BLUE REVIEW Literary & Arts Magazine
Charlotte Latin School Vol. XXIV 2018
CHARLOTTE LATIN SCHOOL 9502 Providence Road Charlotte, North Carolina 28277 704.846.1100 charlottelatin.org
BLUE REVIEW Literary & Arts Magazine Vol. XXIV 2018 “They did to the obvious
not
submit alternative,
which was simply to close the eyes and
fall”. Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Editors’ Letter Humans are bound by memory. These haunting ghosts follow us through our journeys, and sometimes they catch up and latch on like unwelcome parasites. When we allow these fears to overcome us, we drown in our anxieties and the pressures of adolescence constrict and control us. We gasp for breath as we witness the chaos of the news unfold and suffer through the panic of everyday obstacles. As we sought inspiration for this year’s magazine, we wanted to articulate our conflict regarding the burdens that restrain us. We found our voice through Tim O’Brien’s postmodern memoir The Things They Carried, which focuses on a young soldier in the Vietnam War. He shares his experiences by using stories to unveil individual truth, and we utilize his voice to set the tone for each chapter. Although memories can weigh us down, like O’Brien we find strength in
Annabelle
storytelling. Even in the darkest abyss, we turn to art and writing as mechanisms that save us. Through stories, we can bear and endure the realities of life. Stories allow us to realize our own emotional and personal truths and reflect on them. “The Burden of Memory” expresses the pain we experience in recalling haunting memories. Reflecting an abundance of darker poetry and artwork, this chapter catalogues shadows of the human subconscious. Embracing individual experiences, “Emotional and Personal Truth” illustrates unfiltered reflections and is characterized by memoir. “Stories Can Save” triumphs as we reach an uplifting third chapter and highlights how we overcome our struggle. The journey of memories awakens us as we transcend the anguish and boldly approach optimism and new stories to share for the future.
Ansley
y r Mallo
Cover & Complementary Artwork. Matigan Simpson’s “The Zone” (colored pencil, 15 x 20) symbolizes our ascension from the depths of oppressive thoughts to clear-eyed awareness and understanding.
2
Masthead
Lead Layout Editors: Mallory Evans | Ansley Nurkin | Annabelle Oates Junior Layout Editors: Bianca Bellavia | Lulu Holtz | Meredith Reese | Anna Rose Turner Faculty Adviser: Lori Davis Co-Adviser: Tiffany Fletcher Lead Copy Editors Rachel Lebda Catherine Clover
Associate Copy Editors Clare Downey Lily Farr Alex Harrison
Michele Tian Laura Zielinski
Lead Art Editors Chaney Howard Dillon Lee
Associate Art Editors Ella Lavelle Connor Neely Rhea Shetty
General Staff Adel Berhe Zoe Spicer Henry Smith Emma Martin Margot Neligan Kai Vincent Matigan Simpson
Administrative Support Arch McIntosh Fletcher Gregory Lawrence Wall Hunter Murphy
Financial Support Charlotte Latin School
Technical Support David Bullock David Lankford Luis Neves Craig Summerville
English Faculty Support Alan Becker Stuart Bonner Maria Klein Amanda Labrie
Tara McClelland Robin Siczek Sterling Thomas Tracy Vanneste
Art Faculty Support Richard Fletcher Kaila Gottschling Clark Hawgood Will Thomason
Promotional Support Latin Arts Association Vivi Bechtler-Smith Patty Lambert
Charlotte Latin School Media & Graphics Tori Belle-Miller Courtney Oates
Creative and Other Support Chandlee Freudenberger Special Thanks Richard Harris
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Table of Contents Burden of Memory Poetry 11 16 20 31 34 40 45
Rebekah Jones in the Upside Down Paper Cuts & Gunshot Wounds A Hospital Through a Child’s Eyes Panic The Isle of Denial Life Ends Tony Montana
Ansley Nurkin Cecelia Berens Jack Fernandez Mallory Evans Gracie Matthews Evan Dorsel India Persson
Free Verse Free Verse Free Verse Free Verse Free Verse Closed Form Free Verse
Nonfiction 15 33
Ashton Barlow Emma Martin
Memoir Memoir
Phantom Pains The Surrender of Château Crane A Daughter’s Decision Ice-Cream Man The Late Shift The Last Straw D-Day
Sophie Smith Alex Harrison Mallory Evans Lilly Omirly Austin Fitzgerald Annabelle Oates William Lloyd
Flash Fiction Short Story Gothic Fiction Experimental Fiction Flash Fiction Short Story Short Story
Castle Dreamer
Mallory Evans
Charcoal
Beyond the Battlefield Prague: Not Just a Wallpaper
Fiction 12 18 23 27 29 37 43
Art 10 4
13 14 17 18 21 22 24 26 28 30 32 35 36 41 42 44
