19-20 Blue Review

Blue Review 2020 Literary & Arts Magazine

bring me now the

bright flower

BLUE REVIEW

of the moongold grass Volume XXVI

Literary & Arts Magazine

Charlotte Latin School Vol. XXVI 2020

overshot and

streaming—

...night

as a changing scene

priceless yet

Charlotte Latin School

9502 Providence Road Charlotte, North Carolina 28277 704.846.1100 charlottelatin.org

paid for

spill

for me then the

bowl of

dawn

BLUE REVIEW

Literary & Arts Magazine Charlotte Latin School Vol. XXVI 2020

EDITORS’ LETTER In this year’s edition of Blue Review, we sought to examine the meaning of “home” and the diversity of backgrounds and landscapes in which it exists.

We found inspiration in the works of poet Carl Sandburg, who believed the average American’s experiences were worth exploring.

Sandburg was equally admired and criticized for his use of simple word choice and lack of rhyme and meter, all of which allowed readers of all ages and walks of life to connect with his expressions of pure, authentic emotion. His writing presents snapshots of seemingly mundane occurrences with fresh perspectives that reveal the

extraordinary in the ordinary.

Just as many of Sandburg’s poems describe Chicago, a city to which Sandburg felt connected, we wanted to depict our home: the Charlotte area of North Carolina. In the bubble of private school we often forget the unique character of our city; this magazine explores this medley while inspiring us not only to look at the world around us, but to truly see and understand it.

Our first chapter, “Green and Gray,” illustrates the bustling, chaotic, intense urban landscape of Uptown. The colorful artwork and complementary COVER AND COMPLEMENTARY ART Haley Barnes, “Jumper” |35x42 | Painting My piece draws from Marcel Duchamp’s “Nude Descending a Staircase,” in which he studied the movement indicated by the title, simplified.

“Jumper” employs a similar style in tracking the motion of a horse jumping and paring it down to its bare elements. By recognizing an everyday occurence in my life as extraordinary, my piece demonstratates the beauty in that which is common and overlooked.

Blue Review Vol. XXVI

writing selections reveal the luxury that is the reality of city life for some urbanites, contrasted with the economic (and often psychological) struggles for other Charlotte city dwellers.

Our second chapter, “Waiting for Tomorrow,” details the routine, comfortable, family-oriented suburban lifestyle. The art and writing in this section highlight humorous moments with loved ones and the progression of life as we grow up and form our identities.

Finally, “Wind and Swirl” reflects the simple, quiet independence and freedom of the rural landscape. The pieces in this section express the effect of the clean air and open green fields and spaces on our minds as we commune with nature, releasing all our academic and social stresses and letting our unfettered thoughts take us to deep introspection. It is here we can return to childhood and those memories that have shaped us.

Each chapter represents the tones and lifestyles in different regions from our perspective as teenagers in our search to understand our place in the Charlotte experience, while the pieces express genuine thoughts and emotions without embellishment.

We believe that as we begin to see the beauty in our everyday lives, we understand where we live, and in doing so, we find ourselves.

As Sandburg once remarked, “I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m on my way.”

Join us as we find our way together.

Laura, Joy, Mia, & Zoe

MASTHEAD Faculty Adviser | Lori Davis Lead Layout Editors Zoe Spicer | Joy Yu | Laura Zielinski | Mia Zottoli Faculty Co-adviser | Tiffany Fletcher Lead Copy Editor | Alison Moore Associate Copy Editors Janie Balanda | Helen Hurden | Cora Snyder | Lea Troutman | Virginia Troutman | Sophia Vona Lead Art Editor Cam Linker Associate Art Editors Emma Gatrell | Lily McMahan | Lila Rhee | Grace Scott | Demi Stamatakos | General Staff Adel Berhe | Brooke Bellavia | Carter Lloyd | Kai Vincent English Faculty Support Alan Becker | Stuart Bonner Tiffany Fletcher | David Gatewood Richard Harris | Maria Klein Amanda Labrie | Tara McLellan Robin Siczek | Tracey Vanneste

Art Faculty Support Richard Fletcher | Kaila Gottschling Clark Hawgood | Will Thomason Administrative Support Chuck Baldecchi | Rod Chamberlain Fletcher Gregory | Jeff Knull Hunter Murphy | Lawrence Wall Technical Support Andre Elam | Chris Esposito Bill Freitas | Luis Neves Craig Summerville Promotional Support Latin Arts Association: Vivi Bechtler-Smith | Aileen Boltz | Kim Cobb | Gigi Egge | Jan Johnson | Lori Samii | Harriet Stamatakos Liz Tarumianz | Leslie Wickham Charlotte Latin School Media and Graphics April Baker | Tori Belle-Miller Financial Support Charlotte Latin School

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TABLE OF CHAPTER 1: “GREEN AND GRAY” CHAPTER 1 DIVIDER 8 Queen City Skyline / Brooks Finby / Photography

CHAPTER 1 POETRY 20 Descansam em Paz / Julie Derraik / Free Verse 24 Seabrook Island: A Sonnet Sequence / Mary Gale Godwin / Sonnet 33 Mortal Elysium / Brooks Finby / Free Verse 41 Page of Haiku / Alison Moore / Haiku

CHAPTER 1 FICTION 15 What Am I Looking For? / Alison Moore / Short Story 19 A Cry in the Cornfield /Emma Carter / Flash Fiction 22 Thin Ice / Irene Yang / Flash Fiction

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28 Blood / Sophia Vona / Horror 30 Mother Knows Best / Irene Yang / Flash Fiction 36 La Maleta: la Historia de Facundo Rodriguez / Jackson Morgan / Short Story 42 Dark Santa / Kaylah Hooper / Horror 46 Netflix Presents: Oh, My God! / Brooks Finby / Satire

CHAPTER 1 NONFICTION 11 Queen Doreen / Brooks Finby / Memoir 12 Street Art: It’s Art. Really. / Megan Aljian / Nonfiction 27 What’s in a Name? / August Haldeman / Memoir 34 Green Thinking / Katherine Stenersen / Nonfiction

CONTENTS CHAPTER 1 ART 10 XOXO / Ella Tune / Mixed Media 13 Youth: A Climate Piece / Cam Linker / Acrylic on Canvas 14 Little World / Hayden Brice / Mixed Media 18 Mac and the Fish / Jane Brownlow / Printmaking 21 Portrait of Caroline Wall / Emma Carter / Drawing 23 Kazakh Village / Assem Mendygazieva / Photography 24 Icelandic Dream / Holt Daniels / Digital Art 26 Prince Holt / Camille Darwich / Mixed Media 28 Melting / Lila Rhee / Printmaking 31 Mystery Girl Chloe Floyd / Digital Photography 32 Girl in Purple / Cam Linker / Painting 35 California Girl / Emma Carter / Drawing 36 Life After Grief / Emma Gatrell / Mixed Media

40 Balloonhead / Grace Vance / Painting 42 Bold Abstract / Erin Corwin / Digital Art 46 Strong Like a Girl / Emma Gatrell / Mixed Media

CHAPTER 2: “WAITING FOR TOMORROW” CHAPTER 2 DIVIDER 48 Stock House / Laura Zielinski / Digital Photography

CHAPTER 2 POETRY

62 Key in My Hand / Cora Snyder / Free Verse 68 Shakespeare, Sarcasm, & Sonnets / Alison Moore / Sonnet 73 The Summer I Was Nine / Vivian Workman / Free Verse

CHAPTER 2 FICTION 52 Apocalypse / Lizzy Griesser / Flash Fiction

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TABLE OF CHAPTER 2 FICTION, CONT. 54 Unnamed / Morgan Hammer / Flash Fiction 56 A Wilted Rose at the Altar / Alison Moore / Gothic Fiction 64 Edgar Allan Poe on the Sickbed / Matthew Marcus / One Act 70 The Life Mirror / Ryan Beam / Flash Fiction 75 The Vessel / Cora Snyder / Fantasy

CHAPTER 2 NONFICTION 50 Science and Hallmark Movies / Anna Snyder / Nonfiction 59 The Elevation of Death / Andrew DeWeese / Nonfiction 60 Labels Won't Define Me / Gaby Cacheris / Memoir 67 Growing Up on the Move / Elizabeth Cobb-Curtis / Memoir

CHAPTER 2 ART

50 Amalgam / Zoe Spicer / Mixed Media 52 Hey Siri / Luisa de Armas / Sculpture 55 Blue Flowers / Sophie Bellavia / Mixed Media 56 Into the Forest / Mary Cate Kiser / Drawing 58 Firebird / Cam Linker / Acrylic on Canvas

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61 Portrait of Morgan / Nina Lavelle / Drawing 63 Rosemary / Abby Matthews / Printmaking 64 Jiggly Hands / Kate Addison / Mixed Media 66 Portrait of Sophie / Lily Dal Cin / Drawing

69 Summer Dog / Marion Donald / Drawing 70 Diagonal Composition / Lila Rhee / Mixed Media 72 Upside Down / Mary Catherine Pope / Graphite on Paper 74 Worlds Away in Barcelona / Evelyn Austin / Digital Art

CHAPTER 3: “WIND AND SWIRL” CHAPTER 3 DIVIDER

76 Old Boat / Laura Zielinski / Photography

CONTENTS CHAPTER 3 POETRY

CHAPTER 3 ART

84 Chuck Taylors and Shimmering Blue / 78 Waters / Mia Zottoli / Photography Bruno Lahass / Free Verse 80 Drip / J.B. Meanor / Ceramics 86 The Beginning Within the End / 81 Balls, Shattered / J.B. Meanor Cora Snyder / Free Verse / Ceramics 88 Coming Home / Vivian 83 Shadows / Bella Brawley / Workman / Free Charcoal Verse 84 Island Sunset / Bennett Smith / 90 Rest Easy, Photography Calvin / Brooks 86 Still Life / Cam Linker / Photography Finby / Elegy 88 Marsh at Sunset / Lila Rhee / 94 Jeopardy / Photography Laura Zielinksi / 90 Clouds / Sarah Catherine Pappas / Free Verse Photography 96 The Dream: Zhuangzhi's 92 Smudged / Marion Donald / Butterfly / Joy Yu / Free Drawing Verse 95 Chandelier / Assem Mendygaziyeva / Photography CHAPTER 3 97 Autumn Silence / Elaine Liu / Oil NON Painting

FICTION

78 Papa's Letters / Samantha Gitlin / Memoir 80 Gray Matters / Paige Nurkin / Memoir 82 November 7 / Ryan Bonner / Memoir 93 Mahler's 4th Symphony / Andrew DeWeese / Memoir

CHAPTER DIVIDER QUOTATIONS *All chapter and cover art quotations from Carl Sandburg’s poems: 6 Working Girls 28 The Wind on the Way 50 Frog Songs Covers Nightsong

Blue Review Vol. XXVI

“S green gray o the

MOV E and the

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Queen City Skyline | Brooks Finby | Digital Photography

in the

early morning

streets. on the

downtown

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XOXO | Ella Tune | 18x24 | Mixed Media

queen Brooks Finby

As I, a lanky, sixteen-year-old boy, carefully climbed the dimly lit stage steps in my black dress, floppy sun hat, and red high heels that certainly did not fit my size 11 feet, I murmured a silent prayer, “Dear God, please save me from the social suicide I am about to commit.” I then hobbled onto the stage, trying my best not to wipe out and literally break a leg and proclaimed, “Hello darlings, Mommy’s home!”

In this moment, I was no longer Brooks Finby, your friendly neighborhood math whiz and Model UN enthusiast, but Doreen, the mentally unstable wine mom obsessed with CNN’s silver-haired Casanova, Anderson Cooper.

This was “Reading Between the Wines,” a one act (short plays written by the seniors) revolving around a wild mommy book club. My role as “Her Eminence” was offered to me due to the voice I invented for her: think Stefon from SNL mixed with “The Plastics” from Mean Girls.

I discovered I had a passion for drama when I dipped my toes into theater with One Acts the year before, so I was excited to act again. However, I was quite nervous to crossdress in front of my entire school. What would my friends think of me?

After a couple of rehearsals, Ethan, the director, and I journeyed to the local Goodwill to purchase the outfit for Doreen. After trying it on, I quickly noticed that I was receiving some very strange looks from the other customers—NOT a good sign.

In the seconds before I strutted on stage, I was filled with anxiety over how the crowd would react to my…peculiar appearance. My stomach was rocking back and forth violently like the moshpit of a Travis Scott concert. In all honesty, I was worried I’d lose my masculinity in the eyes of my peers and family. In fact, my parents had tried to convince me to drop the role all together. My mind conjured up images of cute girls snickering at me in the hallway

and boys yelling out, “Look, it’s Queen Doreen!”

My gnawing fear of social exile began to subside as the crowd cheered loudly at my snarky comments— some highlights include, “Apple-bottom SKANK!” and “Don’t touch my damn Tupperware, you dirty she-demon!”

As the one act continued, my confidence steadily grew until I was happily embracing my undying love for “Andy Coop.” When it came time for my Chernobyl-level meltdown after finding out Andy was gay—thus ending my dreams of becoming the trophy wife of CNN forever—I was actually excited. It was my time to shine like the glow of a back alley dumpster fire. After accosting my fellow wine moms and chugging sparkling apple cider disguised as wine, it was time to aggressively dance to “Fergalicious.” Even in heels, I still murdered the dance floor! As my dance concluded, I grabbed another wine bottle, ripped the cork out with my teeth, spat it across the stage, and yelled “This book club...is over!” between deep gulps of wine.

As the lights faded to black, any lingering fear of becoming a social pariah dissolved in the sea of applause that I heard coming from my classmates. Perhaps most surprising of all was the fact that my parents had actually loved it. Later, as I changed into my red collared shirt and black pants—I was playing a socially awkward Chickfil-A employee next—I had the realization that as long as I wholeheartedly embraced whatever I was passionate about, I no longer had to fear what other people thought of me; my confidence would outshine any shadows of judgment that could be cast on me.

My experience as Doreen, the unhinged alcoholic queen of sass, taught me a valuable lesson about masculinity: having the courage to put yourself outside your comfort zone is actually the most manly thing a man can do.

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Megan Aljian

Street art is like water. It’s slippery at best, hard to contain as the art form flows to new areas.

While some enjoy the art that’s bringing color to monotonous urban landscapes, others label it as vandalism. Too many treat the free-spirited art form like spilt water, an inconvenience that should be mopped up and erased. In reality, street art is liquid, constantly changing shape, resulting in each piece being unique and deserving of protection and recognition, not destruction.

The phrase “street art” stems from an increasingly kinder view of graffiti, with many now accepting the rebellious, sometimes illegal art form. While graffiti can have negative connotations, street art is simply art: a celebration of patterns and colour, striving to either send a political message or visually improve an area. Often seen on walls or bridges in urban areas, street art is created by a diverse variety of people from different social, ethnic, and gender backgrounds, expressing themselves publicly through art. Not all street art is vandalism. At times, a local government or property owner may hire a street artist to commemorate an event in paint or improve a building’s aesthetic. 1 Street art deserves to be recognized as an equal counterpart to more widely accepted, traditional art forms. Art schools are evidence of the years of study that go into mastering a classical art form. Similarly, a street artist can take years to master their technique and create a unique style, learning from other artists and through their own experimentation. Where an oil painter can use a variety of canvases made from different materials, graffiti artists learn to work with the different surfaces, ranging from metal siding to brick walls.

Graffiti artists face struggles equal to that of other artists, yet street art is not treated as equal to other art forms. Its sometimes vandalistic nature is partially to blame for this, making some see street art as a base, uncultured art form instead of seeing

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the work and talent poured into each piece of graffiti.

Unlike many other art forms which are imprisoned in museums and separated from their audience, street art strives to directly connect with its community. While living in London, I enjoyed visiting the National Gallery, but I remember the time I spent with family on those trips, not with the art. I had a brief connection with the artwork but not a lasting tie. In contrast, I was surrounded by graffiti while on London’s trains, as the walls bordering the train system were decorated with graffiti. A few months before I left London, a new wall went up on a train route I often passed. A lone white wall. Perfect for street art. In the months before I left, a single artist reached the wall. The piece he or she created was a swirling word, striking against the empty white. Each time I passed by, I looked for that piece. Seeing it was like shaking hands with a friend: a comforting reminder that everything would be all right. I connected with the art, and it came to mean something to me because we shared two things: its location and the constant, rapid bustle of the trains. This kinship is something art in a museum often fails to create.

