Table of Contents
1-2
Just
Peyton Pixler ‘28
Graffiti Gavel
Delia McCabe ‘25
3-4
Forever Kind of Flight
Susanna Huang ‘27
5-6
Shadowed Spot
Taeeon Moon ‘25
Metamorphosis
Alice Morgan ‘26
7-8 A Pretty Oak Tree Ally Snyder ‘28
9-10
Dancing with Fireflies
Grace Chi ‘25
Be The Star You Seek
Riley Choi ‘28
11-12
Dancer Mother
Cocona Yamamoto ‘25
Shocker!
Anne Sehon ‘25
13-14
Tu La Conosci
Reagan Houpt ‘25
15-16
Dancer in the Dark
Yule Kwon ‘26
A Nice Day for a Picnic Lilly Killinger ‘26
21-22
Caving In
Yuma Matsuo ‘25
The Captive
Renee Jin ‘26
Ahnighito/Story of Kiviuq
Ethan Stiffler ‘25
31-32
Shrunken Souls
Bauhinia Chen ‘26
SMILE!!
17-18
Spring Day
Reed Warner ‘25
The Cross of Three 4
Annie Wu ‘27
‘26
‘26
‘26
‘26
19-20
Insomniac Bauhinia Chen ‘26
29-30 All Falls Down
Khanh Nguyen ‘27 Family
Yule Kwon ‘26
‘27
Yuma Matsuo ‘25 33-34 Necessity Chloe Allis ‘25 The Cross of Three 1 Annie Wu ‘27 35-36 The Curator of Curiosities
‘25
39-40
Outlaw on Wheels
Gaven McGuire ‘26
Serene Spa Taeeon Moon ‘25
41-42
Shallow
Bauhinia Chen ‘26
43-44
A Lost Soul
Grace Chi ‘25
Golden Hour
Yuma Matsuo ‘25
51-52
The Bench
C. Jiang ‘26
Corea Yule Kwon ‘26 53-54
Failure of Fall Gaven McGuire ‘26 Fishy
Renee Jin ‘26
61-62
711
Lareina Wang ‘26
Rainy Evening Grace Chi ‘25
63-64
A Lovely Cure
Reagan Houpt ‘25
The Cross of Three 3
Annie Wu ‘27
71-72
Shoes Were Falling from the Sky
Ian Kim ‘27
Shoes Were Falling from the Sky Cont.
Ian Kim ‘27
Wings of Hope
Lucia Gamble ‘25
45-46
ma, it won’t sing Billy Quick ‘25 Hyacinth
Katie Lee ‘26
47-48
Pet Politics
Reagan Houpt ‘25
49-50
“In Passing”
Elise Gao ‘26
The Cross of Three 2
Annie Wu ‘27
55-56
Eternal Fire
Cocona Yamamoto ‘25 When the Earth Drank Red Simba Nguyen ‘27
65-66 Homesick
Hailey Huang ‘28 SCORCHED Anne Sehon ‘25
57-58
Sacred Hill
Gaven McGuire ‘26
Magic of Seine
59-60
The Met™ Anne Sehon ‘25
Cocona Yamamoto ‘25
67-68
Maelstrom Bauhinia Chen ‘26
69-70
The City Sophie Sun ‘25
Ultra-processed Bauhinia Chen ‘26
“Just”
Peyton Pixler
Just a girl trapped in a glass box
The moon sings to me every month reminding me I am:
Just too skinny
Just too fat
Just too confident
Just too self-conscious
Just a lipstick
Just a dress
Just a rag
Just a girl
For I am just a girl trying to break through the ceiling
Do I look appealing?
Am I too revealing?
Am I just two faint lines?
Am I just a girl?
Is this just?
“Graffiti Gavel” Delia McCabe Mixed Media 14” by 11”
their flight tied to my movement, their fall tethered to my pause. The strings, the strings they tugged at me, sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh, binding me to their fragile frames. And when we no longer mirrored each other, they left.
Some soared, finally free, their strings slipped from my grasp, their colours fading into distance. I flew, too, across oceans, into skies I didn’t recognize. I sought a kite, a tether, a forever kind of flight.
But even then, the strings frayed miscommunication, mismatch, mine and theirs. Their flight brief as whispers, their presence fleeting as shadows. I’ve never flown a kite, but maybe flying isn’t the point. Perhaps it’s the running, the trying, the moments of joy before the fall.