Inundated Plant Bison Colosseum Cathedral A Conspiracy of Ravens Cherry Lips Glowing Fireplace Piano Anatomy Try Again Psychedelic Iguana Czech Alley The Eyes Have Us Heartbreak & Roses Night Heron Rubbish Portrait of Zoe
Abby Adams Neely Grace Tye Matigan Simpson Connor Downing Gia Colombo Emily Holtzman Mallory Evans Emma Martin Abby Owens Ella Lavelle Emma Martin Mallory Evans Erika Kim Wes Wise Ellie Beuley Zoe Miller
Photography Sculpture Colored Pencil Pen & Ink Pen & Ink Oil on Canvas Digital Art Watercolor Charcoal Digital Art Photography Graphite Acrylic Printmaking Sculpture Pen & Ink
Emotional & Personal Truth Poetry 51 53 58
Black and Blue Long Distance Domesticity
65 69 74 77
The Carpenter Amor Fati Black Reflection Morality’s Slip
Clare Downey Michael Quartapella Mallory Evans & Grace Works Abby Carpenter India Persson Ashton Barlow Gracie Matthews
Free Verse Free Verse Slam Poem
Mallory Evans Austin Fitzgerald Jazz Zeng Chiara Evans Gray Cacheris
Memoir Critical Essay Memoir Journalism Memoir
Free Verse Free Verse Free Verse Free Verse
Nonfiction
49 55 61 66 78
To Lose a Mockingbird Real Men Don’t Cry Luna Liberal at Latin Agender
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Fiction 57 71
La Biblioteca The Dam That Was Damned
80
A Cold December Morning
Emma Gerden Martha Elizabeth Watson Emma Gerden
Flash Fiction Short Story
Emily Holtzman Mary Elizabeth Anderson Jack Fernandez Zoe Miller Isabel Crews Emily Holtzman Annabelle Oates Emily Holtzman Gray Cacheris Emily Holtzman Dominique Martin Martha Elizabeth Watson Ella Lavelle Gray Cacheris Cecelia Berens
Mixed Media Digital Art
Flash Fiction
Art 48 50
Prisoner in the Board New Me
52 54 56 59 60 64 66 68 70 75
Silhouettes
76 79 81
Serpent Nonbinary Jack
Black Women Empowerment Blank Faces Atomic Spin Party Horse Aura Diversity Flower Boy Electric Tree Helping Hand
Photography Colored Pencil Photography Colored Pencil Chalk Pastel Acrylic Digital Art Acrylic Digital Art Sculpture Digital Art Digital Art Mixed Media
Stories Can Save Poetry 85 94 99 102 109 113
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Marie The Original Alchemist Voltage Nanshan Road The Blue You Shooting Star
Lauren Williams Wyatt Nabatoff Riley Davis Tony Liu Emily Holtzman Nick Quartapella
Free Verse Free Verse Free Verse Free Verse Video Poem Free Verse
Nonfiction 86 88 91 92 101 107
A Big Hairy Mess The Bedroom Takeover Coffee, My Ex-Lover Found at Sea Quirky Stop Killing “to be” Verbs
Lily Farr Catherine Clover Sierra Kanofsky Rachel Lebda Ansley Nurkin Paige Nurkin
Humor Memoir Epistolary Memoir Memoir Satire
How to Pick Up Girls Hamilton: An American Cooking Show Chavanne, My Melody
Gavin Gwaltney Rachel Lebda Michele Tian
Satire Dramatic Script Flash Fiction
84 86 89 90 92 94
Pansy Flowers Puckerface Big Ram Flower Universe Cliffs Bee’s Knees
Watercolor Printmaking Sculpture Watercolor Photography Acrylic
96 98 100 103 104 106 108 110 112
Baxter Cordoba Bridge Over Colors Childlike Reflections Donut Factory Cosmic Dog Vases Succulent Galaxy Girl in the Stars
Emma Martin Lindsay Robelen JP Smith Emma Martin Bela Marcus Martha Elizabeth Watson Dillon Lee Isabel de Armas Emma Landry Isabel Crews Emma Martin Ella Lavelle Sophie Smith Emma Martin Sarah Coston
Mallory Evans Nikki Reinhardt Abby Adams
Mixed Media Sculpture Sculpture
Fiction 96 105 111
Art
Stencil Acrylic Digital Art Photography Acrylic Watercolor Ceramics Watercolor Mixed-Media
Chapter Divider Art 8 46 83
Nailed to a Plank The Pain of Dance Birth of Color
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Mallory Evans | Nailed to a Plank | 15 x 10 x 3 | Mixed Media
But the thing about
8
is that you
remembering
don’t forget Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Mallory Evans | Castle Dreamer | 20 x 23 | Charcoal 10
U the
Rebekah Jones in PSIDE
DOWN Ansley Nurkin
Darkness floods my view As I drive through My hometown. I watch as Dead vines climb up the sides Of destroyed and desolate skyscrapers. The surface of the road Is cracked and broken, Creating an uncomfortable ride. Dark and deserted, No homeless man walking along the median asking for money. No police officer directing traffic. No one knows where I am. No sound for miles: “Should I Stay or Should I Go?� Echoing through the speaker of my car. I am alone with no way to escape the horror The harassment. Weinstein, Spacey, Westwick. The horror and fear build. No idea of how I came to this place. No way to tell anyone where I am. No one to help me escape the darkness of the realities women face. The idea that my Hollywood dreams are dead And the world will never return to how it was.
