2023 Blue Review Literary & Arts Magazine

EDITORS’ LETTER

Goodnight room

Goodnight moon

Goodnight cow jumping over the moon

Who doesn’t have that core childhood memory? Tucked snugly into your blankets, maybe holding your favorite stuffed animal, your parents’ soothing voice reading you “Goodnight Moon.” As a child, you felt as if those quiet moments would stay forever, felt as if your parents would never say goodnight. But they always did. And one day, after finishing the story and turning off the lights, that was the last time they read you “Goodnight Moon.”

Growing up means constantly saying goodbye: to houses, to toys, to friends, to stories. Each one changes us, shapes us (if imperceptibly), but it adds up. Looking back on these memories, we see and understand them through a new lens, a lens we have gained as we have aged.

As another era of “Blue Review” ends, and as the seniors leave for bigger and better things, we wanted to consider what it means to grow up, age, and mature. And what better framework to understand it than through a favorite book from our youngest days, “Goodnight Moon,” by Margaret Wise Brown. From the ritual of saying goodnight to comforting objects that sent us off to slumber each night, we found inspiration in treasured snapshots of our happiest childhood moments; these set the context for each of our chapters. Although we said farewell to those days long ago, they are frozen in time in our minds, our hearts. These memories make us smile and remind us what is truly important in life.

Our first chapter, “Infinitely Small Things,” immerses itself in the unbounded joy and innocence of childhood. The writing and artwork in this chapter is free and innocent, colorful and energetic, depicting the carefree wonder of being a child, of never having to say goodbye.

Our second chapter, “Every Forgotten Name,” portrays the sadness of saying goodbye to the physical aspects of childhood: toys, homes, books. The pieces in this chapter are sadder, more wistful, weighed down by the knowledge that one’s childhood is slowly fading away.

Our third chapter, “Everything I’ve Seen,” illustrates the ending and goodbyes of emotional connections in childhood. Like the art and writing in “Goodnight Moon,” the works in this chapter are melancholic, but the pain is more abstract, though no less painful, not tethered to physical things.

Finally, in “Collecting New Memories,” we explore the maturation that comes with moving away from childhood. We have finally accepted that we must let our childhood go, but we also keep its memory close to us. The pieces in this chapter are bittersweet, nostalgic for the past, but also deeply hopeful for the future.

As humans, growing up is an inevitable thing. In the face of letting go, of moving on, we can either cower from the new and remain stagnant, or we can embrace the future and its infinite possibilities while never forgetting our childhood. Because what does it mean to say, “Goodnight,” except as a temporary goodbye, knowing that you will see them again in the morning.

COVER ART

Taylor McKinney, “The Traveler”

14x14 | Watercolor Pen & Ink on Paper

"The Traveler" is a depiction of the joys of the unknown. The liberating freedom of a bus trip to unfamiliar locales and new experiences. Taking joy from the immediate affection shown by a dog brings nostalgia and comfort, reminding us the unfamiliar doesn't need to be feared as we move into the next stage of our lives. We have the tools, we have the support, and there's always a dog that will love us.

MASTHEAD

Faculty Adviser

Lori Davis

Lead Layout Editors in Chief

Helen Hurden | Evan Li | Lynn Zhao | Mia Zottoli

Faculty Co-adviser

Tiffany Fletcher

Lead Layout Editor

Hannah Hurden

Associate Lead Layout Editors

Jackie Rao | Kelsey Sciacca | Isabel

Yang | Jolin Cheng | Leif Lanzilotta

Lead Copy Editors

Caroline Fahrney | Nyela Rucker |

Athena Woodward

Lead Art Editors

Alana Duffy

Lila Rhee

General Staff

Ana Burk | Grace Finn | Sloan

Ellison | Sophia Oh

English Faculty Support

Melissa Barger | Alan Becker

Megan Butt | Spencer Dowd

David Gatewood | Tiffany Fletcher

Daniel Hayes | Richard Harris

Robin Siczek

Art Faculty Support

Richard Fletcher | Kaila Gottschling

Clark Hawgood | Will Thomason

Administrative Support

Chuck Baldecchi | Robert McArthur

| Hunter Murphy | Sonja Taylor |

Lawrence Wall

Technical Support

Andre Elam | Dave D'Orio | Chris

Esposito | Cory Hardman | Jim

Huffaker | Craig Summerville

Promotional Support

Latin Arts Association: Gina

Lawrence | Harriet Stamatakos

Charlotte Latin School Media and Graphics

Susan Carpenter | April Baker |

Monty Todd

Financial Support

Charlotte Latin School

CHAPTER 1:

“INFINITELY SMALL THINGS”

CHAPTER 1 DIVIDER

8 Evan Li | The Family Birthday | Digital

Photography

CHAPTER 1 FICTION

10 Athena Woodward | The Garden Club | Flash Fiction

17 Ryan Purdom | America's Finest News Source | Fiction

23 Max Thompson | The Man in the Suit | Fiction

28 Mia Zottoli | Fairest | Fantasy

CHAPTER 1 NONFICTION

12 Helen Hurden | Thirteenth Chances

| Memoir

19 Connor Little | The Upper Fin |

Memoir

24 Mayes Fisher | We Need to Check the Kids for Ticks | Memoir

CHAPTER 1 POETRY

15 Lila Rhee | Celestials | Poetry

21 Isabel Yang | Sunday Evening

Errands | Poetry

27 Sophia Smith | Three Little Dots |

Poetry

CHAPTER 1 ART

10 Leif Lanzilotta | Fungal Figure |

Painting

13 Stella Burke | Circular Design |

Painting

14 Moné Cary | Neurotic | Painting

16 Kate Livingston | Surprize | Painting

18 Tyler McAndrews | Beach | Acrylic

Paint

20 Mac Fletcher | From the Road |

Photography

22 Mac Fletcher | Colossus | AI & Mixed Media

25 Claire Fleischer | Acrylic Flowers |

Painting

26 Lily Clark | Lilly's Letters | Mixed Media

28 Eleanor Fisher | Nature and the Window | Medium

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 2:

“EVERY FORGOTTEN NAME”

CHAPTER 2 DIVIDER

34 Mia Zottoli | The Patch | Digital

Photography

CHAPTER 2 FICTION

34 Isabel Yang | In the Bathroom | Fiction

36 Nishanth Gaddam | Hidden Spikes | Humor

40 Jenna Upton | The Devil's Greatest Trick | Flash Fiction

45 Grace Finn | Under Their Skin |

Fiction

CHAPTER 2 NONFICTION

42 Lynn Zhao | A Collection of 5 Regrets | Memoir

CHAPTER 2 POETRY

39 Gabriel Carpenter | Melodies of the Tides | Poetry

46 Jackson DiRoma | Connecticut Home | Poetry

CHAPTER 2 ART

35 Madison Nabors | Self-Portrait Stress

| Drawing Graphite

37 Kate Wagner | Disco Fever | Drawing Oil Pastel

38 Ella Smith | Gateway to Happiness | Mixed Media

40 Evy Linker | Three Faces (Face #3) |

Printmaking

42 Jackie Rao | Overachiever | Graphite

44 Ellison Dolan | Out of the Box |

Digital Art

46 Tai Huang | Macro | Photography

CHAPTER 3:

CHAPTER 3 DIVIDER

48 Helen Hurden | Besties | Digital

Photography

CHAPTER 3 FICTION

51 Nishanth Gaddam | Enough of Him

| Flash Fiction

60 Mia Zottoli | Entrapment |

Screenplay

57 Kelsey Sciacca | Still There | Flash Fiction

“EVERYTHING I'VE SEEN”

62 Evan Li | Panspermia | Experimental

Fiction

64 Merritt Backerman | Best Friends | Flash Fiction

CHAPTER 3 NONFICTION

52 Kayla Tillman | The Search for Answers | Nonfiction

69 Holt Daniels | As Slimeyboii Grew Up | Humor

CHAPTER 3 POETRY

55 Nyela Rucker | Nocturne Workings

| Poetry

58 Lila Rhee | Glass Maze | Poetry

66 Evan Li | Medea | Poetry

CHAPTER 3 ART

50 Evan Li | Awakening | Photography

52 Mary Cate Kiser | Ship at Sea |

Photography

54 Isabel Yang | Girl in Green Head

Scarf | Painting

56 Tyler McAndrews | Woman | Painting

58 Gabi Nolan | ADHDDD | Painting

60 Cordelia Kim | CityScape | Cut Paper Collage

63 Noah Guggenheim | Midnight Station | Spray Paint & Stencil

64 Sophia Oh | Cavities | Drawing

Colored Pencil

66 Annie Smith | Butterfly City | Mixed Media

68 Nyela Rucker | Holy Cow: It Was for the Pun | Acrylic Paint

CHAPTER 4:

CHAPTER 4 DIVIDER

70 Lynn Zhao | Little Lessons | Digital

Photography

CHAPTER 4 FICTION

75 Mia Zottoli | Acceptance | Fiction

91 Grace Finn | My House's Ghost |

Flash Fiction

CHAPTER 4 NONFICTION

76 Lynn Zhao | Clench | Memoir

80 Nyela Rucker | The Queen Within

“COLLECTING NEW MEMORIES”

CONTENTS

Me | Memoir

83 Helen Hurden | Multiformis |

Memoir

87 Leiden Clark | Sauce Girl | Medium

92 Jessie Kim | My Parents' Love | Memoir

CHAPTER 4 POETRY

71 Evan Li | Ba Ba Cooking | Poetry

79 Lila Rhee | Giving Tree | Poetry

84 Mia Zottoli |

The Sailor and the Sea [la marinera y El Mar] | Poetry

88 Vanathi Shanmuganathan | Unsent

Letters to My Father | Poetry

95 Zander Hooper | Carolina Wood |

Poetry

97 Alexa Marcus | Potters in the Sky |

Poetry

CHAPTER 4 ART

72 Evan Li | Grandfather in the Field |

Photography

74 Lila Connor | Fight at the Tea Party |

Painting

76 Isabel Yang | Puppeteer | Charcoal

78 Lila Connor | Streets of San Juan |

Painting

81 Agatha Stamatakos | Sunfaces |

Painting

82 Emma Grace Coble | Quilted Guitar

Hero | Oil Pastel

85 Tyler McAndrews | Second Glance |

Ink Drawing

86 Happy People | Leiden Clark |

Digital Art

89 Laura Neligan | Lunana | Linocut 90

Ashley Burbank | Radio Room | Drawing

94 Mary Cate Kiser | Mountain Trail |

Drawing

96 Evie MacMahan | 3 Sisters | Drawing

COVERS & TITLE PAGE QUOTATIONS

AUTHOR TITLE

Margaret Wise Brown Goodnight, Moon

CHAPTER DIVIDER QUOTATIONS

CHAPTER 1

INFINITELY

SMALL

THINGS

CHAPTER 2

EVERY FORGOTTEN NAME

Evan Li

Mia Zottoli

CHAPTER 3

EVERYTHING I'VE SEEN

CHAPTER 4

COLLECTING NEW MEMORIES

Helen Hurden

Lynn Zhao

Evan

”

infinitely I guess the things do add up small though.

•Evan

Irene Caulder shot her husband in the head ten years ago and buried his body in their backyard, right next to her tulips. Irene grew tired of the concealercovered bruises and dark sunglasses, and so she grew tired of him.

When Daisy Vasquez came to church five years ago wearing a wide brimmed sun hat, wincing as she moved to sit down, Irene drove to Daisy’s house on Maple Street that night and shot her husband, too. Daisy rushed into the kitchen after the deafening blast and saw Irene standing over her husband, his blood blooming into dark stains on the carpet. She said nothing. She walked past Irene, stepping over her husband, and poured herself a glass of wine. Her lips curled into a smile around the mouth of the glass. The two women disposed of him right behind Daisy’s rose bush.

Three years ago, mere days after she had gotten married, Taylor Ferdinand was in the local Save-A-Lot. Irene saw that she was buying a six-pack of beer, Advil, and Ace bandages. Without hesitation, Irene strode over to Taylor and grasped her shaking hands, a promise within her eyes for a rescue

thegarden club

that Taylor thought would never come. Irene drove silently back to Taylor’s small home, the TV inside blaring loud enough for the walls to shudder. Thankfully, the mindless drone of football commentary drowned out the gunshots as Taylor’s husband hit the floor. Irene and Taylor shared a tearful hug over his new spot amongst her petunias.

One month ago, as always, Irene welcomed Taylor and Daisy into her home. The Garden Club met monthly and enjoyed tea, crossword puzzles, and discussing their respective awardwinning gardens. Irene smiled around her mug as she watched the women laugh with each other, all remnants of their past lives buried six feet under.

Yesterday, a woman knocked on the door of Irene’s house during her Garden Club meeting, holding a newspaper. She asked how on earth the women could grow such beautiful gardens during a season as harsh as this, pointing to Irene’s garden on the front page of the paper.

Smiling softly, Irene looked back at Taylor and Daisy before she replied, “good fertilizer.”

Athena Woodward

thirteenth CHANCES

“So… you can pull a big guy like me out of the water?”

The man’s beady eyes bored into mine, his bulk towering over my petite frame, as if daring me to respond. As I stood on the bank of the Wilderness Channel at the US National Whitewater Center, where I had begun training as a whitewater raft guide a week ago, my mind spun, unsure how to respond.

“Yes, sir, if need be, I sure can!”

Honestly, I had no idea if that was true. No one expected a slight 17-year-old girl to be able to guide a full boat entirely on her own, but as I had been dreaming of this job for years, I refused to back out.

I thrust my weight against the paddle, sweeping the blade through the water in what I hoped was a powerful j-stroke. The stopwatch was running; I had two and a half minutes to power the raft out and back across the pool. The sun beat down, sweat beading at the corners of my eyes as I fought the current, inching forward at an excruciating pace.

By the time I reached the opposite bank, fire was coursing through my arms, and I was panting with effort. I looked back at my co-workers, gathered to watch me attempt this test for the third time. Make it back, I told myself, and you can move on; you’ll never have to take this stupid test again.

Hopeful, I shoved off the concrete wall and spun towards the opposite bank. Seconds later, the water caught me, sending the raft drifting rapidly towards the boundary line. I hauled the bow of the boat as far upstream as I could and willed the raft to move faster. On the bank I saw a trainer

raise his arm and give the signal. Wrap it up. I collapsed into the boat, defeated. Failed again.

This wouldn’t be the last time I failed an evaluation. After an eternity of fruitless attempts, I passed the j-stroke evaluation, but while the majority of my fellow trainees moved on to guiding full-time, I remained stranded on the final stage: checkouts. The idea was simple: run an errorfree trip with guests and another guide in the boat, and you become a full guide. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been that straightforward. Twelve times I had tried to check out, and twelve times I had been met with failure. Barely awake, I stood alongside the other guides, already feeling defeated.

“Group of eight, you’re going with them!” The supervisor called. Forcing a smile, I waved as a group headed towards me. Second chances existed, but thirteenths? Unlikely. I perked up when I saw my crew: mostly friendly-looking adults and a few teens, likely strong paddlers. As I pushed off the rocks, I thought, Maybe this will be the one.