Street art occupies a unique class. Made by people in the community, it is addressed to and in direct contact with the community. No film of separation stands between the artist and the viewer.

Being close makes street art vulnerable. The fragile nature of street art is often abused by those who fail to see its legitimacy. As a result, much street art has been lost. Unless we each strive to see the beauty in street art and celebrate its positive presence, instead of sidelining it as vandalism, street art will continue to be endangered. We all need to try to understand and appreciate the pure self-expression street art contributes to society, rather than fearing the uncontained freedom its existence represents.

Bell, Bethan. “Street art: Crime, grime or sublime?” BBC News, 16 Dec. 2016, www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-38316852

Youth: A Climate Piece | Cam Linker | 18x22 | Acrylic on Canvas

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what am i

looking for?

Alison Moore

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Little World | Hayden Brice | 22x23 | Mixed Media

The room is never quiet. In the corner a fan hums and sputters. The walls are purple and bare.

Posters sleep under the bed, ready to be displayed once I muster up the energy to hang them.

I took down the old pictures, the ones that watched me cover the floor in play mobile scenes that caused many painful missteps in the dark.

My missteps don’t matter to empty walls. If those walls still stared from those animals in their framed cages, would they see? If the mirror can’t, why would the walls? I keep them bare.

Out, out of these walls. I don’t want to stay inside them anymore. She isn’t here inside these walls and so there’s no point in staying. These walls are mute and blind. I push out of my chair, glancing at the letters ripped open on my desk.

A knot forms in my gut. I open the door and walk into the hall. Instead of carpet giving way to wooden flooring, it gives way to dirt. The familiar firmness of the planks are replaced with fallen pine that tickles the soles of my feet.

I let go of the doorknob in surprise. The door disappears. I turn, pivoting in the space trying

woods.

A tarp covers the fence, hiding what lies beyond from those trapped inside. It covers the peep holes that reveal monsters speeding past the forest.

Were they monsters? She had been so sure but I can’t seem to tell.

A tear in the tarp catches my eye. I bend down and pull the plastic away. It crinkles in my hand.

When I peer through the tear, the only thing I see are a paved road and trees.

No monsters are in view.

I step away from the fence. The trees tower over me, their branches punctured by spots of sunlight that lay lazily on the ground and across my feet.

Light stretches from a patchwork quilt of branches stitched and woven together and attached to needles that had fallen to the ground.

The bark of the close trees is cracked, spiral fractures that meld together and creep up the trunks.

I grasp the closest tree between my hands and shake. A torrent of water falls onto my face and soaks my shoulders.

to recover the doorway. There are only trees.

There isn’t supposed to be trees. I swat the air in frustration.

Scanning the new terrain, I recognize the unfamiliar surroundings. These trees belong to the school yard, these trees witnessed her as a young child. They saw her pitiful attempts to make fairy houses out of twigs, these trees saw her shoulders slump and her feet drag when the bell rang. These trees gave her shelter from reality, a world of make believe to which she clung.

I walk through it now, careful not to trip on the roots that snake through the ground. I step lightly on a root and the shadow of an old bruise blooms on my leg.

The sound of someone hitting the ground echoes through the forest. I turn, raking my eyes across the ground but see no one. It doesn’t take long to run into the border.

The forest is caged in, its boundaries are marked with a chain link fence that runs the length of the

It must have rained earlier. An echo spreads through the forest, an echo of rustling leaves and the laugh of a child whose shoulders were soaked and whose hair was wet and whose grubby hands shook the trees that held the secret stores of water unfallen.

Then the echo becomes reality and the wind pushes through trees, shaking the quilt and letting loose a rainstorm of past rains and past laughs.

I close my eyes, letting the water splash onto my face and run down my cheeks. The tree beneath my fingers seems to tremble with the child’s laughter.

It reverberates up the trunk. The laugh beckons me up, the ghost of a promise.

I begin to climb, passing creaking limbs and ignoring scratches as I climb to the top of the skinny tree. My arms burn as my head emerges from the canopy and the wind slices at my face and chills my bones.

As I peer out from the trees the world expands below me.

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There is no stretch of green that continues on beyond the horizon but a paved road past the fence.

Blurred figures race down the stretch. Below me the bell rings and I begin to climb down. It’s time to go, time to leave. My foot slips and my grip loosens and I fall to the ring in my ears. It’s time to go.

When I land, sprawled on the ground, the dust embraces my body, it clings to my soaking hair and peppers my cheeks. The sun is bright and the air is bone dry. When I stand and squint at the sand-colored rock, a graveyard spreads out around me. Bones of creatures exposed to the sun after millions of years in their graves bare their lack of flesh to the unforgiving wind. My feet burn as I scan the surfaced bones, some so fragile that the wind sweeps up their bits and scatters them into the barren surroundings.

My knees crack as I bend down. I scoop up bits and pieces of dirt and watch as they are carried away by the wind. When I rub my fingers together, the dirt left smears into a red clay paste. The kind that made the backyard an oasis for mud pies and a cemetery for grass. I blink my eyes back into focus. The parched lips of the earth are cracked and

paint is chipped and frayed. I crouch down and lift the hatch, hit with a cool flow of air from the tunnel beneath and a mass of dust from the top of the hatch. The light doesn’t touch the bottom of the passage, but it exposes the first few rungs of a ladder. The sun burns my neck as I peer down.

Sweat runs down my back. I cast a last glance at the badlands, heart in my throat. Then I hoist myself down into the hole.

The rungs are chilled against my hands and feet, and the sweltering heat disappears the further I plunge. Metal clangs and the space becomes pitch black. I tighten my grip on the rungs, grimacing at the slickness of my sweat on my palms. I lower myself down one rung. My toes flex on the cold metal. I let out a breath.

One more rung and my feet hit the ground.

I freeze, tenderly feeling the floor with my foot, tracing my toes on the board as far as my leg can extend. It’s wood, covered in a layer of something that clings to the sole of my foot. I lower myself gently down, hands still tight on the rungs. A sound, the switch of a flip, and light shines on the ladder, heat warms the back of my neck. I crane,

peeling around me, hardly the condition of the clay back at home. This ground is hardened, exposed.

I shuffle awkwardly down the terrain, kicking up dust as I make my way lower. Sweat stings my skin. My breath catches in my chest. It could be the heat, but the knot of tension in my chest swells with every step. My stumble turns into a frantic race. The ground dips and falls, my ankles turn and tremble with every near misstep. It could be here. She spent so much time wanting this. My descent ends with one final slam of my feet onto the ground.

Scattered around me are the signs of a digsite.

The scent of plaster stings my nostrils. I turn away from the half-dry cast on my left. An upturned box of tools catches my attention. The box is a faded red, faint in the exposure of the sun. I make my way towards it. My foot hits a rock and a curse slips through my lips. I glare down to the offending party only to be blinded by the shine. It wasn’t a rock.

The pain was from a hatch whose camouflaged

trying to see over my shoulder, but the darkness is impenetrable. I do a one-eighty, and the moment my fingers push off from the ladder it vanishes. I squint, hands to my eyes at the strength of the light.

A warmth rushes through my chest. Rows of seats spread out in front of the platform I stand on, ending at two sets of double doors on either side of a control booth. The intense light comes from the top of the box. I look under my feet at the painted numbers on the floor. My foot stands on zero.

Behind me, black curtains hang from the ceiling, coming down past rows of dormant lights.

In the shadows of the curtain’s folds I can make out the silhouettes of characters. Familiar silhouettes, costumes she’d worn shivered with the curtain, morphing from role to role. I reach out to touch them, drag them out of shadows but when my hand grasps the fabric the silhouettes dissipates.

I tighten my grip on the curtain and touch my head to it, closing my eyes. My head begins to throb

and my throat stings. She’d loved this place as a home and a refuge, and I still do. The AC blasts and its hum pricks the hairs on the back of my neck.

She’s not here.

I spin around to face the empty audience, a sob or a scream stuck in my throat but all that comes out is a broken croak. The chairs below me watch silently, waiting. I wipe at the sting in my eyes, smearing dirt across my wet cheeks. I didn’t know how to find her. All the memories in the world couldn’t help me get her back. I sink to my knees, the sawdust sticks to my legs, and I start to shake.

Why did it even matter? I put a hand to my mouth to muffle the sobs that escape it. What did I want her for?

My eyes burn as the spotlight streaks in my vision and all the empty chairs blur together. She was gone. I clutch at my chest, crumpling my shirt as I let loose a scream. What am I doing? What am I even looking for? I slam my fists on the ground, tears dripping off my nose onto the floor. I watch sawdust swirl in the water. I close my eyes. There has to be another place, another way to find it.

The ground beneath me softens, and the pressure

I kick my feet up, pulling them onto my chair.

Criss-cross applesauce, I stare at the bare wall, tracing empty hooks.

A knock on the door turns my head. I watch the row of baseball caps on the door shift. One cap falls down and is pinned to the wall by the door.

“So have you figured it out?”

I look up reluctantly, pulling my eyes to meet the expectant gaze of my mother. She waits. The fan hums. Her polite smile falters.

“You have looked haven’t you?”

“Yeah.” The hoarse whisper doesn’t convince her.

“Well, what do you want?”

I fold my arms and shrug. The doorknob’s fixture was flaking. The tension builds with every passing second. My eyes catch on a photograph on the desk. The girl is smiling in a frilly white dress and a cowgirl hat sitting on my dad’s lap. She knew what she wanted to be. She knew how her her life would turn out. So why didn’t I? When did I lose her?

Where did the difference between us come from?

When did I lose what I wanted?

“Well?” The voice is impatient. Every time she asks it gets worse. She thinks I’m lazy. She thinks

on my knees dissipates. I open my eyes. My hands sink into the stained carpeting. I take a breath, gently. I’m back in my room. The breath’s an easy one, not too sudden and not too violent. Just one breath followed by another.

I get up, legs burning and shaking slightly. I grab a hold of my dresser for balance as I lose feeling in my face and my vision pixels to black. I wait a moment, a minute. The feeling comes back, then the vision. My chair is still pushed out. I take a step, dragging my foot to rub off the sawdust. I reach for the chair. It’s hard and plastic. I sit down, my feet stretched out under the desk.

Slowly I pick up the top opened letter. The clay from my hand smears on the envelope. The name of a college is printed in blocky text. The inside’s content is bright and cheerful. It’s everything I’m looking for. I’m everything it’s looking for. There are a dozen more like it. I look at the pile. Dozens. I put the letter back.

I’m not committed. She thinks I’m not trying.

“I don’t know,” I say, tightening the grip on my arms. My eyes stay on the desk, looking at the letters, the tears in the envelopes. She wants to keep talking, like if she keeps poking I’ll subconsciously give her some signal that I know what I want. But I don’t. So I don’t look back up and I don’t talk again and I ignore the fact the fact that our relationship is cracking. I listen to the fan because I can’t bear to listen to the silence.

“Okay,” she says shortly. She goes back downstairs. She doesn’t close the door. I take a breath, rubbing the knot out of my chest. I place my hand on the stack of letters. They compress under my palm. I drag them across the desk until they fall off. I was so sure. I pull my knees up to my chest. I let my head fall, nuzzling into my knees. My arms snake around my legs and I pull them tight. I close my eyes.

I had been so sure.

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Mac and the Fish | Jane Brownlow | 12x18 | Printmaking

a crycornfield in the

The whisper of the wind through the corn stalks circle around me, finally reaching my ears. I let out a sigh, and plod toward the fields, dirt flying away with each step. I grab my basket and set it on the ground next to me.

In the distance I see my house, a blur with a trail of smoke pouring into the sky. I see Ma, walking around the house shooing the chickens into their cages. I smile as I hear her crack loudly at the chickens, “Git in there before I kick ya feathers off ya dumb animals.”

I start the slow process of harvesting the corn, twisting and pulling each ear of corn off the stalk.

The steady thumping of the corn into the basket plays in my head as I continue to harvest. The stalks sway with each gust of wind, and dirt blinds me. I wince, brush the dirt away, and continue on.

If I don’t harvest half of the field, Ma said she would, “whip me black and blue.” My hands start moving faster as the sun starts its descent into the wheaten earth.

Ma says that God has cursed us with time, and that we are poor because there is never enough time to work. I disagree, but I ain’t never gonna tell her that. I look across the field, scanning to see how much I have left to do.

I mumble some unholy words, and urge my hands to move even faster. I shout as a thorn stabs my finger, and a bead of blood immediately wells up. I suck my finger, hoping and praying the pain will go away so I can keep moving.

Ma also says I am a burden to our family, born a girl instead of a boy. Ever since I was a child,

Emma Carter

my parents have expressed their hatred towards me, and my little brother Abraham is a living testament. I work the fields while my little brother plays in the dirt and goes to school.

I hate my brother, and he hates me. One day my brother will inherit everything, and I will be left to work the fields. I hate my life in East Bend, Virginia but there are no other options left for me. I glance up at the fields again, praying that I will have done enough. I let out a cry, I have harvested half the field. I grab the basket and start running back to the house, hoping my parents will be pleased. On the front porch, the wooden door swings open and in the doorway stands Ma. Ma is a stocky woman of old age, with graying hair and a hard face. Her hands are callused from years of farm work. She is hunched from constantly bending over in the fields. Her eyes never miss a detail, and her words strike like copperheads, fast and vicious. She grabs her cane and stares off at the fields. All of a sudden, her cane whips out and strikes my face. I yelp and drop my basket of corn.

“Ya only did half. You are a burden to thus family, and ya need ta do more than what we ask of ya.” Blood wells from my eyebrow and drips onto the wooden slats of the porch.

I prepare for another strike but it never comes.

I look around at the blood stained boards, and I close my eyes, dreaming of a safe haven.

The cane raises, she strikes again, and I see stars.

Slap, tears sting my eyes. Slap, I ball my hands.

Slap, I cry out and pray for this to end. Slap, I start seeing black, close my eyes, breathe and smile.

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Julie Derraik

em paz Staining the mountain’s face in vibrant flashes of color.

Blues, oranges, reds, yellows The favela cordially invites you to their festival.

Take one step closer and those flashes fade to fear Blue is a tear.

Orange is fire.

Red is blood, Streaming through the war torn streets, Dripping from shattered shingles, Open wounds, Tacky switch-blades, And leaky clouds filled with contempt.

The colors blur into a toxic river that seeps through the sickly mountain Tumbling down upon Copacabana in a deluge of terror.

The government quietly sweeps this flood under the rug, And the city of Rio continues to rest in peace.

Police eagerly smell the rotting pores of the mountain above, But the river’s steel rapids push them back, Sequestering them in stagnant water.

After all, to enter the favela with a pistol of righteousness is to die.

This mountain belongs to the drug lord.

And he caresses it gently.

Surrounded by addiction, there he lies on a charcoal throne,

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Portrait of Caroline Wall | Emma Carter | 30x20 | Drawing

Rich with the splendor of poverty.

So the colors melt away from your eyes, Blue, orange, and red slosh together, Making a dull purple, A silenced heartbeat.

Buried in purple are the people, A precious stone.

They hang their clothes on lines, Gulp down tepid water, Drift away into cheap liquor, And walk barefoot across forsaken cobblestone to seek education.

Children sell candy, Quilts, Drugs, Souls Anything to feed family.

To these children the colors rush back into view.

But this time blue, orange, and red slither away, Leaving only desperate yellow, hope.

Weak, but yearning for freedom.

Yellow rises with the flaming sun and lingers among trembling stars.

Hidden by the tormented face of the mountain.

The people pick their scabs, Dust off their grave.

And descansam em paz.

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a precious stone.”

