Blue Review 2022

BLUE REVIEW Literary & Arts Magazine

Charlotte Latin School Vol. XXVIII 2022

Do I belong to the

HEAVENS?

Charlotte Latin School

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

...or do I then

Belong, after all, to the

EARTH? BLUE REVIEW Literary & Arts Magazine Vol. XXVIII 2022

EDITORS’ LETTER In this year’s edition of "Blue Review," we sought to explore the stages of a journey. Within the past two years, we learned to adapt and persevere while under isolation and found ways to work through its challenges. The myth of Daedalus and his son, Icarus, initially resonated with us as we reflected on our own experiences, from our forced confinement away from friends and loved ones to adjusting to a new sense of normalcy.

We saw ourselves in this story. Icarus’s once foolish (and deadly) flights to the sun and sea were almost understandable. We shared his desire to feel the ocean breeze and the sun’s warmth after almost two long years trapped in the mundane confines of our homes.

When we initially hear the myth of Icarus, our first impulse is to focus on the tragedy, but we should consider Icarus’s flight. Remember, Daedalus chooses to continue flying even after his son’s death; the myth is also a tale of determination.

Then we found Lila’s art, and the bugs intrigued us. We had identified two common threads in this journey: perseverance and growth. A bug’s life represents both of these characteristics. Insects are (sometimes annoyingly) unkillable. Even after developing thousands of bug sprays and hiring a myriad of exterminators, they continue to survive.

Bugs also quite literally metamorphose. A vital part of their life cycle is to crawl into a cocoon, wait, and change—then they continue on to the next stage of

their life's journey.

In Chapter 1, “No Way Out,” we incorporate the concept of metamorphosis to process our own recent experiences. This chapter’s pieces focus on turmoil, confusion, and fear. Within these pages, we reflect on how it felt to be trapped within the four walls of our own “cocoons"; ultimately, we realize that facing this uncertainty was a necessary part in our maturation.

Chapter 2, “A Lonely Purity,” captures our emergence from the cocoon. We portray the initial disorientation of finally being released from quarantine. This freedom we had longed for also brought with it elements of danger and the thoughts of, "What now?" We worried about failing as we learned how to live in the world again.

Finally, in “Burning Light,” we explore themes of lingering hope and endurance, the innate desire to keep going, and our development after such a harrowing journey. Chapter 3 symbolizes we cannot be afraid to fly; however, we recognize each journey we take will change us in some way.

When faced with hardship, we can let it overwhelm us, or we can, like Lila's bugs, become tenacious and evolve. And like Icarus, we can fly.

All we have to fear is failure, but that is where the greatest lessons live.

Join us as we continue our journeys.

Evan, Hope, Lynn, & Mia

COVER AND COMPLEMENTARY ART Lila Rhee | Bugs in Orange, Panel 2 | 30x20 | Mixed Media This is the most time consuming art piece I’ve ever created. It was a constant in my life throughout one-and-one-half years of quarantine, hybrid learning, and masked school. Overall, the piece represents personal and environmental change as well as perseverance.

The bugs in their most saturated environment have no color themselves, symbolizing the feeling of struggling in a joyful world. On the other hand, the bugs in the desaturated background possess an almost jarring contrast in their bright colors, which is meant to show the disconnect of finding one’s Blue Review Vol. XXVIII

way back to happiness when the world is struggling.

The second of these three panels (which was used for the cover) illustrates what I felt during the ongoing pandemic. Just like the world around them, they themselves are dull, and everything blurs together. Overall, the metamorphosis of these insects as their world darkens around them signifies their resilience.

One of the reasons insects are a favorite subject of mine is that although their individual life spans are infinitesimal, as a species they will likely inhabit this earth much longer than the human race.

MASTHEAD Faculty Adviser | Lori Davis Lead Layout Editors

Hope Gottschling | Evan Li | Lynn Zhao | Mia Zottoli

Associate Layout Editors Claire Fleischer | Hannah Hurden | Helen Hurden Faculty Co-adviser Tiffany Fletcher Lead Copy Editors Cora Snyder | Sophia Vona Associate Copy Editors Claire Addison | Prentiss Cooper Tori Vona Lead Art Editors Cam Linker | Lila Rhee Associate Art Editor Alana Duffy General Staff Ana Burke | Allie Liu | Ella McElroy Nyela Rucker | David Tian | Lea Troutman English Faculty Support Alan Becker | Stuart Bonner | Matt Cosper Spencer Dowd | Tiffany Fletcher | David Gatewood | Richard Harris | Maria Klein Amanda Labrie | Tara McLellan Robin Siczek 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 Technical Support Andre Elam | Chris Esposito Cory Hardman | Jim Huffaker Craig Summerville Promotional Support Latin Arts Association: Vivi Bechtler-Smith | Aileen Boltz Alexa Cutter | Renee Hobart Gina Lawrence | Lori Samii Harriet Stamatakos | Erin Stubbs Leslie Wickham Latin Arts Association Liaison Richard Harris Charlotte Latin School Media & Graphics April Baker | Susan Carpenter Courtney Oates Financial Support Charlotte Latin School Blue Review Vol. XXVIII

TABLE OF CHAPTER 1 FICTION

13 Mia Zottoli | Binary | Fiction 14 Hope Gottschling | A Game of Go Fish | Fiction 16 Robby Gette | Steps | Flash Fiction 19 Leif Lanzillotta | Beyond the Gates | Flash Fiction 24 Hailey Kim | The Path | Flash Fiction 33 Gabi Nolan | Easy As Cake | Fiction

CHAPTER 1 NONFICTION

21 Isis West | My Past, My Present, My Future | Memoir

CHAPTER 1 ART

10 Lila Rhee | Leviticus | Digital Photography 12 Erin Corwin | Night on the Town | Drawing CHAPTER 1 DIVIDER 15 Hope Gottschling | Temptation | 8 Lily McMahan | A Spanish Monastery Acrylic Painting | Photography 16 Bryce Spangler | Indigo Night Sky | Colored Pencil CHAPTER 1 POETRY 18 Millie Holtz | CityScape | Mixed 10 Cora Snyder | Sunday School Media Lessons | Free Verse 20 Ellison Dolan | A Distant Reality | 23 Luisa de Armas | Lady in Green | Digital Art Free Verse 22 Rachel Hall | Stuck | Photography 27 Erin Corwin | No Body | Free Verse 24 Cooper Kasimov | Lady Liberty 28 Jasmine Zheng | Introspection: Abstraction | Painting A Small Collection | Free Verse 26 Ellison Dolan | Me, Myself, and I | 30 Sarah Hinrichs | Horas en La Digital Art Frontera Mexicana con el Monstruo | 28 Anna Pope | Blinded | Photography Free Verse 30 Madeleine Pease | Dancing Mushrooms | Charcoal Drawing

CHAPTER 1:

“NO WAY OUT”

Blue Review Vol. XXVIII

CONTENTS 32 Camille Darwich | False Identity | Mixed Media

CHAPTER 2:

“A LONELY PURITY” CHAPTER 2 DIVIDER

34 Lily McMahan | Barcelona Balconies | Photography

CHAPTER 2 POETRY

40 Evan Li | In/Out There | Free Verse 44 Cora Snyder | Stories | Free Verse 50 Julie Derraik | You Can’t Make Yarn Out of Steel Wool | Free Verse 55 Julie Derraik | Mother Is Near | Free Verse 60 Hope Gottschling | Into the Midst | Free Verse 68 Sophia Vona | Pick Your Poison | Free Verse

52 Neesa Phadke | Sharing Mango Lassi | Memoir 56 Gabi Nolan | Goodbye to Hello | Memoir 59 Cam Linker | Being v. Becoming | Memoir 65 Evan Li | An Ekphrastic Asian Melancholia | Memoir 66 Ryan Samii | The Meaning of Happy | Memoir

CHAPTER 2 ART

36 Luisa de Armas | Inside Out | Mixed Media 40 Lilly Clark | Solitary Tree | Mixed Media 42 Mary Cate Kiser | Yellow Flower Blue Sky | Mixed Media

CHAPTER 2 FICTION

36 Olivia Warren | Anne & Christine | Dramatic Script 47 Jackson DiRoma | The Knight | Fiction 49 Kathryn Ogbata | Is This It? | Flash Fiction 63 Mia Zottoli | Snow | Fiction

CHAPTER 2 NONFICTION

42 Helen Hurden | Yosemite: A Journey into Humanity | Memoir

Blue Review Vol. XXVIII

TABLE OF 45 Nina Lavelle | Drive | Oil Crayon 46 Millie Holtz | Leaf Person | Mixed Media 48 Nina Lavelle | Bones | Drawing 51 Leah Tewolde | War in Ethiopia | Painting 52 Mary Cate Kiser | Spots | Oil On Paper 54 Anna Pope | Sunflower | Painting 56 Cam Linker | Mirror Me | Photography 58 Cam Linker | Waters of Change | Painting 60 Zach Warmath | When There’s a Bustle in Your Hedgerow | Photography 62 Sam Alexander | Eye of Green | Photography 64 Evan Li | Asian Melancholia | Photography 66 Sloan Wooster | Spiral Collage | Mixed Media 68 Noelle Okland | Blue Solitude | Mixed Media

CHAPTER 3:

“BURNING LIGHT” CHAPTER 3 DIVIDER

70 Lily McMahan |

Blue Review Vol. XXVIII

Barcelona Studio | Photography

CHAPTER 3 POETRY

74 Agatha Stamatakos | Dancers in Unison | Free Verse 83 Tess Goldman | Seeking the Stars | Free Verse 86 Nyela Rucker | Royalty Amongst Reality | Free Verse 96 Cam Linker | Wednesday Evening Commute | Free Verse

CHAPTER 3 FICTION

72 Alexa Marcus | Wobble Baby | Humor 77 Mayes Fisher | From Cook to Warrior | Fiction 78 Allie Liu | Sacrifices to Be Made | Fiction 89 Lydia Berens | Battle Scars | Flash Fiction 94 Cameron Hutchinson | Ten-YearOld Bus Driver | Fiction

CHAPTER 3 NONFICTION

80 Hope Gottschling | Childhood’s Departure | Memoir 84 Evan Li | Roses on the Shore | Memoir 91 Cora Snyder | Problem Child | Memoir 92 Julie Derraik | Bossa Nova Sounds Like Me | Memoir

CONTENTS 99 Lynn Zhao | Understand | Memoir

CHAPTER 3 ART

72 Leif Lanzilotta | Train to the Moon | Painting 75 Agatha Stamatakos | Butterflies & Flowers | Drawing 76 Ellison Dolan | A Pop of Color | Digital Art 79 Abby Lebda | Cape Cod Cottage | Drawing & Illustration 81 Grace Vance | Primary Childhood | Painting 82 Rachel Hall | Reflection 3 | Photography 84 Wilson Thrift | Angles Sculpture | Mixed Media 87 Jaylen Jones | I Don't Know | Monoprint 88 Camille Darwich | Startled | Digital Art 90 Grace Vance | Technicolor Swirl | Colored Pencil 93 Charlie Martin | School of Fish | Turkish Marbling Collage 94 Kayla Middendorf | Explosion of Faces | Mixed Media 97 Cam Linker | Under the Surface | Textiles 98 Logan Yee | Nobody | Charcoal & Pencil

CHAPTER DIVIDER QUOTATIONS

COVERS & TITLE PAGE QUOTATIONS

Blue Review Vol. XXVIII

“

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A Spanish Monastery | Lily McMahan | Photography

A path with

NO

way out.“

Blue Review Vol. XXVIII

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Cora Snyder

10 10

Leviticus | Lila Rhee | Digital Photography

I don’t want to love my neighbor after what my neighbor did to my friend and if I turn the other cheek won’t people just hit me again?

If I go the extra mile then I’ll have to walk two back and the law won’t agree that thinking the thought is as bad as doing the act.

Killing the enemy with kindness is really murder still and people tend to build up walls around their city on a hill.

I don’t want to be a fisher of men if it means I must use hooks and nets and if I forgive seventy times seven times the four-hundredninety-first time comes next.

The sun can keep setting and rising it will still go down on me but until the wrong is finally made right I am still here and I am still angry.

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12

Night on the Town | Erin Corwin | 15x32 | Drawing

BI The faceless creatures lead me into a room. A table sits in the middle, with a cool metal chair tucked beneath it. I feel a hand on my back shove me, and I stumble forward, nearly banging my knee into one of the arms of the chair Message received.

After sitting in the chair for what seems like hours, the creatures bring out a device riddled with wires. Setting it in front of me, I can see that the wires connect to two buttons: one blue, one pink. The colors jump out at me against the dullness of the room, against the blank beings staring at me, invisible eyes begging, demanding me to do something.

Two buttons.

One blue.

One pink.

The creatures stand around me, forming a circle.

Trying to run would be futile. As they close in on me, I know I have to make a choice.

My hand hovers over the blue button, and then I shift it over to the pink, slowly lowering it down as the creatures bend their bodies over me. I pull back abruptly, placing my hand back in my lap, and the creatures stand back up again, their movements reminiscent of whisperings of a crowd.

Pick one, I hear.

Then we’ll let you go.

Press a button, and my body’s free. I can leave this dark room of expectations. But what of my mind? It would stay locked inside, forever.

By now the creatures surround me on every side, pulling at my skin, my hair, my arms, pulling me down

Mia Zottoli

to the buttons. My fingers inches away from a decision, I try to fight back, struggling within their grip of iron, but it’s no use. They’re too strong. They force my hand down, down, until it hovers mere centimeters above the pink button.

And then I realize something.

I wrench my other hand free from the creatures, bringing it down hard on the space between the buttons, where the device fades to black. Electricity crackles, and all of the creatures jump back, screeching in anguish.

With both of my hands now free, I pick up the device, stand up from the metal chair, and hurl it at the ground.

Pieces of material break off, and one of the buttons cracks in half.

The creatures cower in the corner.

Picking up the device, I pull out the wires, one by one, and every time I do so, a creature disappears. Finally, only one remains, a small thing hiding in the shadows of the room. As I reach to disconnect the last wire, it runs at me, screaming with all the fury of hell, and I flinch, grabbing the wire and pulling hard.

The creature fades to nothing right in front of my face.

All around me, the room starts to crumble, the device along with it, and I notice that the door the creatures led me through has opened, with light pouring out, illuminating the heavy room.

Racing through it, I watch everything collapse behind me; I see the colors of blue and pink fade into oblivion, the gray of the room giving way to a new light, and I smile.

I broke the machine.

Blue Review Vol. XXVIII

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g

A

ame OF

Hope Gottschling

H

FIS

GO

In a tidy little cobblestone house, floating in the middle of a quiet pond, hidden by an expanse of forest in every direction and quite unknown to the rest of the world, a gentle old fellow and his giant Flemish rabbit peacefully enjoyed two bowls of spaghetti, each with four and three-quarter meatballs.

When a knock sounded at the door, the stooping man rose to meet it. He returned with a bubbling freckle-faced girl at his tail, whose soaked auburn braids dripped arrhythmically onto the floor.

In her small pink hands, she carried a surly goldfish in a misshapen glass bowl which she placed on the leftmost keys of an antique piano perched in the corner, sounding a deep dull hum.

