thief and Adrianne Lenker, but they really outdid themselves here. Although Lenker is a Minnesotan, she is able to perfectly capture the twang necessary to rip a beautiful song like this. The way the band is able to go about expressing this theme of undying love that is not constantly the same but lives in its variance is so beautiful to hear and is incredibly country in its nature. Say You Will - Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals Say You Will is a Tredway family favorite, so I feel the need to share this one. One element to a good country song for me is its ability to be sung in the car, and this one might just take the cake. Ben Harper’s voice is so incredible and fun to sing along with, and his passion is very easily felt even through the first listen of this song. This song does some genre blending, but it also holds a lot of elements of country that are mainly held within Harper’s lyricism and voice. Mostly Water - Bap Kennedy Similarly to the last one, this song has a personal connection, as it is my Dad’s favorite song of all time. Bap Kennedy admittedly has a bit of an odd voice, but it makes this song that much more fun to listen to in my opinion. My Dad loves this song because it keeps him feeling “unaffected by the haters”, as he once told me on one of our many long car rides tomorrow (talking about his office job). Although I do find that silly, I do think he has a good point. Sometimes a person does just have to sit down with their guitar and tell you their outlook on life, which Kennedy does extremely well here.

By Arin Burrell I have come to enjoy watching the sun set earlier and earlier each day as I sit on top of my house. It is the tallest house on the street, and I envy the family that lives under the roof. It is starting to feel more like fall now, I can see the atmosphere around me finally embracing this. The trees are changing colors rapidly it seems. I see less animals each day. Did change always come this fast? The people around the neighborhood have noticed this too. They take longer to wake up, leaving their houses right after the sun comes up to go to work or school. I feel sorry for them coming home with the sun setting at the same time. I am not a fan of the darkness, and I don’t think they are either. It takes away my view as I do my job. I often wonder, sitting here, what it would be like to leave with the birds. They fly overhead of me with their families, in search of a new place to stay. A short vacation until it warms up again. They sometimes stop near me before their flights. I would say hi if I could. Would they let me join them if I could ask? I think I would have to be a part of their group already if I wanted to take flight with them next year. But still, my design is not made for flight, as light as I am. I imagined befriending the sparrows that nested in the backyard last spring. The nest is still there but I was in the wrong direction when they flew away, unable to say goodbye as the host left for the rest of the year. I hope they’re somewhere nice. There is a family across the street that reminds me of the sparrows. They are new to the neighborhood and only come out for grocery shopping or something related to the kids. They talk about taking a winter vacation as they pack the car before driving away. Could they allow me to join them? The wind blows softly this evening as the sun starts to set. It can be nice on the roof, especially when there is no rain or snow hindering my view.  I am moved to another direction, looking at the house on the other side of the street now. No one’s home. Maybe they left with the sparrows. When the rest of the neighborhood gets quiet, I’ll still be up here. Telling the direction of the season’s winds and waiting for their return. There is not much else a weathervane can do.

By Hope Jorgensen In this century, it was getting harder and harder to haunt. I know that you would agree. The usual techniques of flickering illumination and silhouettes in mirrors is just overdone. You would look down your nose at such cheap gimmicks. Call them tacky or cliche. I’m dead so clearly those words can’t hurt. I haven’t felt pain in over two centuries. But, I’ve known defeat. Follow me along for the story.  For a time, the house, my home, had been silent as a morgue. The emptiness was my own much deserved staycation. I spent that time rediscovering my abode. I traced its plum blue wallpapers, glided up and down the mahogany spiral suitcase, lit the entire chandelier. My fondest memories were reacquainting with the darling black widow in the basement. The mischief we got up to would have you rolling with laughter. I should’ve known all peace is temporary.  My leisure time came to a complete stop decades too quickly. The end arrived with a family; two wives, one with a sleek bob, the other with tousled braids, and a baby with angelic curls and a hellish wail. At the sight of them, I had a feeling deep where my guts once was that they were the last. My final family to haunt. I would muster the last of my strength to haunt them before the great unknown took me. You know that this had to be perfect. I spent my midnights plotting and calculating in the attic. There was no room for error, no time for pathetic measures such as spoiling milk. I don’t believe any of them even drank whole milk; even the baby drank a strange formula. The witching hour came on the thirteenth day since their arrival, and my haunt was ready. Floorboards creaked beneath my phantom tread. Moonlight fell through slanted blinds across the child’s round face. A whisper sent the baby mobile twirling. I tried to squash down the part of me that felt this was the lowest point of my haunting career. A green light pulsed from beside the crib, a small device I’d observed the parents’ voices omitting from. When they hear the pure fear from their beloved babe, it’ll be over. From deep within, I pulled out my essence. The outline of a past life grew around me; limbs and hands and a face. All pure white. Wind whipped through the room which sent loose diapers and small dolls flying. The crib began to rock back and forth, at an increasingly violent rate. A cry began and that monitor’s light flashed red. The babe’s eyes blinked open. I waited for the fear to cloud them. You might be on the edge of your seat waiting too. The baby cooed. Squishy little hands reached out for me and a toothless smile grew on their face. Shock flooded what used to be my nerves. There was also a separate, warmer feeling. The crib stopped abruptly but the child didn’t even bat an eye. Voices streamed from the monitor and a door slammed open. My haunting career was over, but I found myself coming back the next night. And the next. The baby ceased wailing through the night with me by their side. Humans have rapid lives that I never bothered to track before, but I watched as this child grew and grew. Until the day the child was no longer a child and stopped seeing me. I think you would understand why I’ve chosen to finally move onto the true afterlife after all these centuries.