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Sophie Smith
pains
I
believe in ghosts. Not the foggy phantoms that whisper through the walls as the black night takes over. Nor the pesky poltergeist that surely creeps through the house when no one else is around. I believe in the ghosts that appear when you are most vulnerable, the scars of emotional trauma that only you can see. I believe in ghosts because I see them all the time. Every once in awhile I’ll walk up the stairs and catch one staring at me from the corner. I’ll pass through my old room and hear the ghostly echoes of yells that kept me awake for months. I’ll turn the lock on my bedroom door and hear the phantom’s attempts to gain entry. I believe in ghosts that haunt me as I remember the silence and the staring and the confusion, and the whispers to press those three numbers, just three numbers, but three numbers that had the power to change everything. Three numbers that would raise the veil and destroy the illusion. Three numbers that would expose me, finally, to the truth that was kept from me for so long. I believe in ghosts that stared back out at me as I
Abby Adams | Inundated Plant | Photography 12
looked into the eyes of my brother who was supposed to protect me —who was supposed to be strong — exposing his pain and loss and anger, his feelings of weakness in a fight against an unconquerable foe, Depression. I saw ghosts behind those familiar eyes — ghosts that I fear one day will find me too. I believe in ghosts that remind me of who he used to be — always smiling, making jokes, pulling pranks — even after he stopped smiling and started fighting. I see them lurking behind us in childhood pictures of the three kids, lined up and smiling brightly, and I think of that moment when the ghost first appeared, when I finally realized that the person whose heart belonged to a little gray kitten and who had often offered to beat up the bullies for me was a stranger. I believe in ghosts, and I remember looking into my brother’s unfocused, angry eyes, pleading for him to come back even though he was standing right in front of me. And I remember realizing he couldn’t come back, not for a while anyway, and never as he was before. And it haunts me.
Review XXIV BlueBlue Review Vol.Vol. XXIV
As hto nB
Neely Grace Tye | Bison | 21 x 18 x 12 | Sculpture 14
arl ow
“Sortez! Évacuez!” In a flash, hundreds of people and their luggage blurred around me as I stood, unable to move. The armed guards came closer, marching in conformity with their French berets, machine guns, and army uniforms. Get out! Evacuate! Their words translated in my head, yet my feet would not budge from their spot at C2 in arrivals. A few seconds later my feet were freed from the linoleum floor, as I was forced outside with the moving crowd. Every minute, new caution tape invaded, pushing me farther from where my mom was supposed to arrive. With every minute that passed more vans, more dogs, and more army soldiers arrived at the scene. Still unsure of what was happening, all I could do was wait, alone, on the sidewalk of the Nice Côte d’Azur International Airport and hope my mom and I would soon be reunited. Two hours later, now in the Vieux Ville, my mom and I sat at a table outside a small café, finally together after three long weeks and that terrifying hour at the airport. A news alert flashed across my phone: Suspicious Bag at the Nice Côte d’Azur International Airport Detonated Off Scene. In that moment, reality hit. Never had I been so close to something that seemed so out of my realm. At home, headlines about terrorism abroad constantly appear on the news or in the paper, but I never thought I could be involved in one of those attacks. Attacks in France, Spain, England were always across the Atlantic, oceans away. Now, having traveled those miles, I was experiencing that fear firsthand. Two weeks earlier, it was the 14th of July in Nice — French Independence Day. From my balcony I didn’t hear the normal honking of cars, bells of the trains, or shouting from the city market. The city was a ghost town compared to the festivities
“
Never had I been so close to something that seemed so out of my realm.”
“
My understanding of terrorism and international relations expanded to a whole new level.”
