The Rose was my supervisor. Her head is surrounded by a halo of gauzy, grey hair. She wears boxy, red blazers. She bears an uncanny resemblance to Margaret Atwood.
The Peacock was one of my teachers. Disorganized and perpetually late, she would come to class in a dizzy whirl of pashmina--out of breath after hustling in her Birkenstocks. She made up for these faults with her British accent. That, and she kind of reminded me of my Gran.
My zine has no cohesive theme.
It is a little scattered and directionless.
A true reflection of me.