Blue Review 2021

blue review

LITERARY & ARTS MAGAZINE

Charlotte Latin School Vol. XXVII 2021

“To is, more and more, not to recall a STORY , but to be able to call up a .”

Charlotte Latin School

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

"THE ONLY INTERESTING

answers

are those which

DESTROY THE QUESTIONS.”

blue review

LITERARY & ARTS MAGAZINE

Charlotte Latin School Vol. XXVII 2021

Reality is dynamic and often beyond our control. At times, the changes we experience feel overwhelming because we have grown accustomed to a certain way of viewing the world. But when we take a step back to analyze the situation in its entirety, we realize that among the uncertainty and anxiety, there is joy and beauty that we originally failed to see.

In this year’s edition of Blue Review, we found our voice in Susan Sontag’s On Photography. In this collection of essays, Sontag describes how photography captures reality in a particular moment in time. In this way, photographs are evidence, immortal and unadulterated truth.

On the other hand, they are personalized interpretations of the world. Photographers choose their subject matter, exposure, and frame, and in doing so, impose their predispositions on the picture.

Drawn to this duality between accepting life as it is and seeing it through our own lens, we created this magazine in hopes of inspiring others to confront, rather than avoid, uncomfortable realities while taking time to appreciate the unexpected silver linings.

Our first chapter, “Rueful Feelings,” reveals the confusion, fear, and sorrow that we initially feel when our world changes undesirably. The muted artwork and weighty writing selections reflect when we fall into a pessimistic mindset.

Our second chapter, “Possessing the Past,”

depicts our subsequent nostalgia for earlier times and what we learned to appreciate what we previously took for granted. The colorful art and writing in this section illustrate exhilarating victories, humorous encounters, and touching relationships that make us smile.

Finally, “Beautified,” illuminates how we must stay grounded and zoom out to see the bigger picture, the dark and the light. The pieces in this section exhibit profound introspection, gritty adaptation, and ultimately, growth.

Each chapter describes the process of coming to terms with a novel reality, while the pieces express struggles and emotions, simultaneously authentic and artistic like photographs. When presented with hardship, we can choose to cower in fear or courageously reevaluate ourselves and the world around us.

Whether we stay stagnant or grow from our experiences is merely a matter of attitude, of lens.

We invite you to take a look with us.

COVER AND COMPLEMENTARY ART

Through the use of oil paints, I aimed to construct an ontological composition that would reflect that of the historical depiction of women in art, yet would semiotically counter the meanings behind such images developed by male artists.

My intention was not to perpetuate the objectification of the female body but to call attention to the deeply-rooted issues of its history in art and to reclaim the image by painting the figure from my own perspective.

In this piece, I encourage the viewer to look beneath the surface of the figure and question the reality of women and their representation in the art world.

The female figure in history has been heteroerotically objectified by male oil painters for years, to the point where the body of a woman has been given no space to exist in art outside of the male gaze.

Throughout the history of fine art, oil paints have been the primary tool used to trap the female figure on such a limited surface. In “Florida Water'' I strive to transcend this surface through an oil-based medium; to look beneath the image of a woman as merely a subject and call attention to the realities of the history of women in art.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

ella, evan, helen, hope, mia & zoe

Faculty Adviser | Lori Davis Lead Layout Editors Hope Gottschling | Helen Hurden | Mia Zottoli Associate Layout Editors Evan Li | Ella McElroy Zoe Spicer Faculty Co-adviser | Tiffany Fletcher Lead Copy Editor | Alison Moore Associate Copy Editors Cora Snyder | Sophia Vona Lead Art Editor Cam Linker

Amanda Labrie | Tara McLellan Robin Siczek | Tracey Vanneste Art Faculty Support Richard Fletcher | Kaila Gottschling Clark Hawgood | Will Thomason Administrative Support Chuck Baldecchi | Abigail Cudabac Fletcher Gregory | Hunter Murphy | Sonja Taylor | Lawrence Wall

Associate Art Editors Lily McMahan | Lila Rhee | Demi Stamatakos General Staff Brooke Bellavia | Adam Cyzner | Hope Gottschling | Helen Hurden | Cam Linker | Evan Li | Ella McElroy | Lily McMahan | Alison Moore | Lila Rhee | Zoe Spicer | Grace Scott | Cora Snyder| Demi Stamatakos | Lea Troutman | Joy Yu | Sophia Vona | Mia Zottoli English Faculty Support Alan Becker | Stuart Bonner Tiffany Fletcher | David Gatewood Richard Harris | Maria Klein

Technical Support Andre Elam | Chris Esposito Bill Freitas | Cory Hardman | Anthony Russo | Craig Summerville Promotional Support Latin Arts Association: Vivi Bechtler-Smith | Aileen Boltz | Alexa Cutter | Gigi Egge | Renee Hobart Gina Lawrence | Lori Samii | Harriet Stamatakos | Erin Stubbs Charlotte Latin School Media and Graphics & Marketing and Communications April Baker | Tori Belle-Miller | Susan Carpenter | Courtney Oates | Loretta Tuttle Financial Support Charlotte Latin School Blue Review Vol. XXVII

CHAPTER 1:

"rueful feelings" CHAPTER 1 DIVIDER

8

Trucks | Edward Yang | Photography

CHAPTER 1 POETRY

12 The Lilies Rot There | Adam Cyzner '21 | Free Verse 19 Pessimist's Pledge | Adam Cyzner '21 | Free Verse 23 In the Slave House | Nyela Rucker '23 | Free Verse 26 Tia's Phone Number | Julie Derraik '22 | Political Poem 30 The Voices on the Radio | Helen Hurden '23 | Political Poem 34 Bittersweet | Irene Yang '23 | Free Verse CHAPTER 1 FICTION

10 14

20 25 28 32

Cut | Helen Hurden '23 | Short Story The Misery Mill of Margaret Wright | Cam Linker '22 | Horror vitem et mortem | Noelle Okland '24| Short Story The Dream House | Mia Zottoli '23 | Short Story ad vitam aeternam | Jenna Upton '23 | Flash Fiction polaroids & depression | Jenna Upton '23 | Experimental Fiction

CHAPTER 1 ART

10 12 14 18 26

Hack Winner | Haley Barnes '21 | Oil on Canvas Cars | George Lynch '23 | Photography Geneva | Evie McMahan '24 | Mixed Media An Evolution of Balance | Cam Linker '22 | Charcoal Drawing Masked-up | Millie Holtz '22 | 8x11 | Acrylic Paint, Pen & Paint

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

22 Bird in Bowl | Molly Clark '21 | Ceramics 24 Retro Chic | Janie Balanda '21 | Digital Art 26 Standing in the Shower | Evan Li '24 | Photography 28 The Farm | Ella McElroy '23 | Photography 30 X-ray Forest | Charlie Martin '22 | Scratchboard 33 god is dead | Jenna Upton '23 | Digital Art 35 Queen's Lace | Hope Gottschling '24 | Mixed Media

CHAPTER 2:

"possessing the past" CHAPTER 2 DIVIDER

34 Trucks | Edward Yang '23 | Photography CHAPTER 2 POETRY

40 45 48 58

Sonnet for a Frog | Vivian Workman '21 | Sonnet Synesthesia | Cora Snyder '22 | Free Verse Philia | Cora Snyder '22 | Free Verse Sapphic Summer | Vivian Workman '21 | Free Verse

CHAPTER 2 FICTION

52

How Do You Like Them Apples? | Matthew Marcus '21 | Humor

CHAPTER 2 NONFICTION

38 42

An Origami Dragon Tale | Matthew Marcus '21 | Memoir Sailing | Dean Omirly '21 | Memoir Blue Review Vol. XXVII

47 Glimpsing | Matthew Marcus '21 | Nonfiction 51 Connecting with the Dark | Adam Cyzner '21 | Nonfiction 55 Cooking with Mia Familia | Jessica Clover '22 | Memoir 56 Colors | Mehr Khandelwal '21 | Memoir CHAPTER 2 ART

38 Gregory | Luisa de Armas '22 | Sculpture 41 Small Frog | Vivian Workman '21 | Drawing 42 Glaciers & Waterfalls | Megan Aljian '22 | Digital Art 44 As I Go On | Ellison Dolan '24 | Digital Art 46 Harbor | Mary Cate Kiser '23 | Photography 48 The Forest's Cry | Hope Gottschling '24 | Watercolor 50 All Eyes on You | Kaylah Hooper '21| Charcoal 52 Pointilism of Cat | Olivia Williams '21| Illustration 54 Venice | Brooke Bellavia '22 | Photography 57 Seashells | Mary Cate Kiser '23 | Acrylic 58 Woman in Pink | Cam Linker '22 | Digital Art

CHAPTER 3:

"beautified"

CHAPTER 3 DIVIDER

60 Trucks | Edward Yang '23 | Photography CHAPTER 3 POETRY

64 The Mirror | Neesa Phadke '24 | Free Verse 68 Narcissus & Echo | Alaric Pan '23 | Free Verse Blue Review Vol. XXVII

CHAPTER DIVIDER QUOTATIONS *All table of contents, chapter break, and cover art quotations from Susan Sontag's On Photography and the editors' letter.

72 Trial for the Defendant's Nose | Julie Derraik '22 | Free Verse 84 The Gift | Hope Gottschling '24 | Free Verse CHAPTER 3 FICTION

62 70

The Experiment | Mia Zottoli '23 | Science Fiction Shalom | Helen Hurden '23 | Experimental Fiction

CHAPTER 3 NONFICTION

67 74 76 79 80 82

Fluffy: Loss of Innocence | Camilia Darwich '23 | Memoir Colored Me | Alison Moore '21 | Memoir An American Teenager: The Cliché | Hailey Kim '23 | Memoir Work in Progress | Emma Carter '21 | Memoir On Not Being African American in America | Esrom Ghirmay '23 | Memoir

Hopeless Hope | Liv Eubank '23 | Memoir

CHAPTER 3 ART

62 64 66 69 70 72 74 76 78 80 82 85

I Never Should Have Stepped on That Stupid Rock | Alison Moore '21 | Mixed Media

She Who Fakes a Smile | Rachel Hall '22 | Mixed Media Mom & Lindy | Lily Dal Cin '21 | Colored Pencil Scratchy | Grace Scott '21 | Drawing Blooming Soul | Ellison Dolan '24 | Digital Art People of Color II & I | Nina Lavelle '22 | Drawing Charcoal Plague | Alison Moore '21 | Charcoal Window to the Souls | Olivia Williams '21 | Drawing Thorns of Conformity | Hope Gottschling '24 | Fiber & Textiles Masquerade of Duality | Cam Linker '22 | Printmaking Infinity | Laura Han '22 | Photography Man in the Moon | Mary Cate Kiser 23 | Photography

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

“A beautiful subject can be the object of

rueful feelings ,

8

Trucks | Edward Yang | Photography

BECAUSE it has aged or decayed and no longer

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

9

CUT A violent shudder of the ancient engine ripples through the bus, and a spark of hope jolts me out of my sleep-like trance. Maybe we’ll break down? Maybe we won’t reach our destination for another day or two?

The engine coughs, wheezes, and sputters back to life, somehow finding the ability or will to keep turning. I slump back against my seat, my head slamming against the sticky vinyl.

Another pothole sends a shock down my spine, and the cheese sandwich sloshing in my stomach threatens to make its way back up my throat. I force the vomit down and suck in a deep breath of air, trying to soothe my stomach and thoughts.

I force my mind to settle, trying to channel my thoughts to happier times, when I knew where I’d be sleeping that night.

Times when I could enjoy long summer afternoons in the slip of woods between our apartment building and the highway.

10

Hack Winner | Haley Barnes | 20x16 | Oil on Canvas

HELEN HURDEN

Times when the aroma of Nestlé Toll House cookies wafted from the windows as I trudged home from school, shivering and covered in snow.

Times when foreboding documents didn’t periodically appear on our front door, and I was too tired and moody to bother reading them.

Times when I couldn’t hear the crash of plates and glasses against the hard, tiled floor, and I didn’t have to bite my pillow to keep the sobs from being heard.

My head droops helplessly from my shoulders and I cradle it in my hands. I should’ve fought harder, maybe picked up some other side-gig in addition to my shifts at McDonald’s. Maybe I shouldn’t have followed my father’s lead in court, but there really was no other option.

I stare out the window of the bus at the highway passing by, my heart heaving with each gut-wrenching jolt.

How on earth did this happen to me?

It’s hard to believe that only three weeks ago, I

was sprawled across my bed, eyes glued to my phone screen, cursing our slow apartment WiFi. A voice floated through the kitchen, down the hallway, and around the corner. Mom had probably just gotten my report card. What can I say? It’s not my fault that my bio teacher gave us the worst possible questions on the exam!

My phone plunked down on the bed and I lazily flopped to the floor, unwilling to get up and face her wrath.

My feet plodded along the worn-out floorboards, and I paused as I shuffled into the kitchen, mindful of the rusty nail sticking out of the doorframe. I grudgingly raised my eyes, ready to give Mom my alibi, but my mouth closed tight when I saw both of my parents huddled over the scarred wooden table in our tiny kitchen.

Littered across every surface were stacks of files.