“BURIED IN PURPLE ARE THE PEOPLE,

Irene Yang

She bends down to press her cold palm against her friend’s warm cheek. Several tendrils of dark hair escaped the messy bun she haphazardly threw on top of her head. They always used to joke that the color resembled her favorite drink order; these days she found herself swallowing the bitter dregs of black coffee in a futile attempt to pull herself through the day.

No matter which distractions she employed, the seconds continued to drag by, each morning reminding her of the time they were robbed of.

Sure, sleepless nights and driving through snow to eight-hour shifts are arduous, but being stuck in a coma bites harder than any blizzard outside.

Still, shards of numbness snowball through her veins, and she desperately wished she could let her friend go, just like the icicles melting outside the hospital room window.

She reaches out to brush a lock of golden hair out of her friend’s closed eyes. Their expression remains artless, although she shivers from the impending snowstorm. The chilly weather seems to flurry around the freshly cut lilies as well.

Multiple stems have wilted; white petals swirl down to the windowsill, withering too swiftly, as if the flowers’ time is being wiped away.

When she moved to leave, her fingers grazed the plug; however, the endless scenarios rushing through her head all ended with nothing. Just like every other visit, they remained frozen, and her friend remains trapped between life and death.

Everything is blindingly white. Her fingers grip the steering wheel as torrents of wind and hail spiral around her car. She reassures herself that there are only five streets to the hospital, to her friend.

Four minutes later, her hands slip, the front

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Kazakh Village | Assem Mendygaziyeva | Photography

tires swerve, and the car skids disastrously over a sheet of ice. The spinning continues until the hood plunges three feet down into frigid waters. Two airbags explode, like pillows stifling her to sleep.

When she closes her eyes to take one last breath, she vaguely pinpoints a feeling akin to what her friend had felt months ago.

As her body fills with emptiness, she wonders if her friend had struggled to the surface, or embraced the crash, allowing the snow to bury her, realizing she wouldn’t breathe again.

Everything went black.

She allowed the dull hospital lights to flood her vision with color. Despite a sharp, stabbing pain blossoming in her chest, she gently removed the tubes that provided her with a steady dose of sedation. She wanted to feel something.

Mechanically, her body pulled her towards the elevator, pressed the sixth floor, and placed her in front of her friend’s door. She longed to break free of this routine. Just as she was about to enter, she paused.

Through the glass pane, she glimpsesd her reflection with features markedly similar to her friend’s. She knew her luck would eventually run out; she couldn’t endure much more.

When she stepped out of the hospital, everything was covered in a layer of fresh snow. Everything was calm. Everything was clean. She spotted her car, the doors newly repaired, save for a few faint scratches on the bumper that would always remind her of this dark cloud in her life.

She placed a fresh bouquet of daffodils in the passenger seat, where once upon a time, her friend would’ve sat. She knows she won’t be returning soon.

Finally, she doesn’t regret it.

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seabrook island:

A SONNET SEQUENCE Mary Gale Godwin

Sun-covered sand, Spiraled umbrellas, kites, and towels crowd my view.

Footballs and paddle balls everywhere Wind brushing through the dunes, Flowing through the dull marsh.

The grainy sand encompasses my already burning feet.

The constant crash and whoosh of waves as the Coast Guard flies overhead, Children boogie board the endless emerald shore.

I can’t help but inhale deeply as the salty breeze envelops me.

Planting my chair, I sit down Feeling the summer sun begin to bronze my skin.

The comfort of a problem-free summer, Of never-ending beach days.

But the tide keeps rising, engulfing the island.

Rattled by the news of incoming storms blaring on The Weather Channel, The shrieking air conditioning chills my cheeks And the musty smell of my mom’s burnt chicken encircles the room.

I walk out onto the back porch, Pondering the thought of the island washing away.

A sea of paranoia and worry drowns me, No way of swimming to the surface.

Glancing out into the marsh, My mom calls me back in for dinner.

As she turns off the television, I am freed from the anxiety of the unknown future.

A temporary escape, but nothing that will last.

Twenty years from now, will the island even exist?

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Icelandic Dream | Holt Daniels | 17x22 | Digital Art

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Prince Holt | Camille Darwich | 22x17 | Mixed Media

name ?

in a August Haldeman

“Blah blah blah August!”

“Yes?” “Oh, I wasn’t talking to you; I meant the month.”

This is but one of many awkward exchanges I have had with people throughout my life. Indeed, I often wonder what my parents were thinking when they named their child after a month. They could have gone with any number of normal names; something like George, John, or heck, even Phil.

But no; they decided on August.

August Haldeman. I cannot possibly express the amount of confusion and annoyance this “unique” name has brought me throughout my life. It goes deeper than just confusion over mistaken intent; I can live with that. It’s everybody’s constant need to bring attention to how I share my name with the eighth month of the year that really grinds my gears.

For everyone reading, I did not get my first name from the month; I was named after my grandfather.

He, in turn, was named after Augustus Caesar (the Roman guy). It means “exalted one” and can sometimes be used as an adjective to describe something that is of grandiose quality.

However, about one-third of the time when I introduce myself, people will respond by asking, “Were you born in August?” (I wasn’t, by the way.

My birthday is in October.)

There is also the dreaded possibility of monthly nicknames. As if being called by one month wasn’t bad enough, some people call me by a different name depending on what month it is, thinking themselves clever.

While everyone who does this has good intentions at heart, it can be quite irritating when my coach or friend calls me “December,” and I have to take a moment to mentally decipher what they are talking about.

Additionally, it is quite irksome to stand there awkwardly as they deliberate, trying to remember what month it is.

For example, here’s an exchange I had with my friend just the other day. I was walking out of a Spanish class on my way to history the next floor down when she stopped me at the door.

“Hey, Augu—I mean, September? October?

What month is it?”

“Hi, I don’t know.” Late for class, I took a step away from her.

“Is it October? Pretty sure it’s October…”

“Yeah, I think so. Listen, I gotta go—” “Okay then, bye October!”

I ended up late to that history class. Because yet again, somebody needed to call me October.

Considering this happens regularly, no matter where I go, you can imagine how irritating it is.

I can’t even escape when the month is actually August, as I’m plagued by a barrage of, “Heeyyyy, guess what? It’s August!” Even after all of these years, I still can’t help but feel annoyed whenever this happens.

But I can’t be too mad at these people; like I said, they have good intentions at heart and are just trying to make me smile. Plus, my name isn’t entirely bad. Indeed, there are quite a few reasons why I like it.

True, I get to be the “exalted one,” but it’s deeper than that. Mine is a name that sets me apart from the crowd; one that has allowed me to forge my own identity as opposed to just being one of the 15 million John Smiths in the world. Whenever people say, “August did that,” others instantly know who they’re talking about. It makes me unique.

When you think about it, that’s really the only reason why people are so fixated on my name.

Whenever they ask if I was born during August, or whenever they try to give me a monthly nickname, it’s because they think my name is cool; they think it’s unusual and worth commenting about. I guess when I consider it in that context, my name doesn’t seem half bad. Rather, I quite like it.

Just, please don’t call me September.

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BLOOD Sophia Vona

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Melting | Lila Rhee | 15x24 | Printmaking

“Come on!” I whispered to the girl slumped over my shoulder. “We have to go, now!” I didn’t wait for her response but simply grabbed her hand and pulled her with me through the dark, dilapidated living room. The blood from her wound was beginning to ooze everywhere, and the slippery liquid made it hard for me to keep my hold on her.

I hated having to pull her like this for fear of worsening her injuries, but we had to go before our assailant caught up with us.

I dragged her past the crumbling furniture which heaved under the weight of the dust on top of it and darted through a door opening up into a barely lit, eerie hallway. The ornate doors and fading wallpaper once probably held much beauty and splendor, but they were dark and decrepit now, just like the basement where this house’s sole occupant had kept us for weeks.

On either side there were rows upon rows of doors, but I didn’t have enough time to decide which one was the best to go through. I could already see a pale beam of light fading into view behind us and the faint footsteps trailing us grew stronger by the second, so I quickly ushered myself and my companion into the first room I saw, locking the door behind us.

My heart immediately sank. We appeared to be in some sort of kitchen. The only door was the one we had just entered, and there were no windows. I cursed my bad luck, realizing we were trapped.

As soon as our attacker checked this room and found it locked, he would know where we had gone. For now, his footsteps seemed to have passed us over in favor of searching the furthest rooms first, but it would only be a matter of time.

My mind raced as I set my friend down behind an empty cabinet and pressed my hands over her oozing stomach wound, trying to find a solution.

The door wouldn’t keep him out for long, and then what would we do? Go back to his basement full of horrors, with a man who would be even more angry with us than before? He might just kill us outright when he found us.

My friend shook as a chill passed over her and I snapped myself into focus. At least for now, I had to help her. Sweat dripped down her brow and she quivered, clutching her stomach where blood blossomed under her fingers.

I tore a piece of my tee shirt off (thank God it was a delicate fabric), and tried to apply pressure

to her wound. Too quickly the fabric changed its color. She was pale, too pale, and her entire body shook.

Suddenly, a silver reflection caught my eye. I walked over to the countertop and unsheathed the small item, immediately recognizing what it was and tucked it into my jacket. It was a tiny paring knife, with a jagged pointy tip and a wooden handle. Gazing down at it, I knew what I had to do.

I secured it behind me and walked back over to my friend, giving her a fake, reassuring smile and making sure she was well-hidden. If she could see the knife, she didn’t let on. I was putting both of our fates into my hands. If I was wrong we would die, but if I did nothing, we would also die.

So with a shaky breath, I positioned myself to the hinged side of the door. If it opened, I would be concealed. Hands shaking, I unlocked it.

Waiting for him to reach the room felt like an eternity. I felt certain he’d be able to hear by heartbeat thundering in my chest and find us from that sound and nothing more. But he didn’t, and with each door he checked my fear grew.

Eventually, the door handle turned, and the door slowly creaked open. My breath hitched in my throat as I watched his shadow travel over the walls. I couldn’t see him, but just knowing he was there chilled me to the bone.

I readied myself, bringing my hand close to my chest and preparing to jump out, but before I had the chance to make my move the door slammed shut.

I stopped, confused, and tentatively stepped out of my hiding spot. It was then that the door slammed open, knocking me to the ground and stealing the wind from my lungs.

A hazy figure quickly enveloped my surroundings as it loomed over my face, and I felt a sharp coolness pierce my chest.

The figure disappeared and my breathing slowed. What had happened?

I touched my hand to the coolness, only to find that it had been replaced by a quickly spreading warmth. The warmth had a wetness to it, so I looked down to examine it and my vision filled with red…red blood, flowing freely from my chest.

I snapped out of my shock as the pain hit and heard a chilling scream pierce the air.

It was the sound of my own voice.

Then everything went dark.

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mother knows Irene Yang

In her mother’s house, the fridge stays empty, and the air reeks of cigarettes. She passes the days cuddling with Barry; in the ripped seams of the teddy’s ears, her mother’s perfume lingers from many holidays ago. Starving, she abandons her warm cocoon of blankets to tiptoe downstairs. She spots a greasy bag of fries on the kitchen table but before she can steal one, her mother slaps her arm away, leaving a red welt.

“Mama, please.” Her mother always tells her the bruises, malnourished body, dull, dry hair and ill-fitting clothes all help to shield her. However, she has other ideas. She knows her mother is jealous of her previously-shiny tresses and her once-glowing skin; moreover, she is indisputably jealous that her father loves her more.

With the shattering of a glass vase and the splintering of the front door, she deserts her bleeding, unconscious mother for good.

When she returns to her father’s home, he welcomes her with kisses and open arms.

“Since your mother is gone, we don’t have to follow her silly rules anymore, so I will buy pretty things for a pretty girl like you,” he whispers into her ear.

Her father, who treats her like a princess, allows her to wear dresses and grow her hair until it swirls down her back in golden waves. In his own sick and twisted way, he believes he loves her enough to slip his hand underneath the lace of her nightgown while she sleeps soundly that night.

Perhaps she should have let her mother protect her after all.

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Mystery Girl | Chloe Floyd | Digital Photography

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Girl in Purple | Cam Linker | 17x23 | Painting

MORTAL elysium Brooks Finby

in our glance a world is built an instantaneous universe viewed into existence smoldering spheres of wildfire passion a jade expanse stretching endlessly behind glossy gates

a rainforest of curiosity

a grassland of creativity

a jungle of charisma by what nature is Her nature? rich onyx threads cascade down sun-kissed shoulders

swirling and churning

into black salty sea

crashing and heaving

upon my sandy shores the sound bubbles

from deep within her throat a silky sinusoidal noise

sweet as July honey on iced blackberries magical and magnetic

it compels you to draw closer to bask in the warmth

of the decadent fleeting hymn

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GREEN THINKING Katherine Stenersen

Ever want to eat sunlight? Me, too! Imagine… being able to photosynthesize; but even crazier, imagine the world today if long ago, humans had taken that evolutionary path. Even though we have made many useful mutations over the millennia, such as opposable thumbs and walking on two legs, the ability to convert sunlight into energy and be a primary producer would fundamentally change our interactions with the world. We would be completely different all due to how we get our energy from our environment. Let’s break it down further.

Humans are tertiary consumers and rely on other organisms to provide them with energy.

Eating animals that have eaten other animals that have eaten grass is called the consumption chain. Being tertiary consumers, humans must eat organisms that have already taken energy from the sun and converted it for their survival. If energy were a tangible product, humans would buy it from a supplier who got the raw material (energy from the sun) for free and used carbon to convert it into usable energy. If we cut out the middleman (the supplier), we’d consume energy much more efficiently. It’s imperative to note that even with photosynthesizing, due to various biological functions, we would still need to ingest other amino acids, vitamins, and supplements in addition to sunlight to aid our body’s processes.

Now that we have covered the basic idea, let’s dive into the problems that would be solved if we relied on sunlight as food. There’s no doubt that many people on this earth suffer from malnutrition, food insecurity, and starvation. If we developed so we could photosynthesize, as long as the sun was shining, we could make energy. Each person could provide energy for themselves at no cost to any other organism since we would no longer need to eat (aside from nutritional supplements).

Human photosynthesis would bring massive changes to society. Humans would be consumers of carbon, the primary culprit in climate change,

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California Girl | Emma Carter | 28x20 | Drawing

which likely wouldn’t be an issue anymore. Major carbon producers such as factory farms would no longer be in business, which would cut down on the amount of carbon released into our atmosphere.

The small societal impacts of human photosynthesis would alter nearly every part of our daily life. Food is the basis for our community life, daily schedule, and cultural identity. Currently, our schedules are generally centered around breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If we no longer needed to eat regularly, we wouldn’t need to congregate around a table with food.

The workday typically ends around dinnertime, but that would become obsolete, lengthening or shortening our work schedules? What would happen to all the stereotypical romantic comedy dates?! Instead of food being a defining pillar of each culture, they’d be defined by what they choose to rally around as a community and how those traditions evolved over time.

Where would people live? Since we’d be so dependent on sunlight, people would instinctively move to places with more access to the sun, so the population distribution of humans would change dramatically. People may favor sunny climates like the Sahara Desert over rainy places like Seattle.

Would artificial sunlight become a commodity?

To maintain the luxury of working indoors or eating for midnight snacks, the privilege of having that choice would be very valuable. Thus, creating a whole market on indoor “eating.”

The setbacks this society could face are still plentiful, as every system has its flaws. Although we may continue to face challenges with our environment, we would still be more cohesive and in touch with our surroundings. We could better understand nature and how our planet functions because we’d be more similar to it and rely on it more. Regardless, human photosynthesis provokes endless ideas for a new type of society.

The best part, in my opinion, if this evolutionary step happened, we would all be green.

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Jackson Morgan

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Life After Grief | Emma Gatrell | 24x32 | Mixed Media

“Pop! pop!” That was what I heard, suddenly, in the middle of the night. I looked out my window.

The Cartel had caught up to my father. I saw him meeting with the bosses. I could tell this meeting was no bueno. “¡Papá, no!”

A car sped off. My father was left lying on the ground. I knew he was involved in drugs, but I thought he was honest. Pero no. “I guess he took some for himself,” I thought. But I had no idea.