Instead of running smoothly through the waves, I hit rapids sideways, people fell out of the raft, and I frequently tumbled from my seat into the bottom of the boat. Sitting down with the guide who had evaluated me, I braced for another round of merciless critique. I needed to exert more control over the boat, he told me, and clean up my lines as soon as possible. I hung my head, awaiting the final blow.

“That said,” he remarked, “You fixed your mistakes. The guests had fun, and you remained extremely calm, and most importantly, you haven’t given up.” He grinned. “I am going to pass you today.”

Helen Hurden

Celestials

Lila Rhee

Once there were two women Whose love lit up the sky.

The first was soft and quiet and kind. She was elegant and gentle and calm.

Her soft light held the other like a feather-light embrace.

The second was harsh and loud and abrasive. But she was warm and caring and strong. Her love illuminated the other with a radiant glow.

They were perfect for each other. As time passed, they drifted apart And grew closer. Again and again.

People said the first woman was so pretty

so feminine so beautifully lit she was the perfect woman.

People said the second woman was too harsh too bright took up too much space for a woman.

But each thought the other was Perfect.

They danced around each other for millennia, Spreading their love to all the Earth in a delicate push and pull. Sometimes the first woman would disappear (for a day or two) And sometimes they couldn’t see each other at all, And everything was dark.

Eventually, people appreciated both of their beauty, And understood the power of how they lived and loved.

They worshiped both women, And the dance continued.

NEWS SOURCE Americas Finest

As Bill plopped down on the couch Sunday night, the realization that he hadn’t even begun to write his paper due tomorrow flashed through his mind.

“Oh, shoot!” Bill thought, “I need to do that now!”

Quickly, he scrambled upstairs. While the paper was assigned on Friday, relatives had come over, so the idea of starting the paper that day vanished from his mind. Bill decided to start the paper on Sunday morning and then dismissed the issue.

The three-page long paper was supposed to be written on an impact that COVID had on a nation-wide scale; however, he needed to find a source, pronto.

The words: “America’s finest news source” flashed across the search bar of Bill’s laptop, and he dragged his cursor over to the first link that popped up, something titled “The Onion.”

The paper was due in just under an hour, at midnight. How could I be so stupid, he thought, I should at least have remembered about this before now!

Bill hastily chose the first article he found upon searching the word COVID, titled: “During the pandemic, the country of Fiberia fell to a robot uprising!”

Ryan Purdom

As his eyes dashed across the article, he noted down how Fiberia was a major exporter of precious metals and was an island located near Madagascar.

His quickly-composed paper contained information on the prosperous state of Fiberia before the pandemic struck, and how, during 2021, a large number of workers at a secret military base got terribly ill from the virus, allowing for the robots made in that facility to rise up against the workers who became incapacitated from the disease.

The government of Fiberia was intent on dealing with the problem before word reached other nations, but unfortunately, this led to their downfall.

The robots seized control of the other military facilities on Fiberia with the weapons they had acquired from the armory, and since the country received no external help, this led to the massacre of 694,200 people on the island at the hands of the robots.

As Bill concluded the paper, having wrapped up listing the series of conflicts that led to the robots seizing control of the island in a matter of two weeks, he submitted the paper at 11:57 p.m., after which Bill got some sleep.

Of course, he cited his sources.

UPPERThe fin

Calling catching two fish in six hours a success may sound strange. My minimal fishing experience combined with a lack of time spent with my grandpa seemed to be a recipe for disaster. But, on the day of our fishing trip, that disaster never came.

Despite moving 400 miles closer to my grandparents from Jacksonville to Charlotte, my chance to spend time with them was immediately stolen by my grandfather’s kidney transplant and the pandemic. Disappointed, I anticipated the day where I could spend time with them as I had planned.

As COVID wound down and he recovered from the transplant, my grandpa invited me on a fishing trip to Belmont. A mixture of emotions settled in as my excitement was met by my realization that I had never fished on a boat. Furthermore, he and I had not had a conversation outside of a quick hello when I dropped off groceries at his house and the once a year birthday wishes we exchanged. My dread quickly outweighed my excitement as my nervousness for this trip with my grandpa grew. He loves to hunt, fish, and farm; meanwhile, I have minimal fishing experience, no desire to hunt, and have never lived anywhere farming was an option.

The morning of the trip, I awoke at 4:30 a.m. to the sound of my alarm and made my way to my grandparents’ house while still half asleep. Dodging files covered in dust older than me, I got in my grandpa’s ancient minivan, and our fishing expedition began.

We encountered a problem upon arrival, as our guide, Larry, and his boat were nowhere to be found. Thirty minutes and half of a nap later, I noticed a sparkling white boat being hauled into the lot. Before I could even unbuckle my seatbelt, my grandpa was approaching

Connor Little

Larry, shaking his hand and conversing like they were lifelong friends. I introduced myself, imagining words like “newbie” and “outsider” circulating in Larry’s head as I stood out amongst these men who came prepared with hats decorated with fishing lures and blue jeans lined with flannel while I stood next to them shivering in a sweatsuit. Once we hit the water, I volunteered to help prepare the rods. Surviving my first test, I began to earn the respect of my fellow fishermen. My second test came quickly as my rod jumped. I grabbed it instinctively, tugging and reeling until I was gripping the lip of a bass and smiling for a picture. I hoped this was a sign of things to come, and my nervousness began to fade as I grew more comfortable and began to enjoy the trip.

It was not a sign of anything other than beginner’s luck, as three hours and zero fish later, my enjoyment had disappeared while my grandpa was reeling in one fish after another. In the meantime, I figured I had time to eat my sandwich. I was wrong. As soon as I bit into it, my rod jumped, and so did I. Shoving the sandwich in my mouth, I grabbed the rod and fought with the fish, who had already seized the upper hand (upper fin?). I lost the fight, trudging to the bait bucket as both men shook their heads at my rookie mistake. I failed, missing my only opportunity in hours to prove myself. I hung my head for the rest of the trip, not even feeling the rush of catching my second and final fish.

After docking the boat, I noticed my grandpa smiling at me. Although I had just demonstrated my complete ineptitude at fishing, my grandpa was as happy as I had ever seen him. This was contagious, and I smiled for the first time since I caught my first fish, realizing that I had gotten exactly what I wanted even if I had not succeeded in the way I had expected to.

Isabel Yang

sunday evening errands

pick the pennies off muddied tiles at the Giant Eagle grocery indigo spills in blanched fluorescence

pocket your gold gummy smile weaving between canned soup aisles rusty carts squeaky wheels

the legs of giants beware their stomping feet stiff khakis slush sole boots

hear your polka dot puffer chime amid cashier clinking casual chatter zippers conceal forbidden jewels

chilled wave from green sliding doors flee back to Mother’s side with scavenged riches strangers’ losses cling to her warm hand in her other a sack of sweet tomatoes

Thank You For Shopping With Us

tiny numb fingers in wooly mittens tally your gems

food for a curly tail plastic pig

fruit of a child’s treasure hunt

Max Thompson

The MAN in the

You begin to smile as the man in the suit walks away. His absent-minded phone call had created the necessary distraction for you to easily remove his wallet as you bumped into him. The narrow aisle of the train car impeccably set up the gentle push past on the shoulder with one hand and seamless swiping of the wallet with the other. You have fleeting guilt that quickly passes when you remember your job as a magician isn’t nearly enough to pay for the steep medical bills as a result of the accident that killed your wife and disabled your eight-year-old daughter. If there is any treatment in the world that would allow your daughter to walk again, there is no length you wouldn’t go to obtain it.

Once the businessman leaves the car, you examine the spoils of your misdeed. However, rather than the expected credit card and 50 or 100 bucks, to your absolute shock, you hold $5000 in one-hundred dollar bills and an array of different IDs belonging to the same man. Your shock quickly turns to exhilaration as you realize this could finally be the big break you need to permanently put the trade behind you. One question still plagued your mind, however. Who exactly did you just pickpocket?

While pondering that, you hear commotion a few cars down the train. Although much of the shouting is unintelligible, you distinctly hear the word “wallet” and have the common sense to understand you have just found yourself in the middle of a plot far bigger than yourself. Just as you are about to leave the car, the man you stole from comes back with two large thugs wearing tight-fitting sport coats and visible tattoos. You quickly slide up your hood and prepare to blend in with the crowd. Luckily, you are able to exit the car without alerting the man in the suit.

As you keep walking, you see an open cabin door and seize the opportunity to hide. That’s when the reality of the situation hits. Who are these people? Gangsters? The Mafia?

You begin to create an escape plan. Although the cabin is unoccupied, you don’t know for how long and the next stop

is 20 minutes away. You decide to keep a low profile until you make it to the storage car where you can hopefully wait out the remainder of the time until this next stop. However, the whole plan unravels the second you leave the cabin when the thugs are waiting for you just outside the doorway. One of the thugs grabs you by the front of your shirt and drags you down the aisle.

This is it. This is how it ends. As you are dragged away to wherever they are going to kill you, the crippling fear prevents you from fighting back. The thugs lead you to the inexplicably vacant dining car with only one person inside, standing dead center. The man in the suit. One of the thugs locks the door behind you as the man in the suit turns to face you. He holds a large pistol in his hand. You close your eyes and prepare for the worst, only wishing you could have done more for your daughter.

“I need your help.” You slowly open your eyes when he says the four words you would have expected the least. You compose yourself enough to stutter out a feeble, “Excuse me?”

He states matter-of-factly, “Your reputation precedes you. You’ve grown quite infamous for your sleight of hand.” This subtle acknowledgment of your past shows exactly how much he knows. “We knew you were going to be on this train, and the oh-so convenient inattentive, wealthy businessman strolling by was the perfect set-up to lure you out,” he continues on. “Ultimately, I’m putting together a team of the best. For a heist that takes the best. Should you choose to join, it will be very lucrative for you, I assure. Consider the $5000 you already have a token of my respect for your expertise. Join me and that will look like pocket change compared to the sum you will earn.”

Before you have a chance to respond, he says, “I’ll give you time to think it over. Find me in the foremost car when you’ve made a decision. I will be there for 20 minutes, and then this experience and I are merely a bad dream.”

You begin to smile as the man in the suit walks away.

Mayes Fisher

ticks

“We need to check the kids for ticks.” One of my favorite activities is also my most dreaded: the family hike. The hike starts as it ends, cheerful and reminiscent of the many times Dad under-reported the trail’s mileage. The middle is chaotic, and the point where my family’s personalities emerge in the face of perceived adversity. Our hike in Panthertown Valley the summer before my senior year was no different.

“Let’s take this opening to the right, that’s where the views are,” Dad calls out. In perpetual search of the perfect vista to enjoy our PB&Js, he leads us up a windy path. We follow not so blindly, the barrier shrubs poking ankles. The trail is rather a footpath overgrown with thorny vines, downed trees, and low limbs, halting the forward progress of any normal family. Not ours.

I’ve hiked enough to know that a hiker should never leave the marked trails, and “Ghost Blazing” is not for a family of five. After we reach the summit of Green Mountain, what goes up, must come down, and our descent becomes anything but straightforward. The Nantahala ground is slippery, a perfect habitat for snakes, but the decline is manageable.

My brother leads the charge, protector of family and labrador retrievers, his hiking stick doubling as a machete. Every branch he hits ricochets back and slaps me in the face. The “Safety Sallys” (my brother’s way of calling my sister, mom, and me “slow”) follow behind. My sister is painfully silent, which is unusual for her. Surely she is considering the end of her promising soccer career as she fears rolling down the mountain, leaving intact ACLs and MCLs behind.

“Dad, can you still see us on the GPS?” My palms, like the forest floor, are thick and sweaty. The utter lack of control I have over the situation unsettles me. Each wrong turn increases my fear of never escaping the

wooded forest. Lost in a cycle of doubt and frustration, I hesitantly follow Dad’s directions before insisting we turn around and find a safer route with an actual established trail. However, nobody is interested in reclimbing the steep hill. Every thirty seconds, I rudely ask my father to check the GPS in hopes my tone will lead him to reconsider our path. He always replies that we’re fine, but the feeling of an impending bear attack intensifies with each step.

When I don’t think I can feel any more fear than I do right now, my brother violently screams my dad’s name. The bear must have finally made its move. I hasten toward his voice with tears welling in my eyes, only to see my dad’s bald head, unscathed. False alarm.

Finally, our ghost path merges with a warmly familiar place, Granny Burrell Falls. I see my now 16-year-old sister as an eight-year-old, in a pink tank top dancing barefoot on these bald and slippery rocks. Mom remembers it, too. She says that day I wore a yellow t-shirt with French braided hair. Eight years ago, we’d taken the marked trail, but today’s hike has been anything but predictable, a reflection of emotions I’d felt all summer that were warped with the unknown and the insecurity of where I would be the following year. Forever I’ve needed familiarity, predictability, and harmony. “Trusting the process” is a saying I have loathed but am coming to understand. Standing by the waterfall that day, watching the water relentlessly pound the rocks below and finally settle into a peaceful pond, I knew I would land somewhere.

Once on familiar ground with Dad’s car in sight, I look up at him. One lens is missing from his prescription glasses. “You have to admit, that was pretty fun,” he says. “Yes, it was,” I reply, reaching up to scratch the back of my neck, retrieving a little insect encased in a tiny black shell.

we need to check the kids for

The other day I was texting someone As they were pushing to have a serious conversation Are you free Friday for a movie

He asked Really? I thought Over text?

…so that’s what I said.

Over a screen, from two separate places

It was nerve racking enough to try and make sure my tone was clear But then came the three little dots He was responding…

To ME

…Oh god.

I weighed the outcomes. Will he laugh? Be dismissive? Be sarcastic? Be realistic? Be weird or be weirded out? I anticipated what clearly my whole future depended on Based on the signal of these three little dots, Then, the worst possible outcome happened: The three little dots disappeared.

…Oh god!

Did he think I was weird? Did he forget what he was going to say? What the heck was he GOING to say?

Dot dot dot.

Should I unsend my text? Did I come on too strong? Or too weak? Or— Dot dot dot.

And now basically my whole life and well being in this moment depends on these Three little dots.

My mind wandered... should I have said this face-to-face? What if people carried around three little dots in real life? Can you imagine summoning the courage

To be vulnerable, be honest, and they start to respond, only to whip out three little dots and toss them like frisbees? These three little dots felt like a wave crashing over me And yet the sounds of the future refused to be drowned out Dot dot dot.

I gave them my truth, my feelings, my vulnerability, And they gave me three little dots. I gave them honesty through my long response The response that I thought about for what felt like an eternity I offered myself and my being through a paragraph And they gave me three little dots That eventually went away.

Sophia Smith

fairest

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Who’s the fairest of them all?” the queen demanded of the glass hanging in her bedchamber. The reflection wavered but no oracle appeared

She paced the room, long skirts billowing around her.

Her stepdaughter, Snow, grew more lovely with each passing day as she neared adulthood, already garnering the attention of princes and kings from the surrounding provinces. Only time prevented her from usurping the throne. The queen would not let that happen.