Mom looked up, the creaking floorboards giving me away. Another wave of shock ripped through me at the sight of her usually serene face now red, puffy, and streaked with tears.

“Mom! What’s wrong?” I stammered, rushing to her side.

“Honey. We...need to talk,” she said. Dad’s face was creased with frustration and stress, the frown lines on his brow deepening with each paragraph he read.

Finally, he straightened and looked right at me.

“I know this might be confusing...”

“Dad. I’m 15, practically an adult! Whatever it is, you can tell me,” I pleaded.

Mom put one hand on my shoulder and wiped her red eyes with the other. “We might be moving.”

I furrowed my own brow, confused. Mom had never mentioned moving before. We just didn’t have the money. I’d always thought they didn’t mind living in this somewhat run-down apartment complex. And why would they be so upset about it?

“Why?” I asked, “Is there something wrong with the house? Did one of you get a new job?” Dad hesitated, raising his head and giving Mom a look that I didn’t understand. She nodded. Dad looked over at her, then back at me. He cleared his throat.

“I’m so, so sorry, but what she means is...we’re being evicted.”

My eyes flew open. I must’ve fallen asleep. The gears beneath the bus roared and the archaic vehicle slowed to a stop. I whip my head back and forth, trying to take in my surroundings. I catch sight of shafts of bright sunlight filtering through leaves and immense swaths of green and brown.

Disoriented, I rise to my feet and am immediately swept up in a stampede of kids fighting to leave the cramped bus.

I stand blinking in the bright sunlight of a forest clearing, with several small gray buildings dotting the area.

How on earth did I get here?

“You don’t know what’s best for her!”

I flinched at the sound of plates crashing against tile coming from down the hall, and I pulled my blanket over my head, trying to block out the noise.

“You think that just because we’ll be homeless in a few days I’ll abandon my only child and send her away to a place like that?!” Crash. “You don’t know what that will do to her, knowing that her parents are still alive and capable of taking care of her?”

“I’m trying to do what’s best for our daughter!” he retaliated. “She’s almost an adult anyway!” A high pitched scream. More glass breaking. Thump.

Silence. I close my eyes. It is a long time before the sirens come to fill the void.

Weeks later. I stand in the witness box of a dilapidated, wood-panelled countroom, my mouth dry, hands shaking. As the haggard yet young lawyer asks her first question, I catch the eyes of the man sitting a few feet away.

My father. His gaze steely beneath the black eye and scar across his upper lip as he gives me his silent instructions: You know what you need to do. Now do it.

Gone was the kind warmth in his eyes, the way his face would light up over my every small achievement. Now it was only cold, hard stone.

My eyes sweep to the other side of the room, where a very different face catches my attention. My mother’s.

Tears streak her blotchy face, just as they had the night when everything began. But her mouth had lost the gentle smile.

My hands dig into the splintered wooden sides of the witness box, the rough edges cutting into my palms. Blood seeps into the wood, and a gash rips open my heart as I gaze at my now-broken family, mirroring the pain growing in my hands. The lawyer stopped in front of me and asked her first question. I raised my head. Even though it killed me, I knew what I had to do.

As the rest of the kids tumble from the bus, my feet stay frozen in the dewy grass. I gaze down at my hands, where the cuts from that fateful trial only a few days before have already begun to heal. A reminder of the sharp pain that still lingers.

I turn my face towards the bright, cheerful sky—for once, why couldn’t it rain?

Wordlessly, I unfurl my fingers, splitting the skin open again and letting blood seep into my palms.

A drop of water forms on my cheek and I let it fall, mixing slowly with the blood from my hands until the two become one.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

11

There is a Lake That waits in a Forest Its body Covered by a canopy.

The Lilies rot there.

The moonlit air Never reaches their Decaying brown petals It’s a tranquil Place Undisturbed, majestical Few know of its existence Yet many are drawn to it

the

12 12

The green blades of grass The minions of the Lake Cover up the footprints Of every pilgrimage To its murky waters Erasing all evidence Of each lost soul’s travels It may seem Like a daunting task To completely erase Every impression Every moment of history Left in the fertile soil

But luckily for the Grass The travelers never leave Instead, they jump Into the lukewarm waters.

Some carry rocks Others just let go And sink And sink They suffocate…

There is a Lake That waits in a Forest Beneath its surface

Lies a Kingdom The Lilies rot there Submerged in purgatory.

Their petals never Find the moonlight.

Nobody knows its name Not even its inhabitants Who wander aimlessly In its sunken walls Yet on every stone Despair is engraved

lilies

Cars | George Lynch | Photography

It’s not a name.

It’s just a word That describes this Solemn haven.

Enchanting Escape.

They become free.

They become euphoric.

Like a child’s innocence.

Never to grow.

Never to breathe.

Never to live.

A word that blazes In the minds of each Soul who decides to Venture to the Lake.

They become trapped…

Never to be happy.

There is a Lake That waits in a Forest And I live Beneath its surface.

The Lilies rot here.

I don’t remember Diving into the Lake.

I can’t regret My decision.

There is no king.

There is no queen.

Only Silence and Beauty Reign over this

They freeze and shatter

It wasn’t mine to make.

ROT

I love my home.

It’s quiet and serene.

Time stands still My worries live Miles away And my screams Just turn into bubbles All I have to do Is float And sleep And dream And drown.

there

ADAM CYZNER

Blue BlueReview ReviewVol. Vol.XXVII XXVII

13

the

14

Geneva | Evie McMahan | 5x7 | Mixed Media

MISERY MILL

of

mARGARET WRIGHT CAM LINKER

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

15

16

She was often told that such an expression of misery was unladylike and coarse, that she would never find a suitable husband in her state, but Margaret Wright could never release her tightly drawn lips nor unfurrow her brow—she was a tortured girl with no escape from her circumstances.

Margaret led the simplest, yet tragic, of lives; she worked in the Newry Mill at which she had grown up, went to church twice on Sundays, sang in the choir, and lived in a small, stuffy mill house with her aging parents. She was created by the Mill, churned out like just another cotton textile, a product of her environment. But Margaret had no personal convictions aside from what she had been told—which she rejected.

Margaret was not blissfully ignorant, nor was she crassly agnostic. She saw things for how they were; she honored the blatant truth that the only way to continue to survive was to play her role in the sad and dreary performance of the Newry Cotton Mill. Margaret Wright delivered her lines well, yet she suffered a droning, relentless, existential misery that refused to lift its foot from her neck.

Everything about Margaret was defined by the Mill.

Her daddy had grown up there, and so had his father.

Her three older brothers had worked there as well; her brothers, Johnny and Tom, were soon to return from their

made her daily walk to her job as an office girl at the Mill, Margaret clutched her tattered handkerchief to her mouth.

The smell of the Mill made her queasy, even just thinking about it did, but Margaret Wright was not one to flee her circumstances, nor give into them—she merely existed miserably within them.

Entering the building, Margaret pushed her way through the crowds of mill-workers, still pressing her handkerchief to her lips. She shoved her way through the soot-covered, blistered men, cringing in disgust as they looked her up and down with smirks of pleasure on their dirty faces.

She reached the creaky green staircase that led to the hall of offices in which she worked but was caught off guard when she heard someone call for her.

“Hey there, good-lookin,” an all too familiar voice drawled. Margaret felt her heart drop as she turned around to see Billy Wilkerson leaning against the railing in his freshly pressed naval uniform. Margaret detested Billy with all her heart, rather, the idea of him.

Prior to his deployment, Margaret’s father was very enthusiastic about the prospect of Margaret marrying Billy—as was he. The Wilkersons lived up the road from the Wrights and possessed a significant fortune, in comparison to the rest of the mill-workers.

deployment in the Navy along with several other millboys. There were probably thirty or so other families who lived in mill houses too, all of which were like family to one another.

Everything was about the mill. The children attended the small school just a few hundred yards away. When they weren’t in class or at Sunday school, the children helped out in the mill, making just a nickel a week each.

Everyone who lived in Seneca went to church and after they sang their prayers of praise, the women would lounge on their front porches, sipping lemonade in their Sunday best while the men would listen to the radio and discuss the war while they smoked themselves dizzy.

But unlike her family and neighbors, Margaret had never been content with her existence at the mill.

Though it was early March and the winter’s frost had just begun to thaw, a thick blanket of heat was cast over the Newry Mill. The air was thick with humidity, trapping the burning smell of threaded cotton in the air. As she

Luckily for Margaret, Billy was sent overseas just in time, but two years had passed and at the old age of twenty-one, Margaret’s father was becoming impatient with her distaste for men.

Margaret was frozen in her shoes and sweating like a sinner on a Sunday. Her mind drew a blank as she stood there in shock. She felt her heart begin to beat rapidly as the noises of the Mill grew louder. The clanking and sounds of men yelling echoed through the void of emptiness in her brain, producing no thought or emotion.

Her breathing became more labored with each gasping breath. She was only awakened by the sharp bell that rang throughout the open halls of the Mill, signaling a new shipment had arrived.

And with this sound, Margaret was sucked back into reality.

She whipped around and nearly tripped running up the steps as fast as she could. She heard Billy’s voice in the background but kept her brisk pace towards her office, the

small heels of her shoes clicking as she clenched her fists into tight balls. Margaret felt her throat close up as she began to hyperventilate.

As she reached the small, dingy office she shared with several other girls, she flung the door open and quickly slammed it behind her, gasping for air.

“Well I swear, Margaret!” proclaimed her dear friend Evelyn, “you look sick as a dog!”

“Well look at her, she’s got all flushed in the face!” another girl said, all standing up and surrounding her with concern.

Margaret’s misery had escaped her chest and was plastered across her face. Her empty head was flooded with heat, burning thoughts of fear and fury.

“Shugar, you need to sit down for a hot minute, you don’t look well,” the oldest office-girl, Jane, assured, forcing Margaret into a chair.

“What’dya thinks wrong with her?” The girls began to close in around her, staring with concern.

“Hush up, all of y’all!” ordered Jane, “she don’t look well, she seems mighty overheated. Y’all better getter’ out of this humid ol’ place fore she knocks out!”

Margaret’s eyes were glazed over, her throat still tightly wound shut.

The voices of her friends became muffled, her vision blurry. Using Jane’s shoulder as a crutch, Margaret was carried down from the Mill, up onto her splintering porch, and sat down on her mama’s sofa. She was utterly detached, her gaze following the blurry movements of her

She was a perfect daughter, sister, Christian, and every other role that was asked of her. She read all of her lines perfectly, but with great misery.

It didn’t seem fair to her that after all this time of playing into who she was asked to be, she was not rewarded. Instead, she was cast as another character; the prospective wife of Billy Wilkerson.

Yet the issue was that there was nothing Margaret would rather do. She had no convictions nor aspirations in life, only what she was forced to participate in as a part of her act at the Mill.

The thought of spending the rest of her life as a mill wife, working in the office, leading the choir in church, and having children of her own was simply nauseating.

But the thought of dropping her role and writing her own script was terrifyingly impossible; there was no place for a female to write her own character in the world.

Margaret was trapped within her circumstances with nothing else to do but adapt to her character and step out onto the stage with conviction and passion.

And so she did.

Margaret Wright married Billy at the end of summer and went on to have three children with him, two girls and a boy. They remained living at the Mill, Margaret working in the office while her children attended school.

On Sundays, she led Bible school classes to all the children and taught them hymnals of love and life. She even would sip lemonade on her front porch after Church with all of the other refined wives and women.

friends as they busied around her tight living room, her focus drifting off into the depths of the smoke-stained yellow wallpaper.

“Goodness gracious! What is goin’ on here?” Margaret’s mother cried, entering the room to drop to her daughter’s side. Margaret could barely hear the voices, the ringing in her ears was drowning out all senses of reality.

Terrifying as it was, Margaret found solace in this state of dissociation; she was no longer playing a part, she had no lines. Her character was in peril, yet she felt no remorse for the character of Margaret Wright.

And so she sat on that sofa for nearly four hours, slowly regaining consciousness. During this time, Margaret’s mind was racing. She had never been content with her life but yet she never failed to play her role; so why was she breaking character now?

She was everything she had always resented, and she hated herself for it.

Margaret continued to live a life guided by her own misery, playing the part she had always dreaded.

Twenty years into her marriage of misery, Margaret was found dead washed up on the banks of the Little River behind the Mill. She had at last succeeded in drowning away her misery for permanence.

It matters not what happened after this. To Margaret, the play was over. There were no more characters, no plot, and no more lines.

She took her final bow, and the character of Margaret Wright was put to rest after a lifetime of misery.