“Shadowed Spot” Taeeon Moon Mixed Media 11” by 14”
“Metamorphosis” Alice Morgan Archival Pigment Print 10” by 15”
“A Pretty Oak Tree”
Ally Snyder
A pretty oak tree stops people in their tracks, as they admire the colors, flowers, branches—all that.
They do not see the time it took or the effort that was made, the constant primping, changing, trimming all done in the shade.
This tree had once admired its leaves for keeping it alive.
But now it only sees the flaws, needing a better color, shape, and size.
But this isn’t natural, and not all can change. Cherry blossoms are the new oak, and so this oak starts to fade.
“Dancing with Fireflies” Grace Chi Acrylic Painting 60” by 36”
“Be The Star You Seek”
Riley Choi
“Dancer Mother” Cocona Yamamoto Mixed Media Sculpture 12” by 16” by 7”
“Shocker!” Anne Sehon Mixed Media 24” by 20”
“Tu La Conosci”
Reagan Houpt
I step outside of the dim tavern, where I am met with bitter wind and freezing rain— the type of rain that permeates your skin like sharp needles, stinging your bones, and the wind only speeds up the pricks, permanently tattooing the sensation into your body. I stand in the dark alley and wrap my wet coat around me. This will have to do for tonight.
It’s just you and I and the slick cobblestones under our feet. Raindrops cling to my glasses, and I nervously hum lyrics to fill the silence. Why is it so silent? The blackness of the night rips away the few words I want to say, and instead, we listen to the pitter-patter of the rain on the ancient road.
I’m cold. Freezing, actually. The blood leaves my hands, and I’m left with ten pale fingers and a head full of unspoken thoughts. We walk loops around the labyrinthine streets, down this alley and that, but this city does, in fact, sleep, and rainfall is the lullaby that rocks it to bed. Door after door we stumble across is boarded shut with thick, wooden planks, denying us any chance we had at refuge.
Night brings out the worst in everyone. We turn a sharp corner and walk past the lively bar, bright light and drunken noise spilling out onto the street from the doorway. For a fleeting moment, we consider surrendering and sitting down with our friends in the warm interior. But instead, we drudge along, no destination in sight.
Further down the cobblestone street, my ears detect the faintest music. It’s impossible to discern what it is or where it’s originating from. You tell me it must be from the bar. I tell you it’s something different. But if you’re anything, it’s stubborn, and you reassure me that it’s from the bar. We walk on. However, as the darkness ahead begins to swallow us, the symphonic cacophony grows louder, and it becomes clear exactly what it is: a church choir. Hauntingly beautiful harmonies produce goosebumps on my arms that refuse to go away. But the night renders the music uncanny. You don’t hear the music. Are you even
We near an ancient, dilapidated church, and the sound of the choir becomes unbearable. I’m convinced it’s inside. It has to be. But these intricate doors, having opened and closed for centuries, too, are boarded up with rotting wood. A large notice taped on the boards notifies the observant reader of its imminent demolition. We take advantage of the slight awning that juts out above the stairs, offering us protection from the deluge. The stone stairs are grotesque and warped from all of the feet that have used them before without ever thinking twice about it. But I find myself standing on them and thinking about them. Really, I’m thinking about anything other than what’s about to happen. The incessant choir music endures.
A natural lull drives its way into our conversation. Well, conversation is really an exaggeration. I have been talking and talking to circumvent what needs to be said. Because if I’m anything, it’s avoidant. I lift my eyes to peer at the clear sky. Stars are easier to look at than eyes. But soon, these stars start to swirl and warp, like a painting, or the gnarled steps we stand upon, and suddenly I’m dizzy.
“You know, you’re really bad at making a move.”
The church choir stops in the background. I clench my jaw. I bite my tongue. Not like I would’ve said anything anyway.
“Make a move.”
I freeze. You lean in. Our lips touch. I feel nothing. Am I broken?
I step away from my own body and leave it on those stupid, ugly stairs that I never wanted to stand on in the first place. And the church choir picks up once again, singing a melancholic tune. It’s all I can hear.
My body walks away with you, cold hand holding yours. A forced smile on its face. I find myself standing in the middle of the street, watching. There’s nowhere to go. I let the rain wash me away, until I melt into the crevices of the cobblestones, united with history forever.
“Dancer in the Dark” Yule Kwon Archival Pigment Print 9” by 13”
“Spring Day”
Reed Warner
Warmth from just one ray. Oh, how the sunshine heals me.
Please, can the light stay?