of the year before. This year was different. Buses of soldiers arrived armed with machine guns, the police nationale manned every corner, and civilians mourned the loss of those from the prior year. This year, the city of Nice commemorated those 86 people whose lives were cut short by a white truck driven erratically by an Islamic state member. The impact of the 2016 Nice attack was felt throughout the city as civilians placed flowers, French flags, and candles along the Promenade des Anglais. During my time in Nice, France, terrorism was a recurring topic among my friends. In the far booth of Nice Muffin, my friends and I debated the increasingly relevant topic of international terrorism over croissants and coffee. Among the four of us, we conversed different countries’ positions and views on terrorism. Through our discussion and debate, my understanding of terrorism and international relations expanded to a whole new level. Before, I’d always thought of terrorism as something that happened far away; the 9/11 attacks, Ariana Grande concert suicide bombing in Manchester, and Charlie Hebdo shooting were all awful attacks executed by terrorist groups, resulting in the mass killing of innocent people. However, those attacks happened far away, and I only experienced them while flipping through the channels of CNN, Fox, and the Today show, watching the same news coverage on repeat like a broken blues record in my kitchen. While exchanging thoughts with my friends, I realized everyone, to some degree, has a skewed understanding of the reasoning behind extremists and the attacks they conduct. Between modern media and general thought, everyone alters what they know, or think they know, to create their own version of the war beyond the battlefield. Blue Review Vol. XXIV
&
paper cuts gunshot wounds and you are quick and painful like ripping off a bandaid cruel and cool and collected a cigarette lit on a cold winter’s night your brown leather boot crushed it grinding into the red brick ground far before it should have been finished and I am awkward and timid and stutter through the dance but you have no trouble keeping time so we did not get to be here long because I’ve never liked the silence and you’ve never liked the future
16
Cecelia Berens
Matigan Simpson | Colosseum | 19.5 x 16 | Colored Pencil Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Château Crane
The surrender of
Connor Downing | Cathedral | 27.5 x 30 | Pen & Ink
Alex Harrison
T
he siege would be over soon. Lord Crane slowly paced the walls, inspecting the defenses of his impenetrable fortress for the final time of the day. He had to step carefully on the slick stone. He was wearing his new, white robes, and peasant blood did not wash out
18
of silk. Stepping around a particularly large puddle of gore and to the edge of the battlements, Crane peered out over his proud walls. That tenebrous sea surrounded him from every direction, and the sheer size of the besieging army was unquestionable. No matter; Château Crane was absolutely impregnable.
The enemy could no more easily conquer it than a breeze could tear down an oak tree. As Crane reassured himself, a thousand tiny shapes detached from the nebulous mass below, speeding towards him in a cloud that nearly eclipsed the sun. A signal horn echoed down the battlements. “Take cover!” Crane shouted. In an almost instinctive motion, he stepped into the lee of the nearest merlon and hefted his escutcheon over his head. Thunk-thunk! Crane felt a double impact as arrows bit into the wood of his shield. More whistled by or clattered uselessly against the unyielding stones around him, then the storm was over as suddenly as it had started. Crane waited a second more, then lowered his arm and stood up. He was unscathed, but judging from the screams around him Château Crane’s marble had just been stained with more red. Crane glanced down at his shield and cursed. The arrow had struck right in the middle of his family crest: a winged man, maybe an angel, soaring towards a golden sun. Escutcheons were expensive, and this one was broken beyond repair. He sighed, tossed the ruined shield into the courtyard behind him, and resumed his stroll along the battlements. Focused only with maneuvering around the largest pools of blood, Crane didn’t notice the approaching footsteps until their owner was almost upon him. He recognized the gait immediately. His lip curled into a sneer before his eyes even left the onceivory stone. Limping towards him was the captain of Château Crane’s loyal garrison, a lean man whose unadorned steel chain mail exactly matched his hair. Although the captain’s face was haggard and worn, his eyes shone with a quiet determination. “Captain Zola,” taunted Crane. “We evacuated the old women days ago. How did you get so far behind? Only real men remain at Château Crane.” Zola sighed. The young lord was in an unbearable mood today. But lives were at stake, so he pressed on. “My lord. I must beg you to reconsider,” Zola said as evenly as he could manage. “Our casualties mount every hour while our supplies dwindle. If you surrender, those of us who still live might stay that way. But if you continue to fight until our inevitable defeat, you ensure our doom.” “Château Crane’s walls have stood for more than a century, you oath-breaking craven,” Crane retorted. “If we hold steady, the siege will break in a few days. The enemy can’t possibly have enough supplies to stay put for much longer.”
“Stop deluding yourself,” Zola’s voice was rising. “We’ve already lost. Give them this victory; let us at least escape with our lives.” “I! Will! Never! Surrender!” Crane roared. “My father entrusted Château Crane to me, and I will not abandon my home, my inheritance, my father’s legacy to savages! We fight to the last man, to the last breath —” Crane’s voice broke. As he turned away, Zola saw tears in the boy’s eyes. They walked together to the parapet. The sun was finally setting, painting the sky a brilliant crimson. Zola hesitated, then rested his hand on the lord’s shoulder. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and calm. “I’m sorry, Stephen. I know how much this place means to you. Your father cared about it just as much, but he would understand. He would want you to save yourself, to save the lives of your soldiers, not to just throw them away. I swore an oath to you, so I will do as you command. If you insist that we stay, I’ll fight by your side until the bitter end. But there is no cowardice in living to fight another day.” They were quiet for a while after that. Together, the two men watched the western sky for the last moments of the day. When the last rays of sunlight vanished beneath the horizon, the lord of Château Crane nodded his head. The captain smiled and turned to order a white flag. Then time slowed down. Zola’s old wound twitched; something was wrong. He heard the sound of a thousand taut strings being released. He saw a thousand black arrows, each point barbed and deadly, rise into the sky. In an almost instinctive motion, he started towards the parapet, hoping to place himself between his lord and the deadly swarm. He moved as if through syrup, but he was going to make it. Then his boot hit a patch of blood. He screamed as he started to fall, already overcome with rage and grief. Time resumed as the missiles found their mark. Feathers sprouted from Crane’s back and he almost flew into the courtyard below. Blood dyed his oncewhite robes red. He was dead before he hit the ground.