Her only hope was that her soul would move into another life in which there would be no stage, no lines, and no play; only herself and her convictions.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

17

18

An Evolution of Balance | Cam Linker | 17x22 | Charcoal Drawing

ADAM CYZNER

LEDGE We the Pessimists Pledge to shatter The hopes of our peers Trample on their precious dreams And drain their preposterous positivity Like righteous vampires sucking Disease from their prey We swear to stay cynical Constantly fortifying our defenses For the only truths allowed in our sulking kingdoms Are our own. All others Shall be forever exiled Lest we be persuaded by A spark of light within those lies We shall regard Reality As our sole companion Our guide in the Light Which blinds the common man And persuades them to believe in The Nonexistent, The Imaginary, The Unproven Products of Naivety’s mischievous schemes We embrace the Darkness That upon us Reality bestows A curse incognito At some times, a blade At others, a whip

Two unwieldy weapons That in the hands of The Untrained, The Feebleminded, The Ignorant Leave deep scars beneath the skin That neither stitches nor chains can mend Be warned that Optimism, Satan’s personal creation no doubt, May coax you to ingest The pieces which you sliced From the hearts of your peers However, failure to resist her corruption Is punishable by eternal damnation In the Cage of Oblivion Where Gullibility will infect your mind And guide you towards falsehoods Away from the darkness, our savior By signing this pledge You agree to weigh down Every atmosphere with rock-filled balloons Sacrifice relationships for Verity To annihilate the hulls of friendly ships— Including your own— And deem Optimism your mortal adversary Now sign your name To affirm this congealed blood pact And forever be known As a False Friend of Truthfulness Blue Review Vol. XXVII

19

vitam et mortem NOELLE OKLAND

20

Masked-up | Millie Holtz | 8x11 | Acrylic Pen, Paint & Ink

Back when I was a boy, I knew of an exceptionally ordinary girl named Ann, an exceptionally ordinary name. Ann possessed a simple, soft quality about her.

Unlike most of the girls at my high school who screamed and laughed down the halls, gossiping and socializing, she was quiet. Her skin was light, as though it never saw the sun.

She had five symmetrical freckles scattered on her ordinary, somewhat-pointed nose. She was quiet but always kind if anyone ever asked asked for homework answers or a pencil.

I wondered why she was always alone.

I did not know if she had friends or not.

Again, Ann was ordinary, as ordinary as it gets.

But her hair!

It swerved its way down her back until it reached her knees. Her soft, winding curls pointed in all directions.

Her locks glowed a bright, blinding orange, and everywhere she walked, her hair would brush across her back: swoo, swish, swoo, swish.

It’s quite strange she had such wild hair, for she seemed tame and put together. No matter what day it was, she smiled wherever she went.

I wanted to know who this girl was. How did she stay so kind and full of smiles? And most importantly, why did she have such wild hair?

I don’t know why I was so curious. Maybe because my life was so boring. Maybe because I felt that she held a secret to life, that if I sat down with her, I would walk away a new, wise man.

That week, I left my friends I usually sat with at lunch and sat down next to Ann. She sat alone, eating her food in peace. As I approached, she turned, bewildered. I couldn’t help but read the book open in front of her. The chapter title page read: "Stage 1—Acceptance."

“Hi, uh, sorry to interrupt, I just—was having trouble with the math homework and was wondering if you understood anything the teacher said today.”

The confusion left her eyes. Now what I saw reflected in them seemed like hopelessness, or resignation. She smiled softly; her mood seemed to have shifted to sadness.

“Yeah, I think I can help you with that,” she answered, sweetly. “That’s strange—I’ve never seen you in Mr. Richards’s class.”

I froze. Mr. Richards taught honors math, and I was in a pre-standard math class. How stupid of me—why had I ask her if she could help me in math, of all classes? There was no going back now.

“Uh—no, actually. I have—a new teacher. Her name is, um…Mrs. Locks,” I said a little too enthusiastically.

“Oh—weird. Never heard of her,” she said slowly, eyebrows furrowed, a skeptical look in her eyes.

I fetched my math notebook quickly. Returning, I

felt angry with myself; I didn’t want help on any of my schoolwork, I actually just wanted to talk to her. I wanted to satisfy my curiosity about her. I should have just asked if I could’ve joined her, but the fear of anyone judging me for doing so got the best of me. I sat down next to her, and I asked what book she was reading.

“Oh, you probably haven’t heard of it. It’s called What Helped Get Me Through. So what exactly are you confused about?”

I sat there, tense. Suddenly, I thought of it; I don’t have any questions to ask if I don’t understand any of it, so I can just ask her to re-teach the lesson.

“I actually didn’t understand any of it. Could you review all of what we learned today? Sorry,” I said nervously.

“Um, okay—wow, what were you doing while she was teaching today?” She asked with a slightly raised voice; she looked irritated.

“I—I have a really short attention span,” I stammered.

“I’m never able to concentrate in any of my classes. I’m practically failing everything!” I complained.

I started to elaborate on my lie, telling her about my deeply embedded insecurity of being different than everyone else, feeling not enough—how dumb.

I am a genius, I thought! Now she would feel sorry for me and I would be able to spend more time with her!

“I hope I have a future, a wife and kids. I hope I get a real job, and one I’m good at. You probably don’t even understand because you’re so smart and confident,” I concluded, head down. Nailed it.

With my head still down, I peered up at Ann. Her head was shaking in disapproval. Her shoulders widened and her spine elongated. It felt as though she was looking down on me. I had never seen Ann angry before.

She opened her mouth to say something, but suddenly, her face softened and her anger mellowed. Ann took a deep breath, closed her eyes and sank back onto the bench. She quickly wiped away the single tear that had made its way down her red cheek. Her head subtly rotated away from me, but I could still see her sad eyes.

She whispered, choked up by emotions, “You have no idea.”

With her head down, she quickly snatched her things, shoved them in her backpack, got up, and walked away.

I was going to call after her, but the whole cafeteria was quiet, blankly staring at the scene.

I was humiliated.

Did she see right through me? Is she extremely sensitive? Does she have something against short attention spans? How could she have something against short attention spans?

Amidst my jumble of confusions, I couldn’t help but notice a peculiar handful of long, ginger hair floating limply on the table in front of me.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

21

22

Bird in Bowl | Molly Clark | 5x8 | Ceramics

in the

slave h o u s e

NYELA RUCKER

In the slave house Where freedom is locked inside my people’s hearts The key lost in the sweat Which beads down their foreheads Working in the prickly and rough cotton fields In the slave house Where people are ostracized by death Their lives shortened by insubordination To their European oppressors In the slave house Where the decision to run away To escape the barriers of injustice Only to still be controlled by the plantation of society In the slave house Where freedom can be expressed If we escape the slave houses That hold us ignorant and oppressed

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

23

Mia Zottoli 24

Retro Chic | Janie Balanda | 22x17 | Digital Art

Dream House

The

“Couldn’t we stay like this forever?”

It was the last sentence she spoke to me. A sentence so innocent it could be nothing but scandalous. It was fitting, for that was the nature of my relation to her.

Those close to me will say that she was my undoing, a catalyst to the series of events that would eventually leave me alone and nameless; but, looking back on my life, the only time I ever escaped the darkness was with her.

On that fateful night, her heart didn’t stop, her brain didn’t cease its activity, but I do believe that the woman I loved so violently, so beautifully, died that night.

Forever. It was such a loaded word. I believed her when she said it, whispering gingerly in my ear, and I couldn’t help but imagine what our forever could look like.

A small house, modest but stylish, maybe seated on a lake, with a large stone patio out back, our bedroom, our bedroom, leading out to it. The dream house did not differ greatly from my current domicile, but it was never the house that mattered. It was her, always her.

I imagine her residence with the same picture; a fleeting hope that she still holds onto a piece of me with the same strength that I hold on to every single memory of her. Hers would be fuller than mine, though, with children running around at will, and her husband probably sequestered in his office.

The same house, but a completely different reality.

That night is becoming more difficult to remember. I cling desperately to the image of her long black dress, the fabric swishing against my own navy skirt as we danced, to the gold hue of her hair tied back neatly behind her head, but over the years details have faded, such as the gentle music playing in the background and the type of drink I held in my hand.

MIA ZOTTOLI

The Swing Lounge was the only place away from my apartment where she loved me openly, the only place we were allowed. We let our guard down there, and that night we were so trapped in the love we held for each other, that when the lights above us began to flicker, neither of us noticed.

It was a minute of bliss, as she and I held each other, imagining an impossible future.

We had to come to our senses.

The door slammed open, and instinctively, we sprang apart, but the cops had already seen us, and they had already labeled us. I will never forget the look on her face when she registered what was happening, when she saw the uniforms and badges on the people who had just stormed into the bar.

It was a look of terror, similar to my own, but after a moment it turned into something that I could never bring myself to feel: defeat.

An officer arrested me, placing me in a wagon with all of the other patrons not quick enough to get away.

She managed to get away.

Foolishly, I expected her to be there the next morning to bail me out, with that familiar mischievous grin on her face.

She never came.

The only time I would ever see her name again would be in the newspaper, in a notice of marriage, between her and a Mr. Richard North.

It was that moment when I realized we would never have our forever.

That beautiful, idyllic house would never leave our minds, and it would never become more than just a dream.

“It was her, always her.”

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

25

tia’s phone

number JULIE DERRAIK

26

Standing in the Shower | Evan Li | Photography

302 648 9254 in barefoot detention, repeating to himself, 302 648 9254 he stands rigid, blankly facing the cage wall, crying furious and desperate tears, sobs cruelly echoing off cool concrete floor. he’s eight, and trembling at thoughts of going back. of becoming child-size cargo

on a plane with no wings 302 648 9254 venomous white lights pierce his scab-covered skin. like fluorescent daggers they cut into raw, swollen eyes and they stay on. maliciously playing the sun and murdering the moon there are no stars to wish upon.

302 648 9254 infants wail in despair as winter strikes them with its whip, violently shivering under tinfoil shields like leftovers, like pale meat. they summon older children with ghastly screams,

crescendoing as makeshift mothers trip over bodies to reach them 302 648 9254 he repeats it because he mustn’t forget, 302 648 9254 not like we have forgotten him.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

27

aeternam JENNA UPTON

I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this sad. I feel chills go down my spine. I think about my father. How happy he’ll be without me. I’m so selfish for staying. He was so much happier without me before. I’m just a burden to him, I know it.

I just can’t do this anymore. I don’t know how to explain this to you. I want to die so badly. I can’t go on anymore. Daddy would be happier without me, anyway.

I wish I could stay, I wish I could tell him he’s not alone, but I’m not strong enough. What would it do, anyway?

He doesn’t love me. He’s used to me. He’s used to his daughter. I’m the reason why he’s so sad. Maybe if I hadn’t been born, Mom wouldn’t have left and they’d be happy together.

I weakly grab the photobook he left and flip through it. I see a young man, full of hope and joy—ready for anything. His smile shines brighter than the stars do on the nights we can see them. His eyes, crinkled from his grin, are full of wonder—when I see him, I see someone who didn’t deserve life with me. He deserves to travel the world and work, vacation, and be happy. And I’m holding him back. Not anymore.

I slip my favorite picture out. He’s in a much-too-big sweater and floppy blonde hair falls onto a face plastered with an ear-to-ear grin. He looks so happy. I want him to feel that happy again.

I grab a piece of paper and scribble on it.

I’M SORRY I place the picture and the paper next to one another on the bed. There.

There’s my suicide note.

Everything I’ve ever wanted, needed to say.

“I’m sorry."

28

The Farm | Ella McElroy | Photography

I really, really am.

Without another thought, I head to the bathroom.

Pulling open the door, I see the sleeping pills. I grab them off the shelf and put way too many in my hands. I look in the mirror one last time. I shouldn’t be doing this.

I don’t want revenge. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want the pain to go away. Please, please make the pain go away. I’m so tired. I’m so done with everything. I need to let go. I need to leave.

I think about slitting my wrists. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it. I don’t know how to explain it, but this….I feel like all methods are painful, in a way. I tremble, thinking maybe this isn’t the way. But I know it has to be.

It’s so painful. I need it to go away.

I drink some water and down the pills.

I can’t tell you what I feel next—I couldn’t do it justice. I shouldn’t have done it. But what’s done is done, depression reminds me. Anxiety screams at me to throw up.

Depression wins. Depression always wins.

I just lie down.

Well, I guess it’s better to say I fell down. I hear a loud thump as I hit the ground, almost falling asleep and then jolting awake. Being barely able to stay awake when you take sleeping pills is an odd combination. I hear Dad yell my name.

He bursts through my bedroom door and runs to the bathroom. I look up at him just as my eyelids finally get too heavy and I fall over. He runs to me, screaming something I can’t understand, fumbling for his phone.

It’s all over now, I think.

I regret it.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

29

oices RADIO HELEN HURDEN

The

My fingers drum on the arms of the passenger seat.

Clean, soft leather beneath me.

The road ahead seems clear With the thrumming of the engine pulsing in our ears.

Seemingly safe, seemingly untouchable.

But tonight we are scared.

And the seconds tick by.

And we crane our ears toward the radio: Please, let there be a sign!

The voices keep talking, talking, speaking, theorizing, demanding, arguing, nothing.

30

X-ray Forest | Charlie Martin | 11x18 | Scratchboard

on the

The voices on the radio don’t hear the people in the way of it all.

The people waiting to choose, making the choice, and who have already decided, to make the bold claim.

The people who wait Behind boarded up windows and iron bars.

Peering out into the streets, anxious shaddows for faces.

What will they look like tomorrow?

The people simply wanting more, for their freedom should not be in question!

We shall not go down on a night like this!

The wheels turn. Will they keep going after this?

Tonight, I am not sure.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

31

&

polaroids DEPRESSION JENNA UPTON

“It’s beautiful.”

“What is?”