“Insomniac”
Bauhinia Chen
Darkness engulfs me, a soul in solitude, stagnant and stiff my limbs fatigued with a tinge of soreness that makes them cumbersome and sink into cream-like softness; enervated, yet the tangible exhaustion was not accompanied by somnolence. My mind remains lucid, a flaring bulb gleaming so obtrusively amid the pervasive darkness. Along with the fan’s faint, sporadic din frigid air exudes yet I feel like a kindling flame so vehemently burning. The cold did not make me wane. I made a deliberate effort to close my eyes but the contrived contradiction put me into an inadvertent frown.
A grimace, almost.
I feel my skin fold and wrinkle so I try to smoothen the furrow. The tension lingers.
“Caving In” Yuma Matsuo Acrylic and Ink 24” by 18”
“The Captive” Renee Jin Mixed Media Painting 20” by 16”
“Ahnighito/Story of Kiviuq”
Ethan Stiffler
A gift should bring an honored one closer to the giver, so is all that is beyond the natural world an interpretation of gifts?
Kiviuq 1 wanders endlessly, but lately has been walking near my street. He tells me he doesn’t come here often, but there is no more ice, no more tongues for him to cling to and jump from.
Suddenly, I find myself in a leaning metal coffin. He tells me I interpreted my gift wrong, that great spirits sent metal from the sky not for us to shoot it back at her underbelly, causing her heavy tears to dry up.
He told me a story of Ahnighito 2, a good friend of his.
Ahnighito was a gift from the gods to provide tools to the wanderer, but people moving into their world took him into a bedrock prison.
“We have all the tools you need,” they said, but they never knew Ahnighito like the wanderer did.
1 In Polar Inuit mythology, Kiviuq the Wanderer is a hero who wanders the world forever, searching for his home he lost in a storm; in some tellings of the story, his death would cause the death of all Inuit people.
2 Ahnighito is a piece of the Cape York Meteorite, a two hundred ton hunk of metal that fell on Greenland thousands of years ago. The Polar Inuit people saw Ahnighito as a heavenly gift from the sky gods, and they utilized the source of metal to craft various survival tools such as harpoons, knives, etc.
Kiviuq tells me he knew others like him.
One of them makes up my spinning coffin.
Another, my belt.
Another, to hold my thoughts in.
I try to hold back the melancholy of knowing.
The wanderer tells me to learn their stories.
At least then they live from tongue to tongue.
I look at Kiviuq with great understanding.
“You know,” he tells me, “I don’t have much longer myself.”
Right there, I decide his story will be told.
I see him as a friend now, but to him, I am not.
I want to come with him.
He says no, this is my gift.
“Entangled” Renee Jin Embroidery 10” by 10”
“Still Life” Katie Lee White Charcoal 20” by 15”
“Solitude” Alice Morgan Archival Pigment Print 10” by 15”
The voice now sounds almost pitiful. “And what about your family? Your parents, exhausted from working endlessly to give you a better life?” He pictures them aging, realizing how old they will be in just a few years. Grief etched into their faces.
“Everything has its consequences,” the voice murmurs. “But I guess it’s too late now.”
Time unfreezes. The ground rushes toward him.
Suddenly, his forehead slams against the edge of his desk. Papers scatter to the floor. He looks around, heart pounding, breath ragged. The clock reads 2:00 a.m.
Outside, leaves are torn from their branches, swept away by the strong wind. This time, the boy watches them fall—not with inspiration but with profound understanding. A single leaf remains on the tree, fighting against the wind, as the other trees lose their last.
“Family” Yule Kwon Archival Pigment Print 14” by 20”
“SMILE!!” Yuma Matsuo Mixed Media
16” by 22”
The Cross of Three 1 Annie Wu Paper Relief Collage 12” by 12” by 1”
“The Curator of Curiosities”
Ian Kim
Ah, please take notice of these grand platinum doors of my infamous Piné Castle, gliding open as you enter the main hall. Although it pains me, see how I’ve plastered on the most genuine smile I could manage for you, Duke Sphlemhaur, the successor of the Nauhwuahs.
Now, let me lead you to my private collection. I may have found something that might be of your…interest. You have no idea what I have in store for you. Now, please, admire these paintings of my ancestors, each framed with the Bleu Diamonds from the Mines of the Retront, as we stride past them.
These are my private chambers where my Cabinet of Curiosities awaits us.