“
Château
Crane was
absolutely
impregnable”
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
A Hospital Through
a
Child’s Eyes
Jack Fernandez
Things we take for granted Slip through our
fingers Like sand in an hourglass Time ticking away, As unstoppable as a sandstorm in the Sahara.
How do you cope, When the palace of your imagination Has been violated by an unwanted mass Of cells growing like weeds Overrunning all your defenses; 20
Gia Colombo | A Conspiracy of Ravens | 30 x 25 | Pen & Ink
When your limbs lay lifeless, Shadows of their former selves No longer taking commands; When the sword of your knight In a shining white surgical mask Cuts you down instead;
And the ichor of the god in your head Spills and fills your white skull and three emergency surgeries aren’t enough to save you, Just your life? Blue Review Vol. XXIV
A Daughter’s Decision Mallory Evans
Emily Holtzman | Cherry Lips | 8 x 10 | Oil on Canvas 22
An unforgiving rain pounded the streets like the beating of a foreboding drum. The year was 1885, and in the wake of his wife’s death, Richard Moore gathered his daughter Alice and their belongings and prepared to start anew. Tears of rain mirrored Alice’s own inner turmoil as the carriage crept towards the isolated estate atop a towering hill farther and farther from her beloved home and memories. The winding path wrapped around the house in a sickening squeeze, and Richard placed a hand upon the shoulder of his woeful daughter, for nothing would ever be the same again. Thunder growled outside, and lightning illuminated the twilight sky. A pit weighed in the seventeen-year old maiden’s stomach, and an intangible force repelled her from the unfamiliar, cold house. She hesitated as her father opened the door and offered protection beneath a flimsy umbrella. The tempestuous storm mocked the black, paper thin umbrella, yet she ducked beneath its veneer of security. Wary yet curious, Alice evaluated the looming manor with its intricate spires and dark windows. The uncanny beauty of the house perplexed her, yet an unsettling feeling weighed down her spirits. ... Having always been a precocious child, Alice Moore devoured knowledge with boundless voracity. She attended school until the age of fourteen when regular schooling ended for most girls within her town. Additional education only came through her mother and tutor as a result of her mother’s persistent and enduring investment in her schooling. Up until her mother’s death, the young girl enjoyed a privileged lifestyle complete with ample opportunities. Belonging to an affluent family, Alice was never a wanting child nor did she find reason to complain. While she adopted responsibility in the maintenance of the home Alice didn’t mind, for she always counted on a daily lesson or nightly reading to soothe the thirst for something more within her. An unlatched and unbound child, Alice exercised the freedom to pursue intellectual endeavors. Ever since she could recall, stories captivated Alice. Her mother Katherine hailed from an
aristocratic family in Rhode Island whose surname Wright carried great weight and respect. Never without a wry smile, Katherine dazzled everyone with both charm and intellect. Against the advice of her family, Katherine married Richard Moore a young, ambitious man fresh out of law school yet complete with his own set of demons. However, the two fell deeply in love as the story always goes. In the inception of the marriage, Katherine evoked Richard’s finest qualities and extinguished his fiery temper. The birth of their daughter attributed to the sunny atmosphere of their lives and while any family suffers through obstacles, the Moore family emerged quite unscathed. Unfortunately, no one divined Katherine’s death when she fell ill with meningitis. ... After entering their new home, Richard remarked, “Alice, my dear, we have an opportunity to start over. I’ve been offered an exceptional position at the local law firm here in Providence. Now, I must remind you that while I’m gone during the day, I expect that you will maintain and upkeep the home.” He let out an odd toned chuckle and added, “Since it seems you won’t be marrying anytime soon, you will be expected to keep things tidy and ordered while I’m away.” Richard squeezed his daughter’s shoulder and moved past her to inspect their estate. In the living room, a massive ebony fireplace dominated the space. The dark charcoals hissed with blazing sparks as the father ignited its fury. Barely visible in the wicked flames she saw a shadow of two monstrous eyes, and she swore the fireplace glared. Still immovable in the doorway, Alice observed the instant flood of light emanate from the raging fire, and she averted her gaze as its vicious flames taunted her. Towards her right was an isolated room sealed off with an ornate lock, and she presumed her father planned to claim it as his office. That night, Alice turned restlessly in bed as she maneuvered through the capricious realm of dreams. Sequences and moments whirred past as she watched herself twirl and dance alongside her mother. Flowers
“she averted her gaze as its vicious flames taunted her”
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Mallory Evans| Glowing Fireplace | Digital Art in her hair, Katherine guided her daughter through a wide field soaked in sunlight. Then the scene changed, and Richard and Katherine kneeled beside their daughter’s bed and read out loud the legendary story of Joan of Arc, a fierce female warrior. Suddenly, Katherine dissipated with no trace, and Richard’s eyes changed into black holes with dancing flames. With his no longer familiar nor recognizable appearance, a new father ripped out pages from the book one by one. Each sheet fluttered from his hands and exploded into ash. Darkness consuming his shadowy figure, Richard slinked out of the bedroom as wisps of smoke curled around his feet. With the sharp click of a lock, Alice awoke, startled. The next morning Richard unveiled an extensive list of duties for Alice before leaving for work. “I expect that you will tend to the laundry, 24