Keenly, the rabbit raised his eyes over his thin wire frame glasses, but

14

Temptation | Hope Gottschling | 6x6 | Acrylic Painting

paid no mind, and hopped softly from his seat to collect a boiling kettle from the fireplace and pour three cups of chamomile tea. To the fish, he presented a scone.

The old man kindly covered the girl with a warm towel and handed her the tea, then exclaimed jovially, “Go fish!”

With that, the goldfish soared in a majestic arc out of the fishbowl and over the piano, onto the scone with a soft thud.

Jumping up, the girl clasped the poor flopping thing between her hands and hurried out the door, diving into the pond below with a magnificent splash.

Both the man and the rabbit stared wistfully at the rippling water for a moment, before sitting back down to their meatballs and beginning to deal out cards for a game of Go Fish.

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ST E S P

16

Robby Gette

Indigo Night Sky | Bryce Spangler | 12x10 | Colored Pencil

Step one. My heartbeat fills my head with a silent cacophony, drowning out the sound of my family screaming at me from behind.

Step two. I hold no responsibility for anything my family has done to tear itself apart, so I should do what they have done forever, and act on my impulses.

Step three. Run. If they try to wrap me back in, my mind will only further deteriorate. I need a clear head.

Step four. Why am I leaving my family? Where do I go from here? Will I return? What is my ignorance doing? All questions I should have asked.

Step five. I know. My local church. They certainly could help my head clear. Only

problem—I have no way to get there.

Step six. I would call my aunt, but she has brought my household no dysfunction—why should I drag her into the middle?

Step seven. I would return home, but I would only meet an even messier situation than before. I have nowhere to go.

Step eight. I duck into the woods. This is a temporary solution, but one way or another, I need solitude, solitude to bring composure, composure to bring reason, reason to help me fix my broken life.

“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” I read “Anna Karenina”; why didn’t I listen?

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CityScape | Millie Holtz | 30x20 | Mixed Media

an if L Le ta lot zil

With homes peeking through the swaying trees ahead and a rusting metal fence on the opposing side, this stretch of land survives as a reminder of the lush, verdant forest that once ran rampant with life.

Now deer and rabbits scurry through, afraid of our speeding cars and noisy neighbors.

This sliver of nature, however, still provides a vignette of what once roamed in place of my home, and the silent, overwhelming beauty of unbothered nature, now full of metallic screams and broken dreams.

My fence keeps our groomed and perfected lawn shielded from the chaotic nature around us.

While the trees only sparsely cover the wild stretch of earth, the rolling land coated in devilish weeds creates an almost treacherous landscape.

I lie there and watch the squirrels scamper for hours.

Occasionally, deer will pass by far too close for comfort and rabbits will steal a sniff of my foreign odor.

However, an old stray dog is my closest companion. I knew her back before she was abandoned when she roamed my neighborhood with perfect fur and a polished collar.

Abandoned is a harsh word for her case though; her owner died living alone in the house that owns this broken fence.

Maybe in some way I remind her of her beloved owner whose remains lay behind this rusty, slumping fence.

I’ve done my best to care for her as she’s aged, but it’s hard to care for a dog when you’re beyond the gates.

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20

A Distant Reality | Ellison Dolan | Digital Art

my present, my past,MY FUTURE Isis West

From years one to “too big,” my favorite place to be was indisputably on my dad’s shoulders. Regardless of how trivial or insignificant my thoughts might have seemed, their leverage lay comfortably atop of them. As a result, curiosity ruled my younger years, primarily through the discovery of Orion’s Belt, my very first constellation.

The first time I saw Orion’s Belt was in my backyard on an early winter evening. As I perched on top of my father, he pointed it out to me and explained in a very matter-of-fact tone that each star represents my past, my present, and my future. One, two, three of the universe’s stars in the most perfect arrangement in the night sky, just for me? I was skeptical and fearful to assume that level of importance.

The next evening, I ventured out to look for my constellation again, this time alone. Physically closer to the ground now, I got comfortable sitting with my thoughts, without the benefit of my dad’s guided questions. The beginning of Michael Jackson’s “Human Nature” started up in the wired headphones that extended from my bright pink iPod nano, and I began searching.

As Michael narrated the expedition, singing “looking out across the nighttime,” a new question urgently arose in me: “Why does the sky never change?” My dad encouraged me to keep a journal of all of the questions I had so that I could come back and consult them later. He would say, “whether that means later tonight, or 20 years from now, never stop questioning, never stop looking for answers for yourself, and never stop writing.”

The final crescendo of the night reached me as Michael wailed his last, “oh why” and I, subconsciously, found myself softly singing that same phrase. Orion’s Belt was now represented by a sketch of three black dots on a page in my overused journal, circled by serendipitous scribbles of the word “why.” But “why” is broader than my constellation or my interpretation of sky mechanisms.

“Why” is the embodiment of curiosity and a fragment of

every person’s “Human Nature.”

Gazing at the stars, I often find myself fabricating stories of my ancestors—stories where constellations, like my own Orion’s Belt, persuade and influence people’s lives. The stories shared by my parents about their family and culture have an invincible hold on my decisionmaking, imagination, and perspective on what I now understand to be my purpose.

Spinning these stories helps me unravel the mysteries of my own life. Like how being Afro-indigenous means that my life’s rhythm will forever be overly complicated and indecisive, never knowing which note it will and can land next.

Consequently, I found that even doing something as fleeting as introducing myself was a dreary experience for me because my first name is Egyptian, my middle is South African, and my last is Native American.

Younger me was bashful when doing so and always anticipated ignorant reactions and responses. In the same way that I had to accept my origins of thought when contemplating Orion’s Belt, I had to acknowledge, accept, and be proud of my name and family origins.

Storytelling, music, and my dad’s shoulders—all are key elements that compose and conduct my impassioned pilgrimage, shaping the multifaceted person that I am today. A person longing to be as remarkable a thinker and storyteller as the stars, my ancestors, my father, and Michael Jackson.

As I approach the end of a fleeting childhood, I am confident that those elements will continue to guide my journey towards such: to playfully challenge me without my having to feel gridlocked by “set in stone” answers, to take me to where interpersonal change is tangible and applicable to the things that make me me, just as witnessing Orion’s Belt on that cold, winter night has.

After all, what is more perfect and magically balanced than three stars in the sky?

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22

Stuck | Rachel Hall | Photography

Lady in Green A broken queen, Recovering— From a war she didn’t want.

A gruesome fight, With no victory.

Copper arms rot— In light.

Shining eyes, Dull from cries— Tears rust her skin.

Her loyal subjects— Her selfish pawns— Too preoccupied With a war amongst Themselves, Forget to protect Their queen.

Arm held higher Burning in fire, Eyes hardened in stone.

A faded tablet— Long forgotten— Torch hits the floor.

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PATH Hailey Kim

the

24 24

Lady Liberty Abstraction | Cooper Kasimov | 33x18 | Painting

“The light, the light!” They all cried. “Go!” They pointed desperately and shoved her in its direction. They gently guided her as she crawled toward that light.

A single pink flower caught her eye one the side of the path. She reached for the beautiful flower.

“Hurry!” They shouted. Urgently this time.

Now they pulled her along.

She stood and dashed toward the light, more flowers and colors passing in a blur beside her.

The further she ran, the more faded the light seemed. She slowed.

“You mustn't! They yelled, angry this time.

“RUN, RUN!” They yelled.

Run, Run, She repeated.

They were after her. They chased down the path. Her feet were sore, her knees ached, her skin sagged, her body became bent.

Her knees gave out, she collapsed. The voices grew closer. When she looked up, the light was but a speck in front of hert; she would never reach it.

When she looked back, she saw the flowers had wilted. She wondered what they smelled like when they were alive. Now, she would never know.

The voices overtook her.

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26 Me, Myself, and I | Ellison Dolan | 17x22 | Digital Art

BODY Erin Corwin

It’s 9:42 pm, and I’m waiting for a train There’s a man.

He’s standing on the platform across the tracks He’s been staring at me for the past hour, and it’s gotten to be a little unnerving.

He has this look on his face, like there’s some joke about our situation that only he understands I look away, feeling wrong I check the clock, and watch as it changes to 9:43 I look back at the man He’s grinning now, staring straight at me I want to look away, but I’m stuck.

Frozen.

I can’t cover my eyes or blink or look away or breathe His smile grows wider, reaching past each ear He’s laughing, except he isn’t.

He’s making an indescribable sound, it’s pitch claws at the inside of my skull His eyes drill back into his face, becoming black pits, holes that seek to suck the entire world into themselves His face splits apart and folds in on itself simultaneously His entire body is torn apart, until he looks more like a lump of blood and bones and meat than a man …I’m not sure he ever really was a man He continues to twist inwards, until He entirely disappears into a point in space, as if he’d never been there My body’s released, I fall to the ground retching I hear sirens, bells, static, noise, the world is whirling wildly around me I don’t think— It’s 9:42 pm, and I’m waiting for a train.

It’s silent.

I’m entirely alone.

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Scattered Realities I’m trying, hard, To gather up the scattered pieces Thrown around the corners of my brain Pounding—pounding Walk around, dazed, I’m drifting in a dream and I—can’t—stop Breathe—I think There is a moment Before my next— inhale— Bones tingle, the earth holds still Breathe—I think Drifting, drifting drifting

When Your Surroundings Begin to Yellow Every day, I sit at my window And watch my plants grow.

This leaf unfurls, This leaf grows yellow, This stem bows under the weight Of its own offspring.

Am I just like these plants?

Growing, wilting, crumpling?

The sun sets and rises behind them And still, they stand.

Will I? What Happened?

Heat presses in and stifles my choke A ragged gasp stolen from my throat.

What happened to the girl who wanted to prove herself?

She’s melted away from the heat of the oven.

She’s stopped in her tracks from the bite of the frost.

What good are words when all there is is Strangling, strangling warmth Stinging, stinging coolness There goes my work Squashed in her fist The ink seems to drip down her fingers Like the blood of my tears.

What good is sunshine when there is rain?

What good is rain when there is sunshine?

What good am I if there is always another Me.

28 Blinded | Anna Pope | Photography

I

Jasmine Zheng

NTROSPECTION: a small collection

Blue Review Vol. XXVIII

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HORAS en La FRONTERA MEXICANA con el MONSTRUO Sarah Hinrichs

30

Dancing Mushrooms | Madeleine Pease | 59x41 | Charcoal Drawing

HOURS at theMEXICAN BORDER with the MONSTER Here at the Mexican border, the migrant detention center Sits in a overpopulated cloud of gray despair.

Ropa quirúrgica, bata, (Surgical clothing, gown) Otra bata, guantes, máscara uno, luego máscara de N95, (Another gown, gloves, first mask, then N95 mask) Finalmente la máscara protectora de aislamiento facial.

(Finally the face shield mask) Hora cero.

(Hour zero) Camino a través del aire del silencio, (I walk through the air of silence) Muertos se acumulan.

(Dead accumulate) Jadeos para familia llenan el silencio.

(Gasps for family fill the silence) Pero nadie puede visitar. Familiares dan el último adiós a través del teléfono.

(But no one can visit. Family members say the final goodbye through the phone) Esto no es justo. Los humanos no merecen partir del mundo solos.

(This is not fair. Humans do not deserve to leave the world alone) Esto es cárcel.

(This is jail) Doce horas.

(12 hours) El mundo es un desierto.

(The world is a desert) Las calles abandonadas.

(The streets abandoned) Distancia y soledad plagan nuestra comunidad.

(Distance and loneliness plague our society) Pero el desierto no disuade el infeccioso y distante

monstruo.

(But the desert does not deter the infectious and distancing monster) Más pacientes, más gravedad, menos recursos, menos espacio.

(More patients, more severity, fewer resources, less space) Más muertos, más confusión, menos contacto, menos compañía.

(More deaths, more confusion, less contact, loss company) Veinticinco horas.

(Twenty five hours) Inhalo y exhalo el mismo aire.

(I inhale and exhale the same air) Treinta y dos horas.

(Thirty two hours) Inhalo y exhalo.

(Inhale and exhale) Treinta y seis horas.

(Thirty six hours) Las manchas de las máscaras dejan (The masks leave scars) cuando me quito mis máscaras. (when I take off my masks) Es la hora treinta y ocho.

(It is hour thirty eight) He completado mi turno en el sector del Covid.

(I have completed my shift in the Covid sector)

cicatrices

Mañana anticiparé lo mismo.

(I anticipate the same tomorrow).

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False Identity | Camille Darwich | 22x17 | Mixed Media

Gabi Nolan

EASY

AS

cake

She made a mistake…I rationalize, eyes tracing over the present that awaits at the foot of my doorstep.

There’s no way she did all this for you.

The puppeteer of insecurity tugs at my strings and shakes my bones until they’re heavy with misplaced guilt.

Lately, it seems the master has been trigger happy with their needless interference. No longer do they sit patiently behind a curtain but now stand at the forefront of my stage as they ruthlessly tangle my rickety self in irrational knots.

My wooden mouth echoes their insults until I’m almost sure it's my own voice.

Tepidly, I reach out. My hands grip along the sides of the plate as the crinkle of plastic wrap rustles quietly against the cool breeze of a summer afternoon. Behind me, Disbelief reers its snout. It pokes out from between my legs to investigate the foreign object as I begin to lift it off the ground.

Its weight dawns on me slowly as my arms instinctively shift to carry the treasure that lies beneath its clear prison.

Again, I must wonder if I’m imagining all of this. The wobble of my straining hands could only be explained by a diluted daydream.

But no…

After a second, my hands still struggle to lift the cake.

The cloud of denial scampers away to the corners of my mind and leaves only remnants of its thick fog to scurry at my feet.

While my chest tightens with a sickening worry, I take the cake inside and set it down on the kitchen table.

As I slowly remove the wrapper, I am careful not to smudge the beauty beneath it.

Like a bush freckled with flowers, a coat of rainbow sprinkles lays atop a plush teal blanket of stiff, fluffy, frosted wisps.

The aroma leaps out from under its cage and fills my throat with an unwilling temptation as my mouth waters with a greedy hunger.

Disbelief hangs over my shoulders. It whines like an impatient dog and begs that I’ll drop a slice of my expectations under the table for it to gnaw at with its

blunt fangs...that maybe I’ll come to terms with the obvious mistake my friend has made…baking something so lovely for someone so unworthy…

With a satisfying pluff, like cutting a piece of fabric, my knife digs down into the dessert.

I take only a slice, but it’s about as heavy as three. It’s dense with a compassion I can’t have possibly earned.

Guilt takes the space in my rumbling stomach.

I must look absolutely pathetic to make her go through all this work for me...

As my fork nears the plate, I see visions of the cake disappearing before me, as if the second I puncture its pillowy surface it will melt into a heap of cloud.

The foul bubbling feeling rises from my core to my throat. It stings my mouth with an acidic bitterness.

Disbelief ’s yapping grows louder as it growls and snarls under the table as I dare to lean in for a bite.

You don't deserve this. You don't deserve this. You don't deserve this.

You don't deserve this.

I raise a piece to my mouth and sink my teeth into its soft surface.

For the first time, Disbelief bites its tongue.

A warm embrace hugs my chest and tumbles down my spine as it wraps my arms in a cozy sweater.