Allow me to re-introduce myself for this occasion. You may know me as King Rohaum the Terrible, Successor and Protége of the Pinéapplé Family—but tonight, I will simply be the Curator, proud owner of Curiosities of the World. I will not tolerate being called anything else for the remainder of the night, and the refusal to do so will result in the sudden absence of your head!
Now, let my tour begin.
On our right, you may notice this gigantic pearl-white claw.
That is the talon from the dying Elder Dragon, the fierce and the great. We had to bargain for weeks just to be able to see it in person, and even more to just purchase the treasure.
Oh! And gaze upon this urn, jewel-encrusted and plated with 24-karat gold.
See the silver hair-like strands inside, their whispers creeping out from the urn and giving you a sense of dread. It contains the whiskers of a unicorn foal, just three days out from its mother’s womb.
To protect itself from unholy predators, it emits a strong aura of fear-inducing mist.
Pretty cool, eh?
And look at this!
See that ball of yarn with a yellowish hue? Guess what? That’s comprised of the heartstrings of mountain trolls. Yes, mountain trolls!
The big, hulking moronic giants that measure up to a whopping 25 feet! When they die, their internal organs perish the quickest in their acidic blood, so only the most skillful hunters are able to pull out their heartstrings. Give it a little twang!
No? Well, it would have sounded like a master musician’s harp, each note prompting a whole array of emotions.
“The Curator of Curiosities”
But this. Consider this!
This key, forged from meteorites of the old, and then signed by none other than Yujugh,
The Founding Dragon himself is in my possession!
Why do you look so perplexed?
Is it perhaps because it looks like the same prized possession of the Nauhwuahs?
This is the real key, I assure you.
I would know, because I hired some shadow bringers to sneak into your vault and bring it to its rightful place in the world: my Cabinet of Curiosities.
Oh, look at you.
What a pathetic sight.
Trembling in fear now that your great secret weapon against me is mine. Did you really think I wouldn’t know what you were scheming against me?
Oh, my! But look at the time!
I must hurry now. It seems as though I might miss the play.
Hurry on now, young Sphlemhaur.
Run on to your family to tell them this wonderful news.
Toodaloo!
“Crest” Sophie Sun Acrylic Painting 22” by 28”
“Outlaw on Wheels” Gaven McGuire Graphite Pencils 20” by 16”
“Serene Spa” Taeeon Moon Rhino, Photoshop 11” by 11”
“Shallow”
Bauhinia Chen
They say pulchritude is superficial and that they value character instead.
They say, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
That they appraise its contents rather than its worthless shell. They say you don’t have to have comely skin, and that it is a shallow pursuit.
Yet why do men only have their lustful gaze transfixed on blonde-haired bombshells with buxom bodies and azure eyes and prostrate before them, wooing them with sycophantic praise?
Why does beauty bless one with the adulation of the masses and allow one to perch so effortlessly on the lofty heights of society’s ladder?
In the absurdity of this world, prettiness is tantamount to competence and virtue. A configuration of capital, an omnipotent weapon that vanquishes any hindrances in the odyssey for love.
So we primp ourselves so fastidiously, heeding to our figure and lineaments with such meticulous attention; veiling our bare visages with powder and ink and ersatz lashes and transmuting our pristine bodies with the adulteration of plastic and silicone.
And so, through the echoes of duplicitous voices that told me that intellect and personality gleamed and outshone, I now gain a limpid vision of reality that only evinced the falsehood of these sanctimonious sayings.
Through the bathroom mirror’s candid reflection I see a crude body; a face marred by unsightly bumps and blemishes, yellowish skin, the revolting shade of mud, lackluster black hair and bushy brows sitting incongruously above asymmetrical eyes, a figure far from corpulent but not adequately slim to be svelte and sylphlike, short, brawny legs affixed awkwardly to the torso in an absence of femininity.
In self-abasing scrutiny, I stare in repulse and lament how I must invite contemptuous glances wherever I stray, but never ingratiating smiles, envious gapes, or tacit glimpses of charm. Oh, if only I weren’t so plain. If only.