Mia Zottoli

She sent once more for the shopkeeper, guards pulling them to the castle in thick shackles. But they did not cower at the sight of the queen, not even when she raised her voice, questioning the legitimacy of the magickal object the shopkeeper sold to her at a hefty price.

They simply sighed.

“I do remember reminding you; at the time of purchase the mirror remained untethered. It will not share its wisdom unless a soul becomes trapped inside.”

The queen had not been listening when she acquired the mirror. She stepped close to the shopkeeper. “What must I do?” she seethed.

The shopkeeper smiled back at her. “As I previously relayed, I possess the skills to tether. I simply require a soul, vital and young. Bring me one, and you shall have your mirror within mere hours of my ceremony.”

The queen followed the shopkeeper’s guidance, plucking a girl close to her stepdaughter’s age from a rural village’s orphanage. With promises of work in the royal palace, the handsome girl, Edana, easily obeyed the queen’s requests. As they arrived at the castle, the queen led Edana to her room, where her guards awaited with the shopkeeper. Edana searched the queen’s face, her brows knit together in obfuscation. The queen smiled down at her, pressing her towards the shopkeeper.

She obeyed, floating to where the shopkeeper stood at the mirror. They bestowed a sad smile upon her, before gripping her arms, and shoving her into her own reflection. Edana braced herself for the glass to shatter, but instead a dry, liquidy substance enveloped her body, sucking her in and wrapping tightly around her limbs.

She screamed, and once her eyes focused, she ran to the picture of the room she saw before her, but she simply bounced off the elastic substance. Tears flowed as she struggled to climb back through the mirror, to no avail. As the shopkeeper neared her, she shouted profanity, shrieking in hopes of bursting eardrums. The look on their face made her quiet.

The queen looked on as the shopkeeper peered in at their work; she thought perhaps she saw their lips move in a whisper before her guards whisked them away, but she could not be sure. She pushed them from her mind, instead finding the entombed girl’s eyes, where tears swirled over her inflamed cheeks.

“I will see you tonight,” the queen promised with a smile, twirling through the door and leaving the orphan girl in her opulent, vacuous chamber.

After her tears dried in stark rivulets down her face, the door creaked open, and Edana steeled herself to face the queen. Only, the face that peered into Edana’s was not that of the evil woman, but rather an enchanting girl close to her own age, with shorn, curled hair, and brown skin peppered with pale splotches. Outfitted akin to a scullery maid, the girl’s strong features and regal aire countered

her cheap dress. Edana’s eyes traveled from the curly wisps clinging to the girl’s temple, to the Nubian nose which fit her face so perfectly she could no longer imagine it on anyone else, down to where the square cut neckline of her dress accentuated her sharp collarbones, mesmerized by a girl who must have been a dream of Edana’s own creation. But the girl stepped towards the mirror, bringing her hand to the glass and smiling, dimples materializing and eyes sparkling.

“Hi, I’m Snow.”

If she was not long gone already, the sound of Snow’s ethereal voice dove Edana into a beautiful abyss.

Of course, when the queen arrived that night to repeat her query, Edana had only one answer: Snow White.

Each day, Snow White visited the girl in the mirror, and each night the queen would seek her wisdom, maddened by the answer Edana continued to give. While she occupied nearly every crevice of the queen’s mind, Edana barely thought of her malevolent captor. Instead, the princess in commoner clothes spread like wildfire through her own mental labyrinth.

“Do you hunger?” Snow asked one day, peering across the chamber to the mirror while toying with a blanket on her stepmother’s bed.

Edana thought for a moment. “No,” she decided. “I don’t seem to do anything human now.”

“Do you need to breathe?”

After holding her breath for nearly ten minutes, Edana concluded that no, she did not. But she did anyway. She felt she could not forget herself.

Snow took notice. She stood up and approached the mirror, so the two girls stood face to face. “You are still human,” she breathed, placing her forehead against the shimmering glass.

Edana leaned hers in as well, wishing for the thousandth time to touch the girl in front of her. The girl who made her believe the words she spoke.

They did not only speak of their prisons, the mirror for Edana but the castle for Snow. Most of the time, they searched for topics of distraction. Snow shared tales of a scandalous royal family sojourning in the castle, while Edana regaled her with stories from her village. They sat in silence sometimes, crying in other instances, but most importantly they laughed. Smiled. Lifted each other to the heavens and beyond.

“I am glad I met you,” Edana remarked, as she and Snow stood opposite each other.

“Even like this?” Snow questioned, unable to meet Edana’s eyes.

Edana waited for Snow to lift her head before nodding. “I would take years with you like this over unshackled time with anyone else.”

Snow’s cheeks flushed, warming her skin. “I want to come in with you,” she said.

The girl in the mirror smiled, but her eyes darkened. She placed her hand on her side of the mirror and Snow did the same opposite her. “You have a life. You must not squander it with fantasies of me. Marry a prince, reclaim this kingdom. Do not forget me but do not allow me to preclude your story.”

In response, Snow lifted herself to her tiptoes, planting a quick kiss where Edana’s forehead reflected. “You cannot tell me what to do,” she murmured coquettishly.

Edana sighed, but her heart soared, threatening to burst from her body and desert her for the other side of the mirror.

The queen remained oblivious of her stepdaughter’s trysts with the mirror, blinded by the question echoing in her cavernous mind. Who’s the fairest of them all? Snow White, the answer always came. Day after day until the queen could no longer hope for a difference.

One night, after Snow and Edana already parted ways for the day, one returning to her chamber and the other standing in the same place as always, waiting to meet again the next day, the queen sent her most loyal guard for Snow. He obeyed her commands, tying the girl up and leading her to the woods, but as he turned to unsheathe his sword and deliver a fatal blow, Snow sliced the rope ensnaring her limbs with a knife she hid in her skirts, running deep into the woods where the guard could not follow. He could not return to his queen in such disgrace. For hours, he hunted the animals populating the forest, picking the heart closest to human, and returning to the palace.

With barely a glance at the heart, the queen nodded in praise, dismissing the guard. She went immediately to the mirror, where Edana expected Snow at such an early hour. She did not attempt to mask her disappointment.

“Mirror, mirror, who’s the fairest of them all?”

By now the questioning grew tedious for Edana. “Snow White,” she responded.

The queen released a blood curdling scream, slamming her fist into her bed post, chipping off pieces of wood. She ran for the mirror, fist raised, and Edana’s spirit lifted for a moment, but the queen paused before making contact. And

Edana waited for Snow to visit, but the girl never appeared. She did not return the next day, or the day after, and neither did the queen, except to sleep. Edana could handle the physical act of loneliness, mental isolation destroyed her, piece by piece. Meanwhile the queen raged, wondering how a dead girl could possibly be fairest. She sent for her guard, commanding another man in his ranks to torture him until he confessed that Snow had bested him. Reaching for the other man’s sword, she raised the blade and cut down, slicing her guard’s head clean off. As it rolled off into

a dark corner, she plucked the medallion that indicated his rank from his blood-stained jacket and pinned it on the other guard, smearing red over the gold surface.

Returning his sword, the queen smiled, teeth stained with red droplets. “Clean it up,” she ordered, shutting the cell door behind her.

The queen scrubbed herself for hours, until the water around her in the bath became rosy and her skin returned to pure porcelain. She stepped out to take a cloth offered by a maid and bid her dump the water after helping her dress. The queen selected a long red gown of gossamer silk that trailed to her feet and billowed around her waist, and after the maid finished lacing the back and braiding her hair, she set off, once again, for the shopkeeper who sold her the mirror. This time, she purchased an opal necklace that promised to disguise her as anyone she desired.

As she returned to the palace and retreated to her chamber, she pulled the necklace over her head and thought of her step daughter. She moved to check her reflection in the washroom mirror, but a voice stopped her.

“Snow?” Edana’s voice rang out. “Where have you been? I have missed you dearly.”

The queen turned to face the magic mirror where Edana’s face pressed against the invisible barrier. Grinning, she lifted the necklace off and watched as the girl’s loving eyes turned to horror.

The next day, she returned to the shopkeeper, dressed as the peasantry, a new plan formulating. Instead of taking Snow’s place, she could get rid of her for good, and then the kingdom would have no choice but to adore her. For a sack of gold, she purchased a cursed apple that sent the consumer into an everlasting sleep, one only broken by true love’s kiss. From the look in Edana’s eyes, the queen knew of their love, and with the girl imprisoned, Snow White would never wake again.

From the shopkeeper's, the queen set off for the woods, the necklace transforming her to the girl in the mirror. She walked for hours, calling for Snow in Edana’s husky voice. She almost turned back to retrace her steps when a girl stepped out from a copse of trees. For a moment the queen did not recognize her step daughter, covered with dirt and scratches, and holding a sharpened stick as a spear, dried blood caking the tip. But then dropping the spear, the girl rushed to the queen, wrapping her arms around her.

“Edana,” she breathed, the melody of her voice slightly broken. “How did you escape?”

The queen drew back from Snow’s embrace. “The shopkeeper who sold the mirror came back while your stepmother was away. He saved me,” she bluffed.

Snow’s mind was too exhausted to see the cracks in the queen’s explanation. She simply nodded and buried her face in the queen’s shoulder.

“You must be hungry,” the queen whispered.

“Yes,” Snow croaked.

The queen reached into the folds of her cloak and withdrew the apple. “Here, I brought this for you,” she cooed, lifting the bright fruit to Snow’s mouth.

Graciously, she plucked the apple from the queen’s hand, sinking her teeth in and taking a huge bite. As she went in for another, the queen unclasped her necklace, and her disguise fell away. Snow’s eyes widened, but it was too late. Before she could discard the apple, the light faded from her eyes and she fell in a heap on the dirt.

The queen smiled, picked up the bitten apple, and turned back to the castle, leaving her stepdaughter to sleep alone in the unforgiving woods.

The door swung open to the queen’s bedchamber, and Edana perked up, wishing for a sight of her fair love. Instead, the queen’s triumphant face stared back at her. She approached the mirror and stood in silence for a moment, before asking Edana for the thousandth time.

“Who’s the fairest of them all?”

Tears ran down Edana’s cheeks as she answered, the same as always, “Snow.”

The queen’s face contorted as her mouth turned downwards and her eyes narrowed. “No, it is a lie.”

Edana shook her head. “What have you done with her?” she begged.

“What have I done? I got rid of her! She’s gone, discarded in the woods. She cannot be the “fairest of them all”. It must be me! It has always been me!” The queen ran to the mirror. “Stupid mirror, you idiotic girl!” she snarled.

Edana’s bottom lip quivered. “Is she dead?” she asked.

“Dead! No, but just like it. She can only be brought back with true love’s kiss and with you in here, she will never awaken.”

The queen’s words struck Edana silent. She cried in silence as the queen fumed.

“Can’t you see?” she finally asked.

“What?”

“Your desire to be loved, worshipped, idolized, will never come true. Snow has and always will hold the love of the kingdom, because she is beautiful, from her body to her mind to her heart. Your mind is ugly, your heart gruesome, and you will never hold more than just the kingdom’s infatuation.”

“Silence!” the queen yelled, but Edana continued.

“Snow could sleep for the rest of her years, she could die, and they would still love her more! They may do your bidding but one day you will wither away, alone as you breathe your final breath, and they will rejoice.”

The queen wrenched an iron sword from its holster on the wall, and stalked towards the mirror, blade brandished.

Edana raised her voice as the queen neared her. “In the stories they tell their children, if they tell any at all, you will be remembered as what you are: the evil queen of—”

The blade made contact with the glass, shattering the image of Edana’s face as shards clattered onto the floor.

As silence washed over her, the shopkeeper’s whispered words echoed in Edana’s mind. Child, listen. You must get someone to break the mirror, then you will be set free, and they will remain

Slowly, Edana shards around her feet lifted into the air, hovering towards the empty frame on the wall. She watched as the mirror reformed, half expecting her own face to back at her.

But it was the queen’s materialized, her features ugly scream that Edana barely heard. She was already hurrying out of the palace, toward the woods, toward Snow.

Before Edana could reach the entrance to the woodlands, a commotion in a nearby village halted her. In the town square, a group of hunters stood over a figure, deliberating as more people flocked to the forming crowd. Edana drew her hood up and hurried into the village, pushing her way through worried villagers and curious children, stopping as she reached the hunters who guarded the figure like a prize. In between their burly figures, Edana spotted a glimpse of the person’s face.

Snow. Covered in dirt and scrapes and dried blood, but still her Snow.

Without pausing to think, Edana pilfered one of the hunter’s spears and pushed her way through the threshold. She scrambled to reach the girl lying on the cobblestone, while hands threatened to pull her back. Kicking at them with her boots, Edana clutched onto Snow, embracing her cold body and kissing her shoulder, before rough arms yanked her back into the crowd. The hunter whose spear she stole stalked toward her, picking up his stolen weapon and jabbing it into Edana’s side.

She cried out as hot flashes of pain curled up her body, willing herself to die quickly as she felt her ribs crunch. But then the attacks ceased, and all she could feel was a steady thrum in her side. Then, she felt soft hands picking her up, wiping the tears she hadn’t known had seeped down her face away. And then, a kiss, planted on her brow, like a butterfly’s gentle wings.

“Edana,” a familiar, ethereal voice rang. “Please open your eyes.”

How could she not obey?

Edana felt her eyelids flutter open, her eyes lift as they focused on the girl who kept her standing. Her mouth opened to speak, but all she could manage was a small cough. My love, she thought, and Snow seemed to hear these unspoken words, for she leaned forward, her small body still bearing all of Edana’s weight, and kissed her.

And Edana felt herself sinking, drowning, succumbing. My love, my love, my love.

breaking

I feel pieces of my “ heart

BATHROOM

She presses her forehead against the cool glass, allowing the door to slam shut behind her. Loud music and laughter from below becomes muffled as shallow, forced

Her shoulders shake from the effort, and a choked sob escapes her throat instead.

She wanted today to be perfect, like one of those video montages where someone picks their life back up over cheerful background music. In retrospect, she was foolish to think it was possible. Foolish for believing that the critical voices, growing louder by day, would pause their violent rampage on her mind just for the occasion, just for her hopeless plea for perfection. After all, she’d spent years trying to perfect herself, and look where that got her.

Backing away from the mirror, she watches her reflection transform once again. Her pale limbs, “like little twigs,” as everyone calls them, bloat and bulge. Her eyes dart to her face, hoping to catch a glimpse of the thin, gaunt complexion others see, but the mirror only shows chubby baby cheeks and messy mascara. She spins to the side automatically, pinching desperately at barelynoticeable rolls of fat under her tight, sparkling party dress. Cursing her own idiocy, she makes a mental note to tie her corset tighter tomorrow.

Pig. Her disproportionate image is replaced swiftly by that cake, disgustingly saccharine, with its mountain of chocolate frosting and fifteen large, overly-festive candles. The sickly sweet lingering on her tongue makes her gag.

You filthy pig.

She knew that just one slice would add too many calories to her daily maximum, but her mother, setting it upon the table with a broad smile, insisted. So she shoved it down. She did it for everyone else, dressed up for everyone else; all she ever wanted was to please them, to be pretty and perfect for them. You’re such a fake, you know that, right?