While the sweet puffs of cream melt onto my tongue, it dances across the roof of my mouth like an ocean of milky syrup crashing against a beach of glittery sprinkle sand dunes.

The overflow of comforting waves pour into my veins and make a home under my skin. All around me, a honeytinted glow outshines the overcast of dark clouds.

No longer do I feel like a burden. No burden could be given something so…so unbelievably sweet…and… salty…

Salt leaks onto my cheeks. It dribbles down my face and past my chin, and though my face is still red and puffy from tears, a few crumbs fall onto my plate as a grin tugs at the edges of my trembling lips.

My strings are cut.

I deserve this.

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“It was sad and fierce all at once, 34

Barcelona Balconies | Lily McMahan | Photography

alive with

a LONELY PURITY.” Blue Review Vol. XXVIII

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anne CHRISTINE Olivia Warren

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Inside Out | Luisa de Armas | 21x18 | Mixed Media

INT: Hospital in Prosperity, South Carolina. The city is dry, hot, and empty. The few stores are close together and colored in bright yellows and whites. Prosperity is mostly middle class, occupied by older, retired people.

It is covered in small wooden churches and withering brown fields. The hospital air smells like deli meats and ammonia. The walls have evenly spaced, yellowed informational posters. It is fairly quiet, but the sounds of monitors beeping and shoes scuffing the floor can be heard.

Enter ANNE, a 20-something woman twisting her hair into a tightly woven bun and struggling to keep her anxious and uncomfortable feelings under the surface.

She is wearing a simple outfit of jeans and a t-shirt, clutching her thin jacket to her chest. She looks nice but plain and tired, dark bags shadowing her eyes and thin brows worked into a nervous scrunch.

She is guided by an old, slow-walking nurse in chunky white hospital shoes who keeps sniffling.

NURSE Right here, room 807 in Hospice.

NURSE sneezes into her elbow and touches ANNE’s arm in a manner intended to be comforting.

ANNE grimaces and rubs her arm on her shirt while maintaining a somewhat composed face.

ANNE Thank you, it might be a while.

As the nurse starts to walk away, ANNE grabs her arm, and she turns around, startled.

NURSE Do ya’ need something?

ANNE Hey, that’s my mother in there. She’s got some sort of cancer, at least that’s what my brother said. I think it’s in the lungs. Sorry. Do you know? I’d like to before I see her.

I think it would help me. If I knew, maybe I’d have some idea....

NURSE I don’t know a darn thing, honey. You’ll hafta ask her nurse. I think it’s Clark today.

ANNE I don’t know much about all this. I haven’t been in contact with her for a while, but you know, I have to see her

before she dies.

Oh gosh. I haven’t said it out loud before. God, I’m so sorry. This is....Sorry.

NURSE That’s alright. Say, are you okay? I have patients to tend to, but if you want you can sit down.

ANNE No, but, do you know if she’s in a lot of pain? I just don’t want her to feel bad before she goes, that’s all.

NURSE You’ll have to ask Clark that. I’ll let him know you’re waiting if I see him, though.

ANNE Thank you, ma’am.

INT: A very small hospital room, the harsh fluorescent lighting illuminates a starched twin bed and a metal chair placed by the head. A middle-aged woman (CHRISTINE) is lying in the bed, mindlessly watching the antiquated television positioned on the wall, the volume so low it only offers a quiet drone.

ANNE stands stiffly in the doorway with a practiced smile on her face.

ANNE Hey Mom, how are you feeling? I tried asking questions, but that nurse didn’t know anything.

CHRISTINE Your plane was ‘posed to arrive at two. I feel awful. I think I’m going to throw up, but there’s nothing in my stomach to go up. I feel so old. Stage four lung cancer. I’m sure you don’t remember. I hardly do.

CHRISTINE sips water through a straw while looking her daughter in the eye, waiting for a response. She was clearly once pretty, but her sickness has aged her and she now just looks frail.

ANNE Yeah, well, the flight was delayed. I haven’t seen you in forever. The city’s crazy, though, and flights are so expensive. I’d have come sooner, but I didn’t think....Well, after Christmas you seemed pretty adamant. Did Shaun already leave?

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CHRISTINE Shaun left hours ago, but he’s been staying in town. Spending time with me, that’s what he says. He left me those [gestures to a bowl of withering flowers with the tag on—three dollars] flowers, tulips. I never liked tulips, they’re so cheap-looking. What was I thinking? Oh, that was just a dumb fight, Annie, I’m sure I apologized. Gosh, you like to drag these things out. I hardly remember what happened.

ANNE sits down in the metal chair and puts her jacket down to create a barrier between herself and the surface.

ANNE You told me you didn’t want to see me. You said I was a disgrace. I don’t want to get into it, Mom, but you forced me out. I....

CHRISTINE Hey, put that pillow behind my back. These beds are a pain, worse than sleeping on rocks. They said I was going to die peacefully. There’s nothin’ peaceful ‘bout this. I feel awful.

ANNE adjusts the pillow, an uncomfortable silence taking up the room at the word die.

ANNE I was surprised when Shaun said you wanted me to come.

ANNE stops messing with the pillows and takes a step back.

ANNE Is it...?

CHRISTINE Did I tell him that? Oh. Well, yes, it is nice that you’re here.

Annie, tell the nurses I need water. It’s way too chilly in this room. I’m freezing. I can’t stand it.

ANNE Your nurse is with someone else, but we can tell him when we see him. How are Shaun and Amber? I haven’t seen her or the baby yet. Maybe I’ll stop by while I’m in town, but I don’t know. Would that be awkward?

CHRISTINE

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Amber, Shaun’s wife. She is so pretty, you know, gorgeous girl. Longest red hair I’ve ever seen. Though it needs a trim if you ask me. I’m worried she’s sick. She’s always so pale, bless her heart.

ANNE What about the baby? Jay, right?

CHRISTINE Oh, baby, yes, they did have a baby. Sweet thing. The baby, they didn’t bring the baby to see me. Why not? I want to see the baby, make sure an’ tell Shaun if you go see him.

ANNE I saw their wedding photos in the card they sent last year.

It was nice, very floral.

CHRISTINE A wedding. I remember...you’re engaged, right? Is that what we talked about that winter? It was so cold then. The snow was so deep I couldn’t walk to my car!

ANNE You...? I didn’t think you would— CHRISTINE Is that what our fight was about? Silly, stupid. Shaun said something. He said your wedding was in a few months.

And yet I haven’t met this man! That’s not right, Anne, no.

ANNE I’m getting married in November. My fiance is...,well, you’ve seen pictures, but I don’t know if, well, I didn’t expect this to come up again.

CHRISTINE I don’t recall that. Is he handsome? You’ve always been so pretty. Why’d ya never dress up?

ANNE stumbles.

Mom. You remember I’m, well, of course you don’t. But you should know, I guess. I don’t know.

CHRISTINE Don’ know what? Spit it out. Where’s that water I asked for? My mouth is parched.

ANNE sits silently for a while, deliberating to herself.

ANNE Alright. I’ll show you a picture, but don’t....

ANNE pauses, not sure what to say, before pulling out her

phone and opening it up to a recent photo.

The photo shows ANNE hugging an attractive, smiling woman with coily hair. The woman is holding out her hand. On her hand is a small but nice ring.

PAUSE. CHRISTINE I don’t understand. What is this? Who is she? Her smile is lovely, I must say.

ANNE That’s her. Emilia. My...fiance, like I told you.

CHRISTINE No, no that can’t be. I don’t.... Is this why you came? To rub it in my face? I knew. I knew I didn’t want you here.

ANNE (softly) Mom, I thought.... Shaun said you wanted to move on.

CHRISTINE Christmas. I remember now. I do. You should have stayed in that city, the one you moved to. This is all wrong. This is not what I thought....

ANNE I’m sorry, I didn’t want our meeting to go this way, but I figured after all this time you would have, I don’t know, accepted it at least?

CHRISTINE I don’t like this. Stop saying that. I need some water. I feel faint. Go get my nurse, okay, Annie?

ANNE Yes, you did.

CHRISTINE I don’ think so. I think I would know. You’re upsetting me, I want my nurse.

ANNE Come on, Mom! You had some reason for wanting me here, even if you can’t remember.

CHRISTINE I don’t know what you mean. You’re being so loud. Please be quiet. The neighbors can hear you.

ANNE Just think! You finally get to move on from this, but I don’t! I’m going to be like this for my whole life, and I want to feel closure, at least with my family. Give me that, please Mom, please.

CHRISTINE starts to cry and whimper.

CHRISTINE I don’ understand what you’re saying. Why are you being so harsh? I don’t remember any of this. Stop it now!

ANNE is silent for a minute, watching CHRISTINE cry.

She picks her jacket up from the seat and wraps her arms around herself.

ANNE stands in place hesitating. CHRISTINE stops crying, distracted by the television. After a few beats, ANNE bites her lip and closes her eyes for a moment, uncertain.

ANNE You told Shaun that I should come. Why?

ANNE sits down again, quietly. She gently puts her hand on top of her mother’s and holds it. ANNE stares off, down to the side and bites back tears. CHRISTINE stares at the muted colors of the TV, watching a dated game show rerun featuring cheery families, a charming host, and lots of infomercials for things like denture glue. Her eyes are distant and glassy.

CHRISTINE I didn’t do that.

FADE TO BLACK

ANNE I can’t get the nurse!

CHRISTINE Stop yelling!

ANNE I don’t get it! Why did you bring me here?

CHRISTINE I didn’t bring ya here. You flew. Don’t be stupid.

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in/out THERE Evan Li

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Solitary Tree | Lilly Clark | 18x24 | Mixed Media

Out there I map my desire in Bloody hyacinthus, Body scraped against Jagged Normativity I Contort myself, distort my soul Into the place, I am given In interlocking hands Cupped Between Man and Woman Out There I exist as the impossibility Whispered by my mother He could not possibly be, could he?

In Here My closet has White windows which Stare at my apathetic pleasure, 5:43 afternoon light, gushing Through its every, rectangular orifice Its floor laden with dusty wooden Planks.

In Here I hide because Patroclus died Out there, out in the Universe, Which moved on even as Achilles ripped out his hair.

Because Hycanthus died Out there even though the Sun Loved him Because those stronger And braver than I Died out There.

Because out there, My body is contradiction Searing for life, but In its creation, fixated Death Firmly between its loins.

And I must survive.

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Helen Hurden

YOSEMITE:

a journey into humanity From the days of my early childhood, I always experienced a profound internal connection with the natural world. As a young girl, I remember begging my parents to take me on camping trips and buy books on wilderness survival, and I adored scrambling up rocks to unsafe heights whenever the opportunity arose. However, as I entered my high school years, I felt myself losing touch with the sense of euphoria I

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Yellow Flower Blue Sky | Mary Cate Kiser | Photography

always experienced when in nature. Instead of spending time outdoors, I became engrossed in school work and extracurricular activities which left me little time for nature.

During my freshman year this lack of exposure to nature combined with a series of distressing experiences caused me to fall into a deep state of cynicism. During this time, my overall faith in humanity dropped

dramatically, and I came to believe that no individual would ever bother to completely understand me as a person. After two years of treading through these dark waters, I recognized that in order to heal my mindset, I needed to reinvigorate the elements of joy I found in my childhood through nature.

As such, I decided to embark on my most challenging endeavor yet: a three-week saga into the California wilderness, miles away from polite society and modern conveniences, in the company of thirteen other people whom I had never met.

To some, the prospect of this adventure seems torturous—after all, why would I willingly place myself into such a terrifying situation? In reality, the answer is simple: in addition to healing my negative outlook on life, I placed myself at nature’s mercy because, to quote Thoreau, “I wished to live deliberately.” Although physically and mentally challenging, the trip enabled me to recognize the human capacity for developing deep, sincere relationships with one another when all distractions, schedules, and superficial cares of the modern world are removed.

My first lesson in human abilities came almost immediately after I arrived in California. On our second day in the woods, while rock climbing deep in the brush with my new companions, I found myself sitting down next to one of the other girls whom I had not yet conversed with. At this point, I had a very low comfort level around my group mates and I began to worry that something was wrong—that I simply could not connect with the group as well as I should. Sitting down, however, I determined not to let these anxieties overpower me.

We began to converse, talking of innocent topics— our interests, sports, and music preferences—until a fundamental aspect of our discourse suddenly shifted. In the absence of modern-day distractions or interruptions, within five minutes the two of us recognized the other's pursuit of a deeper relationship, and we began to discuss intimate elements of our lives, including our personal battles with mental health and experiences with medication.

Although I only met her a day earlier, I found myself sharing my struggles with perfectionism, and she in turn told me of her journey with anxiety disorder. Before her, my body dissolved into a clear sheet of window glass through which my soul, lying like an open book, could at last be seen. As we shared our strife with each other, our souls became unquestionably linked by nature’s green chain in the way that can only occur within its purest form. In everyday life, when we meet others or converse with long-time friends, we tend to talk of trivial concerns not because they are interesting, but because we are constantly surrounded by distractions that consume us and draw our attention from engaging in genuine conversation. Phones, news reports, and the sheer motion

of society all serve to divert attention, giving us the excuse of time. Nowadays, the most pressing problem with life is that because of jobs or schoolwork, we do not possess the time to sit down with someone and form new friendships. In the woods, time slows down dramatically, and the constant distractions of urban life are completely removed. Only when one fully immerses themself in the company of nature can they truly connect with other people in a deep and meaningful way.

As my group made its way farther into the California backcountry, we settled on the shores of a clear alpine lake surrounded by snow-speckled cliffs and thick groves of trees. That evening, as the light faded to darkness at our nightly ritual Moonup meeting, one of my companions posed an unexpected and startling question: What was the most emotionally challenging event you experienced in your life so far? After an entire day spent relaxing by a calm lake, I did not anticipate a question of this depth, but I will forever remain grateful that I answered.

As the first person began to speak, they laid bare the transformative experiences that occupied the center-most pillars of themselves. Honesty ruled within the trees that night as I heard stories of people who, as young children, saw family members take their own lives, of people whose closest friends fought near-losing battles with cancer, of trouble with the law, and of difficult family situations.

Although we only met each other nine days previously, I witnessed the carefully constructed barricades meant to guard one's innermost self come crashing down around each of us, myself included. Without the influence of these social pressures, I could finally share an in-depth account of the most difficult times of my life with a group of individuals, as well as hear the past troubles of my newfound friends. Because no person, other than those in our group, lived within miles of our campsite, we all felt more comfortable to open up to each other within the soothing embrace of nature, tell the stories of our trauma, and begin our healing together. Ultimately, nature’s ability to block out modern-day distractions creates a healing environment of honesty and solidarity for all people if only they expend the effort necessary to find it.

Living in nature allowed my mind to slow down, shut out superficial cares and worries, and focus on my love for nature and of those around me. I rediscovered forgotten passions, goals, and dreams, such as my desire to become a whitewater rafting guide in the future. I know that if I did not not embark on this journey to such a wild and remote place, I would never have begun to aspire to such dreams in the first place.

Nature gave me goals, which helps one to focus their life and to heal from worries over the future. And as Walden affirms, “if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams and endeavors to live the life he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.”