purchase groceries, and tidy up the bedrooms. I realize you want to continue lessons with the private tutor, but that will not longer be feasible, Alice. There’s simply no need since you plan to stay at home with me,” Richard remarked, offering his once-charming smirk. A chill slithered through the air, and Alice shivered. Looking up towards her looming father, she managed a submissive nod. When he turned to leave, Alice dropped her shoulders and withheld her words. How could she plan to establish a life of her own without further education? As her father pulled the monolithic door shut, he added, “One more thing, Alice. Do not under any circumstances enter my office.” With that, he slammed the door shut. Isolating Alice from the outside world, Richard did not keep others out, he trapped her inside. Through the window, a lens to the outside
world, Alice witnessed a flock of birds float past the trees towards the clear sky. Later, while the young girl attempted to tend to her duties, overwhelming frustration barraged her senses. The intricate lock on Richard’s office mocked Alice, and the monstrous fireplace snickered as she handled dirtied clothes. The mindless tasks urged her to claw at the locks and unleash merciless fury. Curious and slightly rebellious, Alice peered through the sliver of light beneath Richard’s office door. She tugged at the embellished lock and considered that the room concealed their family portraits and collection of books. Ever since her mother’s passing, her father stripped their living space of memories to placate his pain, but Alice felt her mother’s memory dispelling to oblivion. In silent protest she abandoned the unfinished laundry and migrated to her secluded bedroom. Reaching underneath her bed frame, Alice seized her personal collection of novels, varying gifts from her mother and distant relatives. Time evaded her as she spread out across the wooden floor and read. When she flipped through the pages, her mother curled up next to her and her presence was practically tangible. The words transported Alice away from lonely estates and distant fathers with ice coated hearts. In these treasured moments of respite, she glanced out the broad windows of her room where the sun kissed the distant flowers and grass. Her very soul crawled out of a hidden corner and sang to the song of the swaying trees. Alongside the comfort of Katherine’s ghost, Alice continued reading. As the sun whispered its last goodbye, a nighttime darkness replaced the heavenly glow. Arriving home at dusk, Richard entered the home and stared at the filled laundry basket on the ground and deduced the vacancy of the pantry. A rage bubbled and rose like steam from Richard’s feet to his head. His muscles twitched and contracted as he hurled his briefcase into the living room. The veins in his neck and temples pulsated to the arrhythmia of a scream of fury. Without Katherine’s calming aura, Richard experienced a grotesque transformation. Nothing restrained the beast
now, and he raced upstairs to Alice’s room. When he opened the door, Richard glared into the eyes of his wife and seethed as Alice turned another page. In each gesture and feature Richard saw Katherine, yet the resemblance provoked the trembling creature inside. “Alice,” he snarled. She flinched and pulled the books close as if protecting vulnerable prey. Richard lunged at the books and tore down the stairs. He practically encouraged Alice to follow, for as he reached his destination, the erupting fireplace, Richard launched Alice’s dearest stories into the writhing flames. Sheer panic and despair secured Alice’s being as her only escape withered to ash. “How could you ... ,” she began, fear trickling into her voice. “I’m glad Mother never has to see the monster that you have become,” Alice uttered. The man turned back to look at her, all emotion drained from his hollow face. He wrenched the maiden towards the basement and fastened the metal bolt. A prisoner, she collapsed on the damp floor. Hours passed, and Alice searched the shadowy space for a window, yet to no avail she leaned her head against the door. The walls closed in and caged Alice in the depths of the perturbing manor. The suffocating absence of light heightened her misery until her hands crept into the pockets of her linen dress. An otherwise arbitrary hairpin commenced her escape as she poked and prodded the lock with the pin. After multiple attempts, the door creaked open and saved Alice from eternal confinement. Almost in a daze, Alice emerged from the spectral basement. In the living room, the fire raged and crackled, its flames whipping like the tendrils of a foaming monster. Richard sprawled in his lush thronelike chair completely unconscious. Alcohol dripped from his lips, and his breath whistled in a heavy, uneven rasp. Next to his limp fingers a cracked glass spilled out liquor. The drops trailed down the coffee table and slithered towards the inferno. As Alice approached the front door, she peered out at the scene. Abandoning control to fate and nature, she watched the flames amplify with fury, walked straight out the front door and into the light and never looked back. Blue Review Vol.Vol. XXIV Blue Review XXIV
Emma Martin | Piano Anatomy | 17.25 x 25.5 | Drawing & IIlustration
Emma Martin | Piano Anatomy | 17.25 x 24.5 | Watercolor 26
E A R M N C M A E IC Lilly Omirly
T