Her entire body trembles. The blue-tiled walls are shifting and twisting before her, the floor tilting, confettilike silver sparks materializing at the edges of her fractured vision. All her mind registers, however, is her own distorted figure: now a faceless, shapeless blur of body parts and colors. She stumbles onto the scale. The digits race and climb, finally flickering to a stop: nearly two kilograms higher than this morning. Her cheeks pale.

And suddenly she’s flinging open drawer after drawer,

digging through beauty products and sending them flying, one hand clamped over her ear to block out the voices screaming, slicing through her: You’re an idiot! You’re an idiot! Her other hand seizes a small white container and bursts open the lid. She moves quickly, kneeling in front of the toilet as two tablets spill onto her palm like dusty pearls. Two for two kilos. The walls press in on her skull, pushing and squeezing until water leaks from her eyes, and she swallows without hesitation. Almost immediately, the familiar lurching sensation, all hot and red and sticky, creeps up her torso.

She bends forward once she tastes chocolate.

A quiet, timid knock sounds.

“Are you okay?”

She freezes, liquid trickling from her bottom lip. Her gaze snaps to the door, still shut tight as a soft yellow glow filters through its rectangular frame. She exhales relief. The blue tiles contract, then slowly sway back to normal; her head pounds dully as ever.

“I’m okay, I’m just a little s-sick.” The lie, one of thousands, burns slowly through her throat and roots itself in her stomach.

“Are you sure?”

“…yeah. Don’t tell Mom.”

A pause.

“Is it the stomach bug again?”

“Yeah. Stomach bug.”

“Mommy made your friends go home. She said it was too late.” Oh. Thank goodness.

“Please don’t tell her I’m sick.” She stands shakily, and the hot red settles uncomfortably in her chest. “I don’t want her to worry. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

A rustle and click, and darkness seeps through the door frame once again.

She sighs and flushes the toilet. Her body aches slightly and her stomach growls; the insides of her mouth no longer taste of chocolate but of something sour and ugly and rotten. Dizzy, she steadies herself. It’s always like this afterwards. Her feet drag as she switches on the faucet, silently scrubbing her hands and mouth clean of any evidence.

While a singular voice echoes in her mind, taunting her. Keep it up.

Isabel Yang

Michael and I. The two speedsters. The tag champions. Our strange dynamic of a back-and-forth battle could lead to the darkest times or overwhelming joy. By the bajillionth rematch, we were tired of the war and struck a deal of non-aggression: the beginning of a perfect, flawless, mutual friendship where absolutely nothing could go wrong.

Michael and I did everything together. We partnered on projects, homework, and targeting kids in tag until they quit or cry. The normal stuff.

Eventually, kids looked at themselves, looked around, and questioned why they were wasting their whole recess to be chased around—never to win. With that, the obsessive game dwindled away, vacating space for a new one.

Origami. A kid could sit for hours meticulously crafting cranes or fortune tellers.

Naturally, Michael and I immediately set out to take it to another level. To become the kings of the uncharted origami world. We wanted something no one has seen before. Something that everybody would want. Every second of our day was invested in the search. Class time? More like origami time. Lunch time? Nope, origami time. Sleep time? Well, I guess we kind of need this to grow, function, and live. Just kidding. It’s origami time.

Four weeks later, every link on Google was purple, every book on origami showed our names on the “checked out” form, and every YouTube suggestion on my account was another origami video.

Then it happened. A notification popped up on my computer: “How To Make a Paper Transforming Ninja Star—Origami.”

Ha! More clickbait. No way that’s possible. My cursor hovered over the close button. Whatever, might as well check it out. My eyes slowly widened as I skipped through the tutorial. The transforming ninja star. It’s real.

Michael and I could practically see the gold piling up in front of us, and we talked endlessly about our business and all of the cash we’d make. Little did I know, he would reveal his lethal spikes and strike down the “our” and “we” to make it “his.”

In order to kickstart the process, Michael asked me to buy sticky notes. My eyebrows immediately furrowed.

“Hey, why don’t we both pay for it?”

“I didn’t know you were broke,” Michael responded. Being called “broke” was an insult of the highest degree. My relative youth and lack of experience led to my gullible nature; my gullible nature led to me immediately backing off and buying the supplies.

That did not just happen, I thought. Absolutely not. He did not just do me like that. I’ll let him go this time, but I’m ready if he tries to pull that stunt again.

Sticky notes in hand, I was ready for us to get to work. Michael then asks me to make them while he sells them.

Hold it right there.

I questioned, “If I make it and you claim it is ‘our’ origami, then how is that fair?”

“What, are you dumb or something?” he sneered, falling right into my trap.

“What, are YOU dumb or something? Can’t YOU make some?” I felt on top of the world.

“You’re so much smarter and better than me at it.” That world came crashing down. It was either accept a compliment or be free from folding origami. I grudgingly got to work.

He played an uno reverse card, and I toiled away like a string puppet receiving nothing more than a few bucks every now and then. Apparently, my production wasn’t enough for his capitalist greed, leading him to start hiring his friends who also received a handsome wage while I strangely received less.

At first, I was willing to take one for the team (sorry, his team), but my patience was quickly approaching the limit. While working towards my quota of seven ninja stars and watching Michael with a client across the room, I see not one, but two flashes of green exchanging hands.

I was ready to pounce; there was absolutely no reason to lie about the profits of our business—sorry, his business. When confronted, he quickly morphed back to his innocent, harmless self and slowly explained, “it was a one time deal” and indifferently pushed a dollar into my hand. My stomach lurched as I clutched the bribe in my hand. My heart sank. I realized there can only be one king.

With the school year ending and the summer rapidly approaching, we didn’t want to slow down our business (sorry, his business), so we, the workers, went into overdrive and eventually produced enough transforming origami ninja stars to fill an entire backpack.

We presented it to Michael hoping to earn substantial profits by the new school year. But, he moved later that summer and, of course, he “borrowed” the backpack for a very long time.

While he saw dozens of ninja stars ready to sell, I saw the result of hours of work, Post-its, and a dream. Oh, and there was one more thing at the very bottom of the backpack beneath the massive stack of transforming ninja stars.

My trust.

Nishanth Gaddam

melodies OF THE TIDES

By Gabriel Carpenter

With a hand on my goggles and mouthpiece I step forward into thin air, rapidly fall into prismatic water, the vivid colors of Atlantic sunlight shining, small silver fish school around, a luminescent jellyfish pulses angelic, hovering above the reef, rainbow colored parrot fish dart around in a blur. I reach out, almost touching the small flamingo tongue snail resting on a purple sea fan, then see a solitary black trash bag floating down from the pure blue backdrop, a dark stain, a blemish on the mural of coral on the ocean floor.

I daydream the image of Manhattan’s gray skyscrapers some now consider normal, the trash lining Wall Street as businessmen discuss building the next offshore oil rig, oil spills leading to images of washed up dolphins dying, covered in pitch black, the bag tangled around a green turtle, dead coral, harpooned whales butchered.

As if swimming against the Gulf Stream, I reach my hand toward the black bag, hold the dark ghost of plastic, stuff it into a small pouch in my wetsuit, then float at rest, my body drifting with the current in the silence of God.

theDevil’s Greatest

Jenna Upton

It all really did happen so fast. Leviathan took Lucifer in his arms and walked him down. Lucifer felt himself get warmer—there was hellfire everywhere. So many demons were covered in ash, and he watched them as Leviathan lay the poor, injured fallen angel down on the throne. Lucifer watched the populous in front of him, holding the crown. They wanted to make him their King. Their Ruler. Their Prince.

Their God.

The crown was jet black, and Lucifer was frightened.

There was a deafening silence as every demon watched him. He trembled as he knelt down, letting the crown be placed on his head. Gone were the days of Lucifer, the highest of the Angels, the violinist who composed melodies so wonderful no being could ever, in a million years, replicate—gone were the days of Lucifer, God’s favorite, the brightest and the best.

There was nothing left but Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness. Lucifer, the tempter. The ramifications of being pushed from Heaven were unbearable. He was shattered. As he balanced the crown on his head, as all the demons worshiped him, he looked over the fiery pit that was now his dominion. He felt his face tearing, though he couldn’t describe the pain. And he felt his wings begin to tear. Maybe he did deserve this, being down here.

Lucifer had prided himself on his appearance— every little pat on the head from God made him feel so wonderful. But most of all, even if God always made comments about his dazzling eyes, he loved his

wings. They were wide—the largest wings of all the angels—and gold and white, with the softest feathers. He saw his wings as a badge of honor—and there was nothing anyone could do to bring him down in that way. He was the highest of the angels, long, thin fingers plucking the violin that he so desperately loved. His fingers, now, were covered in the blood of his torn wing. Lucifer turned, and, in excruciating pain, looked at his wings. There, in the center of his right wing, was a large tear, with blood seeping out of it. It wasn’t a color he’d seen before; but he knew, then, it would be a color he would never escape again. From his beautiful, white-and-golden wings, a thick liquid red as wine poured.

It wasn’t until it began to spread that Lucifer noticed. The red was staining the rest of his wings, and he watched, helplessly, as they were destroyed. No longer were they the beauties they once were. As the red spread to all of the feathers, he noticed that the softness of them had completely changed—they were now hard, and sharp. His feathers had become knives, threatening to hurt anyone who even dared to come close to him. He was protected, now.

Something changed in Lucifer at that moment. No good boy, no beautiful boy. His eyes became those of a snake’s—they remained bright green, but still, the pupils changed. His once soft, white wings were red, and razor-sharp. He was no longer an angel. He was a demon.

No, he wasn’t a demon. He was the demon. The Prince of Darkness, the Fallen Angel. The Devil.

Lead is supposed to be poisonous, but I like the feeling of poison driving me insane.

She collected stationery from the very beginning since her father gifted them as tiny offerings long ago. Professional ballpoint pens, colorful erasable pens, pencils

a collection of regrets: FIVE THINGS

with characters and words intricately carved into the wood, and her favorite, the delicate and pretty Japanese mechanical pencils that made her friends envious of her possessions. The gifts used to make her smile all the time, and she kept them neatly in an organized box in her secret drawer. But now they were really all around the house, but

Item 1: Ballpoint Pens and Mechanical Pencils on the Desk

she once hated about herself

Lynn Zhao

mostly on her desk, a now-chaotic mess. They scattered themselves and reminded her, no matter what she did, that the urge to stab herself with one would always be there. The soft colors only made the idea more enticing every time she imagined it. And the tips were pointy and sharp, ready to take action and follow her command. Sometimes, broken shards of lead and irregularly shaped pieces of paper blotted with red, blue, and black ink littered the floor around the desk, an unconscious artist. Just open your eyes—insanity is hard to miss.

Item 2: Calendar Filled with Artwork on the Desk

Art transforms pain into beauty. It tries to, at least. But no one teaches that the pain travels through paper and colors, and not in the way that anyone expects it to. Instead, it drags the victim into the page to rip them to shreds, a reminder of what they will never be, do, finish. It feels like Sylvia Plath: “I am gone quite mad with the knowledge of accepting the overwhelming number of things I can never know, places I can never go, and people I can never be.” I can attest to this crime.

The booklet-sized calendar didn’t match the one her mother kept because she refused to update it. Because it called her forth the tasks she never finished. Maybe that’s still how she was, the way that calendar had been. It became outdated, but the art stayed, not moving an inch more than where she last placed it. The scribbles of dates and reminders and tasks hid behind the cover. She wished the art soothed her, but the glossy page only remained blatantly clear about her denial of everything in that calendar. The unfinished business never left her. Neither did her art.

Item 3: Pianos (A Boston Grand with an Upright on the Side) Downstairs, in the Music Room

The only loud sound I allow is the sound of those keys. So tantalizing and mesmerizing, and it pulls me in and surrounds me with comfort and angst and everything in between. Gorgeous. But there’s a slackline between “gorgeous” and “deadly,” and I think I’m over that valley.

The clear tunes reverberated around the room and drowned her in the Atlantic Ocean of melodies and expressions. It rang in her ears minutes after the melodies had ended, a sweet memory of what had been. She could never play like that again, with the same amount of will and passion and desire. That version of herself was lost to the world, lost in the forgotten noises, swallowed up by the newly-appointed version of her, and the touch on the keys only felt unfamiliar and dusty now. Maybe a little guilty even. The music died in the Sargasso Sea. Maybe a part of her did too.

Item 4: An iPhone 11 in the Pockets of Jeans (or Everywhere)

It’s a whirlpool of the known and unknown, all at once. It should feel safe, something personal and mine, but I’m left shaking when I hold it.

There was nothing special. No dark secrets hidden in password-locked apps or unrevealed gossip to spill. The most peculiar things to be found were a filled-up camera roll of art and quotes, a poorly timed selfie or two, and 1000 tabs in the Safari app (500 in the normal window, and 500 in the private one). She never showed anyone else those pictures or those websites or any of the blurry selfies, but she had no dangerous secrets. It was the sheer number that would terrify someone. 14,748 items in her albums. The notes app displayed one single note flooding over 513 lines (“finish planning the dinner event for the magazine, don’t forget to finish that assignment”). Everything was noted down: reminders, drabbles, anything. Even frustrated incomplete poems from her as an amateur writer. A pathological hoarder, or maybe a dweller, of sorts. And if that wasn’t the problem, she would be overly cautious with deleting things and reorganizing them. Fear would overcome responsibility every time.

Watching her thumb slowly and carefully as she dragged one app, intent on not touching the others, sweat forming on her other hand and sliding the phone out of her reach. Her own collection threatened her to make no mistake, but it was once freedom, personality, laughs, where she confided her heart’s desires with fascination. The shaking of her unstable hands didn’t go away.

Item 5: Sticky Notes and Random Scraps Everywhere Everywhere, anywhere. There’s two scraps by the keyboard, a clipboard with scrunched up sheets of paper on the nightstand, and a bajillion other pieces that kill time all around. When did it grow to this? I want to keep them; no one can throw them out. They’re my thoughts, my ideas, my checklists, no matter how recklessly they land. I can’t let go yet.

They were only reminders of how messed up her life was now. Of how desperately she clung to sanity. It was hopeless, and the piles slowly flooded the premises, stacked upon each other. Tissues with ink, pink and purple sticky notes folded together, and old office papers from her parents that no longer played their original roles. If you looked into her brain, it would resemble this dump of white and black and blue and red with hints of purple and other colors. So beautifully bright but disorganized and in shambles. Too late to start a cleanup. Too deep in the engulfing scraps.

If she could have told her younger self one thing, it would have been to let it all go.

But regrets stuck longer than anything, including time, memories, even hatred, and certainly longer than happiness or cheerfulness. Regrets killed, usually slowly, with its victim unaware. And this girl held on for too long.

Another regret.

A final regret.

und their skin er

Grace Finn

The diving board at my neighborhood’s pool looks small now, but at the fifth grade pool party I could have been jumping off a building. The water only appeared here and there in the gaps between the hundred kids. A tiny sea of writhing arms and squirming legs waited for me, all with shouted words streaming from their mouths. Still, they saw me edging forward at the end of the board, and a window opened in the crowd, letting a patch of sunlit water wink up at me. I could not miss that target. If I strayed from my path even slightly, I might brush against the bare skin of a stranger.