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stories

Cora Snyder

How many girls heard stories of Zeus engaging in his many fantastic love affairs and believed that if the goddess of marriage could stay with so unfaithful a husband, then so could they?

How many girls heard stories of Hades crowning his abducted queen and believed that a marriage, any marriage, could not be undone?

How many girls heard stories of the journey of Odysseus fighting his way back to his waiting wife and believed that to grieve without a grave would be betrayal?

How many girls heard the stories of Perseus killing the great snake-headed monster and believed that they alone were to blame for what happened with the man far older and more powerful than they?

How many girls heard the stories?

How many girls believed?

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Drive | Nina Lavelle | 36x24 | Oil Crayon

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Leaf Person | Millie Holtz | 26x11 | Mixed Media

the The Knight shivered in the cold winter air, finally letting the tension which had been clenching his shoulders fade into a quiet grip. His mind was racing like a muscular horse, his heart was pounding as he was trying to justify what he had just done. He sat down on a flat tree stump, so perfectly smooth it was as though nature was begging him to take this time and reflect. He gazed out into the forest, the shouting and clanging of the battle still echoing in his ears.

The King said it was the only way, The Knight thought.

The King is right and the Barbarians are wrong and I am loyal, he told himself. He thought back on his life and wondered how he had gotten himself into this position.

He was a smart, kind child who grew into the man he was today. He considered how little he had been able to focus on his personal life since the war began, how he had found himself sending young boys away to fight, tearing them from their families.

The Knight remembered spending hours smiling and laughing and climbing trees with his childhood friends.

He thought about the shame he received for refusing to go to war, how he begged his mother to let him go fight and how she didn’t want him to, but since he was now a grown man, he could make his own decisions. She had to let him go, and so he went. He thought about his first battle, about his fellow knights, no more deserving than he, dying right before his eyes. He thought about the orders the knights received after the battle, orders that straddled the line between good and evil, yet nevertheless they were orders that needed to be followed because The King is right and The Barbarians are wrong and knights are loyal, so, as a knight, he had to be loyal.

He did as he was asked.

When The Barbarians attacked, he did as he was asked and stood his ground.

When the time came to push back, he did as he was asked and held his head high, fighting bravely alongside his comrades. And when the dust had finally cleared, the dead buried, and the enemy surrendered, he did as he was asked and killed who was left of The Barbarians.

I have nothing to be ashamed of, he thought. The King is right and The Barbarians are wrong and I am loyal,

Jackson DiRoma

he assured himself again. The Barbarians are wrong, he repeated. The Barbarians ae wrong. But yet here he sat, only minutes after the fighting had ended, gazing into this beautiful forest. He thought about The Barbarians who had died, The Barbarians he had killed. They could have played in trees as children, just like he did. They had worried about the families they left behind, the mothers who did not want them to fight.

His mother.

What would she have thought if she knew of the heartless, merciless actions in which her son had taken part?

She would be shocked, The Knight thought. She would be appalled. She wouldn’t even recognize the boy she had raised. She would have never understand how I could have made such a choice, and I would try to explain it to her, but none of that would matter because right is right and wrong is wrong and I—well—who am I? Is he the brave, fierce, and devoted knight he thinks he is, dedicated to his King, or is he just one of thousands, of millions? Is he one of millions of people fighting for something they don’t understand, is he one of millions of people taught to understand only that there is one problem and it is a group of people who are savage and evil? Is he one of millions of people simply wrapped up in a cycle of good versus evil and right versus wrong, a cycle created out of illusion and hatred, and is he one of millions of people sitting in a beautiful forest with trees towering over him and grass and leaves weaving in and out of focus and birds singing beautiful symphonies while his previous notions of good and bad people are being brought to question?

What if there are no good people? What if there are no bad people? What if there are just people? What if there aren’t any problem starters, just problems? What if this forest that surrounds him is just part of a world so beautiful and underserved by men, a world in which they are so fortunate to be living, a world which everyone should be able to enjoy together?

This is blasphemous, The Knight thought. The King is right and The Barbarians are wrong and I am loyal.

He stood up and started the long trek back to camp.

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Bones | Nina Lavelle | 12x20 | Drawing

IS T H

IS

I T?

Kathryn Ogbata The night sky is the same coal black as the water I’m hurtling towards. Technically, that my car is hurtling toward, with me strapped in for the ride. My ears are filled with the powerful gusts of wind as my car cuts through the air like a knife. However, I am calm because of the silence. It’s not like home where I can’t catch a break between my parents bothering me about school or my brothers just straight bothering me.

However, the serenity of silence leaves as my car slaps the water. Something that might seem similar to a droplet falling into water knocked the wind out of me.

I panic. I’m all alone in a sinking car, and I don’t think anyone witnessed me stupidly fall asleep at the wheel and swerve off the bridge. I try opening the door but it doesn’t budge. My palms feel sweaty.

I try to break my window with my foot. It doesn’t work. I start to cry. In a last attempt, I try to elbow my window out, and after a few hits, I notice spider weblike cracks spreading across the window pane. This gives me a newfound hope of escape and I begin to attack my window like a battering ram. Fortunately, my window breaks. Unfortunately, I don’t know what to do next as my car fills up with water.

I take a deep breath and pull myself through my broken window.

Leaving my sinking car behind, I desperately swim to the surface. I’m not moving fast enough, and I can feel the icy water seeping into my skin. I start to wonder if saving my life is worth all this hassle.

What am I going to do when I reach the surface?

I’m in the middle of a freezing lake in the middle of nowhere. On the other hand, I don’t want to be remembered as the girl whose body was found in the lake, or even worse, wasn’t found at all.

With all the strength I have, I pierce the surface of the freezing lake and tread water. I don’t know which way land is, and I don’t want to waste energy figuring it out.

Either I swim to the left or right.

Dejectedly, I look up at the bridge and let the sporadic traffic make that decision for me. After observing more cars speeding to my left, I muster up my remaining energy and start to swim. My body is numb, and my vision is blurring, and then the world turns white.

Am I dying? Is this it? Why am I still cold? I snap out of my stupor and realize that the blinding whiteness is unmoving boat lights. Frustrated, I wave my heavy arm and start yelling, anxiously awaiting some sort of reaction. But as I look closer, I realize that the stationary lights are now speeding right towards me.

And they aren’t slowing down.

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you can’t make yarn Julie Derraik

out of

that heavy mass of steel wool— scraping against your ribcage walls flammable and full with prickly trauma and wavering faith I wish to ravel it. to hand-card it until the harshest fibers of your being stretch into separate strands: family dinners served with f-slurs.

Dad leaving you behind a casino at nine.

Islamophobic bullets piercing the kitchen backsplash. and there’s more I don’t know, but I hear them scratch every time your throat catches— silver hairballs and strain.

I wish to turn it beautiful. to weave that weathered roving through this papery spinning wheel and write sparkling words, weave healing rhythms and make yarn as poetic as the fighter’s look in your dark-roast eyes. to thread graying food stamps and failing grades with the most colorful lines until I’ve spun enough yarn for a stunning shield— but that is precisely the issue. your hurt will never be beautiful— always gray, knotted, barbed, always textured. your trauma is not romantic.

I cannot twirl it in my words and simply spin it away. nor is it mine to be felt.

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War in Ethiopia | Leah Tewolde | 24x32 | Painting

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sharing Neesa Phadke

MANGO

LASSI

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Spots | Mary Cate Kiser | 16x22 | Oil on Paper

The girl was in sixth grade, eating lunch with her closest friends. She felt uneasy and hungry. She took out her favorite drink, Mango Lassi, that her mom had made just for her. She immediately spun off the lid of the Thermos and sipped the golden soup-style smoothie through the straw that was more comical than it was appealing.

“EW! Like what even is that? It looks like chunky soup, or something,” Megan gagged.

“Oh, um, it’s just some, um, mango smoothie. My mom made it for me,” The girl flushed as red as her brown skin could go.

“I guess...but I would never drink that. It’s like, soooo icky. Mango soup is blech!”

“Oh, yeah, it’s not even that good anyways. I just don’t like to waste it.” She stuffed her Mango Lassi in her lunchbox and yanked out her Oreos. When she went home that day, her mom looked at her almost-full Thermos and frowned.

“How come you didn’t finish? Did it taste bad?” Her mom looked devastated that she did not get to have her favorite drink.

“No, it just was hot because it wasn’t in the fridge all day,” She lied. She had never told anything more than a white lie to her mom before that sentence.

“Oh, alright. I’ll give you something else tomorrow, Shonu.”

“Thanks, Mumma. Love you.”

Walking back to her room, her guilt grew as she remembered her embarrassment. She was told her entire life that being distinctive was a great thing. To be distinctive was to be unique and special, but she did not want to be unique or special. She just wanted to be accepted and not laughed at. Everyone wants to fit in, but after that day, she wanted to blend in.

It was lunchtime again. Everyone sat around the plain, cheap tables that had benches as chairs and didn’t even register the variety of food scraps scattered beneath them because the cacophony of voices kept them distracted. It turned out that the commotion brought a sense of calm along, and the ugly, but somehow spotless, wood ceiling provided a warm feeling. Honestly, the warm feeling could have just been the sweat smell of unhygienic Middle Schoolers.

Today, her mom had packed her lunchbox with roti and bhaji. No one would be grossed out by a tortilla and vegetables, right? But then again, Megan drinks pumpkin soup, yet judges my Mango Lassi.

She reached in her bright blue lunchbox with the subtle glitter on the edges to get out her food. She began to pick up the vegetables with her roti when she heard a groan.

“What IS that smell? It stinks around here, SOMEONE brought a bucket load of spices,” Ava said as she looked around the lunch table. She froze. She knew the paprika

and red chili powder her mom had put in the bhaji smelled very strong.

Instead of getting warmer in the cafeteria, the heat that was originally there disappeared. She felt as if she were an ice statue, unable to thaw itself, numb, even though fifty emotions flowed through her.

Somehow, her food crawled its way back inside her lunchbox, and she faked being full.

Her stomach grumbled the rest of the day. Before she went home she dumped her meal in the trash when no one was looking. She could not bear to see her mom’s reaction if she knew what had happened.

Years later, after several moments like these, she realized that it was not her fault for not conforming to other people’s standards. It was not her wrongdoing that caused them to judge her food. It was their own ignorance about foods and cultures that were different their own that caused them to draw conclusions before educating themselves. My mom made her roti and vegetables and Mango Lassi, and that was the best thing she ever did.

She helped that girl connect with her Indian heritage and protected her from forgetting her identity. She taught her that there was no need to change for others, even if they told her to. The food and drink that she gave that girl for lunch was unique to her culture, and something she would never again try to change.

That girl in the lunchroom was me.

Now I was a freshman, eating lunch with my closest friends. I felt comfortable and hungry. After digging through my lunchbox that I packed myself, I finally found what I was looking for: Mango Lassi.

“MMM! What’s that smell? That looks delicious, but I’ve never tried it before. Can I try some please, please, please?” the girl sitting next to me asked. I’d never been asked that question before. A grin escaped my lips, oblivious to the confused look on the girl’s face.

“Of course!” I replied ecstatically while offering her a taste test. Then panic set in. What would she think of it?

Would she be disgusted by my food? Would she laugh at me and talk behind my back?

I looked down at my rings and started fiddling with them. First the smoother one, then the one with ridges, and finally the one with the prickly gemstone. I looked up at her, my head slightly cocked, impatiently waiting for her rating.

Before I even checked for her approval, I realized I did not need it anymore. My constant need for approval evaporated. The second I made the decision to bring my homemade Indian food to school again, I knew I did not want to be the same girl I was in Middle School. I knew now that the person I sought most acceptance from was myself.

Before the girl could reply, I smiled and said, “I love it so much! Tomorrow, I’ll bring some roti too!”

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Sunflower | Anna Pope | 22x18 | Painting

MOTHERnearis Julie Derraik

and your Mother may not be able to walk for another year so you wear her shoes which are much too big for you.

against tight skin that isn’t covered in thin layers of kiddie grime, you have not had the time to shower.

there you go locking up your freshly painted toes for friday nights you haven’t seen and won’t see until Lily sends you pictures of perfect boys with arms around pretty girls while you hold your newborn sister— rocking her to sleep for the fourth time this dark hour while you tuck in five more all staring at the same moon Mother meets from her hospital bed.

like clockwork the baby shrieks once more. and you lift your tired limbs, and tired eyes, and

fading stars cross each other among that looming sky and you linger wishing your gazes might do the same but of course the second oldest cries for your substituted warmth waking from lonely nightmares she’s too young to have so you plant irises in her imagination and press your thin body against hers— the kind of frame your jersey would flatter this season, pulled taut

the only voice she knows to sing her one more lullaby: rock a bye baby do not you fear never mind baby Mother is near wee little fingers eyes are shut tight now sound asleep until morning light so she settles, finally, and you carry your body and the baby to Her cold, unmade bed, wrapping her with the soft hands you think Mother would— the same that untied your laces after school every day before chocolate milk cartons and cartoons. you realize the coffee grounds under your nails might smell too strongly so you lie there to fill the empty space, sucking your thumb and telling the child: mother is near.

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goodbye

to HELLO Gabi Nolan

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Mirror Me | Cam Linker | Photography

You know…it's almost funny. When it feels like you’ve known someone for a lifetime you might not remember the first time you saw them, but you will never forget the last.

You found out it would be over less than three years ago. You found out about her diagnosis, you cried, you argued, you felt numb. The clock began to tick.

The memories of meeting her are golden and fuzzy as all good memories should be. Likely, you waved first, then introduced yourself, probably complimented their outfit and ta-dah! You two were friends.

Back then, you sat restless at your desk with your thumbs drumming against the hollow wood. The hustle and bustle of the classroom couldn’t pull you away from the stranger who had somehow caught your attention.

You smile. She smiles back.

Now, tremors shake your rickety legs like a sailor during a hurricane. More than anything, you wish the room would raise its voice. You force your lips into a smile. She doesn’t stir.

Tick tock, tick tock.

Back then, you were nervously avoiding eye contact and cracking jokes to dull the feverish quietness of the busy classroom around you.

Now, the stress bubbles through your veins as you manage to choke out a handful of stories. Your lips quiver while your mouth desperately tries to clog the outflow of blaring silence.

On the playground, you take time to look at them.

You’ve only just met after all. You trace over the edges of their face and catalog the blue of their eyes, each strand of mousy hair that hangs loosely over their forehead, every dimple, every freckle, every last detail of their face in the hopes you’ll remember their name tomorrow.

In the living room, your eyes skittishly dart across the room, doing their best to avoid retaining any memory of the situation. One quick glance at her spurs the wasps in your chest to hasten their march as they further churn the thick honey-like dread that lies in your stomach.

Swallowing your sickness, you remove your gaze from the dry blood around her scalp. The dark veins on her skin seep into yours and you want to itch, you want to yell at everyone in your life that lead you to this moment, you want to scream until your throat is grated, you want to claw into your arms until your fingernails are just bloody stubs, you want to cry into a blanket until its cold with tears and your clammy body melts into its soggy comfort, but you sit still.

As the teacher called you inside after recess, you offered her a high five. The contact was quick and sent sparks through your bones.

Her mother asks you to hold her hand. You comply.