For all I knew, it was a random murder. In Ciudad Juarez, death was not unheard of. The only way for that to stop was to cross the border. It had always had crimen and bandas, considering it is a border city with los EE.UU (Los Estados Unidos, or the United States).

With the recent boom in cocaine and marijuana

My destination was los EE.UU. The house I shared with my father was small, so I took the only duffel bag from my father’s room. It was heavy, but I figured it would be worth something where I was going; I was crossing la frontera, to la Tierra de la Libertad, los EE.UU. Once, I overheard my neighbor talk of the bus depot being the pick-up spot for the caravans that go across the border. “Let me check there,” I pondered. I had nowhere else to go; I could return to mi casa, but the bosses would return and look for me or that bag of his. He took it everywhere he went. Once, I went into his room and tried to see what was in this mysterious bag. However, he saw me and pulled me away before I could look inside.

He threw me onto his bed and said, “No te toques esta maleta en tu puta vida. Solo debes saber que

production in the province of Sinaloa in México, Juarez was, along with Tijuana, an easy way to transport the drugs into the country. And I knew all of this as a 12-year-old. But you may ask, how?

Well, my life has not been perfecta.

I was born Facundo Jesus Rodriguez de Morelos on May 12, 1998, the same date inscribed on my mother’s tombstone. Her death was tragic for my father. Ever since I could remember, he had been dependent on alcohol and cigarettes, and worked for the Cartel de Juaréz. It had a large presence on both sides of the border, and it was profitable. But it was no way to raise a child. He would come home, the strong scent of tequila oozing off of his body.

Me asusta constantemente.

Even so, he never laid a hand on me, but never did he spend tiempo conmigo, either. And now that he was murdered, even if he was a terrible parent, I had no one. No one to claim me; I was alone in the slums. I had to escape the death and poverty. I had to leave: not only my house and neighborhood, but my city and country.

nuestra sobrevivencia depende en los contenidos.”

I hated that bag and all that it symbolized. It kept him outside, away from me. He would be gone for hours, sometimes days. But I knew it helped provide for mi papá y yo.

I worked my way through downtown. It was difficult, as I had no idea where to go. I never went out; it was too dangerous. Now, however, I had no choice. All I knew was that if I walked north, towards the border, I was getting somewhere.

It was almost midnight, and the streetlights did not work. It was me and the dark. I progressed into the abyss of the darkness. This was nothing new. A poor little boy wandering the streets with a bag for his belongings. But even the Cartel did not leave us alone. But I made it safe, ¡Gracias a Dios! Soon, I saw an old man sitting in his garden. I asked him where the bus station was.

“Ese, me emborraché. No tengo ni idea. Quizas quieras irte a ‘America?’”

“Pues claro. Quiero freedom.”

“Para irte a United States, vete cinco manzanas a

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la derecha y dobla a la izquierda. Continúa por tres manzanas más y has llegado a una bodega.

Entrála y dé el cajero quinientos pesos. Es suficiente para un viaje a ‘freedom’. Pero hijo, antes de que empieces este, quiero darte un consejo. No vayas a mágicamente recibir libertad. Los EE.UU no te dan oportunidades. Solo puedes alcanzar ‘freedom’ cuando mores.”

I didn’t believe him. Naïvely, I thought that once I set foot over the border, I would have freedom.

But no. It created more problems. First, I did as the man said. I went to this store and gave the man money which covered a journey to America.

I thankfully had enough pesos in my wallet. I had been saving up for a new pelota para el fútbol, but that would have to wait. I hid in a van, where the spare tire normally went. They drilled holes so I could breathe, but they didn’t really help. But never did I let go of the bag; that was all I had. I, like my father, depended on the bag. As they say, de tal palo,

expecting, but a stranger I didn’t notice was as shocked as I was.

“Ese, tienes la cocaína! De dónde la recibiste?

Hombre, puedo venderla para tuya. Tengo contactos en los dos lados. Y, qué más? Vi dólares Americanos!

Que chulo, tienes suerte!”

This was dirty money, I knew it. It had been tainted with the lives of many personas que murieron in the drug war. It was completely wrong of me to take the money. To some degree I knew this, even as a young boy. But considering I had no money, family, friends, or true comprehension of English, I believed I had no choice. But first I had to get rid of this cocaine.

“Pues, estoy preparado de venderla. Pienso que tengo dos kilos. Sé cuanta cuesta. Dáme 100 mil dólares.” “¡Puta madre! Es mucho dinero, pero es posible que tenga suficiente. Trabajo para el Cartel de Juarez.

Dáme un día para organizar y recibir los fundos.”

tal astilla. I also decided I would finally look in the bag once I reached America. I was too curious not to. I mean, how bad could it be?

The van reeked of menthol, like the cigarillos my father smokes. I could not see outside, but I felt the van slow. We were approaching the border, I knew it. However, to get to the US, you have to cross a bridge over the Rio Grande. It is always busy, as it was even at 2:00 a.m. when we arrived.

“Callánse!” the driver exclaimed.

We eased towards the north side of the Rio Grande, and we reached the border patrol. My entire body went numb. I grasped onto my bag. I said my prayers to Dios as we came to a halt. I laid there, holding my breath. Five minutes passed; we were moving again. We were off.

The driver shouted, “¡Todos, bienvenidos a los EE.UU, ‘la tierra de la libertad’!”

I relieved. Here I was, free at last. We finally came to a stop. I jumped out of the van and onto the street. I was surprised; it looked just like Juarez.

Now I opened the bag. I don’t know what I was

“Pues, vale. Nos reunimos aquí a las veintidós.”

But I knew tomorrow would be too late. They would find out I had the extra money and cocaine.

My father died because of what was in my bag. I was just piecing that together. And to make things worse, sirens approached the parking lot. All of the illegal immigrants began to scatter.

I darted down roads. I just kept heading north.

I had no idea where I was; I only knew I had to find a place to stay. I just kept on walking. Luckily, I began to see signs in Spanish. I saw Taquerías, Supermercados, and Panaderías, so I knew I would be more likely to find help there. I finally saw a sign: “APARTAMENTOS PARA ALQUILAR O COMPRAR” I went looking for the landlord. There he was, dozing in the office. I knocked to wake him up.

“Who’s there? Son, what do you want? You’re looking for an apartment?”

I just stood there. I did not understand him.

He sighed. “Alright, quieres comprar un apartment?”

“Sí.”

“Cuantas persons?”

I held up one finger. Hand signs are universal.

“Cinco cientos dólares una mes. Antes comprar, necesito identification.”

He made a sign, a rectangle, to signify a driver’s license or identification card.

I stuttered and said, “I no have identificación.”

“Es ilegal?” “¡No! ¡No soy ilegal!”

“I call the cops.”

He turned, picked up the phone. I darted out.

It was 18:00, only four hours until the meeting with the mysterious Cartel men. I just hoped they didn’t realize where I got this money or cocaína.

But even considering my precarious position, my conscience contemplated the thought of tossing the contents into the trash. I had tried to use the money once, but failed. Maybe it was a sign from Dios; the money was tainted, and I knew it.

“Here, I will just give them the cocaína; I

y dinero. Tus problemas van a estar resolvidos si nos la das.”

But I knew that wasn’t true. They would kill me, I was sure of it. They would kill me like my father; I had to escape!

“Piensa en tus opciones. No seas ridículo.”

I was not ridiculous! I needed to escape—one that did not involve the Cartel. But how could I outrun the car? I headed down an alley, and the car followed.

I swerved through alleyways, but the bullets tracked me the entire way.

I finally found an unpaved trail and darted up it. I quickly realized my mistake; I was going up a bare, desertous hill with no cover.

“Ahora no hay un lugar para esconder. Enfréntate con la realidad; pensabas que pudiste escaparnos sin un lidio? Pensabas que ibas a ponerse libre cuando cruzó la frontera? Que no. Gracias por devolver nuestras posesiones, pero todavía vas a pagar por los

should not profit from something like that,” I pondered. But I couldn’t get myself to do that. I briskly made my way back south, to where the van dropped us off. I kept on walking until I finally found something familiar: The Paradise Motel. I remembered seeing it as I ran away from the cops when I first arrived.

“Quizás pueda dormir allí!” I thought.

But my thoughts were cut short. I saw an old car—a Honda maybe—drive up to the corner. I knew something was off. It was 22:15; I was fifteen minutes late. The guy wasn’t here, and two kilos wasn’t pocket change. It was a sizable amount of dope. I took a moment. Either the guy was later than me, or I was being set up. I ran across the street. I should have thought this through.

“Let me just throw the bag away!” I screamed to myself as bullets from that old sedan whizzed by me. But I could not; it was literally too valuable, as it was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. They continued to open fire. “¡Dámela! Sé la que tienes. Tienes nuestra cocaína

pecados de tu padre. Mucho gusto y bienvenidos al Cartel de Juarez!”

“So that is my story. I learned from a young age the difficulties of life. But what shaped my life even more was my father. I was forced into working for the Cartel as a young boy, running errands and doing dead drops. Las drogas became a habit; they became my family. I was bound to the Cartel even though I now lived in a house in El Paso. There was no light and the smell of menthol cigarettes was constant. I inhaled weed, I saw fiends smoke crack I provided, and I tasted the harsh truth of my freedom in America. From there, I rose up through the ranks. I was willing to do anything. I just wanted to escape, man. But in the end, I was transferred—” “Sorry to interrupt, but that’ll be all, Facu.

Same thing tomorrow. Thanks for giving me the beginning of what appears to be a complex personal history. Just found a dead man up in Little Haiti. I gotta go. See you tomorrow at 4:00.”

“Nos vemos, Officer Perez.”

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40

Balloonhead | Grace Vance | 30x22 | Painting

He came a-knocking At my door, little Does he know: new locks

page of

HAIKU

On the beach, rain gone The bodies of drowned surface Life goes with rain

Alison Moore

Your hands never shook But they are liver splotched Like you, they wither

Dragons spit water Knights expect fire and get Rust in their armor Howdy folks, welcome To this rodeo of life!

Full price, no refunds

A shield or a sword Choose one to live or die by You can rest on shields

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DS

ark anta

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Bold Abstract | Erin Corwin | Digital Art

Kaylah Hooper

It was a cool, cloudy Christmas Eve and I was lighting the fireplace. The warmth of the fire was always pleasing, as the house was always cold. For some odd reason, the cold, dark house never seemed warm enough. My house was nothing special but it was just the right size. It was new and neat.

Inside were gray walls and giant windows.

While the house looked welcoming, it felt like it was missing something. Whenever I felt down or depressed, I would curl up with my son. He looked just like his mother—he had her same big blue eyes filled with curiosity.

On this night when I entered his room, I was surprised to find it was empty. Panic washed over me and I frantically called out his name.

“Aidenn!” The returning silence clouded my judgment, which in turn made the house appear darker. I searched room by room, but he was gone.

The only source of light came from the tree and the fireplace. What a beautiful fire it was. The heat was warm yet equally unsettling. I walked over to the fire and stared into its glowing embers.

I shut my eyes and felt myself being grabbed from behind. Startled, I turned to see a papiermâché masked “intruder,” giggling behind his false face.

“I scared you, didn’t I?” my son said with laughter.

“You sure did, kiddo,” I replied, following up with a question. “Where did you get that thing?”

He answered with happy enthusiasm, “Santa!”

“Santa?” I asked. “It’s not Christmas yet,” I said with some concern. “Where is this Santa?” I asked. I was surprised when he pointed at the fireplace.

“The chimney?” I asked.

“No,” he said,” The fire!” I stared at the fire moving with so much anger. Questions swarmed within me, but I didn’t know what to say.

“Well son, it’s time for bed.”

“But I don’t want to go to bed,” he whimpered.

“No, it is time for bed,” I said with more authority than I felt, but he continued to pout.

As I looked at those big, beautiful blue eyes, I again thought of his mother. He was always fighting me, just like she did—they were so much alike. It made me feel, as always, that he loved her more

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than he loved me. I was starting to get angry, and I repeated my directions only to find him still standing near the fireplace. I began to lose my temper.

“I WILL NOT stand for this behavior, young man. Go to your room NOW!” Finally, he walked down the hallway. But as he approached the door to his bedroom, he stopped, hand in front of the

doorknob. I looked at him with confusion, waiting.

Finally, I opened the door myself and pointed inside his room.

“Aren’t you going in?”

He looked at his bed, shaking his head.

“I can’t go,” he said fearfully. “He will come and get me.” By now he was crying softly “Who?” I asked.

“Santa,” he said, sniffing.

“But I thought you liked Santa. He gave you the mask,” I said, trying to calm him down. He looked down at the mask he now held in his hands and threw it inside the room with all of his might.

“I hate Santa, BAD MAN. BAD BAD MAN!” He yelled, over and over again.

Now I was terrified. I had no idea what to do.

He yelled. I panicked. I felt the room beginning to spin around me. All this noise. The light from the fire. It looked at me. Wait—what? I can’t. It’s calling me. I see it. Evil. Devil. Santa? Eyes bright.

It was dark. It was completely silent again. I opened my eyes and found I was lying on the floor.

It was cold. I got up and looked around. Everything was in place, everything but the fire. Where there should have been brightly burning flames, there were only ashes. The fire had gone out. I went to Aidenn’s room and found him asleep. I tapped his shoulder and he turned over, rubbing his eyes.

“Hey, is it Christmas yet?” he questioned. I asked if he remembered anything that just happened, but he only looked confused. I reminded him about the mask, and the fire, and Santa, but he only became more confused, his eyes growing bigger and bluer.

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I told him goodnight again and walked my own room. It was dark and cold. I was hardly ever in my room. Dark sheets cloaked the bed and heavy, dark curtains covered the windows. I opened the curtains and stared out the window, letting in some light from the moon. I gazed at the woods in my backyard that stretched for miles. The frosted trees, winter sky, and the red and blue lights in the distance put me in a trance.

I caught a glimpse of a photo reflected in the window, and I turned towards the framed picture sitting on a dresser.

Picking it up, I smiled at my perfect wife and son together. The perfect family. I was blessed by God to have them in my life; I wouldn’t be anything without them. I put the picture down and shook my head, snapped out of my reverie, again remembered the dream of the mask, the fire, the eyes.

I left the bedroom for the living room and made another fire. The Christmas tree was glowing with its many colors and once the fire caught, the warmth put me at peace once again. Maybe it was a bad dream? Then I noticed something behind the tree. It was the mask, the same mask I had seen in my dream. That same child’s mask that my son had been holding. I picked it up and saw Aidenn behind me. Startled, I dropped the mask and it shattered into tiny, sharp pieces that scattered like insects on the wood floor.

“I’m scared. I’m scared of Santa,” he said, crying softly. I told him I would never let anything happen to him, and I gave him a hug.

“Santa’s coming. And he’s going to get me,” Aidenn said in a voice I did not recognize, still wrapped in my arms. I pushed him away, looked into his eyes—but I no longer saw the bright, beautiful blue of his mother’s eyes. These eyes were completely black. They were evil, and they were not his. My heart raced as I pushed him away.

the sound a tinny, inhuman echo that made my head spin. I looked towards the fire. Its glow was intense. Its bright flames shot out rapidly, covering every wall with flames.

I collapsed, crawling towards my room. In shock and unable to stand, I reached for the doorknob and pulled myself inside, the red of the fire glowing beneath the door illuminating the shadow of Aidenn’s feet. I heard a loud pounding of tiny fists, and then he appeared.

“You can’t hide forever, don’t you want to play?”

Again that laugh, in the voice that isn’t his.

I closed my eyes and yelled, “Leave me alone!”

When I opened my eyes again, I was vomiting on the floor. Wiping my mouth, I saw Aidenn was gone. I began a full inspection of the house.

My once beautiful home was gone—this was a rundown shack. The walls were old and worn, the furniture dusty and covered in grime. When I looked to find my son’s room, I found it was no longer there. I vomited again.