“Golden Hour” Yuma Matsuo Oil Pastel 26” by 22”
“ma, it won’t sing”
Billy Quick
His hand danced in the trees
Palm and fingers and knuckles clenched around the fragile frame
He put a nest together like he watched them do
Frayed shoelaces, old crayons, school papers
A collage of the departed
The others did their sky-dancing
This one stayed humble
Found lying on the backyard slide
Ma, look, I brought him home, he said While it sat cold in its wooden cradle
“Pet Politics” Reagan Houpt
He stands in the artificial luminescence of the refrigerator, door ajar as he scans its meager contents for something to ease his hunger. Soon, however, his eyes begin to wander around the dimly lit kitchen. Dawn peeks through the windows, threatening the arrival of day. Scattered across the granite countertops are unpaid bills—utility, phone, credit card, speeding ticket—unopened and, therefore, utterly dismissed. Sweeping the room with his gaze, he finds himself ruminating over an empty corner, once occupied by two small, white bowls on a blue placemat, never without stubborn kibble crumbs no matter how many times they were shaken off.
As he continues to stare at the bare area, his vision blurs, and a tear runs down his dry cheek. Shaking his head, he breaks his trance and returns his attention to the fridge. He forages through the half-eaten, long-abandoned jars of pickled vegetables on the top shelf until he comes across an open can of wet cat food collecting mold behind the olives. His body suddenly feels heavier, arms dropping to his sides as he freezes in utter shock.
It’s been months, he thinks. How could I have let this go unnoticed?
However, the odor quickly calls to his attention, and he reaches for the rogue can. Farther back than he had anticipated, he steps into the refrigerator, offering up the entire length of his arm to the appliance. Extending his elbow to put the most distance possible between himself and the putrid stench, he exits the refrigerator with the can in his hand, but upon closing the door, he notices something is off. The appliances, once occupying the opposite side of the room, offer an uncanny foreignness, as if peering through a mirror. The countertop is entirely visible, clear of its usual disarray. His eyes, sweeping the unfamiliar room, fall on that once occupied, now empty corner again; in this kitchen, it has returned to its original state. A blue placement pinned down by two small, white bowls and a thick layer of matted grey fur decorates the area. His chest grows tight.
In disbelief, he looks up and moves to the doorway. In the corridor entrance, he
finally sees her. Sitting on her haunches at the end of the long hallway is his cat, or shitwas his cat—he’s not really sure how this all works, and he hasn’t known since he lost her.
“This can’t be real,” he whispers under his breath. I’m in a dream. I will wake up. This is all a dream. He attempts to reassure himself that he hasn’t completely lost it.
However, at this moment, nothing feels more real to him. As he focuses on her, everything falls away. The floral wallpaper hugging the walls of the long hallway begins to melt and pool on the floor. He inches down the hallway, trudging through the liquified wall decoration, scared that if he moves too fast, his feline companion will disappear into thin air.
“You’re here,” he says, laughing in awe. “You’re really here.”
A mere foot apart, he extends his skinny arms to embrace the cat, bridging the gap between them. His eyes well up at the feeling of her fur under his fingertips. He brings her closer to his chest and buries his face into her side, tears rolling down his face into her soft, grey fur.
“I love you, I love you, I love you.” He repeats into the cat’s fur, closing his eyes to concentrate on the intense connection between them. Time ceases to exist as he focuses on his pulse against that of his feline friend, each synchronous beat a restored brick in his spiritual foundation.
A wave of serene ecstasy passes over him as he approaches a feeling of fulfillment he hasn’t felt since his cat left him. He releases a breath of sheer relief and he lets his eyelids flutter open; however, upon opening his eyes, he lets out a shriek of terror. In his bloodied hands lies the remains of his glassy-eyed feline companion, jagged bites taken out of her abdomen. A drop of blood falls from his chin, and he reaches up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. It comes back smeared crimson.
His eyes widen with the realization of what he’d just done as his grip on the cat loosens, what remains of her falling onto the floor with a thud. At once, he feels a sharp pain in his stomach, clawing to get out. Holding his stomach and heaving, he regurgitates clump after clump of grey fur until he collapses on the floor, unable to cough up anything more.
The Cross of Three 2 Annie Wu Paper Relief Collage 12” by 12” by 1”
“The Bench”
C. Jiang
After Philip Levine’s “By Bus to Fresno”
I waited on a gleaming silver bench, dust-rimmed eyes tracing the curve of the road. Maybe the thump! of cleat meeting ball would catch in the hollow of my ears. Or my English teacher would sit, wearing a navy blue fleece sweater —Patagonia, I imagined— and he would talk in his dry voice about syntax and structure and scores. Perhaps I would see a mess of dirt curls, a face of freckles aplenty, the one that conjured memories of A Little Princess, Sara Crewe, and I would think, Seven years later and I still can’t shake unleavened bread and wine, monkey bars and plaid uniforms lined up atop small feet slotted into shiny black Mary Janes.