That might sound trivial, a second of discomfort at the most, but it terrified me. To me, a moment of contact would poison the entire afternoon. The feeling sticks to me for a while, under my skin. Have you ever had a bug crawl over your leg or hand when you didn’t expect it? Even after it leaves, the tainted feeling of its legs lingers. The fear isn’t like a fear of heights, or of the dark. I’m afraid of that touch the way I’m afraid of a cockroach.

A careful hop sent me through the ring of bodies and into the water. The cool water and the relief slid over me all at once. Within half a second I felt the concrete floor beneath my toes and the nine feet of water hanging over my head, almost twice my height. All of that liquid smothered the sounds of the party instantly; only the blood pulsing in my ears told me I could still hear. The not-quite-darkness put my eyes at ease and all tactile sensation disappeared. That open space, that emptiness and silence held me in a waking dream. I never wanted to leave.

For the first few seconds I hovered in a spotlight, long sunbeams dancing on my body while the rest of the floor lay in shadow. While I stared forward, the darkness crept towards me. I noticed with my first glance down. Looking up, I saw the sun recede, sliding back until the light covered only half my face. A fragment of white glowed down on my right eye for a long moment before the crush of limbs swallowed the opening, leaving me adrift in darkness. I had a solar eclipse all to myself, with what seemed like all of humanity to block out the sun.

Once the gap closed I realized I would have to come up for air. The second I knew I needed it was the second I knew I could not have it. A wall of flesh loomed above me, all kicking legs and wet hair, moving, always moving, with the water and with each other until they linked together into a pale, writhing hive. From below I did not see people, only legs snapping one way or the other, hair clogging the water, hands grabbing, and most of all, skin. They had no faces, no eyes, only meat and breath and warm bodies. My world became a trap, an open mouth I

had wandered into only to watch it close before my eyes.

When I realized the gap had closed my heart rate accelerated and my blood pumped hard through my veins, it seemed that all of the air had leached out of my lungs and I felt an overpowering urge to breathe in the water. The water pressure that I hadn’t noticed before returned from nowhere to beat at the blood in my ears until my head pulsed with the force of it all. Every piece of my insides pushed in and out and pulsed and shoved into each other until I couldn’t tell if I was exploding or folding in on myself.

But I couldn’t go up. Going up meant facing the wall of twisted limbs that hovered over me. Going up meant feeling the wriggling bodies pressed against my skin, with all their heat in the churning water. Going up would taint my insides. My mind couldn’t take it, but my body needed it. The two would tear me in half.

It took me about four seconds to decide. Four long, long seconds of my lungs burning and my nose begging me to inhale. Each moment the pressure compounded. The possibility of drowning that had lurked in the back of my mind for a while came back full force. That fear fought against my terror of the mass of meat above, but I could not see reason through the haze of fear. I refused to go up.

In the end it was the chlorine in the water that saved me. With my eyes stretched wide and bare against the electric blue, they stood no chance against the over-chlorinated water at the bottom of the pool. By the end of those four seconds I could hardly see at all. My vision slowly blurred until the limbs that so terrified me became smears of brown and tan. I could face that. Even knowing that they only stood in for the thronging mob, the fire in my lungs finally won out.

I kicked off of the ground with all of the strength that my ten year old legs had. That pumping blood propelled me to the top faster than ever. I needed to move fast, too fast to think, because the thinking would hold me back. It had held me back long enough.

Air and water rushed into my throat together. The relief hit me like a bus but emotions didn’t even exist until I could breathe. I saw only the white of the sun and the violet streaks on my retina it left behind. For the seconds that it took to heave myself out of the crowd and onto the concrete, I couldn’t feel anything but the rush of oxygen into my blood.

As it turned out, I was too out of breath to feel the people against me at all. When I think back on it, I only see that fear I felt nine feet under. I can’t even remember how it felt.

The open space, that emptiness and silence held me in a waking dream.

Connecticut home red shade consistent with jonagold apples on the farm a few blocks away, apples which I would pick from the trees, my sisters beside me admiring the smooth exterior of nature’s gift placing them snugly into the green basket

Connecticut home’s backyard, a 15 by 30 foot Russian tundra, aside from the wind silent as the icy moon illuminating unexplored snowscapes, menacing but beautiful in white dresses clashing with frosted horizon freezing temperature falling with the sun wind gusts steel needles unstitching my skin I had to cross this tundra because those wolf howls were luring me towards a distant treeline

Connecticut home’s tv room hours expired away playing Star Wars video games with my dad from the shaggy green chair I would laugh as we failed over and over because the sting of falling short was made level by humor and my dad shouting “those darn robots keep killing us!” was sure to be followed up with a laugh

Creek in the woods behind the connecticut home where my mom would send me to play with my neighbor’s kid with a reminder of the boy who got kidnapped an hour’s drive away so we had to be safe and through the trees we would run like the water through our fingers when we would reach into the flowing brook.

So connecticut home your rugged walls preserving memories, Your tile patio stained with muddy footprints. painting pictures of lost time, I wish I could go back to you.

connecticut

Jackson DiRoma

HOME

enough of him

Nishanth Gaddam

I hated his existence. I wanted to erase him. I wanted to make sure nobody remembered him. I look at him in the restroom, the pool, and through the window of the classroom. What a failure. Can’t get anything right. Fs instead of As—his parents furious. Homosexual—his grandfather disappointed. No friends—a social outcast.

It was the last day of school. His last day as well. The day to cure the world of him. What a loser. We got our finals back, and he didn’t even look at the score. He knows what he got. Another zero. He keeps saying that he has dyslexia or whatever, but anyone can read. His parents say he’s just lazy. What a loser. I watch him walk to lunch all by himself. What a loser. His parents don’t give him money to buy food because why would anyone want to spend money on a failure?

He sits all by himself at a table. People join him, but obviously not his friends. Someone spilled milk on him, but it was an accident, of course. What a loser.

He goes to the restroom to clean up, and a few “friends” tag along behind. The fool gets slapped. Punched. Kicked. I smile. What a loser. I’ll make sure to finish him off. I’ll give them what they want.

He gets back home, and his parents barrage him with curses about being held back again, but he escapes into his room— his sanctuary.

I lost my patience. I pounced with a knife in hand, and I stared into his dark eyes as I slit his throat. His eyes widened and a single tear rolled down his face. I realized he wanted to live.

A mirror doesn’t lie.

Kayla Tillman

SEARCH ANSWERS The for

Did you know that right now physicists are searching for a Theory of Everything that would explain the scientific origins of our universe? And did you know that it’s always on my mind?

Science is our collective search for answers. Society innately wants to know how we came to be—how the universe started. This is because we’re accustomed to facts. I think that’s one of the reasons why we unite under religion regarding this great unknown; we crave a shared understanding and feel lost without one.

But there’s a twist. We have spent centuries hypothesizing, but we still have no concrete answer. What if there isn’t one?

We love thinking we’re the masters of the universe, but we forget that we are simply a

small part of it.

There may not be a definitive answer about the creation of our universe because it warrants no explanation. That’s the beauty of it: the absence of an answer.

If there is no concrete answer to this quandary, then maybe we should focus our efforts on the present and future, not the past. The how has taken priority, but perhaps the why should prevail. Instead of requiring answers to the how, the inconceivability should prompt us instead to reflect on its beautiful evolution, the ultimate why of its existence.

The hunt for the universe’s origin inspires me; it’s a microcosm of human nature. It harbors millions of not just philosophical but overarching questions that would entertain me until the end of the time.

noc

WORKINGS turne

Eyes waver in the night

Drifting from taunting shadows

Playing against the walls

Mocking human form

Covers leave flesh vulnerable

Nyela Rucker

While the cold air clings to my burdened sorrows

Teddy bears hidden behind my back

As if to sacrifice me to the unknown first

I idyll like a corpse

In an unwanted grave

Hoping to be taken by the bliss

Of solemn comforting sleep

Eyes open to wandering thoughts

Ears reaching past thin glass

Body cradled by box springs

Senses too aware of nothing

Slowly the shifts of shapes, thoughts, and sounds

Turn into numb sensations

Then into the true darkness

I reset

still THERE

Kelsey Sciacca

Woman | Tyler McAndrews | 18x9 | Acrylic Painting

As we walk through the nursing home’s automated doors, the sobering smells of urine and bleach waft into my nostrils. I sigh, reluctantly readying myself to make the most of our visit.

There she sits, talking to her caregiver, as her tiny frame disappears into the haggard velvet couch. Surprisingly, she looks like her old self. What happened to Nona’s greasy hair? Her clothes are on the right way, and her shoes are matching. Must be a good day to visit.

Today, and every agonizing day since her diagnosis, her eyes that once shimmered with adventure and independence now serve as the sole reminder of her disease: two orbs of confusion and hesitation.

“E—Ellie?” Nona says with uncertainty.

In shock she still remembers my name, I gently sit down next to her. “Yes, Nona?”

“How are you?”

“I’m doing well, busy with school and sports. How are you?”

She thoughtfully replies, “I do love it here. And, oh! My caregiver is so nice— what is she doing? Looks like she’s feeding the—um—”

“The fish?” I offer, barely keeping up with her wayward shifts of topic.

“Yes! F—fish. They’re so cute. They like to see them when they visit us.”

“Who visits you? The children?” I ask, confused.

“Yes, they do. It makes me so happy. To see them. I like to feel strong!”

She laughs, her peals of joy brightening the room. Nona doesn’t fully understand her words—quite honestly neither do I—but through the fumbled mess of conversation, a new realization strikes me: despite the sad, dark, reality of Alzheimer’s gradually stealing memories and bodily control from Nona, her joyful and positive personality still shines brightly.

Suddenly, the beginning strains of “Hey, Jude,” by Nona’s favorite band, the Beatles, play through the speakers. Immediately, her eyes widen as she recognizes the song.

Twirling around carefreely, hands in the air, smiling ear to ear, she stands up and begins to dance, the song rejuvenating her.

The pure bliss illuminating her face teleports my mind to the happier days when Nona crafted her treasured memory books as gifts for our family. Day after day, she sat at her computer, her glasses gradually slipping down her nose, the corners of her mouth turning upwards, reflecting her joy as she recalled each memory through the photos.

I savored climbing onto her lap while she toiled, asking endless questions about her projects. Always willing to satisfy my curiosity with the loving patience I am reminded to show her now, Nona never ignored me, answering all my questions in great detail. Soon, a comfortable silence would settle over us as her fingers, flying over the computer keys and mesmerizing me, created the photo albums that now allow her to relive the memories Alzheimer’s steals from her.

Maybe some part of Nona knew that the photo albums would serve as the permanent keepsakes of the memories she would soon lose.

I listen to the lyrics, “Hey, Jude. Don’t be afraid. You were made to…”

Don’t be afraid… maybe that’s what makes it Nona’s favorite song. My parents tell me she was brave, but watching her dance with everyone in the room, I realize she still is brave. Battling Alzheimer’s induces unimaginable challenges, yet Nona fully embraces it with an optimistic and open approach. She appreciates others’ kindness, and she tries to make people happy. That’s enough for her. It’s her purpose.

Nona calls out to me, “Ellie! Paul McCartney’s waiting for you!”

I laugh and cross the room to my Nona, taking her hand.

Some things never change, like the feel of her warm, comforting hand in mine.

Like a glass maze

We’ve seen each other from the start.

You’ve always been there I just can’t seem to find you

I’ve been a bird Running into the walls Your voice echoes throughout But I still can’t find you

I think one day the endless panes will shatter But even then How can we reach each other Running through a field of shards

glass m ze

Lila Rhee

EXT. —ROOF OF A HOUSE—NIGHT

JADE, a small girl with fire in her eyes, sits on a roof next to her energetic girlfriend, PIPPA. They hold hands.

PIPPA

I feel like it was our desitiny to meet. Jade tenses.

PIPPA (CON’T) (unbothered)

You know? It’s like the fates aligned for us.

JADE (disgruntled)

No, it was my choice. Pippa looks hurt.

JADE (CON’T)

The day we met, I could’ve just as easily gone to another coffee shop. It’s

because of my choice to go in and walk up to you that we’re here today. Not fate.

Pippa lets go of Jade’s hand and turns to face her.

PIPPA

Well, the fates were telling you to go in.

JADE (disgruntled)

No, it was my choice.

Pippa lies down on the roof, looking up at the stars.

Agree to disagree.

PIPPA

Jade fumes for a minute, looking around at the pastoral scene sprawled out below them. After a moment, she lies down next to Pippa.

EXT. THE STREET—THE AFTERNOON

Jade walks along a street. She turns to go into a store but stops, thinking and her and Pippa’s conversation. Instead, she turns around and crosses the street to another store. At the entrance to the new store, she pauses and smiles.

EXT. THE STREET—LATE AFTERNOON

Jade walks along the same street later in the day. She holds a bag from the store and has her phone to her ear.

JADE

Pippa, I did what you said.

PIPPA

the door, walking in.

PIPPA

Headmaster? Sorry to bother you, but I have a doctor’s appointment and I need to drive Jade home.

PRINCIPAL

What?

JADE

Today, I was going to go to one store, but I changed my mind. I made a choice and I went to another one. It was great.

PIPPA (with food in her mouth)

I mean it still could’ve been fate, like it was fated that you’d change your decision. Because it was still your instincts telling you to go to the other store.

Jade thinks for a moment.

JADE

You’re right, I have to try harder.

PIPPA

Jade, no, that’s not what I meant. Jade hangs up. Pippa stares at her phone, confused. A second later, a text comes through from Jade: “See? I wouldn’t usually hang up without saying goodbye, but I just did :)”

Pippa shakes her head.

INT. A CAFE—DAY

Jade and Pippa sit together at a filled with food.

PIPPA

Could you get me a fork?

Jade nods and gets up to walk over to where the utensils are. She pauses and then grabs a knife, bringing it back to Pippa.

PIPPA

Seriously?

Pippa gets up and grabs a fork, while Jade sits down happily. Pippa looks over at her, a concerned look on her face

INT. PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE—AFTERNOON

Jade and Pippa’s high school principal sits at a desk, with Jade sitting in a small chair in front of her.

PRINCIPAL

Jade, what’s going on? It’s not like you to talk back to a teacher.

Just proving a point.

PRINCIPAL

Well, it needs to stop.

Pippa walks along the hallway outside, spotting Jade inside the office. She curses under her breath and then knocks on

Of course.

(to Jade)

PRINCIPAL (CONT’D)

I don’t want to see you back here.

Jade nods and then walks to Pippa. The two leave the office together.

INT. SCHOOL HALLWAY—AFTERNOON

Pippa pulls Jade to the side.

PIPPA

What the hell? When is this going to stop?

JADE

Until I prove it to you.

PIPPA

To me? Jade, I don’t care. At this point, you’re just trying to prove it to yourself. And for what? Why do you care so much about having free will?

JADE

You don’t understand.

No, I don’t.