“Your room.”

“Thank you.”

It really was. So beautiful. I wanted it. Flowered wallpaper, string lights dancing around the artwork I knew she’d painted. I wished I was her. I wished I had her curves, her eyes, her nose, her smile. I wish my hair was soft like that—I wish people liked me like they liked her. I wish I had a body boys wanted to touch—I know that’s a terrible thing to say—but it’s true. I wish I could talk like her, I wish words came out for me like they did for her. I wish I had someone who loved me the way he loved her—all of the photos of him kissing her, or holding her—made me want someone more. I wish I could move the way she does—I wish I could sleep as easy as she does, I wish I could dream good dreams like she does.

32

god is dead | Jenna Upton | Digital Art

I wish I could shut up like her. I wish I could take all the scars from my arms—I wish I could avoid the stares like she does. I wish I had everything she does. I wish I were pretty like her. I wish I was as smart as her. I wish I could pay attention. I wish I could try and talk to people about this—I wish I could say something. I wish I had something to help me—I wish I had the pills he used to take, the ones that killed him—because I want to kill me.

I want to be her so much, I say, but they say, don’t be her.

They say be me. But I hate me.

I wish the scars bled and I wish I could die right here. I wish I could leave and never come back. I wish someone would notice, say, I was in love with her but I never got the courage to say so—oh, wouldn’t that be beautiful. But it won’t happen. The girl in the mirror is not who I want to be.

I want to be dead.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

33

bittersweet IRENE YANG

i’m trying to turn lemons into lemonade, but the first sip is bitter as ever. i put all all my struggles under the blade, i’m trying to turn lemons into lemonade. into the pitcher a sugar cascade, i think i am being quite clever. i’m trying to turn lemons into lemonade, but the first sip is bitter as ever.

34

Queen's Lace | Hope Gottschling | 18x7 | Mixed Media

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

35

present,

“One can’t possess the 36

Trucks | Edward Yang | Photography

but one can possess the

past.”

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

37

RIGAMI RAGONtale MATTHEW MARCUS

an

38

Gregory | Luisa deArmas | 32x56x32 | Sculpture

Dragons—a horde of them, all vibrantly colored and curiously paper-based—assail the choir room. During my junior year, I arrived at school with fifteen minutes to spare and found my hands unoccupied. With my affinity for the fantastical, I set out to inhabit the vacant corners and crevices of that blank expanse with origami dragons.

Each morning, fellow singers discovered a new beast: a brown drake nestling in a phone caddy, a blue wyvern stalking from under a desk, a green grandfather overlooking his clan.

High Schoolers were amused by the mysterious appearance of these creatures, but the Middle Schoolers were enthralled by them.

While I never witnessed it myself, my choir directors told me how they were delighted by their presence and speculated about their shepherd. I loved hearing about the wonder

me. Sometimes they were lazy or distracted while singing, but I had never suspected anything malicious.

I was devastated that these Middle Schoolers felt it within their right to destroy my work.

Soon after discovering the deed, the teachers confronted the students. The ever-flowing music of the room halted, and I was summoned to watch as the fiends were accused of treason. My choir director stood me in front of the boys and finally revealed me as the craftsman.

It was only once I saw how ashamed they were that I started to tear up; overwhelmed, I remained silent during the trial. The students were asked to write apologies. I left.

Several days later, I received a plastic bag full of letters, some handwritten, some typed, in which each student detailed how they participated in the

I was creating, and while most of my peers quickly discovered I was the artist, I happily preserved the magic by remaining anonymous to the Middle Schoolers.

Continually reaffirming my folding skills, my herd steadily grew until the white room was adorned by dragons resting on acoustic panels, perching upon cliffside cabinets, and soaring along walls on wings of tape.

Even without the luxury of fire-breathing—which would surely end in disaster—my thunder of dragons seemed indestructible.

Until one day, while walking to the performing arts center, a friend and I came across the scene of a crime. Stomped flat, a pink dragon lay dead in the rain.

Shocked, we ventured to the choir room to investigate, finding half of the dragons had been eradicated.

I wracked my brain trying to recall what a dragon’s natural enemy was.

Giants?

Titans?

It turned out the answer was far more sinister (and far shorter): Middle School boys.

Instant disappointment.

I had always regarded the boys as loveable scamps.

I’d take time out of lunch to sing with them, and they would wave and call me by name whenever they saw

massacre.

One admitted to starting it, others delivered them to their executioners, and a few enabled the murder with their silence.

Although I appreciated their honesty, it was demanded of them. What touched my heart is what they did unprompted.

Within that bag were three origami dragons that a few of the boys had folded to learn how difficult the conjuring process was.

They went out of their way to understand the damage they did and promised that it would never happen again, and that empathy made them easy to forgive.

The boys’ demonic horns and impish tails receded, revealing their true nature: they’re people, and people make mistakes. They didn’t know whom their actions would hurt, and they got caught up in the heat of the moment.

I’ve certainly hurt people by accident; I’ve given unexpectedly sharp remarks to my siblings and told jokes that made a friend cry. I try to extend the same empathy they gave me so I can be a positive influence to those who look up to me.

Even though my draconic fleet suffered a tragic loss, I’m sure they’ll give a warm welcome to their three new friends.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII Blue Review Vol. XXVII 39

frog

Son net

aA

VIVIANWORKMAN WORKMAN VIVIAN

for a

I stood amidst the kitchen with a frog.

He pressed his feet up on the glass that night, And so I sat and let my brain unfog.

(I wonder if he wanted to seek the light.)

I tried to touch his toes but through the glass, He hopped and hid behind the window pane.

One day (not soon) our lives will come to pass.

I wonder if he thought he would be slain.

His throat distended with panicked little breaths; I closed my eyes and let him hop away.

I wish he knew he need not fear his death, But he left and left my mind in disarray.

I wish I was a frog, no confusion, Rather than this lump of disillusion.

40

Small Frog | Vivian Workman | 9.5x7.5 | Drawing

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

41

SAILING DEAN OMIRLY

42

Glaciers and Waterfall | Megan Aljian | Digital Art

It’s nine o’clock in the morning and the sea breeze has already begun filling in Paracas Bay. In the surrounding desert mountains I can see the famous Candelabra, a huge prehistoric geoglyph etched into the hillside nearby. At age thirteen, I have come all the way from North Carolina to the western coast of Peru to compete in the Youth Sunfish Worlds.

Upon arrival, it surprises me that I am the only competitor representing the United States.

That night, carrying the American flag at the opening ceremony, I am overwhelmed.

The next morning, my boat is rigged and ready and I take a mental inventory of my gear:

the overwhelming challenge of Worlds, my competitive level had crossed a new threshold.

That accomplishment would have a major influence on how I approached challenges later on. By ninth grade, my focus was more on high school academics and wrestling, a sport I hope to take to college.

Five years of intense sailing had taught me at a young age how to trust myself, navigate all types of circumstances with confidence, and deal with discomfort.

In solo sailing, you have full control and responsibility for everything that happens. From rigging to sail trim, helmanship to navigation and tactics, each decision is up to the sailor.

Sailing has taught me to remain calm in stressful situations no matter the circumstances, since panicking never leads to a positive outcome.

My experience in Peru prepared me for future challenges in ways I can’t yet fully comprehend. Two years after Worlds, as a freshman wrestler I was again up against overwhelming odds.

Facing a much larger and more physically mature senior at the state championship, the mockingbirds in my stomach were now butterflies.

The butterflies are familiar not because I am so sure of myself, but because I am no longer in uncharted waters. I have a map on how to push myself through any challenge calmly and

“I BEGIN TO ASK MYSELF IF I HAVE LOST MY MIND FOR BEING HERE.” life jacket, sailing boots, sailing watch, sunglasses, and buff. Looking around I can see the other sailors are much older, and the butterflies in my stomach feel more like mockingbirds fighting to the death in mid-air.

As the morning wears on, the sea breeze quickly develops into high winds and the bay now looks like a huge washing machine. Seventyplus boats launch from the beach, wave after wave, and with each day both wind and sea become increasingly dangerous.

We race our boats from late morning until sunset in the harshest conditions I have ever sailed in, and I begin to ask myself if I have lost my mind for being here.

There is no way to sugar coat the brutal conditions and challenge of sailing in Paracas Bay for three straight days. In other regattas race officials would call off the competition, but this was Worlds. By day three, one third of the fleet has abandoned the race, but not me. By now I have convinced myself that not only can I finish, but I can finish with the older elite sailors.

Every minute on the water seems like a struggle for life or death, and many times I come close to quitting. Instead, I choose each day to keep racing, and as a result I sail the best I ever have and finish with the top sailors on the water.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but with

“...THE MOCKINGBIRDS IN MY STOMACH WERE NOW BUTTERFLIES.” collectively.

Sailing in Paracas Bay in Sunfish Youth Worlds prepared me to face my fears, wrestle my very best, beat the senior across from me, and win my first of two state titles.

Although sailing is more of a hobby for me now, I am forever in its debt for teaching me important life fundamentals, such as selfreliance and perseverance in the face of hardship.

Competitive sailing helped me lay strong foundations for encountering, working through, and ultimately overcoming life’s many challenges.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

43

44

As I Go On | Ellison Dolan | Digital Art

SYNES

CORA SNYDER

she is the color of the tide blue, green, turquoise the taste of salt in the air she is the feeling of cold water on sun-kissed skin she is the color of wisteria lilac and lavender and mauve the feeling of being held she is the taste of chamomile tea just before bed he is the color of the light a golden yellow the feeling of the sun on your face he is the sound of a child laughing happy on a summer’s day she is the colors of the night the darkest purples and blues the taste of something bitter with something sweet she is the sound of finding the right key going home at the end of the day

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

45

46

Harbor | Mary Cate Kiser | Photography

GLIMPSING MATTHEW MARCUS

Assuming that the physical state of my being is inconsequential, and that the Big Bang Model is correct, I would love to witness the creation of the universe. I am so unfathomably small in the grand scheme of things.

I can’t imagine what it would be like to observe the entire universe when it was infinitely condensed into a Singularity and watch it explode from nothing into everything—from the safety of

my incorporeal body, of course. I want to watch primordial elements clump into stars and galaxies, to watch celestial bodies take shape in a cosmic furnace.

I want to see so far beyond my bedroom. I will only ever witness the slightest fraction of what the universe has to offer.

There is so much color and beauty that mankind will never set its eyes upon.

I want a glimpse.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

47

philia CORA SNYDER

48 The Forest’s Cry | Hope Gottschling | 23x30 | Watercolor

Have you eaten today?

Have you eaten today?

Please get some sleep.

Be safe!

You have allergies, right?

I brought extra for you.

Do you want to talk about it?

Of course I know your birthday!

I’ll help you review next time.

Are you going to be okay?

Maybe you should take a break.

Is the pain any better?

You never bother me!

How can I help?

I feel safe around you.

It’s not the same without you here.

Can I tell you a secret?

I wouldn’t have passed Latin without you.

You always make me laugh!

There’s no one else I’d rather overthink with.

I love you.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

49

50

All Eyes on You | Kaylah Hooper | 11x17 | Charcoal

CONNECTING WITH THE

I love watching horror movies in the dark, alone. Don’t worry. I’m sane. I promise. Why do I love horror films so much? Beneath the facade of grotesque images, satanic rituals, and disfigured creatures, horror films are essentially “coming of age” tales. In these films, a real, relatable character with a personality flaw finds themself in a terrifying situation where they must break through their own mental barriers and grow as a human being to defeat the terrifying monster, escape the haunted asylum, or free themselves from a psychological vision that horrifies them day and night.

The Babadook by Jennifer Kent exemplifies this type of film, for it is an unforgettable horror movie that brought me to tears, evoking as intense of a reaction as the solemn ending to The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. The film has the overt horror of cockroaches and brutal puppy murder (sorry to all the dog lovers) but also a subtle horror; a woman harbors hatred towards her son, which manifests as neglect and thoughts of murdering her child.

They must overcome the emotional distance between them through a shared experience of combating their inner demons.

This element creates a point of relatability for me because I, like most people, struggle with insecurities or self-doubts whether family-related or not. I was sobbing by the end because even though

DARK

I’ve never fought a supernatural monster that possessed my mom, I could empathize with the son’s pain since I cherish the close relationship I have with her. My ability to understand the son’s unfamiliar situation illustrates that stories have no barriers and possess the power to connect people with vastly different experiences.

Being a voracious young reader, these powerful connections started early-on for me. I was always absorbed in a novel, literally colliding into still objects while walking with my nose in a book.

I devoured murder mystery and science fiction novels because they placed emotionally complex yet grounded characters into unfamiliar worlds or perilous circumstances, and somehow, I understood their struggles on a deeper level beyond the obvious conflict on the surface.

Whether I was escaping Count Olaf with the Baudelaire Orphans in Lemony Snicket’s Series of Unfortunate Events or more recently, joining George in Lennie’s murder to protect him from a cruel world that only shatters dreams, I could draw upon my ability to empathize even when I had never experienced a similar situation.