Running now, I made my way to the fireplace— it was still there, but it was filled with ashes. It took multiple attempts to make a fire. I sat close to the blue flames and tried to get warm. It was so beautiful. I was confused and frightened but the fire calmed me. Sitting on the threadbare couch, I turned on the small, ancient television. The only channel that I could tune in was the local news.

“A missing child’s body was found in a wooded area behind an abandoned house today. Police identified the remains as Aidenn Conway. The child’s mother, Sarah Conway, reported the child missing three weeks ago. Police suspect the child’s father, Brian Sabel, who escaped from a psychiatric hospital three week ago. If you have any information, please contact police.”

I turned the television off and sobbed.

I ran to the bathroom and vomited a third time.

That’s when I

noticed the blood in my bathroom. I shook my head in disbelief. I looked at my reflection in the dirty mirror. I glanced down in the sink and found two bloody, blue eyeballs. They were beautiful and terrifying.

My fear intensified. I looked in the mirror again and saw Aidenn reflected behind me but when I turned around, he was gone. Panicked, I ran from the bathroom and tripped over a man in a Santa suit lying on my bedroom floor. There was a pool of blood near his head and a gun by his right hand.

His head was turned away from me and when I leaned over to see his face, my heart stopped.

It was my own.

“No, no, NO!” I yelled.

Someone tugged on my shirt. It was Aidenn. He looked pale and sad.

“Do you remember now?” he asked quietly.

“What are you talking about?” I said numbly, “I could never hurt you!” I cried, softy at first, then more loudly. Gently, he handed me the mask, no longer broken into small pieces. Once I touched it, the details began to come together. It was mine.

Used to lure Aidenn into this house, this broken down, ramshackle house. “Do you want to play a game?” I had said that day. I remembered. I was angry at his mother. She wanted to take him away from me. She was the reason I had been committed to the asylum. I wanted to get back at her. I had planned my escape for one reason. To kill him.

And then I had dumped him in the woods. Then came back here and killed myself.

“I just wanted a perfect family. Why am I here?” I asked him. He walked into the other room and pointed at the fire.

“This is your own personal hell,” he laughed, again in that voice that wasn’t his own. The noise was circling in my head. I fell to the floor, unconscious.

When I opened my eyes, I realized I would forever keep waking up.

But I would never sleep again.

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NETFLI PRESENTS: oh, my

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Strong Like a Girl | Emma Gatrell | 28x40 | Mixed Media

GOD!

Brooks Finby

*Cue “Closed On Sunday” by Kanye West and begin laser light show* *Cue beat switch to “I Am a God,” also by Kanye West* *Raise stage lights and enter Jesus as crowd cheers* Thank you, thank you! Always a great crowd on Earth, I mean for my sake, you named yourselves after me.

CHRIST-ians! You were the original Beliebers, minus the terrible pop music. I’m just messing Justin, you know I was bumping Baby in Heaven.

I just had to give you a hard time now that you’ve come over to the light side.

I haven’t seen a crowd this enthusiastic since I first performed my water-into-wine bit back in Galilee. You would not believe how many prayers from alcoholics I get about that one!

It’s great to be back on this physical plane of existence after two millennia. Things sure have changed! A lot less stoning and a lot more getting stoned. Although, we now have TikTok, so it’s up in the air if progress has actually been made. A lot more human rights as well, which in hindsight, I should have talked about more in my first shows, but hey, nobody is perfect…besides me.

I’ve actually been talking to my dad a lot about taking homosexuality off the Big Sin List, but he’s a bit more Old Testament fashioned than me so I think that will take some more convincing.

It’s been pretty amazing to see how things have shaped out since I ascended to the right hand of my pop’s throne.

It has been a wild ride from the First Council of Nicaea to Jesus Is King. I mean who can forget Martin Luther’s legendary 1517 mixtape: The 95 Theses?! I was glad someone dropped a diss track on indulgences; they were really starting to cramp my style. I mean come on Catholics, did you really think I was going to put microtransactions on the path to eternal salvation? This isn’t Candy Crush! There is no Buy-One-Get-One-Free deal for salvation! I created the Church, not Costco!

And don’t even get me started on the Crusades.

The Holy Wars were certainly NOT very holy with

all that ethnic cleansing. Not a good look for the brand. I tried to rectify the situation by introducing those blue coexist stickers, but they accidentally came a millennia too late because of a clerical error by one of the new angels. I chewed out that intern so hard he died and went to Heaven… AGAIN! Anyways, I have a question for you all, why in my father’s name did you think I was white? Just look at me! I am a brown-skinned Middle Eastern Jew! I’m about as far from a blue-eyed, pale-skinned man as David is from Goliath! I feel like you all half expected me to walk up onto this stage talking about Whole Foods and Starbucks.

If I went to the airport today, I’d probably be screened for a “random” search by the TSA. I should add an eleventh commandment: thou shall not judge based on skin color or race. I’ll make a note of that for later.

Not going to lie, I’m a bit salty with my dad for not having sent me to this time period in the first place. It would have been WAY easier with all this new technology. I could have just posted a few miracles on Twitter and instantly gone viral.

I could’ve posted my resurrection on YouTube and BOOM, undeniable proof for conversion.

Richard Dawkins would have had a stroke! Kids these days don’t know the struggle of living without technology.

Back in my day, we didn’t have Uber, we had donkeys! I know that’s a bit of a dad joke, but I swear to myself if I hear “OK boomer,” I WILL smite you!

“I could have just posted a few on Twitter and instantly gone viral.”

*Jesus receives a phone call, looks very confused, and sighs as he hangs up* I’m really grateful for Netflix for letting me do this special tonight, but I’m afraid I am going to have to cut it short. Apparently, there’s a snafu at Heaven’s gate with a split-brain patient that’s half atheist and half Christian, so Dad needs help sorting out their afterlife situation. Sorry to go, but if you haven’t already, make sure to follow me, not on social media, but in every waking moment of your life!

You’ve been a great crowd! Thank you, good night!*

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“I have waited for

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Stock Houses | Laura Zielinski | Digital Photography

and it has never come.�

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SCIENCE and

Hallmark Movies Anna Snyder

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Amalgam | Zoe Spicer | 24x28 | Mixed Media

Confession time.

Despite my fascination with the science behind life, interest in reading biology articles for pleasure, and aspirations of a career in the field, I spend my free time...watching Hallmark movies.

As the most unrealistic and emotional genre known to (wo)mankind, Hallmark movies appear the antithesis of everything science represents.

However, my guilty pleasure doesn’t diminish my reputation as a biologist because the romance scenes are not my main motivation for watching.

No, I appreciate Hallmark movies because, like organisms, they are systems comprised of interweaving parts that provide what every leftbrained individual such as myself hopes for: the “correct answer”—in the form of happily-ever-after and true love’s kiss.

The assurance that the plotline will achieve perfect functionality, which many bemoan as “too predictable,” is something I turn to when the world seems uncertain and I need to rejuvenate.

I retreat to the TV room, curl up with my softest blanket, and select one of the 28 Hallmark movies currently on my family’s DVR. As the intro credits roll, I settle in for 86 minutes of therapeutic, systematic, and even scientific romance.

The beauty behind systems in nature lies in signaling cascades, cause-and-effect mechanisms comprised of molecules activating each other in a specific order through chemical reactions. The last molecule, once activated, carries out a final cellular response necessary for maintaining life.

For example, insulin, a hormone released by the pancreas when blood-glucose levels are high due to food consumption, binds to and activates an intracellular receptor, starting a chain of reactions.

As I watch Mr. Bailey break his arm while trying to save his foal from a hurricane in the small town of Winstonville, Texas, the teenage girl in me feels sympathy for the elderly widower.

However, the biologist in me delights that this catastrophe, like insulin, will activate the first molecule in the signaling cascade that is a Hallmark movie, comprised of dramatic developments and startling revelations that mirror bonds and reactions.

In Hallmark movies and living systems, one molecule efficiently initiates multiple cascades necessary for a happily-ever-after. On the screen in front of me, the storm causes Mr. Bailey’s

high-achieving and uptight daughter, Kate, to reluctantly leave her position as VP of Jackson Investments in New York City and return home to help her injured father. Meanwhile, the hurricane also prompts Mr. Bailey to enlist help rebuilding stables from local handyman James Tucker.

The perfect precursors for the perfect final cellular response: true love.

As I munch on peanut-butter-M&Ms, my favorite movie snack, insulin starts two cascades.

One ends in allowing my mitochondria to immediately convert the chocolate into fuel, and the other stores energy found in the peanutbuttery-goodness for future use.

A perfectly-functioning system equals a happily-ever-after.

Of course, Hallmark movies involve some mishaps and misunderstandings.

No plotline is complete without Kate spotting James on a seemingly romantic walk with his ex-girlfriend, Olivia.

Though Olivia is actually helping James arrange a beautiful marriage proposal to Kate, Kate assumes James doesn’t love her after all and returns to her all-consuming career in NYC. But, like biological derailments, rather than ruining the ending, these plot twists create opportunities for problem solving.

Enter Sarah, Kate’s best friend. Her well-timed visit reminds Kate that true love deserves a second chance. Or, James’ declaration of love and carefully planned reenactment of his and Kate’s first date and also fixes the system.

The correct answer will be reached, but I enjoy the inventiveness behind how.

Biology excites me for the same reason. For example, an individual with type-1 diabetes lacks insulin, so her system needs a drug to function correctly.

However, the drug’s design process leaves room for creativity, as the drug can activate the first molecules or skip to the last in the cascades. Either way, the system achieves perfect functionality.

Oh, and in case you didn’t already know, Kate and James live happily ever after.

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Lizzy Grie

sser

Running through the woods in the middle of the day is not my ideal daytime activity. Sweat dripped down my back as though I were in a desert. I scurried through the trees. Everywhere I looked, trees crawled from the earth and into the sky.

My feet pounded against the ground and scooped up dirt, leaving a distinct path behind me.

My heart jumped as a cackle emerged from behind one of the trees. Soon, more cackles filled the quiet air, surrounding me. I stopped. Though evil laughter rang in my ears, I could not see any

52

Hey Siri | Luisa de Armas | 12x8x9 | Sculpture

faces. I spun around and took in my view.

Still nothing. Nothing should be a good thing, but this only caused my fear to grow. Without a second to think, I bolted back, creeping further into the treacherous woods.

As my throat grew drier and my breath became more jagged, I heard footsetps against the soft ground. But not quite my own. My throat clenched and my feet moved faster, even though I didn’t tell

myself to. My body ached, as though I had been running for days. Spots of light danced around my eyes as I continued pushing further into the woods.

My legs started to go weak and I knew this was the end of the line. Should I stop or run faster or plead for mercy or just give up? My legs chose for me.

Down to the ground I went, my legs covered with dirt. My lungs tried to regain their oxygen, but their time was cut off. The footsteps behind me stopped next to me.

“Well, well, well,” the voice murmured softly.

I shook my head, not

bothering to look up. “I give up.”

I could almost hear the malicious smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

Near my head, a shadow loomed over me and I saw a hand reach out. I felt a sudden warmth against my sweaty shoulder and my eyes closed in defeat.

“Tag!” My head crumbled to the floor in defeat. I grumbled and slowly stood up.

“Can we not play this anymore? My legs hurt.”

Before answering me, the girl vanished to chase someone else.

“I hate zombie tag,” I mumbled, standing up to go tag someone else.

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Unnamed Morgan Hammer

I love him. I realize that now. I feel like no matter what I do, I can’t be redeemed. Too many mistakes. Too many times I’ve been untrustworthy or betrayed him. Too many goodbyes between us. But to me, that doesn’t matter. He’s done some pretty awful stuff, I know that. But loving someone means loving all of them, even their flaws. He always gets another chance with me, whereas it’s hit or miss whether I will get a second chance with him.

So much has happened, but I still can’t let him go. No matter how hard I try. No matter how many people tell me that it’s a bad idea to keep him in my life, no matter if my family disapproves of my choices. I want to keep him around. I want him in my life. I want to get back to where we used to be, but I doubt that’s going to happen. I want him to know how I feel. That I love him, and will wait for him while he figures life out. That no matter what happens, I’m always here for him. That I’m trying to change, really trying, and even if he doesn’t believe me, it’s happening. That I’m sorry for everything. That I think that kiss meant something, still means something to me despite him wanting to forget it. That I love him. And even if he hates me, if it’s what’s best for him, I’ll deal with it because I want him to be happy. I love him.

I can’t let him go because I love him. And that’s the problem.

Every time I see him, I feel like it will be

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Blue Flowers | Sophie Bellavia | 18x16 | Mixed Media

different. I feel like maybe, one day, he’ll want to talk and we can figure this out. But I know that won’t happen. I have people close to him and me saying that he just wants to get away from drama, and he associates that with me. I’m a physical manifestation of drama and horrible things to him.

I can’t shake that image, I’ve tried. And believe me, I’ve tried.

I texted him when I heard he wasn’t feeling well. And later, when I saw his name come up in a text notification, I got this weird feeling that I’ve never gotten with anyone besides him. It was a mix between happiness and relief, plus anxiety and sadness. It was like I couldn’t figure out how to feel, the emotions came so quickly.

Every time I see him, I’m reminded of my heartbreak and all my mistakes, and his as well but not as much. And even when I see him, he can’t look at me. Is it like he can’t stomach looking at the girl who ruined his life, or is that he doesn’t know how he feels, or is that he doesn’t care about anything. Or am I reading into things like I do? I can’t lie that I think about what happened with us every day, especially the kiss.

I don’t know how I feel about him, I want to not feel sad and get back to my happy, confident, not heartbroken self, but I don’t want to let go of him.

I want to talk to him, but I know he’s doing better without me.

And I still love him. That’s what hurts the most.

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a WILTED ROSE Alison Moore

at the altar

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Into the Forest | Mary Cate Kiser | 17x14.5 | Drawing

“There aren’t enough roses.” There were never enough roses for Hildegard. She swatted the bouquet, hitting the face of the poor servant carrying it in the process.

“Hildegard, dear,” I called, reeling her attention back in from harassing the gardeners, “I don’t care how many roses there are, but do try not to scare all the servants in acquiring them.” Hildegard harrumphed.

“As if I’m going to let you be married without the roses.”

“If you like them so much, why don’t you be one of the flower girls?” I suggested, yawning. Hildegard threw up her hands.

I laughed. “You’ve already got the motion down.”

She answered my jest by ushering the stream of servants out of my room. I slipped out of bed.

“Why do all these things have to filter through me? I don’t care what color the tablecloth is,” I said, motioning to the stack of fabrics on my desk. They all looked the same. “Couldn’t we just leave it to the planner? You’re my lady in waiting. I’m offended they don’t consider me handful enough.”

Hildegard shrugged.

“I’m happy to plan the day, dearie. Breakfast?”

Breakfast sounded nicer than the details.

The chaos and excitement of a marriage buzzed like flies around a corpse. Whispers in the kitchens, discussions on the lawn, chatter that echoed through the great hall, all of the castle was alive with rumors and speculations. The excitement simmered and stewed with every new chunk of information. Gossip wafted through the castle’s halls. The scent made me ill. The details of the wedding were not nearly as important as the conditions that came with the marriage. When two kingdoms united through wedlock, the real discussions were of treaties. I didn’t mind. The whole affair had nothing to do with me, really. Even as the buzzing turned to screams, I stayed silent.

I had Hildegard and I had my responsibilities as sister to a queen. I was little more than a supporting role.

“You look lovely.” Hildegard’s cooing voice came from somewhere in front of me, but the intricate lace of the veil blocked her from me. Stars were still bouncing around my vision. Breathing wasn’t an option.

“Doesn’t she look lovely?” The answer to that question was silence. I flipped the veil back and my

eyes connected with ones at the edge of the mirror.

My throat was painfully dry. I swallowed.

“Leave us.” Her voice set the room into motion.

The helpers bowed and scurried out. The door closed behind them, leaving me swimming in the empty space that separated my sister and me.

“I’m sorry,” she said. I thought it might have been regret that drew the line of her mouth so tight. She stayed silent for a while, examining the dress.