There is no sign of a reaction. You wonder if she can even feel you.

You try not to think too much, but it's no use.

Despite your best efforts you know you will remember all of this.

The walls. The soft whimpering murmurs. The TV screen. Everything will stay with you.

Right now, the hazy yellow glow of your memories fade as waves of blue ripple through your head. Your chest is heavy. Oceans brew in your lungs. They threaten to pull you down into the floor, through the layers of red clay and into the spongy depths of untouched earth.

You welcome the feeling. Allow it to crawl beneath your flesh and drag the rest of your senses to your feet.

The remaining will to speak floats to the top of your head. You look for something meaningful to say but you are practically empty.

You start to ramble. Do your best to keep your mind busy. Everything except what’s happening in the room with you has become wildly intriguing. Books you’ve both read, theater class, even white lies that you hope contain some form of comfort are unwillingly yanked from your throat as if pulled by a ravenous fisherman.

The hook scratches against every one of your teeth as you continue to stumble your way through coherence.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

What should it matter if she hears you? It’s all just empty words.

Empty. Empty. Empty.

You used to ramble on for hours with her, discussing what we considered to be the most important affairs.

What “My Little Pony” character was the coolest, what Hogwarts house we'd be in—light and fluffy conversation.

Now you wonder why you didn’t talk with her longer then.

At the end of the day, school had been fun. You don't want to leave.

Now, your waxy organs have fully melted away.

At last, your final words trickle off your tongue.

They’re soft and weighed. A gentle “bye” follows the remark as it drills another hole through the abyss of your chest. You need to leave, but you know a part of yourself will never follow you out the door.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

In a few days, that timer will stop ticking and maybe just maybe…that awful bog inside you, sickly and aching, will be glad. It’s over. That haunting timer has finally stopped it’s pestering.

You threw your school bag over your shoulder, grinning wildly as you waved goodbye. You couldn’t wait to see her again tomorrow.

Now, tomorrow will never come again.

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Waters of Change | Cam Linker | 36x36 | Painting

BEING v.

becoming

“Where does it all lead? What will become of us? These were our young questions, and young answers were revealed….We become ourselves.”

Patti Smith, Just Kids

Resting my oil-saturated paintbrush on the stained taboret to pause my audiobook, I repeatedly mumbled this quote to myself under my breath, as if doing so would make the moment last longer. It was a feeling like finally connecting that last piece of a puzzle, revealing a greater picture. Only for me, the picture revealed is an even larger and more complex puzzle. My mind racing with thoughts, I grabbed my journal and quickly scribbled down the note “Being v. Becoming.” Chills of curiosity running down my spine, I craned my neck backward to take in the view: I sat fascinated on the cliff-edge of discovery, unaware of the ravine of infinite knowledge that waited beneath my feet.

Freshman year of high school, I watched a little too much “Grey’s Anatomy.” And by a little, I mean that I was fully convinced I would become a heart surgeon. This was not just a naive dream—I took myself quite seriously for a 14-year-old. Staying up until 2 a.m. on school nights watching open-heart surgery videos on random medical database websites, I was hooked. In actuality, I could not explain to you how a coronary artery bypass works and still cannot, despite my time spent studying it. But something about learning, about being immersed in such fascinating information, was addictive.

Now at the time, I thought I was an aspiring Christina Yang. But going into sophomore year, I found myself at a crossroads. I had always loved creating art for my own enjoyment and began to realize how much I loved studying it. The hours I spent listening to lectures on open-heart surgeries were replaced with podcasts on prominent women in art history. I marveled at the

Cam Linker

works of Jenny Saville and Cecily Brown, both of whom I aspired to become as well. And it was not that I lost interest in medicine, although I soon realized I lacked the scientific inclination required to go to med school. I had found a new subject that equally sparked something deep inside me: a passion to learn more.

Junior year of high school, I became captivated by philosophy and literature. My creative mind ran wild on the pages of Virginia Woolf ’s chilling short stories as my academic mind was captivated by podcasts including BBC’s “In Our Time,” Alie Ward’s “Ologies,” and recorded lectures shared over Nina McIlwain’s “Philosophy of Psychoanalysis.” My thoughts were filled with random, confusing, and fascinating subjects like blue-green algae, Nietzsche’s mature philosophy, queer culture in literature, Taoist philosophy, and all-too-much more. Although this time, I was no longer at a crossroads with myself and what I wanted to be. I wanted to be immersed in it all, and to me, that made sense.

Even today, I still cannot tell you who, how, or what I want to be. I have experienced countless of these “sparks,” all leading me on a quest in the pursuit of learning more. I have realized that my place in life as a curious intellectual is not to “be” anything but to become. Just become. I want to continue becoming someone who is fascinated by medicine. I want to continue becoming someone who creates and studies art. I want to continue becoming someone whose bedroom floor is flooded with a sea of books on existential philosophy, the comingof-age years of great rock legends, and countless other subjects—each eclectic fascination serving as a reflection of my evolving identity. I want to become all of this and more. To me, learning is not a means to an end but a way of life. To me, it is the only way to truly live.

I am both nothing and everything at once; I am becoming.

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pe

Ho

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t Go

ng

ts

li ch

When There's a Bustle in Your Hedgerow | Zach Warmath | Photography

Step out.

Step out from your door, Behind which you shut your eyes in drowsy repose, And fall into the embrace of night Trade that imposing warmth For its cool caress Abandon what was, And venture through the pleasant calm Drift past the trees, And wander beyond the bridge Then leave the path at once, For upon it, dangers hide Follow instead the sparkling stream That wanders beyond sight It will show the way In this fanciful forest Both beauty and danger hide Swim in pools of moonlight And dance amongst the bees Fear not of the beast For he’s sure to leave alone, But tread lightly by the flowers; It’s possible they’ll bite Lend an eye to the fish That grin with silly smiles Take a listen to the crow Who will sing for you a lullaby And put you in a daze Then slip into a bed of moss That encompasses you as it grows When you wake you may feel a gentle breeze As the trees sigh and sway You wear a flowing dress of flora, A gift from the toads Their favor is uncommon Bask in it while it’s yours The trail is gone, and home is lost The wood has beckoned you in And cries for you to stay Step out.

Step out.

Step out.

Meander as you may You’re stuck here, For now, But take comfort, child, Try again another day Blue Review Vol. XXVIII

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Eye of Green | Sam Alexander | Photography

Sn w Mia Zottoli

The prince bent over to place a kiss on the sleeping girl’s lips. Touching her pale cheek, he leaned in until their faces almost touched.

A hand shot out, and the prince clutched at his neck, attempting to pry away whatever grabbed him. He clutched onto icy cold fingers.

“Snow, stop!” the prince choked.

The girl sat up, still holding the prince in a death grip. Just before he lost consciousness, she dropped him to the ground. When his eyes finally opened, he saw seven small men standing over him, each of them brandishing a weapon.

The pale girl walked over to stand over him, pulling out her own sword from a holster at her belt and bringing it to the prince’s neck. Her shoulder length hair had been crudely chopped, and now it barely touched her ears.

He stared back at her, his eyes wide, searching for any hint of recognition behind her cool gaze. Finally she grinned, and for a moment the prince breathed a sigh of relief.

“I know him,” she remarked to the small men. “His mother will pay a hefty ransom.” She cackled. “He’s a prince!” Her voice squealed with glee and her sword jiggled in her hand,

nicking the prince’s neck.

The men moved in on the prince as Snow White stepped backwards, staring down at the boy who expected her to be small, demure, a damsel in distress he needed to save. But the evil queen hadn’t been the one to banish her to the forest; she had fled.

Now, she thrived. As the dwarves tied up the prince and lifted him onto their backs, he kept his eyes on Snow.

She wore clothes fit for a stablehand, not a princess, and calluses covered her formerly porcelain hands. Previously, he thought she’d been forced into them, forced to do hard work, but now he knew the truth. She smiled when she caught him looking, not the forced smile princesses had been trained to perfect, but a mischievous grin, unabashed and beautiful.

She moved out of his line of view, and then the dwarves started to carry the prince off, with Snow White clearing the path ahead of them with her longsword.

The prince could fight back, he knew, but something told him his efforts would be futile.

The true Snow White had been released, and nothing could force her back into her casket of glass.

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Asian Melancholia | Evan Li | Photography

an ekphrastic Evan Li

When she looks into the iPhone, face covered by a white facial mask and hands clasped around her neck, there is something in her eyes. It is ungraspable, a shadow thrown upon her retinas, a ghostly haunting.

I took this photo of my mom in our home in Charlotte.

I remember it was one of those slow days when school had just started, and I, having been frustrated by my first attempt at this photograph, wanted to try again.

The photo was my meditation upon the recent upsurge and awareness of anti-Asian hate in the United States.

Before movements like #StopAsianHate or #BLM, I had been blissfully ignorant of the racism that still permeated American society.

A school survey once asked the question, “Has anyone discriminated against you because of your race?” I had answered no. I had not lied, or at least I did not think that I had lied. Perhaps such utter unawareness was because I had been told that racism was a thing confined to the past. Something that wallowed at the very fringes of civil society. Maybe it was because my family refused to talk about discrimination (the only time I had heard it mentioned was when my parents had complained about the coronavirus being called the Chinese virus). Racism is everywhere, found in a thousand points of tension.

In every uncomfortable cringe I have when my parents struggle to speak in broken English. In every one of my thoughts about my narrow eyes.

asian

It is difficult to admit that the world has not been shaped for me or you. Does not bend, but contradicts our individual contours. But opening my eyes after weeks of internal grappling, I could not deny that it was my reality.

I began a feverous search for books on Asian identity and how it operated in American society (perhaps to make up the years I had ignored it). It was during this time that I discovered Racial Melancholia, Racial Disassociation. Using Freud’s theory of loss, David Eng and Shinhee Han argued that Asian immigrants, and immigrants as a whole, exist in a state of melancholia, where they perpetually grieve the loss of their homeland but also never attain total assimilation into their new country. This idea of assimilation as a psychological process fascinated me, and so I wanted to portray it.

It was looking through Carl Jung’s archetypes of the mask, the personality we show in public, and the shadow, every trait we have cast into oblivion, that I took the photograph. In it, the facial mask represents the persona of whiteness that Asian Americans feel forced to wear.

The shadows everywhere else portray the heritage and homeland many have discarded and repressed.

We can chase whiteness forever, but we will never truly attain it, and if we get anything, it will never be more than a mask. We are born of emperors, of spiraling temples, mosques, palaces, of jade, gold, and billowing silk. We will no longer exist as shadows.

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the

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Spiral Collage | Sloan Wooster | 24x18 | Mixed Media

Meaning of Ryan Samii

HAPPY

Gay. An insult, an identifier, an expression of happiness. One word can carry so much power.

When I was in Lower School, there seemed to be a new hot topic every day. One day, fidget spinners, the next, Rubik’s cubes. On a very special day in first grade, the hot topic was the “good gay versus the bad gay.” Kids went around asking each other if they were the good gay or the bad gay, being teased if they ever said bad. If someone responded “Good!” their friends said they were happy.

If someone responded “Bad!” their friends would mock them with sounds of disgust.

But, at that time, I did not know what the “bad gay” meant. I asked a friend for the meaning, but they just told me not to worry, not seeming to know themself. So, that night, being a curious child, I went home and asked my mom.

“Well, being gay is about who you love and choose to spend your life with,” my mother explained. “A man can be with another man and a woman can be with another woman, all that matters is that they love each other. But it’s not a bad thing. Don’t listen to your classmates.”

I wanted to know so much more, but my mom told me I had to go to bed.

The next day, I went to school feeling much more knowledgeable than the day before, but the hot topic of the next day was not about being gay. It was about Oreos.

After that conversation with my mom, the idea of what it meant to be gay never left my mind. A man loving another man? How was that possible? And why did I find it so interesting?

The summer before fourth grade, my family and I went on a trip to California. One night, my parents brought my siblings and me to dinner with one of their clients, Steve, who happened to be happily married to another man.

Meeting the two of them was one of the most eyeopening experiences of my life. At dinner I had so many questions.

“Who was the one who proposed? Which one of you wore the engagement ring? Did one of you wear a wedding dress?” All questions about what I knew of stereotypical gender roles in marriage.

I could not wrap my head around why, but I never wanted to leave that dinner table. I never wanted to leave that conversation. I never wanted to leave the feeling of happiness from being around them.

While I did leave and return back to my bubble of heteronormativity, the events of that dinner stuck with me. My mom’s sparkly purse, my feet dangling above the pavement, the sunset behind the heads of two men in love.

Over the next three years, I completely lost the concept of my identity. My ideas of myself were challenged through changes in friend groups, toxic friendships, and false crushes. Then, in sixth grade, it happened. I figured it out. Everything clicked.

I am gay.

There was a word for all the feelings. The feelings I had in that conversation with my mom, the feelings from dinner, the constant feeling of not fitting in.

It all finally made sense.

I truly understood the definition of “bad gay.”

I had a new sense of clarity.

At that point, I only knew of one other person who was out. When I revealed my secret, they gave me a book to help me further understand: “Simon vs. the Homosapiens Agenda.” It was the first piece of media I ever consumed with any LGBTQ+ representation. I felt seen with every word I read. I loved it.

The book consumed all of my time and energy on the plane ride home from Florida. My obsessiveness piqued my mom’s interest, leading her to ask me what I was so invested in.

I had just finished the book, so I hesitantly gave it to her, and she started flipping through the pages.

Page by page, the already cramped cabin seemed to be growing smaller and smaller, the walls creeping in on me.

I knew that if she read the book she would know. I couldn’t let a book be the one to tell her. I had to do it myself.

So, I decided to come clean.

I knew I had to do it before she got too deep into the book, so I decided to do it that night. She came into my room to put me to bed.

“Mom, I have something to tell you.”

The nerves were eating me from the inside out. What would happen if she reacted badly? What would I do if she didn’t love me anymore? I just had to say the words.

“Mom, I think I’m gay.”

I had done it. The pressure released from my stomach like the lava finally bursting out of a volcano. There was no going back now.

She hugged me, uttering words of belonging.

“I love you and will always love you.” “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.” “You are still my little boy.”

It filled my whole body with joy. I have never been as happy as I was at that moment.

Now, I have so many amazing friends who love and support me, and my life is just so much happier now. I live my life with pride. Pride in my identity, pride in my choices, pride in myself.

Now, I know what they mean when they say that gay means happy. I have never been happier than living as my true self. And if that makes me the “bad gay,” at least I have the “good gay” too.

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Sophia Vona

PICK

YOUR

POISON

If I had to pick a poison I guess I’d pick your love I’d relish in your love’s sweet honey, poured over biscuits on a Sunday Morning Trickles over my face, my legs, my hair, as I carelessly take a bite Until it engulfs me Until it makes its way to my mouth and floods my lungs Cutting off the air I’d let your words encircle around my limbs like the ribbons you braid into my hair when we were kids Feeling silly and soft and paper thin Then being pulled tight and knotted

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Blue Solitude | Noelle Okland | 24x17 | Mixed Media

Restraining me To cool my skin from the scorching summer sun I dive down Deep into your cool oasis Deceptively still I decide I have gone in too deep It is time to swim up But it seems I can never get high enough And I begin to drown But it’s okay Because once I finally resurface After my lungs heave the water up I know you’ll be there

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“For the greatest tragedy of them all 70

Barcelona Studio | Lily McMahan | Photography

is never to feel the

BURNING LIGHT.”