This innate sense of empathy further developed as I transformed from a story-absorber to a storyteller, assuming characters with personalities completely different from my own such as Beauty and

ADAM CYZNER

the Beast’s Lumiere, whose serial romanticism is definitely a quality I do not possess. No matter the genre—theater, dance, or film—my experiences with storytelling allow me to truly understand characters and real people on a psychological level; I can actively listen to a friend’s emotions and not just passively hear their words.

While I have my own stories to tell, I love to listen to others about relationships, love lost, or just the anxiety that consumes them, occasionally offering advice, for it can lead to collaboration and finding similarities between the experiences of two different people. Finding those shared experiences creates a common foundation for forging relationships that I rely on and cherish.

Apathy stunts humanistic growth, like how the mother in The Babadook never believes her son’s true stories about the creature that scares him, so she could not form a healthy relationship with him nor develop her maternal instincts. Unlike the mother, my belief in the influence of storytelling has given me the “superpower” of empathetic listening which allows me to collaborate with peers and act as a confidant when necessary.

While I’m not hiding a novel anymore in my prayer book during Rosh Hashanah services (maybe that is not entirely true), I am creating my own coming of age story with future experiences waiting to be written.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

51

HoW LIKE DO YOU

“How Do You Like Them Apples?” taunt recent headlines. Through a minor continuity error, Johnny Appleseed has acquired the power to time travel, and with a purpose. The American folk hero has dedicated himself to wandering the space time continuum, preaching the benefits of healthy eating, and smiting down those who do not comply.

The pioneer’s first target hails from the mean streets of Sesame, where everyone’s favorite blue abomination, the Cookie Monster, famously sings, “C is for Cookie.”

Appalled, Johnny Appleseed met with him privately, and after several days of intense therapy, the now-red Cider Monster propagates the wonders of eating apples and drinking hard cider. “Elmo is not happy!” our red puppet in residence chuckles, “I don’t recognize my friend, and I’m concerned for his general well-being!”

After upsetting the delicate balance of power in this “colorful community of monsters, birds, grouches, and humans,” Appleseed has launched a campaign much closer to home, adopting the mantra, “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Since then, law enforcement agencies have received several complaints from local doctors on accounts of apple-based assault.

When asked about the application of his advice, Appleseed told sources, “The apples emit antipheromones that are known to repel doctors. It’s science, I swear.”

“Apples aren’t as soft as you think they are,” reported one MD, rubbing his bruised head.

While Appleseed’s professed goals are philanthropic, he’s become visibly more hostile as he gets fed-up with Americans not taking his warnings seriously. Our manon-the-street-without-any-feet, Spam Chowder, secured an interview with the time-hopping menace to see what he could glean from the elusive figure: Chowder: “Why do you do what you do?”

Appleseed: “Americans’ diets are getting junkier and junkier; someone has to do something about it.”

Chowder: “Yes, but … why do you resort to such

52

Pointilism of Cat | Olivia Williams | 24x32 | Illustration

unorthodox and, frankly, inhumane methods?”

Appleseed: “Stay in your lane, bro. I don’t tell you how to do your job.”

Chowder: “At least tell us where we might expect your next escapade.”

Appleseed: “If I had to say, most likely Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. That place is a powder keg about to explode. They’ve been producing dangerous, realitydefying candies for years, and someone needs to put a stop to it. Heck, a child turned into a massive blueberry and was practically rolled off of the premises! The company has to be dismantled, and if I have to drain every chocolate lake and destroy every squirrel training facility myself, so be it.”

Chowder: “But, sir, what about the Oompa Loompas?

Are you concerned for their safety or the mass unemployment you’d be inciting?”

Appleseed: “I have no personal vendetta against the Oompa Loompas; they are a fantastical and oppressed people who have been taken advantage of by a madman in a silly hat, and I wish no harm upon them.”

But to them harm may come.

We here at “Sure, This Can Be News” have all asked our individual lawyer friends about this plan and have been informed that it would be “a terrifying violation of human rights,” “pretty sick,” and “arson.”

“Legally speaking, it’s illegal,” said my friend Tim. “We’d be facing an economic crisis; Appleseed’s proposal would uproot the lives of an entire immigrant population, topple the foundation of the chocolate industry, and—depending on his process of ‘destruction’—endanger the aforementioned population and the surrounding citizenry. It’s horrific.”

No matter what time period he visits, two things are certain: Appleseed wreaks havoc and really wants you to eat apples.

“When you have the power to do good,” Appleseed proclaims, “why not abuse that power to achieve your goals through whatever means necessary without regard for ethics or the golden rule?”

MATTHEW MARCUS

thEM

apples?

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

53

54

Venice | Brooke Bellavia | Photography

mia familia JESSICA CLOVER

COOKINGwith As I scroll through the menu options on my TV, I reach my favorite show, “Giada at Home.” She’s making a homemade pasta dish with figs. I rush upstairs to tell my dad that we should make this for dinner. “That sounds really good,” he tells me.

So we run downstairs in anticipation of a Giadainspired shopping trip, hop into the car and drive to the grocery store.

The automatic doors slide open to greet us and the smell of freshly baked bread wafts beneath my nose. We stroll down the produce department, scanning the aisles for new and vibrant vegetables we’ve never seen before. I point out endive and daikon to my dad, fascinated by the exotic ingredients we’ve only seen on cooking shows but never tried in person.

I love going to the grocery store because it is the first part of any culinary experience. We get to buy new and different ingredients, and my family and I get to expand our palates and enjoy becoming more sophisticated chefs.

We purchase the figs, vibrant lemons and salty prosciutto for the dish.

One of the best parts about gathering the ingredients is trying samples, so I ditch my dad and grab a sample of rosemary olive oil bread. When I bring the fragrant square up to my nose, the intoxicating aroma of rosemary makes my mouth water. We throw the rest of the ingredients into the cart and head home.

Unpacking the bags, I begin to organize the ingredients by placing them in sequential order while my dad gets ready to teach me how to cut figs. Prepping the fruit, Dad tells me about a fried macaroni and cheese dish he saw from “Carnival Eats.” He describes the crisp, gooey cheddar that dripped down the host’s (Noah’s) chin in greasy, delicious strings. The mac and cheese is creamy and luscious and falls from the sides of the sandwich when he bites into it.

I have become so lost in cheese reveries that I’ve forgotten about my serious task of fig chopping (sorry, Giada). I recognize how close I came to losing a thumb, leave thoughts of cheesy bread behind, return to my sharp knife and finish the figs. I grab the flour from the pantry, dump some on the counter, drop eggs into the well and start kneading.

While I do love Giada, and my father and Noah are great pals, my family and I share a bond over cooking shows—it has become a great way for us to relax together and enjoy each other’s company. Giada and Noah introduce ingredients that we haven’t tried before, like the figs in Giada’s recipe.

When we immerse ourselves in cooking shows, we become transported into different cultures—we taste different spices and ingredients that we might otherwise never have heard of before.

As high school students, we often find ourselves overscheduled and bombarded by schoolwork; we need to relax, and cooking shows provide an outlet that allows our minds to drift away from these responsibilities.

The steam from the boiling water moistens my face, and the pasta splashes into the bubbling pot. We add the sweet, sticky figs and pour luscious orange juice into a saucepan.

After tedious minutes waiting for the pasta it is finally done, and we transfer it to the sauce. I listen as everything sizzles when I drop the pasta into the pan, then I spoon mascarpone cheese on top—it covers the noodles luxuriously. Finally, we’re ready to eat.

For many of my peers, watching expert chefs relieves stress and sparks their creativity. For me, cooking brings my family together.

I enjoy cooking with Giada and my dad enjoys cooking with Noah, but in the end, there is nothing like spending time with mia familia.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

55

s r Col o MEHR KHANDELWAL

My mom is a scarlet, blood red. In my mind, red can represent many different themes: fire, passion, strength, love. For me, my mom represents all of those. Her passion for life, her work, and everything she does makes her a deep red that I love and look up to. My dad is more of a cross between iris and periwinkle—a combination that produces purple. While he too has drive and passion, he also has a serene, calming side which puts me at ease instantly.

My best friend is a honey, dandelion yellow. Maybe it’s because her hair is blonde. Maybe it’s because she is happiness, and when I think of her, I think of a smiley face sticker. Or maybe it’s because I go through some of my worst times with her, and she always finds a way to see the bright side.

I associate people with colors based on a combination of their personality traits, my relationship with them, and how they make me feel. While assigning colors helps me to understand people better, it can also lead me to make snap judgements that turn out to be incorrect.

My sophomore year of high school, I signed up to take Algebra II Honors. An old, renowned teacher, he sat at the back of his overfilled classroom constantly filing through papers and eating the same salad for lunch every day. I identified him as a pine-seaweed green with very deep tones attributing to his immense knowledge.

Being the “daredevil” I am, I decided to take not one but two of his honors classes. When I began to struggle, my first instinct was to teach myself the material.

Eventually, I realized that I could not learn the entire curriculum without help. I overcame my fear and set up a meeting with him. The instant I walked into the room, I felt the overwhelmingly deep tones of seaweed sprouting from all corners of the classroom, taunting me with knowledge I didn’t possess.

56

Seashells | Mary Cate Kiser | 18x24 | Acrylic

To my surprise, his crooked smile put me at ease and I felt comfortable asking my questions. From then on, he became my source of encouragement and inspiration. By the end of the year, my perception of him had changed; shamrock and emerald tones surfaced. Through him, I learned that asking for help is not akin to showing weakness or admitting defeat.

I love observing the people and things around me, and through analyzing them, I learn more about myself.

People often ask me what color I represent. The answer is complicated as my color transforms as I grow. Every impactful person I meet shines a new light on my color.

At the beginning of high school, I began as a lavender purple-a butterfly flitting around the freshman quad, excited to be released into the intimidating realm of high school.

Since then I have allowed myself to go down different paths, discover myself, and transform into a Tuscan sun yellow. All the different lights and shadows that have shone on my color and the ups and downs I have experienced in the last four years have blended to make me into the combination of colors I am today.

For me, my color wheel is my own key to deciphering the world. Sometimes I have questioned my color wheel and wondered what biases—conscious or subconscious— have influenced it.

I have learnt that my color wheel is not static but rather a dynamic, living, ever-evolving phenomenon that is chiseled and shaped by my experiences and maturity. My outlook of the universe has changed as my color wheel has slowly transitioned from primary colors to all the hues that exist between them.

As I grow, I keep weaving more complexity into my wheel, always conscious of not allowing biases to creep in and inhibit my perceptions of people.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

57

Sapphic summer VIVIAN WORKMAN

Darling, would you take soapwort as a substitute for violets, With hesitant purple petals as gentle as your sunburned lips?

I’d crush the roots and wash the dirt off my hands Before I asked if I could (please maybe) Hold your face in my palms and call you baby.

58

Woman in Pink | Cam Linker | 16x20 | Digital Art

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

59

b

“There is probably no subject that cannot be eautified .”

60

Trucks | Edward Yang | Photography

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

61

MIA ZOTTOLI

Each month, at the stroke of noon, a new person appeared on the outskirts of the small village. They could not remember who they were, but each and every one knew what their purpose was for the society. A few had attacked the village, but most came with food, tools, seeds, even antidotes for illnesses. The people of the village believed these Vanishers were gifts from the gods, as once they completed their purposes, they disappeared into the night, never to be seen again.

This month was just like any other; the village’s commander, Mazarine Stuart, prepared her weapons and armor for the journey, sharpening her sword and donning her leather armor, while many of her warriors did the same. As Mazarine sheathed her sword behind her back, she heard someone call out her name. It was time.

She walked out of her cottage to see her army in formation before her, with her general standing front and center. Maza acknowledged them and then took her

62

place next to her general, and together they walked over to where her people waited at the wooden gates. Almost everyone in the village came, and they all offered prayers and cheers of good luck to the warriors and their beloved leader. Mazarine shook each of their hands, smiling towards her people, hopeful that the gods would be kind to them. One by one, her small army disappeared through the front gates, Mazarine leading them away from the village, where her people continued to shout cries of support.

When Maza and her people arrived at the clearing, the sun was almost directly overhead. The Vanisher would arrive soon. However, as midday approached, the dismal army remained alone in the clearing. The sun kept shifting in the sky, further and further, until the group began to entertain a thought they never had before: that there would be no Vanisher this month. The gods always sent someone, whether they be good or bad, but they

I Never Should Have Touched That Stupid Rock | Alison Moore | 11x17 | Mixed Media

never sent no one at all.

In a sort of panic, the warriors looked to their leader for guidance, but in truth she was just as concerned as the rest of them. However, Mazarine insisted they stay, even as the sun began to set and bird song gave way to the chirp of the cicada, holding onto the hope that their gods had not deserted them. Just as she began to feel as hopeless as the rest of her crew, a young girl stumbled into the clearing, her body bruised and bloodied.

Before the girl could make any moves, Maza’s warriors surrounded her, swords brandished, and the general pulled the commander aside before she could take a good look at the girl.

The girl held her hands up tentatively and a few of the warriors loosened their grips on their swords because of her childlike features. She took a shaky breath, “Please, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m unarmed.”

Mazarine pushed past her general, joining the circle of warriors and locking eyes with the girl. Something in the girl’s eyes flickered as she registered Maza’s presence, but it disappeared as she stuck out her chin and addressed the leader.

“Mazarine, there’s something you need to know.”