he summer heat hits our soft faces as our feet lead us to the flaming concrete. Sizzling with every step, our toes grip the ground tighter with each burn, sending numb signals to our distracted brains. A familiar melody brushes the branches above our bobbing heads, sweeping a breeze along with it. We fly above the grass as the song carries our rag doll bodies. Warmth courses through our veins as the colorful container casts a spell on our minds, urging us closer. We now stand below the looming box as the cold smile of the figure inside freezes our breath. Ice crystals of saliva stand still in the air. Stuttering over each word, we mumble our requests. He turns his back as we peek into the window, trying to see behind the curtain. We hallucinate formaldehyde permeating the air around our noses, the thick fog filling our lungs. Corpses of children flash in and out of our vision, their bodies lining the bottom of his steel floor. In the silent air they yell for us to run, but our legs won’t listen. Our feet remain inside the molten concrete as the monster begins to turn back around. And before his pale lips can expose his yellow and brown fangs, our feet regain consciousness. We escape his clutches. Little did our mothers know how close we were to joining the other kids.
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Abby Owens | Try Again | 40 x 20 | Illustration 28
S
he walked into what was a seemingly normal, everyday Sunday night at work. Blue shirt, crisp khakis, and her name tag reading, “Lindsey: Serving You Since 2016”. She opened up her lane. The line grew longer, and longer, seemingly endless. She checked out one customer after another, reciting her lines: “May I have your customer card? Did you find everything okay? Would you like help out to your car?” She said hello to Andy. She checked out the next customer, the incessant monotony of the beeping driving her forward.
to the man with the broken leg. Then he pulled around behind her, which was unusual for customers. He was supposed to go around the front of the cash registers, not behind the cashiers. The other men came up next to her. One on each side. “That don’t matter. How old are you? I’ll take you out sometime. Make you feel good.” She kept a fake, uneasy smile plastered on her face, despite the feeling of suffocation and panic now taking over. Yes, this had happened before, creepy men hitting on her, sliding her their number, making unwelcome
One of her usuals came to check out, and they caught up on how each other’s lives were going as she checked him out, a bright, wide smile on her face. “Have a nice day. Thank you for shopping. Come back and see me now!” The next order was up. There were three men this time, a quiet one in a snapback, one in shades with dreadlocks and a shiny, gold grill, and one in a motorized cart because he broke his leg. She pulled the groceries out from his basket. One by one. The dull, continuous beep in the background. She announced their change. She put the plastic bags in the cart belonging
comments. But never like this. Never where she was physically enclosed and forced to accept what was happening. In a grocery store, on the clock, she can’t be rude. Because the customer is always right. We always want them to come back. Besides, the machine had randomly selected these customers to take the survey on her customer service. She couldn’t get a bad score. “Oh, I’m only 17, so it would be illegal anyway, right, so you guys have a nice day!” “Alright sweetie, I’ll catch you around sometime soon,” he said with a wink.
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Panic
Mallory Evans
Panic
“...Fractured inhale Forced exhale...” 30
Retreating upstairs, a meager attempt to hide from the chaos Howling shrieks ambush eardrums Despair permeates like heavy smog Blinded by fury, the others neglect the silent cries They spit fire to conceal vulnerability A suffocating claw wraps around my throat Panic, the invisible foe A demon conjured from my manic mind To materialize the fear within Fractured inhale Forced exhale Crippling fear disfigures my body into a contorted fetal position Trembling hands approach the telephone I vomit incoherent words and sobs “Breathe”, the voice insists, calm assurance disguises worry The beast returns with fury Like a succubus, it feeds on my fear and dread I’m losing an invisible fight Blurry vision, shaking hands The entrance to my hideaway bursts open Two figures lean down over my trembling body “What have we done?”
Ella Lavelle | Psychedelic Iguana | Digital Art Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Emma Martin | Czech Alley | Photography
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Prague:
Not Just a Wallpaper
W
Emma Martin
ho knew one bridge could hold so many cultures? These days people think traveling lies within the 2 mm piece of glass they hold in their hand, i.e., a pin on Pinterest means Stonehenge in Scotland. The music of the world plays off of the ocean to the right and to the left. Sounds of hoopla and electric violins, banging drums and voices singing Owl City, voices singing their stories you cannot tap through on Instagram. You walk across the equator itself. Red paddle boats swim under your feet as the statues of historic legends wave them by. The trdlo in my hand melts slowly in the the summer heat as if on a time lapse. Vanilla creme and strawberries inside a cinnamon sugar donut cone drip onto the ground and as we walk on, birds tweet as they fly down from the lapis sky and sing. A city filled with cobblestone streets and dancing buildings. You move from new town to old. The rolling landscape red. Colors of France, Bavaria, the Czech Republic. Yellows of the sun reflecting off the stone, ocean blues separating but uniting, Technicolor hues, the John Lennon Peace Wall. A microcosm of what the world should be.