Maybe I perched on that bench alone, the bike racks cleared, the benches too. I would take small sips of the cool air, balloon lungs smeared with a gentle haze my blood thickening, pulse slowing as I curled into myself and waited.
“Corea” Yule Kwon Archival Pigment Print 16” by 24”
“Fishy” Renee Jin Pastel 40” by 32”
“Eternal Fire” Cocona Yamamoto Oil Paint 41” by 58”
“When the Earth Drank Red”
Simba Nguyen
Through misty hills and jungle’s grip, Where men fall and cannons slip. The drums of battle thundered near, Freedom’s call had come to ear.
At Điện Biên Phủ, heroes are born To gift the French their crown of thorns. For the breaker of chains, we sons mustn’t yield The soldier’s bravery—our only shield. Our hands once soft, now wield cold steel, With rifles raised, vowed: “Never kneel.” The youth awaken, with the nation’s praise, With our father’s strength, our mother’s gaze. We sang, we charged, with brothers we climbed, “To hell, we march! It is now our time!”
Through tortuous nights and endless rain, We carried the burden, smiled at pain. The mountains watched as titans clashed, The soil redder, with every day passed. We held our ground, as the sky lit on fire, With waving flags, came our spirits higher. Along with blood, the smell of victory, To set us free—our father’s misery.
At Điện Biên Phủ, now stands a tree, That tells a tale—when men bled to be free.
“Sacred Hill” Gaven McGuire Acrylic Painting 32” by 28”
“The MET ™”
Anne Sehon
Jesus’s disciples were teenagers and I’ve done nothing with my life.
Everyone needs to know how artistic I am, so I carry my sketchbook in hand. I have a single wired earbud in because it’s cool and I care too much about what people think. I trek through the downhill forest of people that are The MET™ stairs, and my skirt or my vest or maybe my shoes catch multiple compliments hurled at them through tree branches and faces and uncrowded thin air.
I’m not listening to anything in my single wired earbud. I’m just thinking about the girl on The MET™ stairs who said my sketchbook was cool. I could probably write a gospel in it, but I’m using it to draw naked bodies, quip in purple pen about teal-eyed boys, and sketch out my other sins; Jesus’s disciples were teenagers and I could probably write a gospel.
But a girl liked my sketchbook or my skirt or my vest or my shoes, so I don’t think I will; vainly, at least now, I think my thoughts are enough gospel for me. A marble head of Zeus spoke to me earlier and told me that it’s all B.S. anyway.
I think people get God complexes all the time—myself being one of them sometimes—but ever since I started Believing in what Zeus called B.S., I’ve been divinely and mundanely reflecting on my momentary claims to divinity. When I’m listening to old music or silence (the streets and such) as I stride through THE BIG APPLE, I acquire a temporary God complex. But part of my divine/mundane simultaneous reflection involves me thinking that it’s a god complex and not a capital-G-God complex. The MET™–Zeus–makes me think too much about mythology. I’m one of the Venuses, not the Davids or Madonnas or Jesuses. At least that’s how I feel right now.
I can only feel this way when I’m alone with an audience. I know there are observers
everywhere, thousands of eyes, like the biblically accurate angels that are all over the internet. Like Argus Panoptes, like the Hecatonchires, probably. Like me. Observing just happens. Some people don’t comment on it and others fast-ball it straight at your accessories when observation isn’t happening on your behalf, but the Narcissus in the outfield of your brain catches it anyway. My Odyssey through New York is just a bunch of unreciprocated observations, some spoken, some not, some mine, some not, that all culminate in a personal god complex, even though I haven’t done anything important like being born from seafoam or saving the world from sin. All of it just happens, and everything for me is performative today. I care too much about what people think.
I pass a line of crucifixes in Central Park. A Jehovah’s Witness stands by one with a sign that reads “JESUS’S DISCIPLES WERE TEENAGERS.” I don’t know what it means, but I sit down on a bench across from him and flip to a full page in my sketchbook, the one with the dogs, and I write, “Jesus’s disciples were teenagers and I’ve done nothing with my life.” I stare at the man with the poster and I think about all the mental sacrilege I’ve spewed today. I close my sketchbook and cry.
“711” Lareina Wang Archival Pigment Print 55” by 37”
“Rainy Evening” Grace Chi Acrylic Painting 40” by 30”
The Cross of Three 3 Annie Wu Paper Relief Collage 12” by 12” by 1”
“Homesick”
Hailey Huang
A gust of soot-strewn wind smacks across her ash-stained face— her innocent and hollow eyes fill up with waves of pain as all hope is stripped from her within seconds.