By Stevie Rosenfeld The American cowboy is a myth in itself. It conjures images of tumbleweeds rolling across a dessert plain, leather coats and wide brim hats, lively bars full of gambling and oil-flavored whiskey where the music only stops after a mysterious stranger takes a step onto the creaking wooden floor. The cowboy story might be the closest thing the post-colonial United States has to folklore. Unfortunately, the story hasn’t come very far since actual cowboys herded cattle in the real old west. Kelly Sue DeConnick changed that. Pretty Deadly is a graphic novel series that began in 2013 with The Shrike. The series follows Deathface Ginny, a vengeance driven marauder as she tracks down the beaten and blinded Fox and his young charge Sissy. While the reader doesn’t immediately know why Ginny hunts the two seemingly harmless panhandlers, they know one thing: she will not be stopped. The cowboy myth is defined by a single, hardened man—the lone ranger. This is someone who cares not for the rules of law, but holds his own fierce moral code. He’ll never start a fight, but he won’t leave one unfinished. He’s charming and attractive, but knowingly silent. DeConnick makes no attempt to separate Ginny from this trope, she falls into it gracefully and elegantly while still carving her own path in the genre. Perhaps this is why I, and so many other readers, have a hard time calling Ginny a “cowgirl.” The few female cowfolk in the media are usually depicted as mirrors of male characters, usually as a weaker, less developed version. Yet Ginny’s drive and power doesn’t serve to contrast her to other characters, but to frighten them. Even when Ginny is in service to her father, the audience is acutely aware that he can only push her so far before the rubber band snaps back. This is all before the trip to the underworld and back, of course. That’s the miracle of DeConnick’s writing; she builds the world before you even understand what kind of world you’re in. As Sissy spins the fantasy tale to an audience for pennies in the introduction of The Shrike, you don’t immediately recognize it as more than a fantasy. After all, why would a ten-year-old in a raven feather coat reading tarot and passing a hat know anything about the reality of life beyond death? But as the story unravels, you realize the childish fantasy had some truth in it, as they often do. Fantasy books often have to choose between worldbuilding, story, and character. And while the mystery surrounding many of Pretty Deadly’s characters often makes it difficult to discern their exact intentions, the world of Pretty Deadly and the people within have a depth and life of their own that only grows as the story moves forward. Even before you truly know who each character is, you feel as though you still Since many characters embody the “man of few words and loud actions” type of cowboy, you always feel they have a deep and noble cause. Such as the reaper Alice, a servant of Death, whose only indicator of a past is her coldness to Ginny. Yet rather than feeling that something is lacking, DeConnick makes the reader lean in closer when Alice does speak. Part of this compelling nature is of course due to artist Emma Rios, whose mastery of facial expressions and body language makes emotions jump from the page. From Fox’s stiff gait to Johnny Coyote’s loose gesturing, Rios drawings appear to move and speak like actors on a stage. Adding to the cinematic elements, the panels of Pretty Deadly are diverse in shape and size. Close ups of violence interspersed with wide shots of rolling skylines, the life of a single insect depicted larger than the entirety of hell and heaven. The paneling choices display a masterful understand of contrast and similarity’s coexistence. Rios demonstrates the way things so wildly different have a sameness at their core, something seemingly ever-present in the untamed west our characters trek through. The image of one man, his horse, and his gun against the world is compelling. It conjures ideas of independence, strength, and triumph over enemies. Yet, in building her fantasy world of reapers, witches, and spirits, DeConnick creates a more realistic image. One in which people are alone, and find each other, and lose each other again. One in which good guys win, and lose, and aren’t perfectly good all of the time. One in which people do their best, and don’t always succeed, but keep trying anyway. This may not be the wild west American Dream readers are used to, but it’s one they love and understand.