Maza stepped back in shock; none of the people their gods had sent before had ever addressed her so harshly.

It had always been by her title, rather than her name.

This should have made her distrust the girl, but there was something nagging in the back of Maza’s mind that made her want to hear what the girl had to say.

Shortly after, the girl revealed her name to be Azmia, and Mazarine’s suspicions were confirmed that she was unlike the other Vanishers they had received. She knew who she was, and Mazarine hoped that meant she knew of her purpose in the village as well.

On the way back, her warriors attempted to coax information out of the girl, but she refused to speak any further to anyone but Mazarine. Her general voiced her suspicions, but even so when they arrived back at the village, Mazarine insisted that she and Azmia sit down together in Maza’s cottage to talk. However, they compromised and had warriors equipped with throwing knives at every window.

Once they sat across from each other at a small table, Azmia leaned towards Mazarine, and said, in a hushed tone, “Do you remember who I am?” Maza looked back at her strangely, “Should I?” she asked.

Azmia’s eyes glistened for a second at her response, but she quickly regained her composure and leaned forward on the table, leaving Mazarine wondering if she imagined it. She made eye contact with Maza and then spoke, “Look, I don’t have much time before they find me,

“

should I

so you have to pay attention to every word I say. I’m from a community, we live east of here, in the ravine, and we’re your so-called gods.”

Mazarine’s calm composure faded into a hint of anger at that, but nevertheless Azmia continued.

“The Vanishers are my people, every month we send one. And you used to be a part of our community, as did everyone else in this village, besides the small children.”

Maza leaned back in her chair, “The gods are testing our devotion.”

Something in Azmia’s posture faded, and she looked more like a child in that moment than earlier when she had demanded to speak to Mazarine. When she spoke again, her voice broke slightly, “No, no they’re not. Please, you have to listen, they’ll find out soon enough that I’ve left, and this can’t be for nothing.” As she spoke, her voice grew to borderline hysterics, “You were a scientist, everyone in our group was. We came to this planet to study it, but then there was the coup, and then…the draft—” Mazarine placed her palms down on the table and looked Azmia in the eyes, “Why should I believe you?”

She stared at the girl, drawing a hand back to place it on her knife, as she watched Azmia pull something out of her pocket. The girl carefully slid the object, a photograph, across the table, and when Maza dropped her gaze, she saw her own face staring back at her. And next to her, a younger Azmia stood, laughing.

“That’s why,” Azmia said.

Mazarine stared at the photo before her, a photo that disproved everything she had ever been sure of in her life, everything she had ever fought for. But at the same time, it ignited something inside of her, something that had been erased, but not obliterated, years ago. She lifted her gaze to look at the girl sitting before her, a girl who suddenly looked so familiar, “We were an experiment.”

Azmia nodded.

Before Mazarine could wrap her head around all the memories flooding through her mind, a window exploded, glass flying everywhere. Mazarine dove under a table and only opened her eyes when she felt a liquidy substance under her hand. Before her, Azmia lay sprawled out on the floor, struggling to breathe. As Maza desperately attempted to stop the bleeding, Azmia reached a hand out to her cheek, “I’m sorry,” She choked.

“I had to see you one last time, Mom.” Two men climbed in through the broken window, dressed in all black and wielding machine guns.

One raised a hand to his ear and said, “Experiment compromised, commence termination protocol.”

And then everything went dark.

?”

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

63

th e

MIR

NEESA PHADKE

There was a time when young girls and boys loved to look in the mirror, endless ways to enjoy.

There was a time in their lives when they didn’t measure worth on a scale.

A time before they realized that body types can go out of style, endless ways to enjoy turned into endless ways of tortue Now they stare and pick out every stretch mark, piece of extra fat, and body roll, find ways to hide themselves from judgement, comments, assumptions.

64

She Who Fakes a Smile | Rachel Hall | 64x18x8 | Mixed Media

There was a time when young girls and boys loved to look in the mirror, endless ways to enjoy.

There was a time in their lives when they didn’t measure worth on a scale.

A time before they realized that body types can go out of style, endless ways to enjoy turned into endless ways of tortue Now they stare and pick out every stretch mark, piece of extra fat, and body roll, find ways to hide themselves from judgement, comments, assumptions.

Hiding themselves from everyone, despising the way they look.

There was a time when they appreciated their bodies, not try to find every way to change.

Who do they tell?

These boys and girls just keep comparing themselves to that person on Instagram.

You know the one.

The well-posed, wide, straight-toothed grin with the right amount of flash, hundreds of shots in their camera to find the perfect one.

Because that person is struggling too.

I know, I am one of those people, we all are.

Showing our finest sides to everyone, because it’s not just on Instagram anymore.

We act perfect, composed, intelligent, beautiful, happy.

Everyone knows the truth.

We look at ourselves in the mirror, and hate the person staring back.

When did we change, start loathing our looks and concealing our feelings?

The joy in the mirror warped into a place of dread and punishment We are not perfect, but we expect ourselves to be.

When was the last time we looked at ourselves, and smiled because we loved what we saw When does the mirror become a joyful thing in our day, and not painful?

Where does it

?

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

65

66

Mom and Lindy | Lily Dal Cin | 17x26 | Colored Pencil

FLUFFY: Loss of Innocence CAMILIA DARWICH

It's my sixth birthday. At the end of the stairs, I see my family carrying an array of boxes piled as high as Mount Everest while countless colorful balloons float nearby.

A smile breaks over my face, and my family wishes me a happy birthday and showers me with hugs.

I tear through the wrapping paper revealing the toys underneath. In the last bag, I see something gray and fluffy. My eyes widen and I scream with joy. A stuffed bunny, my favorite animal.

Fluffy. His ears are long and dangle past his shoulders.

His tail is white like a cotton ball. As we eat our traditional birthday breakfast, chocolate chip pancakes, Fluffy sits right next to me, just as if he’s a part of the family.

Later, I try to appreciate the Barbie Dream House and American Girl Dolls, but none of the other gifts compare to Fluffy. Instead of Barbie occupying the master bedroom, Fluffy does. He gets into the car and the pool as well. Instead of brushing my doll’s hair, I stroke Fluffy’s fur. I stare into my new bunny’s sparkling black eyes and see my joyful reflection staring back at me.

I grasp Fluffy and clench his body by my side as I hurry back downstairs for cake. His velvety fur brushes my leg with each step, reassuring me I’m not alone.

I’m seven now. Fluffy is dirty and a darker gray, but I don’t mind. I’ve started to carry Fluffy around less.

He only comes out of the house on road trips or other vacations because I still need him to fall asleep at night. At home, I keep Fluffy next to me while I play with my other toys, but stuffed animals aren’t as interesting anymore.

My brothers steal him from my arms and toss him back and forth like it's an NBA game. They hold Fluffy by the leg and swing him around like a lasso. I leap into the air repeatedly without success in getting Fluffy back.

Clenching my fist, I let out a stream of tears as I still cannot stand seeing Fluffy being mistreated.

Am I really too old to have a stuffed animal? Should I get rid of him?

But I’m not ready to let go of Fluffy just yet. He’s still a big part of me.

I’ve just turned eight. I think I lost Fluffy during the move to our new house. Fluffy was old and dirty and my brothers were right. I’m too old to rely on a stuffed animal. None of my friends have them. I was the only one. Now that I have my phone, I spend hours talking to

my friends and Fluffy never crosses my mind.

I’m 11 now. My mom and I clean out my closet, and she grabs something gray. Fluffy. A wave of nostalgia crashes over me and I remember how attached I used to be to Fluffy. I attempt to speak but no words come out.

My heart begins to race and my eyes droop. I twist my ring and anxiously play with my necklace.

A stale odor fills the air from Fluffy being enclosed in the cardboard box. I rub my neck and take a deep breath.

Fluffy was once my most-prized possession. I look at my mom who is staring at the old, worn-out bunny with a sorrowful expression. She glances at the ceiling and blinks slowing. She remembers the memories I had with Fluffy too. She’s remembering my young, innocent face, glowing when I first received the toy. How I would stay up all night If I didn’t have my ragged bunny or how I would refuse to leave the house until I found my stuffed animal.

As much as I used to love Fluffy, I don’t need to keep it. I set the bunny in the donation pile, and my mom looks down at him and then glances back at me with her now glistening eyes. A somber tone fills the room. She and I both know getting rid of the stuffed animal that I once loved so much also means getting rid of the memories that went along with it.

How it used to mean if we left the house without it, I would make her turn around, no matter how far from the house we were, to go back and get it. At the time, she would yell, roll her eyes, and wonder why she ever bought me the toy, but I could tell by the look on her face she was heartbroken.

I tilt my head to the side, resting it on my shoulder. I stare at the floor and let out a sigh. The memories of my younger self flash through my head. I begin reminiscing about how the hours I once spent playing Barbies with Fluffy have turned into me, alone in my room, completing my homework.

I glance down at the now-dull toy whose eyes seemed to mimic mine, reflected on his face with the same dreary expression.

My jaw tightens. Time slows down. I let go of Fluffy’s hand one last time, releasing his velvety fur that once kept me so safe.

I draw my hand to my chest, nervous that I’d later regret my decision, and continue to organize the rest of the closet.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII 67

narcissus

echo ALARIC PAN

68

Ah, yes, here is my glorious reflection How I, Narcissus, shine in the water, And, Echo, how it hath earned your affection, But you are becoming quite a bother.

I consider being trapped like this not a curse, For it hath allowed my gazes and my love to envelop myself, The most glorious thing in the universe, Surpassing you, all nymphs, and every elf.

Go away, you wretched nymph, I say.

My love hath already been claimed by another, Who brings light to my once-darkened day, Who shines in the water like no other, But you distort the image of love with your ugly shadow, Which casts darkness on me, the one I love.

I hope you and everyone else shall not remain by tomorrow, And disappear into the sky like a dove.

Ah, yes, Narcissus, your glorious reflection How you shine in the water And how it hath earned my affection, But nymphs’ trapped gazes are becoming quite a bother.

I consider my echo not a curse.

It hath allowed my love for you to envelop myself, And being here is the most glorious thing in the universe, Surpassing every elf.

Go away, wretched nymph, you say, But my love hath not been claimed by another.

Who else brings light to my once-darkened day?

Your image shines in the water like no other.

The sky casts darkness with shadow On you, the one I love.

I shall remain tomorrow, And I hope you love me like a dove.

Scratchy | Grace Scott | 5x5 | Drawing

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

69

shalom HELEN HURDEN

I hate to admit that I’m scared for you. I remember saying to you—who knows when?—that we are all going to go through something or suffer eventually, but I’m really scared this time. You say you feel lost, but what you don’t understand, what I’m afraid to admit myself, is that I feel like I’d be lost if you left me, literally or metaphorically.

At least that’s what I think now.

So many people have told me over the years to just end this, and maybe I even considered it. I considered it a lot actually. But now I realize how much you mean to me, and how much we lean on each other. I think, I hope, that you need me, and I’ve needed you too.

Really, I just want you to stay with me. Not to see you try to force yourself into a mold that you’re clearly not meant to fit, like Piper tried to do in The Girl Who Could Fly. Look at me, making random literary references again. Anyway, I think you have something truly inspiring inside you—honestly, I’m jealous—and I don’t want to see that change.

Not for anyone. I know you think some people are worth it, but remember, you are worth more. You’ve done more for them than they’ve done for you in my opinion, and it’s time for them to start making their own decisions.

Think about all the advice you’ve exchanged over

70

Blooming Soul | Ellison Dolan | Digital Art

the past...however many years. All the lengths you’ve gone defend what you’ve said and what they’ve sometimes done. Why did you do that?

The answer is simple. Because you have a big heart. You can’t bear to see a hair on their head harmed, and that’s what’s making this so painful for you. It’s simply because you care. And I’m scared that even if you say it’s over, you will still obsess and watch them from dark corners or behind the bend.

You will never have your peace, your calm, your tranquility. I’m scared that you will be so busy worrying about them and about how you can’t simply ask, “How are you?” that you will go mad.

Most importantly, I’m scared that this will take away from your dreams.

You have big things in store for you and you have goals too. I’m scared that you will focus on this and lose sight of who you truly are. The caring, smart, creative, confident, and amazing person you are.

You have your whole life ahead of you, and I don’t want anyone to hold you back.

Sincerely, A friend.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

71

RIAL T DEFENDANT’S

FOR THE

NOSE

a dainty golden hoop hooked between my left and right nostril—a delight to distract attention from my crooked bridge and the keloids that walk across it that’s all I proposed but I suppose this would be a crime.

72

JULIE DERRAIK

abduct your sense of self— close encounters with that needle place humanity on the shelf you’ll be hollow where the rest of us are whole.

Witness I: Father really, honey, money spent for this nasal invasion?

Witness II: Brother you’ll look like Cattle with that cold metal jarring your upper lip— you’ll be a piece of meat in fact

that gory piercing will turn your face an Alien shade of green don’t let its strange beauty

sell your soul and your body it’s a deluxe burger meal, I hope you see the animal underneath that

People of Color II & I | Nina Lavelle | 48x100 | Drawing

butcher’s knife.