I could feel the beaded flowers wilting. “I had hoped,” she said, “you would get to choose.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror. The gaze of a queen broke into the gaze of a sister, and in those eyes I found that neither sister nor queen had the power to alter my fate at the altar. When she left she took the air in the room with her. My throat burned.

My cheeks were wet. I pressed a hand to my face and hot drops ran onto my fingers. I looked in the mirror. The girl I saw there was crying. I didn’t know why. There was no reason for her tears.

The whole affair had nothing to do with her. The wedding was a spectacle to remember, rose petals on rose petals scattered across the floor of a church in which vaulted ceilings played host to painted angels that watched the whole procession from their painted clouds. Little boys sang with voices that called down the heavens. But I wasn’t a part of the wedding. I watched the procession from those painted clouds. I struggled to breathe. It must have been the height.

The girl I had seen crying in the mirror walked to the altar in a corset much too tight and stood beside a man that was far too old. His breath stank.

He had duck stuck between his teeth. She said nothing. By forever holding her peace, she had lost it to the grave. I almost felt sorry for her. The tears in her eyes as she tugged the veil once again across her face and plunged back out into the masses, I wanted them to stop. But the flowing liquid prayers on my cheeks fell to the ground. The church bells drowned them out.

They say the wedding brought a time of peace and prosperity that was marked by that night’s feast.

That the boars and cows and pigs were slaughtered and spiced to perfection. The bride didn’t eat, her ring was too tight. She turned it on her finger until the skin was red and bleeding onto the tablecloth.

I couldn’t say whether or not the wedding was the start of a new age.

The whole affair had nothing to do with me.

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Firebird | Cam Linker | 17x20 | Acrylic on Canvas

the

elevation

of DEATH Andrew DeWeese

I have long been amazed by the statuselevating power of death. Before I even outline what I mean, I should make clear that I’m not advocating mass murder or encouraging death for a mere status boost.

What astounds me is how much smarter, how much wiser, how much more ingenious we regard people—artists, particularly—after they have died. This influx of praise and prestige is obviously no product of greater work, since the dead man’s finished working.

This phenomenon must somehow point to the general view among people that no one living our reality—no one enduring the same mundanities—could possibly be so extraordinary as to produce work that appears, in every regard, superhuman. The mysticism of art with absent artists is ruined when the man behind the curtain stands next to his craft, in defense and explanation.

Stravinsky’s premiere of “The Rite of Spring” was met with outrage and disgust—now it is regarded by many as one of the greatest works ever. Though this piece was revised, its revision was still met with hostility—so whence the sudden posthumous deification? Perhaps there is a certain luster of the ancient dead—though Stravinsky’s 1971 death was certainly not ancient—the illusion that the “good old days” were artistically superior to today.

Perhaps we should regard present work— in its triumph or disgust—as we would the work of a one-thousand-year-old dead man, and vice versa. There is two-thousandyear-old crap and modern genius. Why let antiquity demand reverence or the lack thereof embolden criticism for criticism’s sake?

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LABELS won’t

DEFINEme Gaby Cacheris

Click. Click. Click.

My fan whirred circles above my face as the cool air blew wisps of hair around my face. Lying over my bed covers, I curled into a ball, hot tears streaming down my makeup-stained face, staring into the dark room. I counted the days I hadn’t cried that week. So far, none. It was Thursday night.

“What’s wrong with me?”

The question enveloped my brain each time my flushed cheeks heaved deep sighs at the strain my mind and body were under caused by something I didn’t understand. Days went by of the same emptiness, then weeks. The tears developed into uncontrollable crying fits as my body slowly drained of all emotions, left with such emptiness that when school mornings came, I remained glued to my sheets.

Then, the diagnosis and solution came. “You have depression, and we should get started on some anti-depressants.” At the doctor’s words, a wave of relief swept over my body at the knowledge that there was a solution; there was hope for me.

However, even almost a year later, I found no relief in silently struggling through different medications and countless therapy sessions, tirelessly finding the right balance with sporadic depressive episodes. “What if my friends look at me differently?” “I’ll just be known as that depressed girl.”

These thoughts attached themselves to my deepest self-doubts like chewing gum, forcing my lips closed on anything near the subject, feeling like I had the word “depression” written across my forehead in permanent marker. In a desperate effort, I tried something new.

Click. Click. Click.

My fingers raced across the keyboard, allowing the jumble of thoughts and emotions from the past year to land on the page entitled “first blog post.”

As each key pressed down, the weight of depression and anxiety that slowly and excruciatingly hunched my back over time slowly lifted off my shoulders.

Although I felt raw by digging up old wounds, the clicking continuing on the keyboard allowed

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Portrait of Morgan | Nina Lavelle | 22x12 | Drawing

for those wounds to heal. And when I pressed that final “post” key, I was overcome with nervousness and excitement, but most importantly, I felt lighter than ever. The text messages from friends rolled in: “I’ve never related to something so much in my whole life” and “great reminders that I really needed to hear,” were just a few encouragements that show something therapeutic to myself is also helping others, adding ammunition to my drive to continue sharing my journey with the world.

Although encouragements from friends were wonderful to hear, it wouldn’t matter if one person read my blog. If they were able to feel a little more comfortable in their own skin and realize their struggles are fairly commonplace, then that’s a success to me. Success shouldn’t mean instant worldwide gratification or a multi-million dollar company. What about human connections and lifting others up?

That’s success to me.

So when I write blog posts about not comparing yourself to the size 00s who walk the halls like it's their runway, or my journey with depression, I not only am forcing myself to open up, but I’m hopefully making others feel more comfortable about being vulnerable as well.

When a girl walked up to me the morning after I released my first blog post, her face glowed as she spoke of how my post made her realize others were having the same struggles as she was, making her become a little more confident and less isolated.

Success.

From uncontrollably crying in my bed to divulging my mental health journey, I’ve knocked down the wall of insecurity, proudly displaying “depression” on my forehead in permanent marker.

My mental health journey is no longer like the Disney World teacups ride, slowing spinning through endless and tortuous cycles. It’s more like playing a round of golf in the heat of a North Carolina summer.

It’s tiring, rewarding, frustrating, exciting, and uncertain.

It’s life.

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in my KEYhand Cora Snyder

Somewhere Sitting in a cozy row of brick Stands a little house

Warm and safe A backyard with a tall wooden fence And string lights glowing softly

A stained glass window above the door With the number in gold

Herbs in the kitchen Ivy in the bedroom Flowers and a garden out back Life and clean air throughout the house

Up the walk and front steps Through the door Glossy wood floors Walls washed in dark calm colors The scent of vanilla drifts through the air A kitchen with tile floors And a round oak table Big enough to hold the world A bedroom with soft lights And a cozy bed

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Rosemary | Abby Matthews | 22x12 | Printmaking

A place to gather A place to sleep A place to grow A place to live And when the day grows long And I grow weary of that which I cannot escape I shut my eyes To find myself at the door of the brick house with a stained glass window And a shiny new key in my hand

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Edgar Allan Poe on the Sickbed

(POE lies on his bed, mildly sick. He writes in his journal with a black feather pen. NARRATOR stands to the side.)

NARRATOR Edgar Allan Poe has caught the mildest of colds.

(POE sneezes violently.)

The wretched poet whose icy heart once rivaled glaciers Is betrayed by his sickness.

He runs a staggering 99.8° fever: A trifle to a doctor, but in his twisted mind, His head burns hotter than his home on the night of his evil deed When he slipped the noose on the cat and his worldly wealth was set ablaze.

He is convinced that he is paying the price for another wicked crime.

However, no cruel act seeks retribution now.

Where he once committed atrocities in real blood, he now falls victim to his own imagination.

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Jiggly Hands | Kate Addison | 18x24 | Mixed Media

Matthew Marcus

Let us observe the lunatic: POE Dusk breaks on my eyes.

The pillow supports me like a plank, And the blanket holds me like a water board; I lie still but feel no sleep.

Oh what agony should befall upon me?

Shall I be confined to this prison cell?

This sickness gave me the strength to kill the evil eye, But now I lie miserable in this ward.

Will these demons ever leave my sinuses?

Will the rosemary ever return to my ghoulish face?

Will this malady be exorcised from my troubled soul, Or shall it haunt me to my sorry death?

NARRATOR Poe, ever the hypochondriac, tortures himself by grieving his impending death.

As the endless night blackens, the moon rises higher into the void,

Piercing his open window and bathing him in a silver varnish.

POE (POE sets aside his book and quill and

stares out the window. He makes many dramatic, unnecessary gestures.)

The infection has spread like maggots And found shelter in this pitiful cadaver of mine!

None can tell of what gruesome transfiguration I shall endure!

NARRATOR Edgar has an itch that he can’t quite reach, And it’s bothering him immensely.

(POE gets tangled up in his sheets, trying desperately to itch his back.)

POE What horror! I’m transforming into a ravenous beast!

My fingertips sharpen to daggers, My hair thickens and mats, And I writhe about the crib like a rabid animal, Contorting in awkward arrangements to satisfy the daggers That long to gash my agitated back!

Will their hunger for blood never be satiated?

(POE reaches the itch, sighs, and settles down.)

NARRATOR The terrible monster finally reaches the itch and chillaxes.

After his grueling period of restlessness, he begins to drift away.

POE The murderous passion is gone, and the haze ensues.

I lay victim of the darkness, The corrupted vessel who slips into the great emptiness to meet his demise.

Alas! I shall dissipate into the ether and cross the threshold!

Beyond that golden gateway, I shall meet the sweet release of death!

(POE falls asleep.)

NARRATOR Poe falls asleep, but not without being disturbed by a peculiar dream.

POE (shaking in his sleep) What’s this? I have passed through the wrong portal!

There is no repose, only the hideous black wings Sprouting from my mangled hide! (relaxed, with wonder) But—but I fly!

I soar over houses and trees,

Looking down upon a broken world with the grace of an angel!

What a breathtaking sight!

NARRATOR But his wings are clipped by a giant pair of hedge trimmers.

POE (panicked) Ah! Now I fall from grace!

Deeper and deeper I spiral down, An abomination of man and raven tumbling straight into…

A classroom?

What agony—a geometry test!

I loathe geometry; I keep getting radius and diameter confused, And there’s too many triangles. Triangles are stupid.

Ah! But a new affliction ails me!

What is this indelible pain that festers in my mouth?

My teeth are falling out!

But why are there so many?

I know for a fact that I don’t have this many teeth, But there’s still so many falling out!

It’s like if I had just eaten a big mouthful of corn, But the corn was really bad so I just opened my mouth And let all of the corn fall out, And the corn keeps multiplying so there’s an endless supply of kernels Just streaming out of my hell-hole.

NARRATOR Poe makes out the harsh clatter of his alarm clock Through the veil of the subconscious, Interrupting his profound contemplation of fate and corn.

(An alarm clock is heard ringing.)

POE Ah! What is that obscene ringing?

It must be the shadow within, punishing me for what I’ve done!

‘Tis the harbinger of doom, exacting revenge through this insufferable plague!

I have fallen victim to the perverseness of the human heart; Please, spare me your ungodly wrath!

Oh, woe is Poe! (POE sits up abruptly.)

NARRATOR The tragic poet awakens abruptly, startled by his ominous nightmare.

He’s fine.

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Portrait of Sophie | Lily Dal Cin | 19x24 | Drawing

Elizabeth Cobb-Curtis

growing upon the

MOVE Awaking to the ominous “beep!” of a giant white trailer in my front yard is always a chilling sensation. I pull on the light T-shirt and shorts I set out the night before, tie my sneakers, and run downstairs to see what food is left before we leave. I make my way to the kitchen amongst towers of cardboard and tape to find the basic staples: bananas and protein bars. After breakfast, I step outside, wondering again at the chaos that has taken over what had become, but is no longer, my home.

Moving day has been a part of my life since I was about three years old.

My dad is a Methodist pastor, and every few years the conference moves our family into the parish house of his next church. Whether I spend that day with grandparents, riding in a car to our new house in another state, or transitioning boxes and furniture from one stage to the next, one day is all it takes to drastically change the meaning of the word “home.”

Moving so often has shaped who I am. I used to be painfully introverted; I wouldn’t talk to anyone my age, so I had no friends. When I started middle school in my post-homeschool era, I had to find a way to reach out. So I found some friends, ignored the bullies, and learned the ropes of social life.

Over the following years, I struggled with depression and anxiety, but I learned that having someone to talk to can make all the difference. Moving forced me to find new people over and over, and it got easier over time. Thanks to my new extrovertedness, I’ve found my core group of friends, joined the youth praise team at my church, all through which I have found my “second family.”

I also have developed greater empathy for different kinds of people.

All of our moves, with the exception of six months in Missouri, have been within North Carolina. Some people would say that means I haven’t seen much of the world, but I would argue just the opposite. I have lived in places where the people around us are much more affluent than my family; in these areas, food and clothing come in excess, the average house size is mansion-worthy, and Lamborghinis and Corvettes often made up the daily traffic in front of our house. I also have lived in areas where people would give anything to have the opportunities and resources that I have. These people send their children to school hungry because they cannot afford to feed them, drive beat-up vehicles that are barely street legal anymore, and live in houses as small as little shacks. All types of people have comprised the many communities I have been a part of, giving me a broader view of the world through the microcosms within North Carolina.

No matter how many times we move, however, saying goodbye is never easy.

You’d think that over time I’d get used to it, but every time that truck pulls up to our house, I feel a sense of melancholy.

I enjoy having a fresh new start, but that also means I can’t go back to what I once had. The bedroom I’m moving to is nothing like the one I just left; that becomes a piece of myself that I cannot retrieve. I have to create something familiar in a new place. Through the conflict, however, there is always a sense of excitement and anticipation.

My next move—to college—will be my first on my own, and I look forward to discovering what new opportunities await me wherever I go.

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Shakespeare, sarcasm

SONNETS

&

Alison Moore

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more stifling and arid And summer’s sun is as unforgiving as your way Burning red as blood spilt by Herod Sometimes too blistering does the chariot of Apollo shine That an outstretched hand is bound to ignite And the wick of a soul stripped bare, its wax like a ruined shrine That’s smeared with the blood of an acolyte But though summer’s vicious reign is firmly laid, And the sun seems ne’er to set The twilight brings a time of staid A breeze of bittersweet regret So hear me now as I announce the most sincere of decrees If thou art a summer’s day, I’ll wait for the leaves to fall off the trees

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Summer Dog | Marion Donald | 14x20 | Drawing

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the life

MIRROR R

Ryan Beam

He walks through the door of a small room. Inside, a tiny lamp illuminates the surrounding interior. The lightbulb hides behind a tan lampshade with brown trim, and the base, painted dark green, features small icons sculpted into the sides. The lamp’s yellow glow sets a sorrowful mood in the windowless space. Two chairs of tan fabric and a little wooden table snuggle between the walls. The furniture shows its age in its faded colors and wrinkles, the result of the many workers who have used the furniture. To the workers, the room acts as a place for relaxation from the stressful business environment. Many enjoy spending time inside the room; the rest of the office provokes anxiety and stress.

The surrounding office space contains rows of desks, computer monitors, and keyboards that decorate the otherwise bare desktops. The company’s employees, dressed in spotless business attire, pound their keyboards and rain sounds of mouse clicks upon the office. Occasionally, someone gets out of their black leather office chair to converse with another employee.

While his colleagues attempt to endure the stretch of time they spend sitting in front of their computer monitors each day, the windowless room offers the man an escape from the stress of office life, but it also distracts workers from the tasks at hand.

The man looks around and surprisingly finds another man staring straight back at him, a man whose hair winds away from his scalp in a mess of directions. His forehead, weathered and wrinkled, shows the consequences of years of work and stress.

Years of work and stress created the undulations in his skin, and moments of triumph and failure live inside them. Moments spent presenting an idea to the boss and getting recognized for it.

On the other hand, losing multiple clients after a technical fault ranks among the memories of failure. Those years of work and stress have curved his mouth into a slight, worried frown. And his eyes. The storytellers of silence. They droop in their sockets, years of unhappiness and pressure bubbling in them. They glisten sadly, the blue surrounding the pupil like the perimeter of a black hole. His unhappy nature comes from his work, work that he hates. His hated work is the black hole that sucked up his life.