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“Everybody dance now!”

Shoulders shaking, palms sweating, teeth chattering, blood rushing, mind spinning, legs wobbling. I don’t know how I’m gonna do this. All night I’ve been hyping myself up, but with my chance coming so soon, the ability to think rationally has dashed out of my mind, seemingly gone forever.

Jason, my best friend who is DJing, sent me the playlist.

I’ve spent hours upon hours staring at the tiny Spotify font, memorizing the song order, anticipating the moment.

TikTok, Gonna Make You Sweat, Wobble Baby. Wobble Baby. It’s next. I’m losing my mind.

Listen, I’ve never been a phenomenal dancer, but I wouldn’t say I’m bad. In fact, I think I could even be

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Train to the Moon | Leif Lanzilotta | 29x19 | Painting

considered mediocre. But mediocre won’t cut it today.

I’ve calculated the exact moment I need to step in the circle to hit the first “wobble baby.” I know the exact angle my back must make, the degree I need to tilt my head up, the tempo my shoulders must ‘wobble’ to.

You think I’m doing this to impress someone? For some romance? No. This is much more important. This is about revenge. You know who’s gonna act as my counterpart as I ‘wobble baby’?

Johnny Alvin.

Fury surges through my veins at the thought of his name. Star football player, straight A student, praised like a god by everyone.

Long ago, he pantsed me on the playground while I was

arcus

Alexa M

freestyling to-you guessed it—“Wobble Baby.”

Apparently, no one remembers his malice, but I know who he really is: a pathetic, attention-seeking, fake-smiling, charming, pantsing denier, loser. Today, however, I will crush his reputation like an annoyed father ruthlessly annihilates a fly. It’s over for him. He’ll cower all the way back to that kindergarten playground from the embarrassment of his inferior ability to “wobble baby.”

Where has the time gone? “Gonna Make You Sweat” reaches an end.

The time is now.

At the first beat, I lunge into the circle and there he is.

Before me stands a two-faced, pantser: Johnny.

My shoulders fly back, my knees plummet outwards,

my head slopes up, shakes side-to-side, and finally my shoulders wobble. A drum beats in my ear as sweat slowly trickles down my temples. I’m doing it. I am on top of the world, I am king of the castle, I am winning the marathon.

I glance up and can’t believe my eyes. Johnny, with a cynical smile stretching to the sun, starts to take a step forward only to land his foot on a crumpled plastic cup; his legs soar towards the sky as his head dives to the shiny wood planks. A thump on the floor, an echoing scream, an expression of disbelief. The crowd gasps.

A microphone screeches as an awkward, giggly voice announces, “Okay, everyone! That concludes this year’s reunion for the high school class of 1995.”

Jason, my son, stops the music.

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dancers Agatha Stamatakos

in

UNIS N

Lost in my mind I am swarmed with my thoughts Peering out of the corner of the soft red curtains that shield the stage I hear the audience rustle programs, their chatters dispersing into silence I take my first step onto the marley floor The warmth of the heated lights as they shine down onto my hands I hold out Silence surging through every strand of my hair Which is pulled back neatly, held tight in a French Twist I begin my routine, loosening the tension held in my back And release all that consumes me Whether it be yesterday or today, weeks or years ago Emotion illuminating the faces of my teammates as we leap across the stage With springs attached to our pointed, levitating feet Each arm I raise, each leg I extend elevating into the heavy air Painting a picture with my body, artiscally portraying what I choose to share

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Butterflies & Flowers | Agatha Stamatakos | Drawing

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A Pop of Color | Ellison Dolan | 17x22 | Digital Art

from

cook to WARRI R Mayes Fisher

Daddy goes out into town all day every day while my mama and I just do the day work and the household chores. Daddy always says if we don’t get the chores done that he’ll, “whip my Mama like he whips Bucky.”

I’m not sure that Mama and I got all of them done. I had never understood why Mama and I were expected to do everything around there.

I’d always hated being a girl. Sometimes I wished I was a boy. Life would have been easier. None of the boys ever let me play sports with them. The boys made fun of me and told me to go clean their clothes instead of playing with them.

I used to think it was because they knew I could beat them, but Daddy just told me it was because I am a girl, and girls cannot play sports. I still thought I could have beaten them even if Daddy didn’t think so.

Daddy didn’t say this, but I knew he wished I was a boy, not a girl. He’d always make comments about how if I were a boy, he’d be able to teach me how to ride Bucky or if I were a boy I’d harvest the crops better. I think I did a fine job, but Daddy didn’t think so.

Sometimes I got this feeling that Daddy was just angry because he was not fit to be a soldier. They didn’t want him, and I knew he felt shame. I think he took it out on Mama and I. I would have never told him or Mama that. He would have never admitted to that anyways.

One night, Mama and I tried to get the work done before he got home, but there was too much. Daddy had requested a specific meal for dinner that night: steak, beans, and a biscuit. When he rides Bucky down our long, dusty driveway, he wants to smell what my Mama and I are cooking.

The dust stung my eyes as Daddy rode his Appaloosa, Bucky, down our dirt trail that led to the front porch. I stood up from my rockin’ chair to greet him and Bucky. I let out a sigh, knowing what was

about to come.

I gave Daddy and Bucky their usual kiss and hug.

Daddy seemed angry. He definitely knew Mama and I did not get to cooking dinner. I followed him inside through the foyer and we passed by the cellar that remains unused. My heart pounded for each one of his loud, booted footsteps. He looked outside at the crops and let out a sigh. He always knew when we did not finish.

His head whipped around and his cold, dark eyes stared into mine.

“Where’s Mama?” I instantly froze, my fear trapping the words in my throat. His heavy, clunky boots angrily headed up the stairs right to Mama. Every time I know the beating is coming, a part of me wants to stop him, to protect Mama, but I can’t. Because I am a girl. Girls do not fight. Fighting is what the boys are supposed to do. Except for Daddy.

I run outside to avoid the shrieks or the sound of the belt slapping my mama’s bare skin. Daddy always told me he was doing God’s work by disciplining my mama. Women were supposed to follow men’s orders, no matter what.

Mama always tells me not to do whatever he says but I don’t want to experience what she does.

I can’t help but wonder what life would be like if my Daddy was a soldier. He would be fighting the enemy.

Not his wife who cooks his meals, harvests his crops, cleans his clothes.

I think I have finally figured out why my daddy was never a soldier. He covers up his shame by beating up his wife for disobeying his orders.

He is a coward.

My mama is stronger than him. She can take a few beatings. She is the strongest woman I know.

I am starting to think that maybe my mama is the true soldier in our house.

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SACRIFICES MADE to be

Allie Liu

It’s just about dinner time when they first notice it. Bill rocks slowly in the old rocking chair, his balding head resting on an open palm, a few wisps of white hair poking through his fingers, his eyes firmly shut. Nina was the first of his grandchildren to walk up to his sleeping figure and take a closer look. The faded scar trailed down his arm crookedly, its ridges the ghost of past stitches that held the two halves of the skin of his arm together.

The other children soon crowd around to examine the healed cleft.

To his teenage grandkids, the scar only adds to his image of perpetual clumsiness, and they all murmur in concern that they had never noticed this particular scar before.

Bill awakened abruptly. The children’s crowding interrupted the gentle rocking of his chair, and he looked annoyed, his hand rubbing the rift between his scrunched, bushy eyebrows.

“Now what is all this commotion? None of you were all too excited when I was gracing you with the tales of my youth before lunch, so I was just sitting here, all by my lonesome, taking a nap.”

“Grandad, what’s that scar you’ve got there, huh?” one of the smaller kids interrupted, launching all of them into a volley of questions.

“I’ll have you all know that the stories I told you before lunch were not the only tales I have to tell. If you would listen to this next one, then maybe you’d actually understand me more than you do now.”

The group prepared to listen carefully, but they knew

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he usually only told stories where he cast himself as the unrealistic hero.

“Now then, settle down and gather ‘round children. I believe you young’uns are ready to hear this tale, blood an’ all,” Bill trilled in an extremely affected Southern accent, getting into character.

“Imagine the heat. Scorching Texas plains, cacti and dust for miles all around. I was thirty-four years old and a seasoned cowboy, just doin’ my job.”

Wind swirled the dusty ground into small tornadoes that blew around the cowboy’s face. He wiped at the dirt smeared on his sunburnt face and stared at the lone longhorn standing stock-still against the sienna landscape.

It was the biggest longhorn Billy had ever seen, and he was almost sad he was the one who saw it first. Killing longhorns was not usually part of a cowboy’s job, but the cow boss told him and the others that this one was especially wild. It had already escaped from the regular herd and sometimes came back and destroyed the boss’s property, often wounding the other cattle in the process. Boss had offered a sizable bounty for its head.

“First come, first served,” he whispered to himself. “I just can’t think about it too much. I’ve got a family to feed.” His horse shifted onto its front hooves as he sat looking at the longhorn. The animal seemed anxious, but he disregarded it and tapped the horse’s side with a spur. After all, it was the Depression and his family needed food.

He moved towards the bull, but it didn’t run or fight.

“Maybe it’s the wrong longhorn. It seems awfully docile for a creature that’s supposed to be wild and vicious,” he

Cape Cod Cottage | Abby Lebda | 10x5 | Drawing & Illustration

mused. Now only meters away, the cowboy was about to turn away when the longhorn suddenly swiveled its huge head until one large eye looked directly at him. He stopped his horse and looked carefully back at it, returning its level, cavernous gaze.

It was utterly quiet. The dust had settled. Heat waves rose from the dirt. And then it leapt, scrabbling at the dry, loose ground, until its hooves finally found purchase and propelled the longhorn away from Billy’s stare.

With a shout of surprise, the cowboy spurred his horse into motion, and taking lasso in hand, he gave chase, from noon until the sun began to set. But when at last the cowboy’s lasso met its mark, the longhorn went wild, bucking and flinging its horns in every which direction.

Billy’s horse reared back in fear, and he fell to the ground hard, landing on a rock that took away a large chunk of his arm, carving a deep valley down his bicep. He ignored the pain and reached for his pistol but found that the horse had kicked it away in the panicked fray.

Silently, he mounted his horse and spurred it back home.

His family would be saved by the death of the long-suffering longhorn, but he vowed never to take on another job of cattle roundup again. The wound in his arm will heal and scab over, but the scar will remain to remind him of the suffering he saw in the longhorn, a pain that paralleled his own.

The next morning, at the crack of dawn, he returned to the boss and asked him where he should transport the herd of longhorns for the day and requested the new schedule for the year. It was his job, after all. The sun has risen up once again from under the weight of the world, and so would he.

His grandchildren stared at him blankly after he fell into silence.

“How could you go back, Grandad? Didn’t you already think to yourself that you had enough, that you couldn’t stand seeing the eyes of the other longhorns stare into your soul? Didn’t you feel bad that you went back to see the other cattle afterwards?” Nina asked.

Quickly, he unsheathed his knife and lunged towards the bull. In the moment between sinking the blade into the animal’s side and the bull falling into unconsciousness, he looked directly into its eyes once again.

Where he expected to see defiance he instead found deep pain. Looking closer, he realized the animal’s hide bore old and fresh whip wounds, other injuries from various weapons.

Suddenly, Billy kneeled down and leaned close to the animal. He saw that the longhorn had died, succumbing to its pain, as pain and guilt now took over Billy.

Clutching his bleeding wound, Billy retrieved his hat from the ground and placed it over the longhorn’s eye, an eye that now stared unseeing toward the red sunset sky setting upon the horizon—a sun with seemingly no strength to ever rise again.

“No,” he answered simply. “Sometimes, things that are disappointing or sad will happen, but we have to carry on because other things are no less important because of what has happened.” The children looked at him forlornly.

As his grandchildren left, he gazed out of the window, appearing to think deeply about the story and message he has had just told.

“Whew, I’m starting to run out of credible stories to tell the kids. It’s just getting harder and harder to impress them nowadays,” he complained, watching a large tree branch crash to the ground with a crack.

“Ah, I’ll have to clear the branches from the yard again.

That tree is such an eyesore!,” he said to himself.

“I really should have gotten it cut down when I fell out of it that time and it got me this awful scrape. Now that would truly be a worthy sacrifice for a greater cause.”

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The past is gone, and youth is lost. My childhood is dead. I abruptly realize that I have changed, and I notice the differences between my younger self and I. As time passes and I grow older, my perspective has slowly shifted, and growing up seems to sometimes represent the struggle of slowly losing the sense of wonder that childhood provides.

Every once in a while bittersweet nostalgia gently takes my hand and leads me down a path filled with reminiscence about my youth, where chores can transform to joyous delight and magic emanates from each precious memory. I remember the days, not too long ago, when a sink stacked high with unwashed dishes would lead to splashing in a sea of lemon scented bubbles and giggling with my mum in matching soapy beards. With amassing laundry, I anticipated the warm rhythm of the washing machine as my dad hoisted me up to see it spin a pile of clothes into a single, colorful streak. Outside, clouds would come to life with beautiful ballerinas and soaring dragons, and every rainbow came with the promise that someday we would search for the pot of gold at its end. Each steadfast daisy, growing between the bricks, begged to become a dainty flower crown and sit atop my golden curls.

In my pink princess room, each stuffed toy had its own name and required a goodnight snuggle and kiss. And if I gathered enough onto my bed, then they would possess the power to ward off the monsters lurking in the dark corners of my bedroom while I slept. Any visit to the ocean shone with sunny days full of sandcastles, seashells, and swimming. And so my childhood passed in wondrous whimsy.

Now, I silently spy as new children enjoy the same things I used to, but all too soon I notice I don’t find the fun in them anymore. Little more than a smelly stack of work, the dishes wait in the sink, and another arduous task grows alongside the laundry pile.

Constructing sandcastles at the beach only mildly entertains me, and I secretly wish to soak up the sunshine and lie down with my book instead, in the same manner of every boring teenager I promised myself never to become.

Although I want to enjoy racing amidst the golden flickers of the lightning bugs dancing in the night, all I find myself chasing is the final dregs of youthful light. Time tears my childhood from my clenched fingers, and as it slips away, I find myself sputtering for air, suffocating, unable to breathe. I am no longer the same. Through the people I have lost, the places that I miss, and the things I have outgrown, I have slowly changed. I can never again scrape my knees climbing the cherry tree that my grandfather

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planted so tenderly in his yard, or listen to the chatter of the birds that he tended with such care.

He is gone, and with him, a piece of me is too.

We have moved out of the neighborhood with the brilliant blue swimming pool and awesome water slides, and very seldom do we visit our old favorite ice cream shop. As I have grown, my bedroom has too, and the stuffed toys and picture books have all but disappeared, replaced with schedules and study guides that decorate the walls. It feels as though, as I grow up, I lose some of the joy that makes life so wonderful.

However, in truth I may not have lost anything at all. No, I may not be the same, but that is not some terrible tragedy. Life changes constantly, in breathtaking splendor, flowing like a river through lazy pools and icy rapids.