PIPPA

Jade doesn’t meet Pippa’s eyes.

PIPPA

I think we’re done.

When Jade doesn’t say anything, Pippa walks off, leaving Jade alone in the hallway.

EXT. STREET—AFTERNOON

Jade walks on the street alone since Pippa left without her. She approaches a crosswalk, but cars are still coming. Eventually there’s a pause in traffic, but the signal doesn’t say walk. She waits for a second, shakes her head, and darts into the crosswalk. Suddenly, a car comes and hits Jade; her search for her own free will kills her.

INT. A BLANK ROOM SOMEWHERE IN PURGATORY

Jade wakes up on a couch in what seems like a blank void. The only other person is someone dressed in a suit and sits on a chair opposite her, writing on a clipboard. Jade waits for the person to speak, and they finally look up, making eye contact. She stares into the face of her ex-girlfriend.

DEMON/PIPPA

You still haven’t learned your lesson.

Jade starts to ask a question, but then she’s interrupted and her eyesight goes black.

EXT. ROOF OF A HOUSE—NIGHT

Again, Jade and Pippa sit on the roof holding hands.

JADE

I feel like it was our destiny to meet.

PANSPERMIA

I. Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free

I was always taught to be proud of my lineage, and there was no reason to be ashamed of it for a time. My father was a respected general for the Kuomintang, and my mother was a professor. I grew up in blissful ignorance then; my only worry was to do well in school. Mao Zedong came to power in 1949. Even though we weren’t wealthy, we were labeled as the bourgeoise: my grandfather had been a landowner. When the Cultural Revolution began almost two decades later, there was a reason to be ashamed of my lineage. I was twenty-four then, the yellow glow of my childhood innocence banished from my face. My father had been dismissed from his post many years before, and although my mother avoided the worst excesses of the Cultural Revolution, her students refused to listen to her, choosing instead to deface her classroom with red banners proclaiming sayings of Chairman Mao. When the professor who taught the class next door was dragged onto the streets, neck yolked by a sign proclaiming his wrongs, she resigned.

A memory. My father lifting my infant hand to the skies, whispering to me the old legend of Niulang, how he crossed, with his cowhide, the yawning migration between Altair and Vega to be with his wife. You see, he says, what is space to love. Nothing, he answers, nothing at all.

II. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me

It is only two years after the Cultural Revolution has begun when my mother tells me to leave. Mao Zedong has just declared that “educated youth” will be sent to the countryside to work among the peasants. Already, many of my friends have been sent away; my time to go is inevitable. I have always been a sickly child. I know I will not survive the hard labor. Leaving is a quick thing, not like living, which requires effort and is slow. Within a week of her declaration, my mother has already found and paid a smuggler for my safe travels. When I hear my destination, I am surprised. The United States is a world away. I am nervous, terrified, but I think of what my father has said to me, rubbing it obsessively as to confirm its existence.

What is space to love?

The smuggler is a balding man. His eyes wrinkle when he tells us what we are to do. We must sit in a cargo container and be silent. We will be smuggled in on a ship.

Evan Li

If we are caught any time before we get to the United States, they will send us back. He does not tell us what we are to do when we get to the United States. He probably does not know and does not care. We get into a large metal cargo container. I am stuck shoulder to shoulder with ten other boys who have been sent away. The one to my left is sniffling. Glasses skewed on his face, he keeps his head down, but I can see the tears. It is a day after the man has shut the cargo container, when the storm begins. We are violently shook in our metal tomb. There is crying, shouting, voices that engrave themselves on the metal. Appearances have been long cast away. We are terrified. I am terrified. And in the dark, I reach out to him. Because tossed in the turbulent waves of the ocean, I sought comfort. Because I want to live, and he is proof that I am alive. The boy with crooked glasses embraces me. We are two stars; we are two boys. Bridging the yawning darkness in the metal container, Altair and Vega crossing the cold void of space to warm each other.

Nothing, nothing at all.

III. I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

Time has lost its meaning when we arrive in America. I awake to a foghorn announcing our presence. When the workers open our container, there are shouts. We are shuttled out, brought to a building. Where, I do not know. They separate me from the group, sit me down in a room with a stern looking man. He speaks. I do not know what he says, but he sounds angry. He says something again, narrows his eyes, and then calls someone into the room. They rush out, and when they return, they have a translator. She asks me my name, and I tell them. She asks where I am from, and I tell them. She asks about my parents, and I tell them they are dead. The smuggler told me to say that. I must tell them I am a refugee of political violence, that my parents have been killed by the Communist Party. There is a sliver in me that resists. The part that tells me I must not forsake my lineage, but I quash it. I must live. The questioning ends.

A future. I lift my hand to the sky, tracing the constellations until I find the stars. Altair and Vega. My father is not with me, and I whisper to myself a new myth. A legend of how a boy of not yet thirty travelled across the great ocean to survive. Astronomically far apart, the distance between Altair and Vega is crossed and connected by this new tale I tell. What is that space to me? I can almost hear my father whisper. Nothing, nothing at all.

friends best

As we look at each other and smile, I click the last piece of the Lego set into place. It took us forever, but we did it. We never really talk much, but he’s always there for me—just him being there comforts me.

We keep playing for the rest of the day. Tag, hopscotch, hide-and-seek. We play for hours on end almost every single day. My parents never really liked him, but that doesn’t bother me, because he’s still my friend. Almost every day, we have the same routine, the same games, the same places, the same everything.

When I I wake up, I go to the same spot I expect to see him every morning, but this time, it’s different. I search everywhere, but I don’t see him anywhere. I call out, I try to tell him what games we’re going to play, but he’s gone. I run back into the house. “He’s gone, I don’t get it, what happened?” I sob to my mom.

So many thoughts run through my head, but I still don’t understand. All I hear is my parents’ voices muttering to each other, “It’s about time,” and, “I told you it was just a phase.”

I drop the Lego set on the ground, and it all falls apart.

Maybe I’ll build it again later.

Merritt Backerman

I. The Myth

They will say that

The witch Medea, driven mad

In her fury at Jason’s betrayal, murdered, like Some uncontrolled wolf, her own Children.

I will know that

Holding their cherub faces between Your palms, you, Medea, thought, how Possibly you could let Hades touch them.

MEDEA

But how possibly could you

Let them live, knowing their mother was a Murderer, and how possibly could you live Knowing their father would Whisper curses of your name into their ears, Knowing they would come to hate you.

They will say that

Jason should have known Medea’s Evil, when she, in cold blood, killed Her brother and threw his limbs into the Sea. How she, in cold calculation, knew Her grieving father would stop to pick up

each part of his child.

I will know that

Your father would have killed you, Thrown your limbs into the sea, had He ever caught you. How could you Ever trust a man who valued a golden Sheepskin over his own daughter? How Could anyone ever be asked to resist that Innate reflex to stop the beating of another’s heart To prolong one’s own. Not even Hercules could.

They will say that

Jason is greatest of heroes. Favored by The gods, he sailed to Colchis, and Bravely completed each task laid out by King Aeëtes.

I will know that

Stepping out into the late afternoon

On that fateful day, you saw him Framed against the brilliant reds of Helios. Face gaunt with sea travel, hair bleached by Sun and yet you still fell in love.

I will know that

You, like Ariadne handing Theseus the ball of yarn, gave Him gifts, under the misty light Of Artemis, so that he might survive.

I will know that

You never thought you Would become the next Ariadne.

II. The Mourning

Medea, I mourn for you. Because even though you devoted yourself to me, Hecate, You have only been given two choices Jason or your father Jason or your brother You or your children. You have only known The constant hallway of doors contained Within the cracked marble hands of Janus. Even when I was the goddess of crossroads. I should have offered you endless possibilities, but I contained you to two.

Medea, I mourn for you. Because your choices will be judged As long as the gods reign. They Will only know you from stories. Only know you as a Child-killer Brother-killer.

They will never know the Screams that tore your body

As your children grew cold against your chest. Never know your endless Tears that flaked with the seawater As you threw your dead brother from The ship.

Never know the soft brown of your Eyes when you first saw him.

Your heart is so weary from choosing. Come, let it rest.

When my sixth-grade science teacher approached a scene in the hallway resembling a sketchy drug deal, she had the right to show concern.

“What in the world are y’all doing?!” she questioned the huddle of prepubescent students exchanging money for a mysterious substance. At a closer look, the supposed drug lord revealed himself as merely a twelve-year-old kid.

“Holt’s selling us slime!” a girl responded excitedly. By the look on my teacher’s face, she did not share her enthusiasm.

My customers were asked to disperse to class as my teacher walked me to the principal’s office to ask, seemingly for the first time in her career, if students were permitted to sell what she re-named “goo.” Nervously awaiting my judgment, innocent sixth-grade me stood outside the office door with shaky knees. The verdict declared I wasn’t allowed to sell slime at school anymore, and I returned home for the first time in four days without a new list of orders.

The following day, my teacher emailed me a wellintentioned proposal to help me with my business on Saturdays at a nearby Chick-fil-A. I imagined her holding up a sign reading “Homemade Goo for Sale!” while I sat beside her at a table awkwardly placed in the parking lot. I politely declined her offer.

Thankfully, my business was already successful elsewhere. My bedroom was the international headquarters for my online “SlimeyBoii” shop where slimes were designed, created, photographed, marketed on my Instagram with 70,000+ followers, and sold on SlimeyBoiiShop.com which attained over fifty orders a week. While my mom often complained of the dried slime encrusting the floors and corners of my room, my parents encouraged my young entrepreneurship. Amidst the viral slime craze of 2016, I had found a passion for mixing glue and borax into a putty-like toy that, who knew, could be turned into a business.

Ironically, though, I had chosen a business name too easy for bullies at my new middle school to make my

nickname. My confidence was a work-in-progress, despite my entrepreneurial strength, and being mockingly characterized by the nickname “Slimey Boy” made me feel excluded and out of place.

When the slime craze eventually ended, the dignity I should’ve felt for my accomplishments was muddled by the shame the bullies had made me feel. I wished to fast forward to when my slime business was well forgotten.

Sophomore year, when I independently bought my first car with the money I had made, I stopped running away from being associated with Slimeyboii. I was able to physically see a product of my hard work and genuinely appreciated the ambition of sixth-grade me. Simultaneously, I came to terms with the sexuality my internalized homophobia had long tried to repress, and I found it was easier to live life appreciating myself for who I am rather than trying to change myself. I finally adopted a concrete self-confidence, acknowledging the wonderful mix my vibrant personality, work ethic, go-getter attitude, and passions yield.

Since then, I’ve struck a beautiful chord of using strengths to accomplish my goals. While freshman-year me was about to topple over from shaky knees during my StuCo election speech, I now stand proudly (and sturdily) at monthly community meetings in front of hundreds. It’s weird to admit, but I now enjoy public speaking because it gives me a feeling of purpose and responsibility. I’ve even added “Give a Ted Talk” to my life-goal bucket list.

Long nights of slime-making have now been replaced by late-night screenplay writing sessions or binge readings of books recommended to me by my favorite English teacher in preparation for our fervent outside-of-class discussions. I’m a film geek, literature nerd, public speaker, and entrepreneur, and I own it all! As I go forth in the world, I’ll forever dedicate myself to my passions knowing I’ll find my future self eternally enriched as a result.

” growing up I don’t enjoy maybe that’s what but growing up is.

”

collecting Maybe it’s memories and putting the new old ones

•Lynn

in your pocket.

Evan Li

Ba Ba COOKING

Father frostbitten by the universe Cradles me with the same defiance

Sun Wukong held a Heavenly Peach. Daring the universe to tell him to stop,

Smelling of sesame oil. When cooking, Father wears his apron like Niulang wearing his cowhide

As if this gray apron Imprinted with the red-haired Wendy’s logo From my brother’s brief stint as a cook

Could carry him light-years away Across this untranslatable gap.

Because what is Father But absence when

becomes blood. Bleeds With my every mangled Because his body

Hewed from yellow silk was never Meant to understand mine. But whenever he cooks,

Humming that Chinese song Whose name I never asked,

Oil puckering, opening Szechuan peppers Like a lover, Father performs a seance

Calling magpies from the multiverse, And the yawning migration from Altair

To Vega, from Charlotte to Shijiazhuang, becomes a bone shorter.

acceptance

She says, “I know what it’s like to be dead.” I blink. Chuckle.

“What?”

“Oh.” She smiles. “I said, I know what that’s like.”

“Thanks for understanding.” I slide my hand out across the table to caress hers, and she links her fingers with mine. She takes a sip of merlot.

“It feels like I’ve known you forever,” I murmur, partially hoping she won’t hear.

But she only grins, a drop of wine dribbling down her chin. I reach out to wipe it off with a napkin. After thanking me, she nods.

“I do, too.” She pauses for a moment, then adds, “But we only just met. Right?”

She holds my eyes for a second. “Right,” I eventually respond.

“What’s your family like?” she asks, taking another sip of wine.

“Oh, uh…” I rifle through my brain; mom works as a dentist, no she retired ages ago, my brother’s graduating college? Not that either.

“It’s okay if you can’t remember, it’s been a long time.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” She slides her hand up my arm, her finger drawing on the tattoo of a raven circling my

forearm.

I shiver. She stops. Digs a manicured nail into my skin.

“Do you have any pets?” she says, her finger bouncing playfully.

“No, not for a while.”

She smiles. “Last time you said you had a cat.”

“Last time?”

She lifts her glass of wine to my lips. “Try this.”

I take a sip. Deja vu washes over me as the bitter taste lands on my tongue. I laugh as I tell her so.

She only smiles, pulling the glass back and taking another sip where my lipstick stained the glass. “What shade is this?”

“It’s…” I look around for my purse, remembering the tube thrown in the bottom of the bag. “Wait, where is it?”

Her palm flits across mine, taking another sip of wine.

I stand up, pulling the chair out and ducking under the table. Nothing. I turn to flag a waiter, but I can’t find one, I can’t find anyone. Except for the woman sitting at our table for two, the restaurant is empty.

She stands up to meet me, caressing my cheek. “It’s okay,” she whispers.

Hot tears well in my eyes as I lean into her touch.

“You have to move on,” she says.

So I finally do.

Mia Zottoli

The body’s a funny thing. Allergic reactions happen because one’s body thinks a substance may be an invader, but it’s just mistakenly identifying the substance. It’s trying to assist itself, but in reality, the swollen necks and suffocation can slowly kill. That’s OCD for me, even if I didn’t realize it. It’s my body trying to control the uncontrollable, unintentionally, slowly, painfully killing myself. Miserably, my body clamps shut in an attempt to save it.

L C E N

Fourth grade.

While Mrs. Bost asked us to form a line by the door, I took an extra minute shuffling the pencil sharpener in my desk and counted to seven while pushing my notebook against the inside of my 24’’ by 18’’ desk. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.

“[Name]?”

I looked up to her thin, pale, and frowning lips,

Lynn Zhao

frustrated eyes glancing down at my short frame.

I didn’t know what to say. I could only glance down shamefully. A few other students looked my way in confusion. Mrs. Bost continued to stare and wait for me.