Scorching ruby embers tear apart her flaky lips as she watches her home crumble into nothingness. Her heavy little heart is confused for the first time.
Burning its mark onto the silhouette of her youth.
“SCORCHED” Anne Sehon Ceramic Sculpture 9” by 6” by 5”
“Maelstrom”
Bauhinia Chen
Why did you have to pull me into that torrential maelstrom?
My puny body could not resist the colossal force that so violently tore me away from quiescence and uprooted me from tranquility, almost ripping me asunder.
The spiraling suction waxed and accelerated. I could only succumb to my ineluctable fate, because whenever I attempted to muster the remnants of my strength to move towards the periphery, blue waves gushed towards me like vehement leopards of such celerity that I could not foresee. Earsplitting roars startled my senses, white foam obscured my vision, and the intractable power disabused me of the ludicrous hopes of escape. I felt it bereave me of my autonomy over direction and sweep me along the circular trajectory.
I cry, but water immediately replaced the vacancy in my mouth and muffled my voice.
I realized the futility of my efforts, so I relented.
I relaxed my limbs yet that was not a sign of equanimity or aplomb, but rather a reluctant acceptance to no longer be in denial. So I let myself sink deeper. The dearth of air deprived me of rationality and filled my mind with chimerical delusions.
I descended into delirium while water stifled my breath and enfeebled me.
In the depths of the sea I writhe in suffocation and a pang of heartache.
Why, when I was floating atop the ocean’s placid surface, did a fleeting glance at your visage, a transitory glimpse of your eyes, disrupt the calm quietude with such magnitude?
“The City” Sophie Sun Acrylic on Cardboard and Canvas 32” by 32” by 2”
“Shoes Were Falling from the Sky”
Ian Kim
There were hundreds of them, maybe even thousands, slowly descending from above, like gigantic snowflakes. There were shoes of every color, shape, and size, painting a colorful picture on this cloudless summer day. At least, this is what the old man imagined he was seeing, as he stared up blankly into the baby-blue abyss. He sighed, slowly closing his eyes, tracing the familiar wood grain of the park bench. Perhaps the burden of his age had finally taken its toll. He was going crazy, he was sure of it. Maybe it was for good. His daily commute to the same spot for the past twenty years did not seem to be helping his mental health much. Ever since that day, each day seemed so...bleak. So, he had started sitting in the park, hoping to fill the emptiness in his heart.
He opened his eyes again to see the madness unfolding before him. He rubbed his face for good measure and noticed the shoes were, for some reason, all landing nearby, many of which were alarmingly close to him. His eyes followed the closest one, a dark brown leather Oxford, as it fell down, down, down, and plopped next to him on the bench. He glanced at it and was shocked to see the Oxford suddenly sprout lips on the tongue of the shoe. The shoe smacked its new lips loudly, as if it had something to say. The old man leaned in.
The shoe rasped, “Old man, old man, do remember this day. The day we all came to retrieve your memories from you. You are too old to bear the burden of such a vast sea of pain. As you old people age, we make sure you become forgetful. But not as a threat or a theft. We are here to relieve the pressure for you.”
The old man scowled at the shoe, wanting to cling to precious nostalgia. These memories were his to keep, the very essence of his being. He would be foolish to give that up. Down, down, down, a small bright pink sneaker gently twirled, eventually landing on top of the Oxford. It, too, magically conjured up a mouth.
It shouted, in a young girly voice, “Old man, old man, do you remember that day? The day when your young tiny little Susan was born!”
And indeed, the old man remembered, and he smiled warmly at the fond memory. The sneaker continued, “Oh, old man, how happy you were then, and how brightly your world lit up from that moment!”
The old man leaned back on the bench comfortably, taking in the sensations of that fond memory. But suddenly, he jolted back upright, frantically clawing at his head. The clear cinematic memory playing in his head started turning fuzzy, and, as if somebody had pulled the plug from his monitor, his mind went dark.
Down, down, down, another shoe came, this time a purple high heel. This heel, too, had sprouted a mouth. The old man was quite confused as to what had just happened, but he listened intently to what the heel had to say.
It spoke, in a clear projecting feminine voice, “Old man, old man, do you remember that day? The day your oh-so-young Susan graduated college!”