With time, I have discovered new joy to make me happy, and I cannot force myself into the past. Even so, I still experience moments caught in between the rush of day that bring me youthful joy.

I still find serenity in the music of the pouring rain, as it gently eases me to sleep. Still, the warmth of freshly popped popcorn, and the sound of each kernel perfectly springing into the bowl melts my heart like butter. And I still race from the dryer with clean blankets in hand, eager to cocoon myself in their all encompassing warmth. These subtle moments of life and laughter fill me with euphoria and childlike wonder.

So, maybe my childhood is dead, but that does not mean that wonder has departed too. Instead, joy has followed me from rainbows to rainfall, and stuffed toys to warm blankets, always peeking out just around the corner.

Despite my affliction with moving on, I have discovered that growing up just means finding the joy in life, no matter how old I become.

childhood’s

Hope Gottschling

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Reflection 3 | Rachel Hall |Photography

seeking

STARS

the

Tess Goldman

Mosquitos swarm our heads as my friend and I lounge in a steamy hot tub.

The Colorado sky darkens as we sip sticky sweet Shirley Temples through papery straws.

Our parents perch on large rocks encircling the fire, which crackles and stretches into the evening sky.

My mom sloshes into the hot tub, and points a finger up at the now fully indigo sky.

“Look at the stars” she says, so we all tilt our head backwards to see the sky, wetting our hair in warm, bug spray infused water.

All of the stars and constellations are visible, bright enough that we could almost reach out and grab them from the sky.

If we hadn't remembered to look, we would have never seen them.

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on the There was a time when we went on a trip to the beach to celebrate my brother’s leaving for Washington, D.C. It was the night of the last day of the trip, and, driven by this gnawing hole of his approaching leave, I asked him to walk with me on the beach. He looked at me inquisitively (we had never been especially close) but agreed. I put on my mismatched sandals (one larger than the other) and a flannel jacket, and together, we let the sand-bitten door squeak close, stepping into the night.

Outside, the sun had been chased into rusty streetlights, and night oozed lazily before us, melding beach houses with shadows. There was a slight breeze, and with each gust, our faces were misted with seawater.

It was a short walk to the beach, and we strolled there, silent; my feet slapping mutedly against the cement. I left my sandals by the parking lot access, and we began our beach-wandering.

The sand was so cold that my feet went numb and began to tingle with each step to our left there were street lamps and the moon was so bright that it had a second circle around it Hala was the Arabic word for it had been one of the names of a character in The Breadwinner I wanted to say something to fill this gap that swirled between our shoulders but each sentence was bitten to gray sand crushed beneath my heel premature death I deemed them too doe-eyed.

Finally, I mumbled, “I’m going to miss you.”

He turned to me.

“Well, I’m not.”

I let out a slight huff of laughter, and he continued, “But let’s make tonight worth it.”

So we did.

We walked on the shore, tracing the infinite fractals left behind by the waves. In time, the close clusters of beach houses faded into long stretches

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Evan Li

of empty space, threaded by a wooden boardwalk and pinned by streetlights. Only seldomly would the void be punctuated by a building. It

was during one of these rare occurrences that we saw yellow, glowing lanterns, bobbing in the inky waves. Too distracted by the sight, we stepped onto a bed of roses, laid out in pairs, like fishnets on the sand.

“A mourning,” I suddenly realized. “We have stepped on a worship to the dead.”

I apologized to no one, whispering condolences to the air, and tip-toed on my desecrating feet, careful to avoid the rest of the flowers. They were roses, crusted gray by the sand; some had already been washed away by the waves.

When I reached the end, I turned left and saw a group of shadows, huddled near a house, their backs embroidered by campfire light.

The mourners.

I could almost feel their displeasure, like tepid, flaccid seagrass clinging to my ankles. I ran ahead, hurrying to catch my brother.

We walked for thirty minutes more before I asked to turn back. We were almost near the end, the opening in the wooden gate could be seen when I ran into the water to wash my feet. My brother did not follow me. I stood there for a few moments, watching the starlight swirl and ebb around my ankles, flowing with Wrightsville waves.

My brother threw sand at me.

I turned around, “Let’s go back.”

My brother has since left for his dorm at American University, and the beach memory has faded into the sleepy oscillations of everyday life. Yet sometimes, when I feel hollow, I come back to this experience. It is a rose I put on the shore, to mourn, to remember, despite knowing that eventually, it will be washed away.

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Nyela Rucker

amongst REALITY

Draped in melanin Speaking to my kin I stand on feet Looking in desperate eyes Surprised by our excellence Surprised by our intelligence Surprised by our magnificence The godly spirit residing In our hearts, heads, soul Our people adorned with the spirit of royalty not smell of death from swinging trees Our roots etched into the molten core of this earth Strung along like glittering beads Amongst the velvet sky That flows as long as the wind blows and the sea crashes upon broken crystals Our story’s longevity that beats a million times As the heartbeats of the youth Our bodies decomposed in the raw earth and open sea We are the foundation of a world that forsakes our identities But our greatness cannot be contained by fallacies Breaking through boundaries Histories Luxuries Fantasies Discoveries We are the descendants of greatness Kings queens activists scholars Text may forsake these truths Yet the manner of how we walk, speak, perform, dress, We are the answers to every academic test Let us determine our realities Let us help the world reset

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I Don’t Know | Jaylen Jones | 22x18 | Monoprint

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Startled | Camille Darwich | Digital Art

B TTLE Lydia Berens

sc rs

Crash!

I glance at my scraped knees and see blood trickling down my legs. I feel my eyes well up, about to pour like a waterfall. I try to hold them in.

Brushing off the dirt on my skirt, I notice my hands are torn up from the gravel. A couple of Cinderella Band Aids and a magic kiss will make it all better.

Cool and collected, I attempt to stand up, acting like the big girl my mom thinks I am. When I fully extend to my full four-feet-tall self, I feel the rush of pain surge towards my bloody knees. I falter, almost hitting the ground again.

Thankfully, I catch myself before I crack my head open on the concrete sidewalk. A fountain of tears starts flooding down my pink and puffy face and they won’t stop. I yell for my mom who’s inside making dinner. She can’t hear my weak shouts for help. I lie helpless on the ground, hoping someone, anyone, will help me up and care for my wounds. I feel like a fallen soldier on the battlefield with no one around.

Everyone carries on with their lives, unaware of my

momentous fall.

I just lie motionless on the ground for a bit and gaze at the sky. Fluffy white clouds fill my view. Even through the pain, I can’t help but smile when I remember the way my sister and I used to discover shapes out of the clouds. I spot a dinosaur and a turtle hiding withhin the big bright blue sky. It seems like we were cloud gazing just yesterday.

The scenery around me seems different. The bushes I always thought were shriveled have rosebuds blooming.

Weeds are scattered throughout our lawn. My neighbor's mailbox seems to tilt a little to the right.

There are so many things I’ve never noticed because of the business of life, but being stranded here on the pavement makes me recognize the little things—it's like a whole new world around me.

My tears have ceased rolling down my face and my knees only ache a little with soreness. The blood has dried up, and all that’s left are a few scars.

Battle scars.

Who knew learning to ride a bike was so hard?

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Technicolor Swirl | Grace Vance | 23x18 | Colored Pencil

CHILD

Cora Snyder

“She’s a problem child.” I smiled. The volunteer from the Twos room continued, “She cries when her parents drop her off. Never talks. Never wants to do anything.”

“Good to know,” I said, turning back to my own classroom. Taking a deep breath, I prepared to face my class of three-year-olds. The ‘terrible threes’, as some called them. The truth is, it's always been my favorite age group.

I love the challenge. And I absolutely love a good problem child.

As a lead Sunday school teacher, I’ve had my share of tough cases. I’ve never met an unsolvable problem child.

He can’t sit still at small group? Give him a block to hold and fidget with. She’s shy being the only girl in class?

Color with her and compliment her hair. He’s scared of the large group room because it’s too dark? Sit with him in the doorway. Most problems could be solved with calm words, a hug, or some stickers. This little girl, however, was something else entirely.

I tried all the standard tricks. Nothing worked. She couldn’t be calmed by compliments on her dress or questions about her favorite color. She couldn’t be tempted to build the tallest tower or the longest train. She gave in to neither Goldfish nor Chex Mix. Not even my brand new pack of stickers was enough to get her to tell me what she learned after large group. Weeks went by with no change.

Then, one Sunday, the children gathered on the bright orange carpet for small group time. “Anyone who can tell me something they learned today gets a sticker!” Child by child I gave out stars until only one remained. “Kay, can you tell me something you learned today?” Then Kay looked up. Not at me, not at the other teacher. She looked at the other children sitting in the circle, staring at her, waiting for an answer. She froze, her eyes wide. Then,

silently shaking her head, she looked down, focusing on twisting the carpet between her fingers. The look on her face made everything make sense.

This was a kind of problem child I’d never encountered: a little girl with crippling shyness. Of course she didn’t want to talk or participate, not with all the other children watching her. Of course she cried at drop-off; her parents were her comfort people. Of course no progress had been made; she lacked a source of safety in my classroom. I knew the problem. Time for a solution.

The next Sunday at drop-off, I took her, crying, from her mother. This time, instead of trying to calm or distract her, I held her while I welcomed other children and prepared crafts. She quieted. In time, the arms around my neck loosened as she took a deep breath and lifted her head. When she was ready, I set her down. Encouraged by the small victory, I offered to color with her, just the two of us. She nodded. That was just the beginning. I held her hand, sat with her at the table in the corner, let her stay behind when large group was too much, made sure I always greeted her at the door with a cheerful “Good Morning, Miss Kay!” until she grew comfortable in my classroom.

By the end of the year, she sat with the other kids, coloring and talking about favorite colors and puppies and Frozen. She answered questions and earned stickers in small group. She ran and gave me hugs when she saw me in the hallway. Sometimes she still got overwhelmed, but then we would sit together until she felt better again.

On move-up day, Kay waved at me before heading to the Fours room. I watched her walk in all by herself, without a single tear. I smiled.

As a former problem child myself, I knew she was going to be just fine.

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BOSSA NOVA Julie Derraik

like me

SOUNDS

I sound like Bossa.

My Vovó Dida is the original “Girl From Ipanema”; she’s not tall, tan or young, but she is most definitely lovely. She has lived in her tiny, streetside apartment in Tijuca for forty years now, hogging a simultaneous view of Christ the Redeemer and the intersection where Aunt Andrea was shot (don’t worry, Tia is alive and livelier than ever).

Vovó always leaves the windows open to let in Rio’s salty breath and, consequently, the dissonant engine sputters of every Carioca driving by. Underneath these mechanical tones I can hear her serenading the city from the windowsill: always proudly and always Bossa Nova.

Bossa Nova, which my American friends dismiss as elevator music, emerged in Brazil during the 1950s. Bossa musicians sourced inspiration from mellow beach sounds and classic samba, incorporating echoes of American jazz and its chords of social revolution. The double bass’s soothing strum and the surdo’s grounding downbeats always still my soul and center my mind in cathartic, cultural euphoria.

Through Vovó’s influence, Bossa has become my allpurpose rhythmic remedy.

Throughout her tumultuous life, Vovó found resilience in the savory notes of Bossa Nova—the way it sounds like waves washing over the shores of Copacabana, like the gentle creaking of cable cars climbing Pão de Açúcar. Bossa brought her hope, and now (bless my tone-deaf mom and brother) she has passed this gift on to me.

Despite being thousands of painful miles away, I still hear Vovó Dida’s gentle melodies when she sends recordings on WhatsApp. A simple request accompanies her tender vibrato and audible grin: “Ju, will you learn this Bossa song for me?”

I always do, spending however long it takes rehearsing each complex harmony because I know these cherished requests may soon disappear.

Vovó’s Bossa especially is like honey for my spirit. I replay her recordings when I feel nostalgic, but, mostly, I listen to feel Brazilian.

Growing up in predominantly white spaces, feeling

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Brazilian was not as easy as my genetics implied.

Oftentimes I was the only Latina in the room. Because of my pale skin and green eyes, it was easy to herd behind the white kids, hiding my black-sheepness by codeswitching. Though, over time, this white comfort became costly; I was losing my culture. My Portuguese stuttered, raucous relatives brought red shame to my cheeks, and my dear Bossa even began to sound like elevator music.

My growing concerns peaked the summer before ninth grade when Vovó called.

I had forgotten how to sing happy birthday.

We had not visited Brazil in over five years, and I desperately wanted to reconnect with my ethnicity.

Despite my parents’ concerns about Rio’s rising crime rate, they gave in to my persistence Christmas break freshman year.

Naturally, the first place I landed was Vovó Dida’s apartment. As soon as I entered that kitchen/dining/living room and heard her humming her Bossa melodies, my worries melted away. From the stovetop, her delicate notes danced with the chiming of the pots.

Upon arrival she winked at me with the very same sagetinted eyes I inherited from her, almost as if to say: “Ju, this is where we belong.”

And she is absolutely right—not that I belong in Brazil necessarily, but that I belong in Bossa. That acoustic glee rings through my blood, rising from tapping feet, floating through winding hips, and finding its home in my beating heart.

Once in a while, I still catch myself regressing toward cultural assimilation, but now I know to play that sacred sound.

Only then am I reminded of my fierce pride because Bossa Nova sounds like Tia Andrea’s laughter. Bossa sounds like liberation. Like Vovó calling us to dinner. Like loving myself. Like churrasco sizzling on the grill.

Like Brazilian romanticism charged with American resistance.

And, although I am the one listening, I am being heard because Bossa Nova sounds like me.

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BUS DRIVER

10-year -old

Cameron Hutchinson

Looking out my seat’s window, I wince as the tires of the school bus drift closer and closer to the roadside’s curb, just two minutes away from my destination. I gaze up to the driver’s seat and see the bus driver’s chronic yawns and melting eyelids. As I walk up the aisle, the bus driver’s head gently falls to his shoulder, causing my stroll to turn into an alarming sprint to the front of the bus.

Snatching the wheel from the limp body’s grasp, I sit down on the right edge of the driver’s seat. I extend my tween-sized leg under the upper console, barely reaching the gas pedal. After stretching my legs to reach the pedal, suddenly the bus transforms into a cheetah chasing after its prey.

Oops! Maybe that was a little aggressive, I think to myself.

I try again, this time pushing lightly down on the pedal, and the bus slowly accelerates. Aligning with the twists and turns of the winding road, I gingerly steer the vehicle, trembling from head to toe.

I jump. The body beside me begins to snore. Loudly.

I notice my friends behind me beginning to realize the situation as they all file up the aisle in my direction. Piling into the seats behind me, they begin cheering and as I navigate the roads like a racecar driver.

Ahead, I see my greatest challenge: the wide left turn into school. With driver's ed years ahead of me, I have no idea how to put my blinker on, judge spatial distance, or even how to make a left-hand turn.

Entering the turning lane, I study the cars opposite the bus and begin to search for an opening. After two minutes, I finally see a break in the never ending flow of traffic. I kick the gas and the bus jumps, zipping into the school’s driveway with a rumble and roar.

“What happened?” a voice exclaims.

Thinking it was merely a speaker inside my own head, I ignore it. However, the rustling next to me prompts me to look at my side to the alarmed bus driver, with a terrified (and confused) expression on his now conscious face.