This man of sorrow extends his own tired, weakened hand to greet the colleague who entered the door. However, the hands never touch. Instead, the man’s hand grazes the reflective piece of glass in front of him. Fresh from the machine of modern society, and looking into the mirror, his mouth moves, producing a tired and heavy sound.

“This is me,” he says.

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Diagonal Composition | Lila Rhee | 10x14 | Mixed Media

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Upside Down | Mary Catherine Pope | 15x9 | Graphite on Paper

S N The

ummer Vivian Workman

I Was

ine

The asphalt shimmered in the heat, beckoning us, black fire that stained little bare feet before they hit cool grass, stumbling towards our forest fortress.

We reigned as kings and queens of The Woods.

After scrubbing red clay smudged hands in the dim garage, we entered the threshold of mirrored kitchens. Inspired and determined, we set up Crystal Lite and Crayon signs in magnolia shade, red wagon rumbling across painted sidewalks, chasing the cars fearlessly.

Sinking sun.

With grand ideas, gummy packet boredom, and new sprinklings of freckles, we pranced into the cotton candy room where tan carpet tickled our stomachs when we belly flopped by the bookshelves. Gulping forgotten lemonade, warm like sweaty remotes while dancing to colorful MetroStation A call to the other house and then We transformed the couch into a bed, clicked in the DVD giggling as limbs tangled together drifting off to sleep one by one until I was left staring at the unchanging blue screen as it ended, bittersweet.

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Cora Snyder

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Worlds Away in Barcelona | Evelyn Austin | 22x17 | Digital Art

There once was a time when the birds of Olympus did not sing.

Artemis’s moon hid. Apollo’s music was muted. Even Persephone’s blooms paled in their color. There was little love or light to be found.

Aphrodite had fallen into misery, and Olympus had not withstood the blow. The goddess desired a new vein of love. Her hands had grown tired of holding broken hearts created by deceit and false promise.

Her eyes were worn from counting the tears of her sons and daughters.

So she decided to make a new kind of love: one which would cause joy, not sorrow.

A love so strong would need a vessel—something which could carry this new light safely to the mortals below. So Aphrodite set to work.

First, she traveled to Lemnos, where the forges of her husband burned hotter than the sun himself.

Among the ashes and dust, she drew plans for a machine. The frame would be made of steel, for strength. The gears and moving parts would be platinum, for dependability. The engine would be silver, for its conductivity. But the heart of the machine had to be built of the finest gold, for this was where the new love would be stored for its journey to the earth.

Hephaestus crafted the machine according to her design, his hands seasoned and steady. The machine had become practical.

But it did not function. So Aphrodite consulted her sister Athena. Her vessel must move, it must think. Its journey would consist of countless trials and tests, so it must have knowledge and skill. Aphrodite presented the silver engine of her machine. It must have a brain. The goddess of wisdom took out a small jar and poured sacred olive oil into the mouth of the engine. Immediately the vessel collapsed. Aphrodite’s heart sank as it lay still on the ground. Just as she began to weep,

it sprang to life again. It moved and processed like the gods and mortals themselves. The machine had become capable.

But it was missing something. Aphrodite knew the mortals would not welcome the machine in its current state. It must represent the love it would carry within. So she journeyed to the mountains.

There, in the deepest of the wilderness, lived Pan. The goddess stood at the edge of the trees and cried a single, silver tear. Within a moment, a dark figure appeared before her. Pan, eager to please the most beautiful of women, listened intently as she told him of her vision. He took the needles of the pine tree and wove the softest coat. From the stones of his river beds, he carved small daggers with which the machine could protect itself. Out of moss, he fashioned pads to quiet footsteps and a nose with which to smell danger. Finally, he placed a piece of clear quartz, straight out of the ground, on each side of the head, for the machine required sight. Aphrodite thanked the satyr and returned home. The machine had become beautiful.

But still, the machine was not yet complete. In tears, Aphrodite ran to her temple, where she came upon Hera and Hecate. The pair inspected the machine: the practical build, the capable mind, the beautiful appearance. They too found the machine unfinished, lacking a final touch.

The goddesses offered to bless the machine, a gift for the coming journey. Hecate stepped forward and gently touched the quartz pieces. When she removed her hand, her magic remained, gifting the pieces with power over all mortals they should encounter. Then, Hera knelt before the vessel. She spoke the quiet words of her blessing: a place in any household of her domain. The machine had become complete.

The time came to deposit the cargo into its vessel. With joy in her eyes, Aphrodite filled the heart of gold with the love she had created. Her trembling hands held the face of her beloved vessel once more; she sent it into the world. All the gods of Olympus looked on as the machine descended upon the Earth. Aphrodite herself sat on a throne, at last satisfied that her children should receive her gift.

For eons and eons, Aphrodite’s machine delivered light to the world through an unconditional love like no other.

Thus, man received the dog.

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“

The silver burbles

of the frogs

wind

and

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swirl.�

Old Boat | Laura Zielinski | Digital Photography

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PAPA’S letters Samantha Gitlin

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Waters | Mia Zottoli | Photography

Out of all the shells in the sand, Papa chose me.

Guided by the rising sun and his curiosity and comfort in solitude, my grandfather searches for keepsakes that speak to him on his early morning beach strolls.

As a shell collector, he seeks and finds beauty not solely in the possession of the tangibles but more so in the journey of discovery.

Holding the shells against his ears and hearing the sound of crashing waves, they empower and strengthen his special connection with nature, which built a strong foundation for our bond.

Sensing a depth in me similar to his own, we connected when I was young.In elementary school, he took me on walks through the reservoir.

Whether beneath bare trees or orange leaves, the fluctuating Connecticut seasons left us eager to see what each Sunday morning adventure would bring.

As strong as the roots of the birches and oaks we passed, Grandma and Papa built our family on principles.

Family first. Work hard. Be grateful and kind.

They ingrained these core values in all nine grandchildren as we sat around their formal dinner table and made toasts in which we all expressed appreciation for our tight-knit group.

Sometime between Grandma’s gooey Brie before dinner and chocolaty squares of heaven after, Papa would pull me aside to chat.

We would discuss life’s complexity through intriguing topics like religion, family and people, and he would ask me thought-provoking questions.

I cherished our deep conversations like a novel I could never put down, each talk becoming a new chapter in our own story.

But it was on our strolls through the reservoir that I recognized his ability to see beyond what the eyes can as he viewed nature as a symbol for life itself.

I remember watching him point out branches that looked like numbers or letters and together, we read nature.

His presence beside me on the path, and the beauty of the woods around us, made me feel energized and strong against the wind.

But my strength withered and tears stained the couch pillow when my parents broke the news of our move to Charlotte, North Carolina.

I felt like by forcing us into this foreign Southern land they were cracking the ground beneath me.

The only country music I liked was Zac Brown Band, and I didn’t own cowboy boots or drink sweet tea.

Leaving my roots, I prepared for drought.

However, Papa found a way to enlighten me from a distance.

He began to write me letters.

Not emails or text messages. Handwritten letters.

Gems. Mementos. Tokens.

Unwrapping his white envelopes like gifts that arrived by mail, I felt the depth and texture of his old-fashioned script flow through me.

“The winds of distress may bend you but will not dislodge you if you are properly grounded.”

With the arrival of every new letter, I felt my own roots growing stronger, more confident in this unfamiliar soil.

Like Papa, I have always enjoyed writing and had my own thoughts I wanted to share. We wrote to each other in times of peaceful drift or when lost at sea.

Together, we built our story through letters.

“Stop and see the trees on the other side of the reservoir rather than the bushes clearly seen alongside the path.”

Encouraged by his words, I began to seek journeys of discoveries, to understand, like Papa, how much there is to see in this world.

I pictured him overlooking drifting waves, his feet lightly brushed by the water, soaking up the physical sensations and sights provided by the earth.

“Rather than placing my chair high up the sand to avoid the incoming tide, I will sit close to the water to experience the full beauty of the beach.”

I would share more of our words, but they stay between us in private folders at home.

Racing to the mailboxes on either ends of the East Coast, we hear each other’s waves through the folded contents of our envelopes: he in my scribbled print and I in his old-fashioned script.

Papa’s letters remind me that of all the shells, he chose me to treasure and join him on his journey through the expansive sand.

I may be his keepsake, but his letters will forever be mine.

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ray matters Paige Nurkin

I spent the summer before my senior year on a six-week study abroad at St. Anne’s Diocesan College in Hilton, South Africa.

Although I had many incredible, once-in-a-lifetime experiences—hiking Table Mountain, cageless shark diving, touring Soweto, and safari, to name a few—one of the most memorable was one of the least extravagant: a quick trip to a roadside monument.

One Saturday, I visited the Nelson Mandela Capture Site and Monument with my host family.

After learning the life story of Mandela in the museum, we started down the long dirt path toward the viewing point and watched the fifty tall, black bars slowly morph into the head of Nelson Mandela, proud and pensively gazing into the distance. Seeing it conjured up all I had been taught about Mandela: his peaceful protest, his amazing leadership and speaking abilities, the justice he brought to South Africa, and the righteous fight he led to end corrupt, racist Apartheid rule. I respected and admired this hero who strove for equality for

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Drip, Balls, Shattered | J.B. Meanor | 5x5x3.5 | Ceramics

people of all races, gave a voice to the oppressed, and sacrificed his freedom for the betterment of others.

As we took pictures in front of the monument, I noticed that my host dad, Victor, wasn’t engaged.

I didn’t think much of it, equating it to boredom of visiting something he drove past daily. But as we started back to the car, my host mom and daughter began thanking Victor profusely for taking us to visit. Being polite, I joined the thanks, but would only understand the true meaning behind my gratitude later.

Driving to lunch, Victor launched into a monologue, his tone indicating the gravity of his words, concerning his feelings about Mandela.

He confessed that visiting the monument was incredibly difficult emotionally because, although he respectes Mandela and acknowledges the fact that he improved the lives of thousands of people, Victor neither loves or reveres Mandela. At first, this shocked me, knowing nothing about Mandela beyond his identity as a national hero—the South African MLK.

But as he continued, I began to understand his perspective. Victor explained that he was of Afrikaans descent, coming from those who had power during Apartheid, and his surname literally means "white land". Coming from this background, even with hindsight, it was hard to completely, passively accept a government and a leader who went against everything that his family believed in and taught him as a child. As a young adult in the army, he actively fought against Mandela and the African National Congress (ANC). My understanding of Mandela became much more complex as I listened to Victor tell about the devastation, death, and tearing apart of families he felt Mandela caused. Victor concluded, saying that he was ultimately glad for what Mandela accomplished, but wished people would acknowledge the associated crime and the suffering as well.

What was most surprising wasn’t that there are multiple sides of history—I was drilled in school that history is told by the victors and to look deeper— but rather that I was so oblivious to the other side. In most cases, I felt I at least knew about both sides: Christopher

Columbus isn’t a hero, but rather committed genocide; the dropping of the atomic bomb had its uses, but possibly could have been avoided and innocent lives saved. For the first time, I was completely blindsided by another facet of history, another story and point of view that was, at the least, based in logic and truth.

From this conversation, I learned not only to force myself to see all sides of an event, even if the ugly ruined my image, but also to attempt to see all aspects of people in my daily life and hear out diverse opinions.

Attending the same school my whole life has made me susceptible to preconceived notions about many of my peers based on old memories or hallway gossip. But this experience prompted me to try to see my fellow classmates and all the people I meet on a deeper level, looking past the surface and what others have told me to find my own truth and understanding of each individual and their story.

Also, I learned to listen to and consider the perspectives and ideas of others, as they are necessary in today’s society to help me grow, learn, and be a better citizen and person.

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N VEMBER 7 Ryan Bonner

Imagine your biggest role model, the one person you can relate to more than anybody else you know.

Now imagine what your life would be like if he or she were taken away from you forever. For me, the biggest challenge I have ever faced is what came after the death of my biggest role model and best friend on Nov. 7, 2018.

After school and a good football practice, I drove home listening to a playlist that my older brother, Sean, and I loved. I couldn’t wait to tell my dad about practice. I found him in the laundry room with a puzzled face.

“We lost Sean today,” he said.

I didn’t understand the words that had come out of his mouth.

“What?”

My brother had been found in the woods in Ohio, where he was a junior in college. I closed my eyes and felt tears roll down my cheeks while the pain in my chest got stronger.

“Why did he do it?” I asked breathlessly.

“I don’t think we’ll ever know the real answer to that,” my dad responded. I cried on his shoulder as he hugged me.

My dad had already booked a flight for us early the next morning to Granville, Ohio, to collect Sean’s possessions from his dorm room. I started to receive texts from people asking about my brother, but I didn’t respond. I tried to watch a movie to take my mind off the nausea I was feeling, and my dad sat with me as Happy Gilmore hit 400-foot drives.

For the next few hours, friends and neighbors stopped by, including a pastor from our church. He prayed for our family and the safety of my brother as he joined the presence of God. Out of all the sadness and other emotions I felt that day, nothing compared to the pain I felt a few

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Shadows | Bella Brawley | 18x24 | Charcoal

days later at the morgue, where my family said goodbye to Sean. Although it was difficult to see him in a casket, the hardest part was hearing my dad weep for the first time. I felt anxious knowing that was the last time I would see my brother. All I wanted was to be with him, and it hurt knowing that I couldn’t.

After the funeral, everything in my life changed.

I worked hard to catch up on missed schoolwork while having periodic mental breakdowns from the lack of time to grieve.

I tried my best to make things like they used to be, but it was impossible. Sometimes it felt like I couldn’t survive without Sean. There were some days I left school early because all I could think about was my brother, and I couldn’t focus on anything but fighting back tears.

At times like those, I remembered the special connection my brother had with God and looked to Christianity to fill the gaping hole in my heart.

Not a single day has gone by since his death that I haven’t thought about Sean or talked to him.

Although it has gotten easier as time goes on, some days have been much worse than others.

Specifically, the twenty-first birthday that he didn’t get to celebrate, my first time starting in a varsity lacrosse game without him there, and the many times his friends came to our house to check in.

Since those days, I have been more determined to excel in academics and sports. In my mind, I believe that my older brother died for a reason, although I’m not sure why.

I feel that there is an explanation for why my best friend left me at a time when I needed his guidance most and that I need to do something to make him proud.

The inspiration he gives me never ceases to make me want to be a better person.

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CHUCK TAYLORS SHIMMERING BLUE Bruno Lahass

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Island Sunset | Bennett Smith | Photography

CHUCK TAYLORS Morning heat from the sunlight beamed over the sand as I walked across the rising sea foam.

Grains crept between my toes in my sun-kissed Chuck Taylors Curiosity dragged me towards the sea of Emerald Island the way it draws fisherman to the horizon.

Engulfed by the surroundings, a shimmer caught my eye a small gray dorsal fin slicing through seamless ocean.

The mirage was shattered, a school of reflective shards on the water’s surface slowly poisoning the ocean with its toxins.

SHIMMERING BLUE The starry night sky loomed, pierced the openings of the old rotted pier ceiling.

Seamless water on all sides, we cast our lines into the ocean.

Bubbles in dark water seemed to never end until the flat two-eyed alien arose.

The flounder captured our young minds with its hypnotic gaze as the curtain of Emerald Island closed.

In its place arose a beach with no sign of life.

The old pier, now only broken shards of rotted wood floating in the greenish blue by the pilings.

Memories of shimmering blue ocean now linger as wooden scraps.

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the beginning the within

END Cora Snyder

the beginning within the end i give you here the book of my life the weight of my tired bones is slowly draining the life in my soul the present is far from mind the end i shall soon know to my dear friends and memories i offer a smile i open my eyes once more a bright light appears calling my name through heavy eyelashes i see my love a warm hand takes mine it is time peace washes over me finally i lay at rest now above me stretches endless sky oh the sweet shade of the oak tree the gentle caress of the earth i belong to

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Still Life | Cam Linker | Photography

i belong to the gentle caress of the earth oh the sweet shade of the oak tree now above me stretches endless sky finally i lay at rest peace washes over me it is time a warm hand takes mine through heavy eyelashes i see my love calling my name a bright light appears i open my eyes once more i offer a smile to my dear friends and memories i shall soon know the end is far from mind the present the life in my soul is slowly draining the weight of my tired bones i give you here the book of my life

the end within the beginning

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COMING home Vivian Workman

Place bare feet onto the worn wooden dock.

