February 16, 2023Campus Life, Events, People of Central, Students Gallery: Students and Community Members Gather for Candlelight Vigil in Show of Support to MSU More
February 10, 2023Arts & Entertainment, Campus Life, Community, Student Lifestyle Taylor Swift Society Connects Swifties Across Campus
September 19, 2022Campus Fashion, Features, Student Lifestyle, Style Student Lifestyle – Sydney Theiler More
March 25, 2021Campus Fashion, Men's Style, Student Styles, Style, Style & Beauty, Trend and Beauty Men’s Spring Fashion: Comfort and Style
March 19, 2021Campus Fashion, Style, Style & Beauty, Trend and Beauty Revive: The Organization of Black Unity’s first ever virtual fashion show
January 11, 2021Men's Style, Student Styles, Style, Style & Beauty, Trend and Beauty, Uncategorized, Women's Style Winter Fashion Trends
April 1, 2023Arts & Entertainment, Events Gallery: The 5 Pillars of Africa: African Student Association Show 2023 More
March 2, 2023Arts & Entertainment, Events, Photography Gallery: Organization for Black Unity hosts 23rd annual fashion show
February 17, 2023Arts & Entertainment, People of Central People of Central: Student Director Sarah Hobgood More
February 16, 2023Campus Life, Events, People of Central, Students Gallery: Students and Community Members Gather for Candlelight Vigil in Show of Support to MSU
December 5, 2022People of Central “You’ll Never Walk Alone”: From middle school flag spinner to international performer
November 9, 2018Archives, Arts & Entertainment, Community, Food & Beverage, Seasonal Issues, Style, Style & Beauty Check out the Spring Issue 2018
September 21, 2010 Lifestyle Creative Writing Contest Winner: Kyle Eveleth Kyle Eveleth is a connoisseur of coffee, cheese, and sleep; a proud member of the Scottish diaspora; and a graduate student in English at CMU. He has published two collections of poetry, The Division (2007) and The Cruelest Month (2008). In addition to poetry and research, he writes sporadic, highly-detailed adventures for groups of like-minded geeks who also roll 20s. Mme. Le Sabre (la voiture belle) Shoes stained slick by that ick, the machine-god ichor in the lane, dropped from the beast that made the impression of my wallet on my ass that much smaller. It’s $3.99/qt for the lifeblood that lubes magically, like KY Yours and Mine, makes things slide when they might grind because today, tonight, I don’t have the time to usher you in. I can’t drop everything just to shower you with attention, getting my fingers dirty in those slick crevices only trained professionals should be probing. You whine when I leave it be, sweetie, but you whine more when I’m inside. It isn’t until I pull off your belt that I silence your cries and hear that low, throaty purr. That’s when I get to work and roll up my sleeves, dive in to the elbows, then get down on my knees, work from the top-down and get underneath. pull out the dipstick and cram it in your sheath. She drips when we’re done for maybe an hour before her moving parts settle and cool for a nap; I sit grinning, chewing a toothpick and my shoes are stained slick by her ick. Beacon Street I was ribcage-deep in the mechanical icebox, digging for 3/4 pint of Natty Light for him, Corona for me mum, and ripe Killian’s for m’self when he muttered something dirty about them jungle girls in the cheer squad for the Saints. I drew disgust like a scalpel across my face and split open a sour wound, gaping in disappointment at that man; said I to him, ‘what if I loved a girl whose skin was lovely dark and deep and whose hair curled round my fingers in the night when I slept close to her, feeling heat from her wide, sexy hips radiating into my cold white hand’ and said he ‘boy, stay away from them jungle girls they don’t know what love is’ All I thought in bed that night was sweet sweltering ‘jungle dreams’ where colors bled into a fine tanned cafe au lait and blue eyes browned to hazel and green and my red hair burned out to a deeper auburn in a face made magnificent mulatto from my rather russet, unbecoming Scot and her high-cheeked Nile blood; He could not recall those blurry bygone days in the 70s when a man could not walk into Townside or down Brookline street without hearing blasphemy split the city silence, saying ‘sonny you in da wrong parta town wit da wrong kinda crowd,’ where he and Bird would ball up hard knuckles capped with scars and brawl the beer off. I dreamt of races more distinct than palette swaps I dreamt of blood thicker than veils of false acceptance I dreamt of love more pervasive than hatred and disgust I dreamt of riots and fevers, jungles and wine bottles I dreamt and thought of what precisely love is