The old man’s eyes glistened with tears as he looked back up into the sky, his heart swelling with pride at the thought of it.
“Ah yes, how you liked that day. The way you smiled at her, a feeling of bitt—” Splat!
The heel was suddenly interrupted by a heavy squelching sound, and the old man bit back a shout of frustration as another one of his memories seemed to dissolve from existence. The old man whipped his head angrily toward the new source of the interruption and was taken aback to see the purple heel crushed by another shoe. It was a slipper. A plain white slipper. But it had been coated in thick, slimy blood, dripping down and staining the shoes beneath it. He waited for this shoe to sprout lips, like all the others. But the slipper remained inanimate because it didn’t need to do anything more to remind the old man of this particular memory.
The old man started shuddering uncontrollably in fear and crumbled down onto the
“Shoes Were Falling from the Sky”
Continued
ground. The old man, poor old man, remembered this shoe instantly, and the memory of the shoe flooded his mind. He remembered all too vividly the day his Susan had died. The man stared at the cluttered sky in shock as each excruciatingly grotesque detail of the incident slowly replayed in his mind. He quivered on the warm grassy ground, whispering to himself quietly as his emotions seeped from his eyes. The dehydrated blades of grass eagerly drank the old man’s tears, only to shrivel up and perish from the heavy dosage of sadness. The old man stared at them with a twinge of jealousy. He was reminded again, brutally, of why his past thousands of days had been so miserable.
“I want to forget,” he managed to choke out.
The brown Oxford, now smothered beneath the other shoes, rasped, “Oh old man, old man. Of course. This is why we are here. Let nature take its course, and free yourself from this unrelenting burden. Embrace the fogginess of your mind. You are allowed to forget, so please do.”
“I really don’t want to. It’s the only thing reminding me I’m still alive,” the old man whispered. He buried his head in his palms, feeling hopeless and weak. “I can’t just lose my memories.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll make sure you remember from time to time again. But in the meantime, just forget for now. Know peace.”
The old man wept and wept, and let the scenes rush through his mind one last time. He smiled while tears streaked down his cheeks.
Then he let them fade.
“Wings of Hope” Lucia Gamble Mixed Media 18” by 24”
Colophon
In the 2025 issue of Blue Review, the staff explored the thematic concept of stratafication. Everything has layers—metaphorical, physical, and metaphysical. The pieces in our publication reflect the multifaceted patchwork of voices that comprise the strata of our community. As the reader delves deeper into the book, they behave as an archeologist, uncovering the diverse levels of talent among the students at our school. Our pieces, showcasing an array of artistic capabilities through prose, poetry, sculpture, photography, and painting, all stack upon one another to form a stratified tower of creative excellence.
The publication design draws inspiration from topography, mixed media, and collage to reflect the culmination of ideas it encompasses. Stratification is a natural process—occurring in the geography, atmosphere, and ecosystems that constitute the Earth—not necessarily one that is polished, orderly, or neat. Accordingly, the editors chose to embrace this beautiful imperfection, approaching the assembly of the book in a more physical manner. The cover art was designed using silkscreen paper and glue to form uneven, multicolored layers which were later cut into, exposing the hidden strata beneath. The toned-down, organic color scheme throughout the publication represents this human connection to the Earth in their shared, multilayered composition.
The layout of this book was designed by our staff on an iMac 3.2 GHz 6-Core Intel Core i7 using Adobe Illustrator CC, Adobe Photoshop CC, and Adobe InDesign CC. The body text was set in Adobe Garamond Pro and the title font was set in Roca. The book was printed and bound by Mercersburg Printing in Mercersburg, Pennsylvania.
Blue Review is an extracurricular publication at Mercersburg Academy. Submissions from all artistic disciplines and literacy styles are drawn from the student body from the start fall term to the start of the spring term. The submissions are then critiqued by staff members who evaluate them based on a rubric. Roughly 60 pieces, which are accepted for their strong merit, are paired and ordered in a thoughtful progression to advance the theme of the book.
Blue Review is Mercersburg Academy’s annual literary-arts journal. It serves not only as a showcase but also as a motivation for students to share their creative world with the school community. An annual literary review has been published since 1901, with visual arts introduced in 1974.
The content within this book are expressions and opinions of the author and artist and does not necessarily reflect the Mercersburg Academy community as a whole. For further information and to order additional copies at the cost of $20.00 each, please contact the staff of Blue Review at Mercersburg Academy, 100 Academy Drive, Mercersburg, PA 17236.