Should I move? I want to stay and finish counting. I need to finish checking. Why am I the only one who’s being called?

Out of options and shifting awkwardly under the glances, I slowly scooted behind the last person in line. I felt exposed and defenseless. Helpless even. My bones itching, my skin dry, red creeping up my throat and forcing me silent—I didn’t get to finish. But I stayed quiet. Seventh grade.

Attempting to find a table for remote learning, I scoured for anything that might serve as a small desk around the house at the beginning of the pandemic. When my dad suggested two small C-shaped side-tables to form my workspace, I agreed.

Placing the two tables beside each other, I desperately tried to even the legs and the spacing between them. Moving one table by an inch, the carpet sunk down, but the other table still remained uneven. Move one by an inch, then move the other. Move one by an inch, then move the other. Wait seven seconds.

Again. And again.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Repeat. I’m not finished. I can’t be finished. Let me make this right for my own good.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Yet it never “fit” together. Uneven, sort of aligned at best. Finally, after 30 minutes, my sweaty hands stopped clenching the black, metal legs and scooting them slowly across the fluffy, white carpet. My knees had squiggly carpet marks and the skin raw, a testament to my battle with the tables. I rubbed my hands and knees, frustrated by the time spent on this mission.

I just wasted so much time. I’m an idiot, a lazy person, Why am I like this?. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. Worthless.

It felt like someone sucked the air out of me, my throat tightening and pale hands violently shaking. Frozen in this discomfort and light-headedness.

Forcing my body up, I left the room bitterly and didn’t look back. I stayed quiet.

Eighth grade.

The feelings came back like constant thunder, punching the walls and ravaging the space of my mind. Every day, every hour.

The break between, ephemeral.

I would speedily tap a key on the laptop keyboard, obsessing over the number of times the noise hit my ears. If I hit the “0” key instead of the “+” key, I would bounce my finger over the correct key again and again, listening to the clacking and clicking.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Again. I must finish listening to the clattering of the plastic. Why? I don’t know. But I have to do it anyway.

Again.

Gripping the edge of the table, fingers tense, I waited another seven seconds, drowning in the annoyance I felt over the lack of satisfaction from holding down the key.

I don’t know. It’s not enough. But I wish it was.

The clicking and clacking continued. I stayed silent.

Ninth grade.

It was more than just keys clacking. Rereading the names of folders as I organized my emails. Letter by letter, syllable by syllable. My eyes would water slightly, unblinking, obsessing over the words and phrases, bits and pieces of a puzzle that was strangling me.

I swept my sleeve over my desk three times, then four, “cleaning” the grayish-blue chair another four times. That was eleven times. Good. Great.

Then three again. Then four. Then four again.

Day after day, these rituals repeated over and over. And I believed they were supposed to aid me in living a more organized and “correct” life.

Until one day, I stopped believing that.

“Are you okay? Do you need someone to talk to?” my teacher whispered, as if it was a secret only for me, a chance for me.

Am I okay? Is this okay?

“Ye… no.”

No. This isn’t okay. I’m not okay. I need help. I need to breathe.

So I stopped staying quiet.

OCD. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Three words encompassing more than five long years of silent struggling.

Maybe it was the fact that there was a name for it, or that my behaviors, the counting, and the entrenchment of me in my thoughts weren’t some indistinguishable form of a monster coming to get me.

Instead, my body seemed to try and make me feel “comfortable” by repeating certain actions, if only temporarily, but all it left was constant but invisible surges of pain. A misunderstanding my own mind makes, akin to an allergic reaction.

Maybe I can breathe. Maybe I’m going to be okay. But right now, I’m not okay.

Grappling with a diagnosis. Saying something because I can’t stay silent anymore.

I have a condition, one that makes every day of my life a heavy trudge, drenches my skin in a sheet of sweat, makes me grab my own skin into patches of red.

But I can be okay. I can get help. I’m no longer drowning in a space of confusion as to what and why I’m doing all of this.

“I have OCD. And I’m going to be okay.”

Giving tree THE

Lila Rhee

We all know the story of the Giving Tree. But what most people don’t know Is that she wasn’t just one little tree.

Her roots dug into the soil, and the soil spread over the land, and the land dove under the water, and the water flowed back into the earth to the roots of every tree.

All across the world, the trees kept giving.

They gave their fruit, their shade, their wood.

And when there was nothing left of the giving trees, the gave their stumps to serve as the headstones for all the greedy people.

The Queen

When my first-grade homeroom teacher introduced a project where we designed a poster board depiction of a famous person with fun facts in the pockets, the classroom was filled with giggles and bubbling ideas. While they threw out ideas like Michael Jackson and Jane Goodall, I had the idea of doing a poster on an African American like Martin Luther King, Harriet Tubman, or Rosa Parks, but those felt too obvious and simple. On the way home, I told my dad about the project with my feet swinging from the back seat.

He added, “What if you did your project on an ancient African queen?”

A queen! That would be different and unique. Looking up “African queens” on my small hand-me-down laptop that was way past its use-by date, I clicked on links populated by Google and scrolled through biographies. Finally, I found a warrior, diplomat, and tactician that sparked a light in my dark brown eyes.

Nzinga Mbande, born in 1583 in Ndango (modern-day Angola) descended from centuries of Mbundu Queens and Kings. When she was an adolescent, her brother poisoned their father to expedite his ascension. Nevertheless, Nzinga overthrew and killed him for his traitorous act. As the new queen, she fought against the Portuguese efforts to enslave her people.

Decorating the hallways, the classic Black history trio of course was featured along with other historical figures, but I can tell you with confidence that I was the only one who chose an African queen. Queen Nzinga continued to inspire characters in my writing and Black History Month dressups long after the project was completed.

However, the light dimmed after transferring schools in second grade. Latin was a different world, located across town with new classmates, and I was the only Black girl in the entire second grade.

In the majority of lower school, despite having peers

to play with, I never felt I fit into my grade, drifting like a ghost from place to place. Trying to fit in, I floated around to different groups, and in class I would choke back my voice even if I knew the answer. It felt good when I was in those groups, but I didn’t feel like I belonged.

In the poetry unit in fifth grade, I stumbled upon my old Nzinga documents on Google Drive. Remembering her influence, I wrote a free-verse poem addressed to my ancient and modern pan-African ancestors who contributed to Black people’s existence and success. I worked tirelessly on the poem, and my teachers featured it on the board. I hesitated about having it hang where my peers were to see, but I had a what-would-Nzinga-do kind of moment.

In a meeting with the Portuguese about a peace treaty, they provided Nzinga no seating except for the earth beneath her feet in hopes to humiliate her, yet a servant knelt to become her seat. The Portuguese, who sought to destroy her pride, were astonished since she was able to bring her seat to a table that wanted her to feel inferior. Like her strength in the meeting, I realized the importance of my Afrocentric, renaissance, and confident truth regardless of how I was perceived. Finding my voice, I entered an oratorical contest in 7th grade, joined Speech and Debate, and received invitations to speak from my church.

This past summer, descending the entrance steps of the National African American History Museum’s main exhibitions, the same picture that adorned the website which sparked joy in my little eyes stared back at me. Queen Nzinga was the first historical figure depicted in the exhibit, introducing her excellence as Queen to visitors, a reminder of Black achievement and royalty beyond the transatlantic slave trade. As her story remains unknown to many, I will continue to bring not just my own self to the table but hers as well as a reminder of the excellence residing within myself.

Nyela Rucker

Quilted Guitar Hero | Emma Grace Coble | 24x18 | Oil Pastel

Helen Hurden

The woman’s name was Amber, and I knew she was perfect. Her flawless, golden-blonde hair fell in waves to her waist, deep blue eyes captivated passersby, and a math degree hung on a wall of her ivy-covered cottage. An immaculate white Jeep matched the fur of her Bichon Frise, and an elegant wardrobe brimmed with floor-length dresses that twirled about her as she skipped through fields of daffodils and lavender.

Becoming Amber became my obsession: I donned floral dresses, caked my eyelids in twodollar Target eyeshadow, and spent hours perched in front of my bathroom mirror attempting fruitlessly to braid my hair in a vain attempt to imitate Amber, the shining figure newly sprung from my childish mind. I dragged my mom through department stores, gazing longingly at glittery prom dresses and heels. I dashed colored pencils across sketchbook pages, leaving wobbly drawings of rhinestone-studded wedding gowns and evening wear in their wake.

Yet I soon realized Amber was not alone; another, unnamed figure began to take shape. This new girl burst onto the scene as I pretended to wage war at playgrounds, challenged classmates to cartwheel contests, and defied death by leaping off the tops of slides. I studied photos of my dad on the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro and gazed transfixed at the women on American Ninja Warrior, wishing for their strength. I begged my parents to take me on camping trips, attacked ropes courses and ziplines, and terrified my family by swinging from the tallest trees I could find.

This girl and Amber lived side by side, even as other characters emerged. Grainy videos feature me singing at the top of my lungs and giving impromptu speeches and performances. The backstage chaos of a theater performance and thunderous applause at the curtain call captivated my senses. I twirled my way through musical theater camps, filled my afternoons with dance classes; hip hop, ballet, jazz, lyrical all took their turn. On summer evenings curled on the couch,

Who’s Line is it Anyway blinked onto the TV, and a new love was born.

I scoured book fairs for reading on ancient Egypt and Greece and found my eyes tracing the paths of strangers at the mall, lost in fantasies of the intricate paths of their lives. Most fifth graders wouldn’t ask for a collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s morbid poems and short stories, but when I received an illustrated version for graduation, I gobbled it up and began to write my own morbid spin-offs.

Alongside frantically searching for showstopping ensembles, I joined the Ultimate Frisbee team (where boys pummeled me nearly every game), and eventually switched to Cross Country, where I embraced the exhilaration of physical challenge in nature. I abandoned summer knitting classes in favor of backpacking, rock climbing, and whitewater rafting trips, things Amber would never dream of doing. When I decided to spend four months at High Mountain Institute, a semester school in Leadville, Colorado, I thought I’d deserted Amber for good. As I participated in backpacking and winter camping expeditions alongside academics, I wondered: how could Amber exist alongside so many out-of-character interests?

Over the years, it has become clear I can no longer confine myself to the mold I cast as a child. Amber lives on as one among the many visions I crafted for my future self, none of which alone satisfy my widespread interests. In reality, Helen, with all her complexities and passions, is the only persona that will truly fulfill them all. She is complex: an ever-expanding figure forever tacking on more angles and sides.

Her nature: Multiformis. Maybe that means purple-streaked hair instead of Amber’s perfect

la sal y las algas llevaron a la mujer a la orilla depositándola en una playa rocosa para que la marinera la encontrara.

la marinera no tenía fama, ni aventuras magníficas, solamente suenos del abrazo tibio del mar.

Mara, la mujer murmuró cuando la marinera le preguntó su nombre.

fascinada, la marinera levantó a la mujer a sus pies, calmando los tiembles en su cuerpo.

ella caminó a la mujer a una casa pequeña donde las dos quedarían en convalecencia,

una marinera aislada y un milagro del mar.

pero un día, la mujer se puso de pie su piel pálida y seca, el agua implorando su regreso, Su marinera suplicando que ella se quedara.

pero un humano no puede superar El Mar.

entonces la marinera la acompañó hasta la orilla donde la mujer estaba planeando salir para siempre.

la mujer se dirigió para despedirse, pero las lágrimas de Su marinera la quemaron cuando ella las rozó.

entonces la mujer presionó un beso a los labios de Su marinera y la tiró hacia abajo, mientras el agua hizo espacio para una más.

salt and seaweed pulled the woman to shore, depositing her on a rocky beach for the young sailor to find.

the sailor had no fame, no adventures, only dreams of the ocean’s warm embrace. Mara, the woman whispered when the sailor asked her name. entranced, the sailor lifted the woman to her feet, calming the trembles in her body.

Marinera la Mia

MAR el y Sailor the SEA the &

Zottoli

she walked the woman to a small house where the two would stay in convalescence,

a lonely sailor and a miracle from the sea.

until one day the woman stood her skin pale and dry, the water pleading for her return, Her sailor pleading for her to stay.

but a human cannot transcend The Sea.

so the sailor escorted her down to the shore where she planned to leave her forever.

the woman turned to say goodbye but Her sailor’s tears scalded as she brushed them aside.

so she pressed a kiss to Her sailor’s lips and pulled her down, as the water made room for one more.

SAUCE GiRL

I pick up a small piece of bread and plop the fresh goat cheese onto it, smoothing it across the soft face of the homemade focaccia. You can’t eat it like that. Drown it in olive oil first. In the middle of mountainous Crete, I realize a part of my identity isn’t really what it claims to be.

“I’m impressed, Leiden, you’re such an adventurous eater,” my dad applauds as I douse the goat cheese in olive oil. But I’m really not. I just douse things in sauce so I don’t have to face the foreign flavor.

My mom questions my brother, “Grant, why can’t you be more like your sister and try new foods?” It’s not trying new foods if all you can taste is the familiar flavor of a sauce.

As I generously pour the oil onto the food in front of me, I think about my nickname: the sauce girl. When first trying solid foods as a toddler, I demanded everything be dipped in ranch, whether it was a carrot or a piece of pizza. You can see where I got the nickname, and it has always come with certain implications. For instance, that I am bold enough to bother servers, as I am constantly asking for sauce, and usually asking again for more sauce. But more importantly, that I am adventurous.

Disappointed in myself, I knew I was receiving labels that weren’t really me. It felt wrong to be complimented with words like “mature” and “courageous” when I felt like a coward. And not only did this apply to eating habits, but to my perception of myself.

Covering the real thing in something more artificial was definitely less scary than accepting something for its authentic self, even if it was my own reflection in the mirror. Just as I was scared the food wasn’t good enough by itself, I didn’t believe I was good enough without being concealed in makeup or an Instagram filter. Similar to how I used pesto or tartar, I had been coating myself with

colorful filters, creamy concealers, and mascaras.

Growing up watching people, especially females, change themselves for social media, I was conditioned with the idea that society will be more accepting of a perfected, edited version of me than my plain self. A specific recipe of exactly how to act as a girl is crafted into your brain before you’re even in middle school. Two cups of femininity, three tablespoons of politeness, a splash of personality, and a heaping spoonful of perfection. It makes about eighty years of worrying about what other people think.

Then I met Mr. Davisson while working at a retirement community. Every day, Mr Davisson would order twenty packs of cookies. After a few weeks, I couldn’t hold back my curiosity anymore. “Mr Davisson,” I asked, “why do you order twenty packs of cookies everyday?” He laughed and said, “Leiden, people are going to judge you no matter what you do in this world, so why not just do what makes you happy?”

Standing in front of Mr Davisson’s welcome mat at apartment 209, I decided that I was going to start deserving my label.

Quickly, after some time putting aside sauce, I realized under all the ketchup and Polynesian, the authentic food was delightful and offered more flavor than any sauce could. Why wasn’t the authentic flavor good enough for me in the past? The limiting of condiments led to the limiting of makeup and editing pictures as I strived to show my true self.