It’s a weaning ring, a wicked thing like that warns mothers and the men

your soul pierced then your skin

but I guess if you want to be the

freemartin in the pasture…

and the verdict is in!

this criminal ring—guilty,

Witness III: Mother

gods that’s horrible, harrowing—sacrificing your septum to the snake.

Inhuman.

how will you sneeze when fallen angels like such shiny things? your allergy season begins with dust and sin,

I hope it sears like hell when

the Devil is on your scent.

no use in being some

Cursed Cow from Outer Space…

I just thought it would look cute.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

73

colored ALISON MOORE

me

You can delete the layer whenever, he’d said. What’s the worst that could happen? I closed my eyes. Coloring my line art was such a stupid thing to get worked up about.

So why couldn’t I do it?

Art and I started going steady in seventh grade. I’d flirted with it in the past; crayon disasters taped to my grandparents’ fridge gave testament to those times.

But for the first time, I spent my summer filling my sketchbook. At the end of each day the edges of my palms were smudged with graphite and eraser bits littered my floor.

That was where the trouble started. Every mark elicited a withering inner voice that could make the straightest of lines waver. My perfectionism became a permanent third wheel. Every sketch was torn to shreds but I could

74

have done better. The pressure engaged my anxiety’s selfdefense mode. If you’ll never be happy with it, why not quit? The weight of my own expectations was running my relationship into the ground. In the wake of constant failure, I could almost hear myself saying, It’s not you, it’s me.

But I had a few bones to pick with art, too. The biggest was what I thought was useless and embarrassing: abstract art. Too often I wandered into modern art museums with my sister to laugh at all its nonsensical displays. Scams, we called them. Art that lacked sophistication, thoughtfulness, skill. A torn canvas’s significance fell flat on the concrete at our feet. We criticized with abandon as we prowled the galleries for our next kill.

Charcoal Plague | Alison Moore | 18x24 | Charcoal Drawing

“

Which is why when art and I celebrated our fifth anniversary with an abstract nonrepresentationalism project in my after-school art class, I wasn’t thrilled. But I tried. I struggled with shape and value, creating with a sense of pointlessness and perfectionism that drove me mad. Again I found myself asking, why couldn’t I do it?

I stormed into the art room with frustration sloshing in my stomach and inadequacy boiling in my veins. My thoughts raced as I pulled out a new sheet of paper. I had no idea what I was going to make, but I needed to let off some steam.

I huffed and puffed my way through the class. And quite possibly for the first time, I felt content. Everything about the piece, the way it took shape, its colors and patterns, all of it was a sequence of events on the piece

and only on the piece. There was no room for why doesn’t it look like I imagined it? It was spontaneous and free and an absolute game changer.

Abstract art took the relationship to the next level. I could practically hear my seventh-grade self laughing.

Instead of clinging to perfection, I could let go.

I slipped into my apron. Instead of a traditional landscape for my project, I was working on soundscapes, mapping songs on newsprint. A voluntarily abstract project. Though perfectionism and anxiety still meddle in my artistic affairs, I know how to manage them better.

I plugged in my earbuds and took a deep breath, letting the stress of the day blur out of focus. The broken bits of charcoal stood at attention. I unlocked my phone and pressed play.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

75

the cliché

HAILEY KIM

an american teenager:

Window to the Souls | Olivia Williams | 40x30 | Drawing

76

Strutting out of the dressing room, I executed a confident spin that caused my skirt to twirl dramatically.

The look on my aunt’s face was a skeptical one of poorly concealed judgment that I had seen countless times throughout my 15 years of life. And I knew exactly what was about to come out of her mouth.

“Do you really want that skirt?” My aunt’s eyes flick to my face and back down to the skirt. “The color was made for paler Korean skin.” She pauses. “The cut is shorter because true Korean girls don’t have your exceptionally long legs.” She trails off, frowning at the garment. “Maybe the length is okay in America, but not here.”

For as long as I could remember, my aunts and grandparents always took me shopping before I left Korea to buy me presents to take back to America. I usually found this excursion a boring ordeal, but that year, I was excited. I was starting Middle School in the fall and wanted cute clothes to impress my new classmates. I jumped at the opportunity and bounced from shop to shop until I finally came across a shirt with pink ruffles flowing down the front in waves; the pink gradually faded into a beautiful ombre from a vibrant geranium to a powdery white at the hem. I raced to show my aunts and grandmother. My aunts didn’t give it a second glance, but my grandmother agreed to let me try it on.

When I emerged from the dressing room, her eyes traveled up and down my body, a slight frown creasing her face.

“Sweetie....it’s so cute but it makes you look too grown up,” she continued, “and the shirt isn’t really flattering with your tanned skin.”

“But Grandmo—“ “You should put it back on the rack. Maybe we can find something more age-appropriate.”

I heaved a great disappointed sigh and trudged back into the fitting room. We left the boutique and moved to the next store, which happened to be a shoe store. I sat down on the cold cushions next to the shoe racks and watched as the lady with the big glasses pulled down a pair of the cutest gray canvas shoes. Eagerly, I picked up one shoe and slipped my foot inside. While my toes slid in cooperatively, my heel remained stubbornly stuck outside. I repeatedly shoved my heel down onto the shoe, hoping that a little extra encouragement and elbow grease might do the trick.

“Honey, maybe this isn’t the right size for you.” My grandmother looked at Big Glasses. “Do you have the next size up?”

“I’m sorry, that’s the biggest we have.”

My aunt snorted. “She’s eleven and her feet are too big to fit into Korea-made shoes!” She cast a sideways glance down to my feet. “All I can see are her big feet.”

She giggled. Big Glasses laughed along with her. “I don’t think she cares, though, because American shoes come

in giant sizes. Americans’ feet are seriously big. It’s quite unseemly, if you ask me.”

My cheeks burned, and the once-cool sofa cushion was slick with my sweat. I ducked my head to hide the hot tears gathering in my eyes.

“C’mon, it’s time to go.”

I nodded numbly and fell into step behind the others, dragging my big feet behind me. For the rest of the day I followed them around, smiling at dresses and shirts picked off the racks. As long as I appeared complacent, I wouldn’t hear their barbed comments or see their judgmental looks and they would stop criticizing me.

Soon that horrid day was over, and before I knew it, I was back in America, already at school. I gathered in a circle with my friends in the Middle School foyer, and I noticed that one of my friends was wearing the exact same shirt I had seen in that shop in Korea.

They gushed over it while showing off their own new shoes and clothes. Their eyes finally landed on me. I was wearing the outfit my aunts and grandmother had bought for me.

“Oh, Hailey, is this new?”

“Yeah, I got it in Korea. My aunt thought it was cute.”

“Oh, right…it is cute.” All my other friends nodded in agreement.

“Oh, but Riley, those shoes…” They all turned their attention away from me. I wanted to scream. ‘My aunts made me get this, I didn’t have a choice!’ I blamed my aunts, I blamed my grandmother, but mostly I blamed myself for not standing up for myself. My face burned with shame. ‘I actually did have a choice; I just chickened out and didn’t take it.’

The fours walls of the tiny, plain fitting room in Korea come back into focus as I leave the memory behind.

And standing before my aunt’s probing eyes, I make a decision. I felt confident, like I could conquer anything.

I look directly at my aunt, and for the first time, I’m not intimidated by her scrutiny. I flash her an airy smile. “I like it.”

And that was that.

Building the courage to say those three words took years, but once I said it, it became as easy as breathing.

Looking back, I don’t blame my younger self for caving in to the pressure that my formidable relatives put on me.

It was an immense pressure, and I still feel it everyday.

But trying to fulfill their expectations is even harder, and quite frankly, impossible. Trust me, I’ve tried. You have to set your own standards, stick to them, and stay true to yourself. When you identify with two cultures as strong as American and Korean, a clash between them is inevitable.

But I have learned sometimes a ruffle and a hemline are often worth fighting for; I am comfortable in my own skin, and that’s not a cliché.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

77

78

Thorns of Conformity | Hope Gottschling | Fiber & Textiles

in

EMMA CARTER

I don’t remember when I started looking at my body with hatred instead of admiration and awe.

It probably occurred when the sharp edges of my body turned curvy with maturity, and when my child-like body gave way to a new, more womanly one.

I remember looking at my classmates with jealousy, jealous of their rail-thin frames and reed-like legs. I would push at the rolls of skin on my short, stubby body hoping they would disappear. I would squeeze at my hips, hoping the dips and pudge would miraculously evaporate.

I would cry when trying on jeans as they never fit right, and shopping for clothes was a struggle.

I remember one sticky summer night I sat in my backyard with a family friend, laughing as trails of popsicle juice covered our lips. She was a few years younger than me, but we acted like twin sisters. She stared at my body, criticizing every stray curve or roll and asked me, “Why are you so fat?”

At the time I laughed it off, blaming her age as the reason she was so blunt.

That night as I lie in bed, I cursed my parents for giving me thick thighs, and I cursed myself for eating too much. I began to question my body and my self-worth. I hated the girl who stared back at me, and the girl in the mirror hated who I had become.

My freckles were labeled as blackheads, my stomach a muffin top, and my thighs were too thick. Everything I had been blessed with was a curse in my eyes.

To me my body wasn’t a temple; it was a prison that I was constantly trying to escape.

During Thanksgiving my self-loathing hit its peak. I had a tournament in Florida that year, and my insecurity about my weight impacted every aspect of my play on the field. As I was playing in the last game of the tournament against our rival team, I broke down. I yelled at my

teammates to, “pass the ball faster and stop playing so badly.”

After the game my coach sat me down and expressed her concerns over what had occurred.

I opened up, expressing my insecurity in my weight and how it had been affecting my attitude. She told me to cheer positive things on the field and use my anger to fuel my play.

After that conversation, I began to work on myself and focused my negative energy into field hockey.

My hatred of my body turned into passion for field hockey. My thick thighs gave me the strength and power to run miles on end in games. My muffin top shrank with every practice I attended. I came to practice with a smile on my face, joking around with my teammates.

I turned into the girl that made practice fun and I encouraged people to better themselves.

As quarantine has become a time for reflection, I can proudly say that even though I still have rough days of self-loathing, I love myself. I have focused on eating healthier, maintaining a healthy workout routine, and wearing clothes that make me confident. These thick thighs that have given me the ability to play field hockey in college are loved. What once made me feel ugly now makes me feel beautiful.

My body has allowed me to experience so many great opportunities including happiness. I have ignored the unrealistic beauty standards blasted on social media to focus on making myself the healthiest and most confident version of myself.

I now look in the mirror and see a confident, happy woman staring back at me.

A woman who has experienced setbacks, but has always resiliently bounced back.

A woman who will achieve many things in the future.

I am a work in progress, but I love it.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

79

on Not

Being

80

Masquerade of Duality | Cam Linker | 8x12 | Printmaking

African American

AMERICA

in

ESROM GHIRMAY

According to American society, I am not African American. I am not African American because I do not have nappy hair. I am not African American because my nose is long instead of wide. I am not African American because my facial features appear Middle Eastern, or maybe Indian? America has painted this narrow picture of African people that is so deeply embedded in its society, many African Americans believe it too.

Wouldn’t an African American be anyone born in America and have African descent? People used the term African American because no one knew the nationalities of the first slaves, thus grouping them all as African.

I was born in America to Eritrean parents. Eritrea, being on the Horn of Africa, neighbors Arab countries across the Red Sea. Because of its location, Eritreans share physical characteristics more closely associated with the Middle East.

Fascinatingly, being the first American born Eritrean in my family does not make me African American, according to white people and other African Americans.

If growing up with African parents and grandparents in a African house, growing up in a Eritrean community and even going to Africa while growing up in America is not African American, I do not know what a “real African American” is. For instance, during my first ghastly experience at the DMV, my permit information was recorded. The employee, a Black man, reached the question of race. I responded with “Black,” and he returned a surprised and confused look while reluctantly punching my answer into the computer in disbelief.

Moments like this riddled my life dating back to when my kindergarten teacher informed my class and I that I am not African American and my parents are “just from a different country,”

after my classmate made the mistake of identifying me with my proper race. During recess I made sure I let everyone know my discovery that I actually was not African American.

Slavery played a fundamental role in how people perceive African Americans. The most accessible slave trade routes were located in the Atlantic which targeted Africans along on the west coast of Africa. Eritrea never dealt with American slavery, and Eritreans voyages to America only started in the last few decades and still are in the process of integrating themselves in American culture with our small numbers.

Eritrean Americans are not the only ones who endure this problem. Eritrea’s bordering neighbor, Ethiopia, is home to citizens who share the same Middle East attributes, causing the same exclusion to Ethiopian Americans of not being considered African American, as well. The San people, who span across countries like Zimbabwe, Botswana, and South Africa, face the same problem. In the United States, their African American stature is constantly challenged because of their “Asian” appearance. This stigma throws away thousands of years of their African heritage. The San people also struggle with representation in America like Eritrea, making it hard for them to get their recognition in the African American community.

America, let alone the world, must understand there is not one depiction of Africans. Countless ethnic groups reside throughout Africa and no single picture fits them all. We need to ensure that these groups feel their presence is normalized in society.

It is the responsibility of the Land of the Free to broaden its views on racial groups to include those who are left out.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

81

HOPELESS hope LIV EUBANK

I was almost five-years-old, soaring through the crystal clear sky, water splashing in my face, the breeze blowing through my hair.