Leave behind the suffocating city and perch at the bow —eyes closed windy silence dancing with tangled hair icy droplets embracing each goosebump

like the eye worships the brief glowing meteor

and the sand clutches at wet skin

Deep breaths

(milkweed blooms, sweet as butterfly kisses,

sunripended raspberries hot and melting on the tongue) at last.

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Marsh at Sunset | Lila Rhee | Photography

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calvin

REST EASY

Brooks Finby

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Clouds | Sarah Catharine Pappas | Photography

upon the steeped wooded mountain he stands

a fading afternoon shadow

consumed by the creeping dusk the breeze

emanating from the slight rustle of his lungs whispers softly

barely perceptible beneath his soles earth trembles shuddering heaving warped branches graze his neck with rough finality a heavy homage to welled sorrow within through the cracks

the water seeps slowly tracing a river of anguish down faint crevasses etched into his cheeks the breeze

crescendos

into wind earth eroding soil slipping

falling into

abyss.

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Smudged | Marion Donald | 14x20 | Drawing

4

th

Andrew DeWeese

symphony

“The Fourth is my favorite Mahler symphony.”

Thus proclaimed so many National Symphony musicians as we concluded our final Kennedy Center rehearsal. Confusion gripped me; how could such esteemed musicians favor this of all Mahler’s symphonies? The Fourth’s beauty and solemnity I had never questioned, but given Mahler’s typical grandeur, this piece seemed definitively lesser.

All his other symphonies, either in orchestra size, duration, volume, or gravity, are “bigger,” each demanding supersized orchestras sometimes even flanked by full choirs—the Eighth, over a thousand musicians. The Fourth is objectively neither small nor brief, but being comparatively so, had thus appeared less grand. In my love for the grandiose, I had skimmed over the grandeur of delicate elegance.

My style—both musical and literary—had reflected my singular obsession of pomp, inadvertently homogenous. Similar sound and syntax always governed my best performances and papers most lauded—heavy German and Russian masterworks and Victorian or Romantic writing.

Since I had overcome doubts that I could lead great orchestras or join our Plato class a year early, doubling down on my style seemed only fitting.

I studied Strauss’ “An Alpine Symphony,” where summiting the Zugspitze represented no terminal accomplishment but place of reflection, but I let my own successful papers, performances, and GrecoRoman translations be summits, not reflective but terminal.

Trapped by the confines of my love for classical syntax, I avoided mixing with other styles, any seemingly less grand or sophisticated: Who else can speak with the eloquence of Vergil? Who makes music as emotive as Mahler? When “endowed with the seeds of every possibility,” why abstain from magnanimity? This defense of artistic supremacy had impelled me to circumvallate my craft; I acted more like Caesar in Alesia than the Sophists I so admired.

As most sweets sour in profusion, it took particularly overdone papers and performances for me to be warned my product was becoming but

a parody of my desires: “Do not become a onenote author.” And though she was the only person similarly classical-loving to be so frank, it served as the necessary wake-up call. This sudden monition forced me to explore the styles I had neglected, not necessarily to adopt but appreciate them.

Only during our Kennedy Center performance did I first fully appreciate the grand elegance of Mahler’s Fourth; just as I hesitated to simplify my style lest I sacrifice its core, the Fourth exemplifies a work tempered and refined, but no less Mahler than any other. Unlike giant orchestration, it offers no opportunities to hide, necessitating enhanced communication as chamber musicians, with beauty never sacrificed to volume. The reduction of numbers hardly reduces complexity: modulations fill the first movement, scordatura concertmaster solo the second, and throughout, completely varied dynamics, inconstant tempo, and abrupt contrasts.

Mahler’s conventional epic brass moments and brooding string episodes still fill the Fourth; but every moment is fully emotive, the dance of death virtuosic but tempered, bouts of grief painful but fleeting, the song of angels bright but collected; the symphony commences with nothing but sleigh bells, concluding with distant strummings of harp.

Our concert paired Mahler’s Fourth with Holst’s “Mars,” a work whose huge power I always revered, the quintessential war declaration. But after just two rehearsals, the Holst was concert-ready; even when the NY Pops Music Director guest-conducted us, he finished after only fifteen minutes, having nothing else to refine. When we resumed Mahler, not even a minute elapsed before we had to stop.

Therein lies the beauty, complexity, and grandeur I sought; Mahler had effectively packaged all the brilliances and pains of his craft, excess trimmed but style never forgone. The only fanfare of the hour speaks the volume of a thousand, exalted from pianissississimo and swiftly thence returned.

The Fourth may be my favorite Mahler symphony; often, it feels so. But the Olympian vineyards have much to offer, and I’m not convinced that an occasional deluge has no place among its watered wines.

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J

eopardy Laura Zielinski

My grandfather loves Jeopardy— at least, he watches all the time. If not Jeopardy, then it’s Wheel of Fortune, or Family Feud, or The Price Is Right. When he’s in the room, the television is on. But no matter what’s playing, my grandfather never reacts, never tries to call out answers to easy questions. I finally realized he wasn’t really watching, and that he would be just as content with a blank, silent screen.

We would have been friends, my grandfather and I, had I been older while his eyes still sparked. Now they are glazed glass. My grandfather is not senile; his mind is crippled only by its own surrender.

Nearly three decades of monotony must weigh on the soul.

He grew bored with life, years ago. Long past retirement, after his legs withered away, and his best friend, his brother, laid down in the grave, I believe he decided it was time to give up. My grandmother’s bland meals, the stillness of small towns, have hastened his departure. Now he just sits in a chair and stares, unfixed to the TV, and Alex Trebek’s voice counts down the days.

When I’m with him, we have nothing to say.

My grandfather loves Jeopardy— at least, it’s his way of whiling away the time as he waits to die.

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Chandelier | Assem Mendygaziyeva | Photography

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the dream: Joy Yu

someone once dreamed of a butterfly. darting through the woods, her shadows catch on the earthly grounds and her wings cast iridescently dusky glows. the moonlight trickles down like pale ivory, a bone dancing in the night. the butterfly glitters from one moment to the next, movements of flurry in a blur of silvery shimmer. one can only guess what the butterfly feels, as she whispers secrets to red lilies, as she kisses the misty air, as a leading creature of the night. someone once dreamed of a girl. sleeping in grace, she awakens to a flutter on her skin. the girl wanders through the forest, thoughts causing lost pathways. the night is still young and immature. the girl happens upon one moment to the next. each missed step startles another nightly being. ripples in the water shift to phases of disregard and the moon disappears behind the forgotten ones. she lacks the luster of a ringing silver bell, as a leading creature of the day.

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Autumn Silence | Elaine Liu | 21x24 | Oil Painting

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BLUE REVIEW 2018-19 HONORS North Carolina Scholastic Media Association (NCSMA) Awards Overall Awards

Tar Heel All-North Carolina

Section Awards

Poetry: 2nd Place Fiction: 1st Place Art: 1st Place Nonfiction: 1st Place Layout: 2nd Place Cover Design: 1st Place Photography: 1st Place Theme Development: 1st Place

Individual Awards

Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA) Gold Circle Award: Anna Rose Turner, 1st Place, Use of a Designed art or Headline Gold Medalist: Overall All-Columbian Honors: Essentials Verbal Visual

Fiction: Emma Gerden ‘19: 1st Place HM: Andy Dorsel ‘21 HM: Bela Marcus ‘20 Art: 1st Place: Emily Holtzman ‘19 2nd Place: Connor Mackey ‘20 3rd Place: Audrey Cobb ‘20 Individual Photograph: 1st Place: Abby Adams ‘20 Poetry: 3rd Place, Joy Yu ‘21 HM: Kaitlyn Vickers ‘19 Nonfiction Layout: 2nd Place, Bianca Bellavia ‘19 Personal Essay: 1st Place, Vivian Workman ‘21 3rd Place, Elyssa Kim ‘19 HM: Catherine Clover ‘19 Fiction Layout: 1st Place, Anna Rose Turner ‘19 HM: Emma Martin ‘19 HM: Bianca Bellavia ‘19 Poetry Layout: 1st Place, Anna Rose Turner ‘19 3rd Place: Laura Zielinski ‘20 HM: Bianca Bellavia ‘19

2020 UPPER SCHOOL SCHOLASTIC AWARDS MID-CAROLINA REGION ART AWARDS American Vision Award *Nina Lavelle, Drawing & Illustration, “Portrait of Morgan” Art Gold Keys Nina Lavelle, Drawing & Illustration, “Portrait of Morgan”

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Lily McMahan, Photography, “Habitat” Zoe Spicer, Painting, “Burmese Orphanage” Caroline Wall, Drawing & Illustration, “Lily” Art Silver Keys Abby Adams, Future New, “The Price of Being Jewish”

2020 SCHOLASTIC AWARDS, CONT. Silver Keys, Cont. *Evelyn Austin, Digital Art, “Worlds Away in Barcelona” *Jane Brownlow, Printmaking, “Mac and the Fish” Brendan Bucci, Printmaking, “How My Passion Begins and Ends” Crawford Fisher, Mixed Media, “Collage Hawk” *Elaine Liu, Painting, “Autumn Silence” Dawson Nash, Sculpture, “Duality” Grace Scott, Drawing & Illustration, “Chaplin” Zoe Spicer, Architecture/Design, “Modern House” Art Honorable Mention Abby Adams, Future New, “The Seventeen” Emma Grace Coble, Photography, “Drippy Pumpkin” *Emma Gatrell, Mixed Media, “Strong Like a Girl” Gracie Gore, Mixed Media, “Puff Paint Sea Horse” Brice Hayden, Drawing & Illustration, “It Too Exists” *Mary Cate Kiser, Drawing & Illustration, “Into the Forest” Charlie Martin, Drawing & Illustration, “Tree Silhouettes” Zoe Spicer, Painting, “Japanese Rice Fields” Neely Grace Tye, Painting, “Newsprint Ferris Wheel” NATIONAL WRITING SILVER MEDALS Brooks Finby, Poetry, “Earth Mother,” “The Harvest,” *”Mortal Elysium,” “Flash Poetry,” *”Rest Easy, Calvin,” *Cora Snyder, Fantasy, “The Vessel”, Memoir/ MID-CAROLINA REGION WRITING AWARDS American Voice Award *Samantha Gitlin, Memoir/Journalism, “Papa’s Letters” Writing Gold Key Andy Dorsel, Flash Fiction, “Last Filibuster” Brooks Finby, Poetry, “Earth Mother,” “The Harvest,” *“Mortal Elysium,” “Flash Poetry,” *“Rest Easy, Calvin” Samantha Gitlin, Memoir/Journalism, “Papa’s Letters” Cora Snyder, Fantasy, “The Vessel” Writing Silver Key Abby Adams, Poetry, “Jewish Hide-and-Seek” Gaby Cacheris, Poetry, “The First Man to Break My Heart: “He Doesn’t Like Feminists” and “What He Never Knew”

*Emma Carter, Flash Fiction, “A Cry in the Corn Fields” *Julie Derraik, Poetry, “Descansam em Paz Brooks Finby, Critical Essay, “Out of the Nest & Into the Air” Rachel Hall, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Neon Nintendo” Ryan Lupfer, Journalism, “Inlustrate Orbem: Enlighten the World, and the Building Will Do Just That” Franceen Obeng, Science Fiction & Fantasy, “The Lone Star” Drew Robelen, Poetry, “Forever Dog Tags” Brian Sobel, Critical Essay, “Enter the Rat-staurant” Zoe Spicer, Critical Essay, “The Harms of Complicity in Human Rights Abuses: Arabia” Writing Honorable Mention *Megan Aljian, Critical Essay, “Street Art: It’s Art. Really.”

Sydney Burke, Poetry, “Haleakala” Zoe Claytor, Poetry, “Alaskan Adventures” Jessica Clover, Journalism, “Cooking with Mia Familia” Jack DuPuy, Critical Essay, “Artificial Intelligence: Friend or Foe?” Emma Gatrell, Critical Essay, “Amazon.com: Free Deliveries at the Cost of Freedom” Laura Han, Poetry, “A Prophecy for the End of Time” Hannah Hollingsworth, Poetry, “The Last Summer” Hannah Hollingsworth, Critical Essay, “Revolutionary Idealism or Idealist Revolution: How Romanticism and the American Revolution Were Intertwined” Jakob Lucas, Poetry, “The Civil War and War on Terror” *Matthew Marcus, Humor, “Edgar Allan Poe on the Sickbed” *Alison Moore, Short Story, “What Am I Looking for?"

Grady Mulligan, Poetry, “Scales” and “Glades” *Anna Snyder, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Science and Hallmark Movies” Kwame Thornhill, Poetry, “The Success of Struggle” and “The Reef ’s Call to Greatness” Neely Grace Tye, Poetry, “Colorado Springs” Isis West, Critical Essay, “Flamboyantly Valid: Discourse on the Explication of the Word ‘Gay’” Isis West, Critical Essay, “All I Want for Christmas Is for You to Greet Me with ‘Happy Holidays’!” *Featured in this edition.

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COLOPHON The body text is Minion Pro. Headline fonts include AWPC GrimshawHand and Function Pro. We explain the theme in the editors’ letter.

500 copies are printed and distributed free of charge to the school community. The Blue Review staff has access to 12 iMac desktops and four MacBook pro laptops; we subscribe to Walsworth Publishing’s Stratus Cloud server to access Adobe InDesign CC 2019 and Adobe Photoshop CC 2019. We are grateful for the school’s support in covering printing and other expenses associated with Blue Review. Our publisher is AlphaGraphics, Charlotte, North Carolina. We used 100# cover stock for the cover and 80# text stock for the inside pages. Charlotte Latin School is a member of the following professional organizations: North Carolina Scholastic Media Association (NCSMA) and the Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA).

EDITORIAL POLICY All 522 students in grades 9-12 are eligible to apply for the Blue Review staff. The lead editors select general staff based on their interest in and dedication to the Blue Review; staffers must attend regularly scheduled meetings and a required editing session, and they assist in hosting the launch party when the magazine is presented to the school community.

All student editors are appointed by the faculty adviser. The lead layout, copy, and art editors are students who are current staff members. Lead layout editors are responsible for every aspect of the publication, including conducting staff meetings and editing session, selecting the theme, delegating the tasks to the 100

associate editors, etc. Blue extracurricular every part of its is

Review is an activity; construction completed after school hours.

The lead and associate layout editors work together to design every element for each spread; therefore, we do not include credits for layout in our pages since the work is completely collaborative.

The art editors are responsible for cataloguing and photographing the artwork.

They also assist the Upper School art teachers with organizing and setting up the art gallery for the launch party. The copy editors oversee the editing process and organize all print submissions. Associate copy and art editors often begin in grades 10 or 11; they assist the lead editors.

Students are encouraged to submit works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and art in all forms, and English and art teachers can recommend pieces they feel merit recognition. Submissions are blind; the students’ genders, races, names, and grade levels are not disclosed during the selection process.

Pieces may be edited for grammar and/or space, but content is not censored by editors or adviser. The staff adjudicates the works based on voice, style, creativity, and literary merit. From the selected pieces, preference is given to senior work. It is the policy of the editorial board that Blue Review focuses solely on creative works rather than critical essays, reviews, etc.

overshot and

streaming—

...night

as a changing scene

priceless yet

Charlotte Latin School

9502 Providence Road Charlotte, North Carolina 28277 704.846.1100 charlottelatin.org

paid for

Blue Review 2020 Literary & Arts Magazine

bring me now the

bright flower

BLUE REVIEW

of the moongold grass Volume XXVI

Literary & Arts Magazine

Charlotte Latin School Vol. XXVI 2020