Ditching the rosy blushes and bronzing contour, I finally felt the validation of deserving my nickname. Whether with food, or myself, the ability to use just the right amount of sauce to enhance the natural flavor truly makes me “the sauce girl.”

Leiden Clark

unsent letters to my father

Vanathi Shanmuganathan

I. Dear Appa,

Father, when you are gone, a soft layer of frost in the morning at the start of a lengthy day— construction paper covered with glitter laying on the pavement, the warm embrace of my older brother, clinging to his shirt in one hand, clutching a leaf of grass in my other palm, watching as the frost melts away. The driveway, empty.

Father, when you are here, not used to the soft ocean waves that barely brush my feet, show me—how I accidentally brushed against your injured shoulder how the small jolts build up— until the sleeve of your soft sweater no longer just irritates.

It scrubs away at your skin until all that’s left is something raw and true. Show me this truth, the harsh waves against the cliffed coast striking those boulders into a rounder shape.

II. Memento

Carelessly tossing our towels and bags we climb up to the top of Sliding Rock. Thoughts filled with the constant chant of Don’t slip. Appa’s not here to catch you. It’s my friend’s first time,

she doesn’t want to go alone. Two of my friends slide down. I imagine Appa and me in their places. Sliding down, reaching the bottom, frigid water collided with me like memories filled with the soft laughter of my parents and me, remembered with murmured insults between my parents as I hide, ears covered, in my room. Wading through the numbing water, Appa’s not here to pull me out. Reaching for my fluffy towel, Appa’s not here to wrap it around me

III. The Sky’s Grief

Standing—head tilted towards the cloudy May sky, Cool rain dripping from the sky —slipping off my face, soaking my hair, weighing down my dress. On the porch —a small closed umbrella idle by the potted jasmine plant.

Running—hands reaching towards my older brother. Running barefoot in damp, uncut grass. Under hot summer sun, I run past the range of the soft spray. Nearly catching Unnun as he turns sharply back towards the patio, the hose, held upwards by Appa’s knee against the arm of the folding chair. A bowl of watermelon by his feet.

Grace Finn

my

H USE’S ghost

“I think my house is haunted.”

I can hear my sister’s quiet scoff through the phone speaker against my ear, even with the terrible wireless. “It’s not haunted, idiot. You’ve been watching too many horror movies. I should kick you off of my Netflix account.”

She doesn’t understand. I’ve told so many people, but they never understand. I’ve never believed in the paranormal, but living alone for the first time forces me to notice things. In the night I hear footsteps and scratching from downstairs. Sometimes there are slams and crashes, but no one is ever there. Every few days a mangled bird’s corpse appears on the deck.

When I invite my parents over, they seem sick minutes after stepping through the door. Jagged scars like lightning bolts decorate my furniture. When I tried to keep houseplants, I found them shredded within days.

For every example I provide to her, she argues. “You’re hearing things,” she says with disdain in her voice. “Plants just sort of die, they don’t need a reason.”

“No, but they were torn apart, that’s not—”

A crash like shattering glass erupts from the kitchen, cutting me off. Could it have come in through the window? “See! See, it’s weird, I told you!” I run to the kitchen, socks skidding on the wooden floorboards, and fling the door open.

On the floor, a wine glass lies in glittering shards. On the counter, my cat peers down at the red wine seeping into the floor.

MY Jesse Kim

My parents have lived such polarizing and different lives. My mom’s a true boricua, slang for a Puerto Rican person, with a thick accent and snow white skin contrasting her moreno skinned brothers and my uncles. My dad’s probably the most Korean a Korean could be; he is loud, abrasive, but caring and thoughtful most of the time. They share a love of spicy foods, a love of Korean television dramas, and an indomitable love for each other. Yet, in all my life, I have never understood their love. My mom is a patient woman, calm and does not talk back unless she is royally ticked off, who grew up on a small, humble farm in Puerto Rico with nothing much to do besides drive around in her grandparents old pickup truck. She was born in New York in July of 1964 but never had the chance to experience life in the concrete jungle before she was shipped away back to Puerto Rico. This might have caused her quiet and mostly subdued nature. Having to live on an island with little else than chickens and lizards would definitely make me a little shy. She made it back to the city that never sleeps though, eventually.

On the other side of the world, my dad was born in August in 1965. Kim Song-Hoon, eventually Alex Kim, was destined for greatness since the day he came out of the womb. He had to be. The only son of the great Kim Ill-Joon, my grandpa, he represented not only family, but especially his father. Plus, they were stupid rich and he was set to inherit their old Korean money. They had maids, heated blankets, and Bentleys when my mom had chickens, lizards, and an old pickup truck. And yet, I have always felt bad for my dad. My grandpa was a complicated man and he made my dad into a complicated man too. Then one day they packed it up and left, living in Paraguay for a year where my grandma bought a driver’s license while my dad got fat and learned Spanish. Eventually they landed in the states, and because of a mishap with their luggage, with only five dollars between my dad, grandparents, and my two aunts.

To be honest, how my mom survived all on her own in New York baffles me. She left Puerto Rico all on her own at sixteen, to one of the fastest

growing cosmopolitan cities in the United States, and just lived on her own for years. Like, my mom can barely make her English sound like English now, after over four decades in America. I can’t imagine how bad her accent was when she first got here. And yet, there she was, the only white retail worker with a Spanish accent at Lord and Taylor.

Life in America was vastly different than in Seoul, South Korea for my dad. At twelve, he would translate Korean to English and vice versa for his family, at fourteen he would steal my grandpa’s worn out jalopy and drive it with his friends around the streets of Astoria, Queens, and at sixteen he worked with my grandpa at a dry cleaners. It was called George and Chris’ Dry Cleaners, and this rickety and musty laundromat would eventually be the most important part of both my mom’s and my dad’s lives. I have always imagined it like a movie. My mom, young and quiet, and my dad, young and rowdy, meet each other at the dry cleaner’s—the catalyst being when my mom had an angry red stain from some salsa on her white coat, she took it to a dry cleaners she heard was the best in town. Like love at first sight, she kept coming back again and again and eventually they started dating. And, it was basically just that, for the most part. My dad made my mom take risks and she in turn brought him down from his ivory pedestal.

Their story has always been so confusing to me. Or to be more specific, their love story. How could such different people find love with each other?

Such polarizing people. On one hand, my dad barely knows the concept of what an “inside voice” is and had everything given to him on a silver platter until he got to America. On the other hand, my mom barely talks about her love life before she met my dad, and he constantly boasts about the multitude of girls he had wrapped around his finger with the use of a symmetrical face and perfect hair.

How could she ever love a man so rowdy and callous when she could have had anyone she wanted?

Yet, I have seen my mom take care of my dad when he was at his lowest, bedridden and half dead. She has lost countless hours and nights in the hospital by his bed, making sure he could breathe and sit up after they sanded down the base of his spine. And while my mom has never been stuck on her deathbed, I can see the love in his eyes whenever he looks at her. How he lowers his voice for her when she has a headache or brings her favorite foods and sugary treats when she feels down. They spend hours upon hours of time watching poorly written Korean dramas night after night with each other even though they know they need to get up early in the morning for work.

I have never understood their love, but all I know is that they love each other.

That, I can understand.

carolina

By Zander Hooper

I. Blue Jay

For hours we have sat here, the dark clouds that loom over us, a worn down canoe, the only thing that separated us from the black realm under our feet. I could hear the blood churning inside of me. Everything seemed dead until the silence of the wilderness, broken by the call of a bluejay, a simple song that I had heard many times before, a reminder that there’s life here. My desire to be in the dense Carolina wood had been stunted by my family’s hatred of it. Sometimes hard to see it as beautiful, but the wild had its own ways of reminding me.

II. Azure Sky

As if it was a conductor calling to the orchestra, simple notes from a single song metamorphosed into a symphony of bird calls.

Their music breaks through the dense forest and washes over me like soft rainfall

It seemed to make everything come alive

As if demanding to be heard. The trees shook dancing to their melody. The dense gloom, broken to reveal a lustrous, azure sky. The blackness below awoke with bubbling, the trout I had been here to find leaping, escaping their tomb of silence. Just to hear them.

Just as quickly the song started, it disappeared: the birds went back to their silent brooding, the trees returned to their motionless state.

Potters in theSKY

I’d like to think that there are potters in the sky

They take one look at those you come from and affirm “I got this”

Dipping their strong calloused hands into a pool of your genetics, they begin to create you

Soft skin to shield your mind

A nose to smell the flowers

And a forehead to be kissed

A craft as old as time

Yet the potters never repeat a design

Inspiration for each new creation

Flows naturally through their

Minds

Hearts

And souls

Perhaps they’ll sprinkle on some freckles

Cut two dimples

Or frame some short eyebrows

With a silken intention, they finish each creation

Nodding gently at their manifestations

I never believed in God

So I imagine

When that boy pushes and pokes the slope of his nose

When that girl picks and prods at the wrinkles in her skin

It’s the potters who glide their thumbs across wet cheeks, let out a soft sight, and with a smile that couldn’t be truer console, “Don’t you know, dear? I only create masterpieces”

Alexa Marcus

BLUE REVIEW 2021-22

HONORS

North Carolina Scholastic Media Association (NCSMA) Awards

Overall Awards

Tar Heel

All-North Carolina

Section Awards

Fiction: 1st

Art: 1st

Photography: 1st

Nonfiction: 1st

Layout: 2nd

Poetry: 2nd

Cover Design: 2nd

Theme Development: 2nd

Individual Awards

Individual Photograph

1st place: Rachel Hall

3rd place: Cam Linker

HM: Evan Li

National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE)

REALM

First Class

Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA)

The organization did not adjudicate Medalist or Section awards for this year.

Drama

1st place, Olivia Warren

Photography/Art

Layout

1st place: Mia Zottoli

2nd place: Lynn Zhao

Personal Essay

1st place: Julie Derraik

HM: Ryan Samii

Fiction Layout

2nd place: Hope

Gottschling, Evan Li, Lynn Zhao, and Mia

Zottoli

Poetry Layout

2nd place: Hope

Gottschling, Evan Li, Lynn Zhao, and Mia

Zottoli

Art

HM: Cam Linker

Fiction

HM: Mia Zottoli

Poetry

HM: Evan Li

2023 UPPER SCHOOL SCHOLASTIC AWARDS

MID-CAROLINA REGION ART AWARDS

Art Gold Keys

*Moné Carey, Painting, “Neurotic”

*Evan Li, Photography, “Awakening”

Art Silver Keys

Emma Grace Coble, Drawing & Illustration

“Shady Lane”

*Evan Li, Photography, “Grandfather in the Field”

Taylor McKinney, Photography, “American Dream”

Madison Nabors, Drawing & Illustration, “Haphephobia”

Sophia Oh, Drawing & Illustration, “Cavities”

*Kate Wagner, Drawing & Illustration, “Disco Fever”

Lila Rhee, Mixed Media, “Bug Boy”

Lila Rhee, Photography, “Leviticus”

Art Honorable Mention

*Madison Nabors, Drawing & Illustration, “Stress”

Sophia Oh, Drawing & Illustration, “Hush”

Hope Gottschling, Fashion, “Flora”

*Cordelia Kim, Mixed Media, “CityScape”

Leiden Clark, Mixed Media, “Anxious Oxidation”

Lila Rhee, Mixed Media, “These Aren’t Butterflies”

Evan Li, Photography, “A Better World”

Evy Linker, Printmaking, “Paul”

Ryan Samii, Sculpture, “Kaleidoscopic View”

MID-CAROLINA REGION WRITING AWARDS

Writing Gold Keys

*Grace Finn, Personal Essay & Memoir, “I’m Alive (But)”

Cameron Hutchinson, Personal Essay & Memoir, “The Balance to Stay Sunny”

Sydney Lawrence, Poetry, “Echo”

Leslie Osorio, Personal Essay & Memoir, “How to Become a Child Language Broker”

Evan Li, Critical Essay, “Strange Bodies: A Biomythography of Queer Asians In and Beyond the United States”

Jackie Rao, Poetry, “summer in december”

Nora White, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Plastic Bags”

*Isabel Yang, Poetry, Sunday Evening Errands”

*Lynn Zhao, Personal Essay & Memoir, “A Collection of Regrets (Eleven Things She Once Hated About Herself)”

Mia Zottoli, Flash Fiction, “The Dream House”

Writing Silver Keys

*Gabriel Carpenter, Poetry, Melodies of the Tides: "The Black Bag Floating in the Atlantic" & "A Dive to the Moskva"

Sophia Cartafalsa, Poetry, Peruvian Pilgrimage From Daughter To Mom: “Her Walk Home In Peru" & "Her Canyon Views In America"

Anish Thota, Critical Essay, “Divided We Stand”

Mia Zottoli, Writing Portfolio, "The Invisibles" Writing Honorable Mention

Ramona Cigler, Poetry, “13”

Holt Daniels, Critical Essay, “Agency to Emancipation: The Triumph of Slave Narratives”

Samora Elam, Poetry, “Same Moon, Same Sun. The Peak of Realization”

Zander Hooper, Poetry, “Just Another”

Caroline Howley, Poetry, “Solomia's Pirouette”

Joy Lokas, Critical Essay, “Free from Oppressive Servitude: Weir’s Portrayal of a Transition into Romanticism”

Ian Provender, Personal Essay & Memoir, “Ski Racing: A Learning Experience”

Kelsey Sciacca, Critical Essay, “Endless Night: Elie Wiesel’s Rebuke of Hate”

*Vanathi Shanmuganathan, Poetry, "Unsent Letters to Father: 'Dear Appa'," "Memento" & "The Sky's Grief"

*Isabel Yang, Flash Fiction, “In the Bathroom”

Isabel Yang, Poetry, “Off the Makapu’u Coast”

*Lynn Zhao, Personal Essay & Memoir, "Clench"

Lynn Zhao, Personal Essay & Memoir, “I Dream of Escaping Racing Thoughts" and Silent Chaos, If Only to Leap Into the Arms of Reality”

Mia Zottoli, Critical Essay, “An Ode to Femininity”

*Mia Zottoli, Dramatic Script, “Entrapment”

*Mia Zottoli, Short Story, “Fairest”

*Featured in this edition.

COLOPHON

The body text is Minion Pro. Headline fonts include Futura and Ligurino. We explain the theme in the editors’ letter. 300 copies are printed and distributed free of charge to the school community. The "Blue Review" staff has access to 12 iMac Mini desktops and four MacBook pro laptops; we used Adobe’s Creative Cloud 2023 (InDesign and Photoshop) to design the book. Walsworth Publishing in Marceline, MO printed our book. The account was serviced by sales represntative Carolyn Henderson and service adviser Cheryl Ball. We used 100# cover stock for the cover and 80# text stock for the inside pages. We are grateful for the school’s support in covering printing and other expenses associated with Blue Review. Charlotte Latin School is a member of the following professional organizations: North Carolina Scholastic Media Association (NCSMA); the Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA); the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE).

EDITORIAL POLICY

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

All student editors are appointed by the faculty adviser. The lead layout, copy, and art editors are students who are current staff members. Lead layout editors are responsible for every aspect of the publication, including

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.

gomoondnight