Grass stuck to my skin. My dad caught me as I neared the end of the Slip ‘n Slide. I fell on top of him, giggling. I traced my small fingers over the long, dark line down the center of his stomach that had been ripped open and stitched back up too many times. I had seen it before, but for some reason this time was different. My mom smiled from her spot on the grass and said, “Be careful! Dad needs to rest.” My brothers screamed as they hurled themselves at us. I loved my family and I never wanted things to change, but it was then that I realized it might. It was then that I knew my dad was sick.

A few weeks ago I was having a really hard day. As a sophomore, I felt anxious about school and a lot of other things, so I randomly decided to take a bit of time to read some of my dad’s book.

During the three years he fought colon cancer, my family used a website to give updates, and there was also a section where friends could send messages to my dad

82

Infiniti | Laura Han | Photography

and our family. When he died, the website was made into a book.

I have always had the book in my room, never far out of reach, but for some reason, something had always been holding me back from just sitting down and reading it.

Something made me do it that day.

As quickly as I had opened the book, I began to cry. After nine years without him, remembering was hard. I longed to have him hold me in his arms. To hear his voice again. I wanted to be annoyed by things he would say or do, like when he wouldn’t let me watch another Barbie movie and instead made me go on a bike ride with him. I miss these things now. I laughed through my sobs as I read his jokes and his description of one of my childhood injuries: “As if it wasn’t enough for one week,” he said in an entry, “Olivia decided to take a header off of our bed and wound up breaking her arm.”

He described how I made sure to match my cast to my outfits and I would not let anyone sign it because I thought they would ruin it. Somehow he managed to be an involved dad and have a positive attitude all while being relentlessly

attacked by an awful disease.

I kept reading, unable to put it down. I was transported to that time and I was unaware of everything around me. I sat on the floor next to my bookshelf in an awkward and uncomfortable position, but it did not matter. Time escaped me.

Reading the later entries made me cry even harder. I knew that his death was getting closer and closer.

My cheeks had become slick with tears that fell and soaked the pages, making them wilt.

The entries would always give bad news and good news. However, the bad news always seemed to keep coming. There would always be a new tumor or concerning blood loss, yet everyone had so much hope—the doctors, my mom, and all of my dad’s friends and family.

They believed that a miracle would happen, or maybe they just had to convince themselves that it would.

“If you have seen Rob lately,” my uncle said in one of his entries, “you have probably noticed he is less comfortable and more tired than he was prior to the liver resection surgery. The tumors are still growing (hopefully not for long)…we are all hopeful that getting back on a

treatment plan will help knock back some of these symptoms.”

“Another quick update. This morning the doctors in Nashville found a new tumor in Rob’s stomach that is the cause of the bleeding/ anemia. But Rob has always had multiple tumors so one more in the scheme of things is not the end of the world,” my uncle said.

It was.

In another entry he said, “The good news is that a trial became available sooner than we had expected and Rob and Kory actually flew to Nashville last night to begin two days of testing in preparation for a treatment that was to begin on Wednesday. Unfortunately, when they did Rob’s blood test first thing this morning they discovered a fairly significant drop in his hemoglobin, so much so that they redid the test to make sure it was not a mistake.”

It was not a mistake.

“Hopefully the transfusion and the test will result in a plan that will get Rob back on track to begin the trial soon.”

It didn’t.

I struggled to breathe through my tears. One of the last entries was an invitation to a party with all of my

dad’s friends. What I never realized until that moment was that this was basically a goodbye party. At this point everyone knew he was going to die soon, but they pretended like everything was normal. It was too hard for them to accept the fact that he was going to die.

If I had understood this at the time, I do not know what I would have done. I do not know if my brothers knew at that point, and I do not know how my mom did it.

I cannot fathom the pain and the sadness she had to have felt. She had to be strong while she lost her soulmate and the dad of her kids.

“Cancer hurts.” my dad said, “It hurts you mentally, emotionally and physically… I say this not because I am looking for sympathy, but because, cancer doesn’t just hurt the person with the disease, it is equally as cruel to those closest to you.”

I was startled when my mom tapped me on the shoulder. She had come into my room, but I was so engrossed in the book that I did not notice her until then. She saw me with the book in hand, crying. She held me close and just let me cry.

“It is so sad to see how much hope you had when I know that he died.

I don’t know how you were happy at the end even though you knew it was the end,” I said.

She held me tighter and started to cry.

“I know,” she said. “But hope and joy were necessary. God gave us hope so that we could be happy and spend time together. He gave us hope so that we could enjoy Dad while we had him and he could have a good end of his life. At the end, it was really hard. But we couldn’t stop living life, and we couldn’t let the end of his life be only sadness.”

I was taken aback. I had never thought about this before. I was too young to understand when everything happened, and I am still having to process it all.

I will never know what they all felt. I will never know how they all got through it. All I know is that I am eternally thankful.

I think my mom put it best in one of her entries.

She said, “Here are some things we know: we have gotten pretty good at being joyful for what each day has to offer. Planning is for wimps. We love sunshine. We love laughter. We believe in God’s love and grace. We are always hopeful.”

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

83

the

gift

HOPE GOTTSCHLING

Harsh fluorescents flicker A telephone wails Work beckons The day beating on, despite the fallen sun Night finally settles Rest comes to my drooping eyes Quickly disrupted by the jarring light of a phone come alive, I turn it over, then myself I now face the gentle moonlight, glowing through the trees Seconds, hours pass I awake again The moon now shining directly on me, peaking through the forest Tender, but enduring It has chosen me I smile in wonder, as drowsiness eases me to sleep, and a new day begins The moon, a dreamy memory of the night

84

Man in the Moon | Mary Cate Kiser| Photography

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

85

BLUE REVIEW 2019-2020 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: 2nd Place Layout: 1st Place Cover Design: 2nd Place Photography: 1st Place Theme Development: 1st Place

Individual Awards

Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA) Gold Crown Award Medalist Critique: Gold Medalist All-Columbian Honors: Essentials Verbal Visual

National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE): REALM REALM First Class

Individual Art: 1st Place, Elaine Liu ‘22 Individual Photograph: 1st Place, Lila Rhee ‘23 Photography/Art Layout: 1st Place, Laura Zielinksi ‘20 1st Place, Fiction Layout: Mia Zottoli ‘23 2nd Place, Holt Daniels ‘23 2nd Place: Fiction, Alison Moore ‘21 3rd Place: Personal Essay, Samantha Gitlin ‘20 3rd Place: Poetry, Julie Derraik ‘22 2nd Place, Mia Zottoli ‘23 HM, Ryan Beam ‘22 HM, Ryan Bonner ‘20 HM, Mary Catherine Pope ‘20 HM, Irene Yang ‘22 HM, Joy Yu ‘21 HM, Laura Zielinski ’20

2021UPPER SCHOOL SCHOLASTIC AWARDS MID-CAROLINA REGION ART AWARDS

Art Silver Key

Art Gold Key

Luisa de Armas, Sculpture, "Plastered Lizard" *Ellison Dolan, Digital Art," As I Go On" Hope Gottschling, Fashion, "Color Pop" Hope Gottschling, Fashion, "Loose Threads" Aidan Long, Painting, "A Vibrant Reminder" Vivian Workman, Drawing & Illustration "Through the Window"

*Ellison Dolan, Digital Art, "Blooming Soul" *Rachel Hall, Mixed Media, "She Who Fakes a Smile" *Cam Linker, Painting, "Florida Water" *Evie McMahan, Mixed Media, "Geneva"

86

2021 SCHOLASTIC AWARDS, CONT. Art Honorable Mention Haley Barnes, Painting, "Coast" Luisa de Armas, Sculpture, "deArmadillo" Lulu Gorelick Fashion, "Fallen Angel" *Hope Gottschling, Fashion, "Thorns of Conformity" Kate Griesser, Drawing & Illustration, "Quiet in the Darkness" *Nina Lavelle, Drawing & Illustration, "People of Color 3" Evan Li, Photography, "Cross-Section of a Forest" *Cam Linker, Mixed Media, "An Evolution of Balance" George Lynch, Digital Art, "Sky Swing" *Elle McElroy, Photography, "The Farm" *Jenna Upton, Digital Art, "god is dead"

MID-CAROLINA REGION WRITING AWARDS Writing Gold Key Julie Derraik, Poetry, “Mother Is Near” Joy Yu, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Unlined Paper and Feathered Words”

Writing Silver Key Andrew Cowan, Critical Essay, “Taking a Knee: the Power of Posture and the Ability to Rise” *Julie Derraik, Poetry, “Tia’s Phone Number” Joshua Fan, Critical Essay, “The Greatest Pretender” Callie Cargagliano, Poetry, “Stars” *Esrom Ghirmay, Critical Essay, “Not Being African American in America” *Hope Gottschling, Poetry, “The Gift” Laura Han, Critical Essay, “Blood on the Sheets: Post-Mao China’s Rampant Sexual Violence Problem” Daniel Haughton, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Stuck in the Middle” Evan Hirsch, Humor, “New York in the South” Jaya Iyer, Journalism, “The No-Panic Pandemic: Latin Reinvents Learning in a Hybrid Semester” Evan Li, Critical Essay, “The New Blues: the Artistic Qualities of the #BlackLivesMatter Movement” Allie Liu, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Sharing Is Caring” Campbell Loeffler, Critical Essay, “Quotas: A Necessary Entrance for Female Directors” Cody Ngwanza, Critical Essay, “Burning on the Horizon: A Climate Crisis with Consequences” Neesa Phadke, Poetry, “Distinct” Cora Snyder, Critical Essay, “Shy vs Sociopathic: the Common Misuse of the Word 'Antisocial'”

Cora Snyder, Critical Essay, “Trash and Transcendentalism” *Mia Zottoli, Science Fiction & Fantasy, “The Experiment”

Writing Honorable Mention Ben Bridges, Critical Essay, “The Danger of Control: Examining the Effects of Paternalistic Parenting on Modern Teenagers through Dead Poets Society” Brendan Bucci, Poetry, “The Summit” Andrew Chang, Critical Essay, “May the Force Be with You: Wordsworth and Tolkien’s Personified Landscape Symbolism” Josh Cohen, Humor, “Techno-Virus: In the Room with Zoom, Madden, Snapchat, and so on…”

Louisa de Armas, Poetry, “Egress” *Julie Derraik, Poetry, “Trial for the Defendant’s Nose” *Liv Eubank, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Hopeless Hope” Laura Han, Poetry, “The Pearl” *Helen Hurden, Short Story, “Cut” *Helen Hurden, Poetry, “The Voices on the Radio— Election Night” *Hailey Kim, Personal Essay & Memoir, “An American Teenager: The Cliche” *Cam Linker, Short Story, “The Misery Mill of Margaret Wright” Cam Linker, Critical Essay, “The Pilgrimage of ‘The Fool’: Chris McCandless’s Transcendence to Enlightenment” Ryan Lupfer, Journalism, “The Lost Season” Jackson Morgan, Personal Essay & Memoir, “The Poles of America” Jackson Morgan, Short Story, “La Maleta: the Story of Facundo Rodriguez” Jackson Morgan, Critical Essay, “The Reign of Man or the Rain of Nature? Cole and Bryant’s Symbolic Descriptions of Humankind in Nature” Nyela Rucker, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Preservation of Floral Spirits” *Cora Snyder, Poetry, “Philia” Demi Stamatakos, Personal Essay & Memoir, “The Fruit of A Question” Jenna Upton, Poetry, “The Mother” Jenna Upton, Poetry, “Forgiveness/An Angel Cries” Sophia Vona, Critical Essay, “Through RoseColored Glasses: Romantic Ideas in 19th Century American Art” Madison Yee, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Becoming an Insider” *Featured in this edition.

Blue Review Vol. XXVII

87

COLOPHON The body text is Minion Pro. Headline fonts include The Suavity, Belinda, 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 2020 and Adobe Photoshop CC 2020. 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), the Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA), and the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE).

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 associate editors, etc. Blue Review is an extracurricular activity; every part of its construction is 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 Our mission is to promote the creative arts fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and art in all forms, within the Charlotte Latin community and to and English and art teachers can recommend encourage Upper School students to express pieces they feel merit recognition. Submissions their individuality through art and writing. We are blind; the students’ genders, races, names, strive to inspire emerging voices, foster and grade levels are not disclosed during the authentic personal expression, and provide a selection process. showcase for our students' work.

Pieces may be edited for grammar and/or All 522 students in grades 9-12 are eligible to space, but content is not censored by editors apply for the Blue Review staff. The lead editors or adviser. The staff adjudicates the works select general staff based on their interest in based on voice, style, creativity, and literary and dedication to the Blue Review; staffers merit. From the selected pieces, preference must attend regularly scheduled meetings and is given to senior work. It is the policy of the a required editing session, and they assist in editorial board that Blue Review focuses solely hosting the launch party when the magazine is on creative works rather than critical essays, presented to the school community. reviews, etc.

EDITORIAL POLICY

88

“Whether we stay stagnant or from our experiences is merely a matter of , of

lens

.”

”

what in reality is IMAGES JOIN.”