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Explosion of Faces | Kayla Middendorf | 16x23 | Mixed Media

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evening

wednesday

Cam Linker

COMMUTE

It always seems to rain on Wednesday nights, Flooding the roads on the commute to the Studio.

The ritual of driving through the pounding rain, Passing by the antique shops, The dumpling restaurant, Pulling into the parking lot, And unloading canvases and paint boxes from the trunk.

As the door opens, the bells ring.

Mountains of paintings and drawings face the entrance, Inviting you into the space.

Friendly faces of fellow artists smile hello, Everyone beginning to set up their boards in the back room.

The heavy smells of oil paints saturating the air, The hot studio lights, Bowie’s greatest hits, All setting the mood to create.

The boxes of compressed charcoals are passed around, The lights go dim, And they all begin to draw.

Arms are tossed up and across the papers, Charcoal dust flies through the air.

Sounds of rags scrubbing the papers, Sounds of rain pelting against the tin roof, The silence creates a space for truth.

As they work, Every drop of creative energy in the space is focused On just one, singular pear: A Masterpiece is finished, but never done.

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Under the Surface | Cam Linker | 10x10 | Textiles

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Nobody | Logan Yee | 13x18 | Charcoal & Pencil

UNDER

Lynn Zhao

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Understanding another’s pain becomes more dif ficult when one lacks the experience of that person’s hardships; that might be why my bilingual life gives me a chance to gain the perspective of someone else’s struggles.

My family came to the United States as immigrants from China, and my parents both came to this country with minimal knowledge of English and American culture. In my eyes, my mother has always been a warrior, a fighter, one who refuses to show her weaknesses in front of others, especially those she cares deeply about.

However, even the toughest soldiers can have cracks in their masks, tears in their souls, and unresolvable pain that stops them from being “okay.”

In some ways, maybe that is why I no longer argue with her about the smallest things. To a certain degree, I recognize more of her anguish now, no longer blinded by the ignorance that hid her struggles from me.

I detest arguing with my mother, maybe because I think her voice drowns out mine, or maybe because I refuse to acknowledge I may be at fault.

Regardless of the reason or the topic of discussion, I can say that without a doubt, we are both stubborn people who have relatively average patience levels when it comes to defending our views against each other, and therefore, the arguments become heated if we let it go too far.

Neither of us like playing with that fire. One of us always has to say (sorry) first (and sadly, most of the time, that would be me) before that fire burns everything, even if we do not mean the apology at the moment.

A few months ago, I found a wretched rash on my skin that resulted in the potential need for a doctor’s visit.

That day tested our bond, crumpling it up yet making the words on the delicate rice paper look so much clearer.

At that moment, I would have considered my mother as insensitive to my feelings, but I currently think it would be an understatement to say that I actually understand her point of view.

A trip to an excessive amount of clinics and Urgent Cares that calming autumn day made it nothing close to what the weather intended it to be. Furthermore, it definitely was not a surprise that every place we visited was overbooked or had five-hour wait times.

What could have been a perfectly comfortable Saturday transformed into a sour afternoon from the cold glares, overly apathetic facial expressions, and ridiculing voices of the front desks of potentially overworked receptionists.

As a last resort, my mother finally resolved to call my pediatrician since I was too emotionally tired to face another one of those receptionists who would most likely turn us away (again).

I caught a glimpse of my mother struggling to type into the search bar of her contacts app on her phone to call my pediatrician and then offered to type it in for her to relieve

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her of the inconvenience. She adamantly refused the suggestion, which at that moment just seemed rude, but later the reason revealed itself.

I would have definitely searched for a contact titled “Pediatrician,” but my mother had saved the contact as “Physician.” There is a difference between my physician and my pediatrician since I myself knew that they were two different doctors we had seen on separate occasions.

Assuming that my mother had made a mistake and called the wrong office, I quickly raised my voice to inform her of this error. My mother replied that this was indeed the correct number in her usual tone. I then began urgently trying to explain why I assumed it was the wrong number (previous doctor visits, different purposes, etc.), but my mother desperately continued to argue that she was indeed calling the pediatrician. Both running out of patience, like overflowing pots of boiling water, our conversation went south.

My mother blurted out in Chinese, “Of course you wouldn’t understand! You wouldn’t be able to comprehend not knowing the word for (pediatrician) in English because you grew up knowing both English and Chinese well. Do you think that I would use the word ‘physician’ if I had already known what the word for ‘pediatrician’ was?”

Tears appeared to form at the corners of her eyes as the brown cores of her eyes blurred.

My mother was crying.

The mother who I have only ever seen cry when my grandmother passed away and when she was beyond frustrated at a situation was sobbing for what I originally assumed to be a miniscule situation.

Silence.

A void.

It was like I resided on the Eastern Coast of the U.S. while she was in the middle of China, the vast Atlantic Ocean and continents separating us, stretching the distance.

What we knew, understood, felt; it was so different, foreign.

I had idiotically neglected the truth that my mother had limited knowledge in this foreign place and was equally tired of the apathy we faced that day in addition to the inconveniences of a language and culture barrier. I had struck a nerve that my mother had tried to hide for years.

I am still so ashamed that I had never fully comprehended how she lived her life here until this year; I am fourteen years old.

Tears filled my eyes as I felt guilt creeping in and redness going to my face. Embarrassment, but also pity for my mother, bit into me, almost like waking me up from a dream (a very overdue awakening). These feelings that resulted from realizing my ignorance and inconsideration were spears stabbing into my chest, my conscience, so

painfully. Yet I do not think I deserved to think of it as painful, only and too

necessary belated.

Hours after a successful appointment that followed the chaotic afternoon, I broke the silence in the car.

I started in Chinese, “I’m sorry that I don’t understand how hard it is for you and dad, coming to a new country and barely knowing how to communicate with the people there.”

I looked down into my lap, closed my eyes, and waited for a response.

My mother said, “When your father and I first came here, he tried to call the water company to ask about the water bill, but he could barely say the letters of his name to ask them to check it. It would be difficult for you to comprehend what that would be like, feeling so desperate and alone.

Can you imagine navigating your world while lacking such basic abilities?”

My eyes widened; I was silent, letting the concept sink in: battling what I assumed were the most insignificant things every day since they have arrived here in this foreign place. The spears that were thrown towards them, the wounds they faced along the way.

“Exactly. Can you imagine how scary it was when I had to make doctor’s appointments for you when you were younger? If it wasn’t for you today, I would not have been able to face the receptionists today; I feel guilty and sorry, but maybe now you can understand the difficulty I would have faced. Can you picture how nerve-wracking and helpless I felt when I had to do those tasks alone years ago?” My mother asked.

Moments passed; my mother looked in the rear-view mirror and smiled at me (which was a definite relief for me), gently saying in Chinese, “It’s okay. I can’t expect you to do it. I shouldn’t have acted that way either, but sometimes my patience runs low and I have those struggles that you can’t quite fully comprehend. Everyone’s life is hard in some way; we just lack the experience of that same pain to do so.”

We smiled at each other through that tiny piece of glass.

Sharing those feelings, opening those gates, filling airw ith the feeling of our improved understanding of each other. Maybe this is what I needed most to finally know why my mother was the way she is.

My silence answered her.

I may never be able to fully grasp what my parents feel every day when facing the world, but maybe I am no longer clueless about how to approach their struggles.

Every time my mother asks me to proofread her emails, I no longer complain and judge her mistakes.

Every time my father asks for clarifications on slang or conversational phrases, I do not laugh at his confusion.

Maybe I was given this chance to see the world differently in order to aid more people, those who feel lost and alone. When I help another person who requires the same help my parents need, I have more patience.

I will never know what another person feels as they struggle through life, but I can always be more conscious of the pain and aware of the comfort they yearn for.

What was originally a sour conversation turned into moments of learning, where the cloth was pulled off my face for me to acknowledge others’ seemingly improbable drudgeries.

After that day, I no longer fight with my parents regarding petty issues, like what may be common sense for me but difficult to comprehend for them. I refuse to say they have life easy when they do not.

Because now I know.

Feeling alone in a world where you feel lost is no easy battle.

My parents make it through every day.

So this is to them.

Blue Review Vol. XXVIII 101

BLUE REVIEW 2020-21 HONORS Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA) Gold Medalist: Overall All-Columbian Honors:

Essentials Verbal Visual

2022 UPPER SCHOOL SCHOLASTIC AWARDS NATIONAL ART MEDALS & SPECIAL AWARDS Gold Medal Hope Gottschling, '24, Textiles, Virus MID-CAROLINA REGION ART AWARDS Art Gold Key Hope Gottschling '24, Textiles, Virus *Lila Rhee '23, Mixed Media, Bugs in Orange *Grace Vance '23, Painting, Primary Childhood *Cam Linker '22, Photography, Self-Portait Series: A Movement Art Silver Key Brendan Bucci '22, Architecture & Ind. Design, Pinnacle *Logan Yee '25, Drawing & Illustration, Nobody Caroline Sagasta Pereira '23, Mixed Media, Rainbow Runes *Cooper Kasimov, Painting, Lady Liberty Abstracted Cam Linker, '22 Photography, End of May Lily McMahan 22, Printmaking, Block Print Lung Installation Art Honorable Mention "Madeline Pease '22, Drawing & Illustration Dancing Mushrooms Rachel Hall '22, Mixed Media, Her

102

*Hope Gottschling '22 Painting, Self Portrait: Temptation *Nina Lavelle '22, Painting, Drive *Leah Tewolde '24, Painting, War in Ethiopia *Rachel Hall, '22, Photography, Stuck *Evan Li '24, Photography, Asian Melancholia *Evan Li '24, Photography, Oriental Faciality Cam Linker, '22, Photography, Untitled Supermarket Series

NATIONAL WRITING MEDALS & SPECIAL AWARDS American Voices Medal *Mia Zottoli '23, Critical Essay, “Collective Ignorance: Why Schools Can No Longer Ignore LGBTQ+ Topics” Gold Medal *Lynn Zhao '25, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Understand” *Sarah Hinrichs '22, Poetry, “Horas en La Frontera Mexicana con el Monstruo (Hours at the Mexican Border with the Monster)" *Mia Zottoli '23, Critical Essay, “Collective Ignorance: Why Schools Can No Longer Ignore LGBTQ+ Topics” MID-CAROLINA REGION WRITING AWARDS Adams Outdoor Advertising Billboard Award *Sarah Hinrichs '22, Poetry, “Horas en La Frontera

2022 SCHOLASTIC AWARDS, CONT. Mexicana con el Monstruo (Hours at the Mexican Border with the Monster)” *Lynn Zhao '25, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Understand” American Voices Award *Sarah Hinrichs. Poetry, “Horas en La Frontera Mexicana con el Monstruo (Hours at the Mexican Border with the Monster)” Lynn Zhao. Personal Essay & Memoir, “Understand” Mia Zottoli. Critical Essay, “Collective Ignorance: Why Schools Can No Longer Ignore LGBTQ+ Topics” Writing Gold Key *Sarah Hinrichs '22, Poetry, “Horas en La Frontera Mexicana con el Monstruo (Hours at the Mexican Border with the Monster)” *Evan Li '24, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Roses on the Shore” Campbell Loeffler '22, Critical Essay, “Identity through Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” *Olivia Warren '24, Dramatic Script, “Anne and Christine” *Lynn Zhao '25, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Understand” Mia Zottoli '23, Critical Essay, “Collective Ignorance: Why Schools Can No Longer Ignore LGBTQ+ Topics” Writing Silver Key Claire Addison '25, Poetry, “Let Girls Be Girls” Luisa de Armas. Poetry, “The Sinner’s Prayer” Poetry Luisa de Armas. Poetry,“The Trip” Jaya Iyer '24, Journalism, “Murder: Is this the New Quarantine Obsession?”

Shea Kennedy '22, Critical Essay, “The Power of the Pen: Eliot and Greene’s Use of Wartime Symbolism in ‘Little Gidding’ and The Quiet American” *Evan Li '24, Personal Essay & Memoir, “An Ekphrastic Asian Melancholia” Evan Li '24, Poetry, “Roy Cohn” Writing Honorable Mention Sam Alexander '23, Critical Essay, “Transcending the Summit: Krakauer's Exploration of Seeking Clarity Through Climbing” Helena Berens '22, Critical Essay, “Like a Girl: Redefining Sexist Phrases” Helena Berens '22, Flash Fiction, “Permanent Star” Helena Berens '22, Writing Portfolio, "Stars, War, and Women" William Burleson '22, Critical Essay, “Double Edged

Religion” Layth Darwich '22, Critical Essay, “Swimming in a Flaming River: Coppola’s Use of Allusions to 'The Waste Land”’ Quinn Edwards '22, Critical Essay, “Modernistic Anarchy and Rebirth: Coppola’s New Wave Crisis and Vietnam” *Mayes Fisher '23, Flash Fiction, “From Cook to Warrior” *Hope Gottschling '24, Humor, “An Experiment in Love” Sarah Hinrichs, Poetry, Over the Mountain: "The Climb Up Sugar Mountain" & "Up the Alpine through the Sounds of Strauss’s 'Alpine Symphony, Op. 64'" *Helen Hurden '23, Personal Essay & Memoir, *“Yosemite: A Journey Into Humanity” Campbell Loeffler '22, Critical Essay, “Transcendentalism Throughout 'The Hunger Games'” Ryan Lupfer, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Parent-aMorphosis” * McClain Marshall '23, Critical Essay,“Romanticism Ablazed: Comparing the Works of Bryant and Cole to Uncover the Sublime” Neesa Phadke '24, Poetry, “World War I—Lived Three Times” Maddie Shannon '22, Critical Essay, “Emancipation from Darkness” Jacob Snyder '23, Poetry, “The Fifth of July” Gabe Stein '23, Poetry, An American Portfolio: “Winter on the Lakeshore” Gabe Stein '23, Poetry, “Photograph of My Father as a Boy” Gabe Stein '23, Poetry, “A Flag” Wilson Thrift '22, Critical Essay, “From Airborne To New Wave Warfare: Coppola’s Revolutionary Depiction of the Quest for Kurtz” James Van Nort '23, Critical Essay, “Symbolism and Similarities in ‘To a Waterfowl’" and 'Above the Clouds at Sunrise'” Mia Zottoli '23, Journalism, “Art Thou a Man? A Modern Take on a Shakespearen Classic" *Mia Zottoli '23, Flash Fiction, “Binary” Mia Zottoli '23, “Her Last Day on Earth”

*Featured in this edition

Blue Review Vol. XXVIII 103

COLOPHON The body text is Minion Pro. Headline fonts include a variety of choices from the Futura family. 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 Adobe InDesign CC 2022 and Adobe Photoshop CC 2022.

We are grateful for the school’s support in covering printing and other expenses associated with Blue Review.

Our publisher is AlphaGraphics, Charlotte, North Carolina. We used 100# cover stock for the cover and 80# text stock for the inside pages. Charlotte Latin School is a member of the following professional organizations: North Carolina Scholastic Media Association (NCSMA) and the Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA).

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

All student editors are appointed by the faculty adviser.

The lead layout, copy, and art 104

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

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

for

wanting to

FLY

off into

the unknown:

we fly in

darkness where

others are

AFRAID TO LOOK