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
The Isle of Denial Gracie Matthews
I rode my steed, Ego, to the Isle of Denial, and led the revels there. the line between enlightenment and fantasy a hair. We tripped across the pebbl’d shore and ran weaving through the trees my comrades and I raced raucously with each and every breeze The pearly stones of innocence the knife sharp crags of pride formed a checker board of pardons to trick our gleeful strides. A spouse whose wife is not to die, an actor holds the minds of those who say his ineptness is a front where talent hides. Those two were at the forefront of the misled and hurting bunch whose self-dissent keeps them from confessing suppress’ed hunch. Next came the caravan of the Deceivers, whose denial saves their hides, the professionals who see the truth as a device for career demise. The doctor whose knife couldn’t slip astray, next the insurance executive whose honesty made several billions flow consecutive. And then came I and you and you for none may leave past. But true talent rises when we ride back home ‘cross the watery path.
Mallory Evans | T h e Eyes Have Us | 24 x 28 | Graphite 34
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Erika Kim | Heartbreak & Roses | 20 x 14 | Drawing
The Last Straw Annabelle Oates
Her green eyes flashed open as she sat up in bed. It was still early, still dark out. The clock read 5:31. A minute late. She hated waking up when the clock struck odd numbers. A trickle of anxiety ran through her veins as she rushed to get up, the sheets still tucked and taut, as if no one had even slept in the king sized bed. Just the thought of her 800 thread count sheets being wrinkled sent a shiver down her narrow spine. Her hair was perfectly curled, her skin unnaturally clear for someone her age. She was a unique kind of beautiful, someone who seemed to become more attractive as she grew older. Her hair wasn’t bleached to a harsh blonde but rather richly highlighted. The contrast between her startling green eyes and auburn hair suited her pale complexion and sharp cheekbones. She had slender athletic legs for she had run many marathons when the children were little. A memory of her husband cheering her on from the sidelines ran through her mind. She remembered his flashy smile and carefree attitude. Things had changed. He now wore black suits and dress ties and carried a look of concern along with an Armani briefcase. She continued her quick morning routine. All she needed was a fresh coat of mascara, a hint of blush to add a bit more color to her fair skin, and a splash of Chanel No. 5. Carefully buttoning a crisp, white blouse and sliding on a black pencil skirt, next she fastened her pearls. Putting them on was always difficult because her hands shook and she couldn’t manage the clasp. The strand of 40 Tiffany pearls had been a 10th anniversary gift. It made her think of their old weekend excursions to New York and Chicago when the kids were younger. She rubbed the pearls between her fingers as if they could transport her back. Her eyes flashed again to the clock: 5:45. She was reminded of the cocktail party she would have to attend alone that night. She would need to pick up the dress at the tailor’s at exactly 11:30. Trying
it on, she realized how far it was hanging from her slender frame. An increase in running and decrease in carbohydrates were responsible for a recent five pound weight loss. Stepping down the billowing staircase she headed to the heart of the house, the kitchen. Conscientiously packed lunches for her three children were neatly stored away inside a glistening stainless steel refrigerator. She carefully pulled them out, putting each one into a separate lunch box, each embroidered with an ornate monogram. After setting the lunches aside, she made sure to wipe down the marble countertops, leaving no trace of life behind. She inherited the house from her mother, but they had completely redecorated after moving in. The outside still reflected the original architecture comprised of ash graystone and sharp turrets. The stained glass windows were original from the 1800s, but the once lively greens and blues were washed out into pastels. Large oak trees lined a gravel driveway which led to the estate. Half of the house was untouched, for it had many more bedrooms than the mother, father, and three children needed. At promptly 7:00, a deep sound emerged from the ancient-looking grandfather clock in the front hall, waking the three children up. The children knew their mother ran a tight ship and got ready quickly, no matter they were only eight to ten years old. Their rooms were decorated beautifully with no story books or toys but with large bookshelves filled with thick anthologies and novels. They walked down in unison where their mother awaited them with breakfast. Symmetrically cut fruit and toast were arranged neatly on their plates. She had made sure each child had gotten the correct berry to melon ratio and each piece of bread was toasted to a crisp, golden brown. Little conversation was actually said, for she needed to make sure her scheduling for the day was on track. The Blue Review Vol. XXIV
youngest child tugged at the end of her tailored skirt and she quickly slapped his small wrist because she had important business to focus on. Her eyes watered up and she suddenly felt a small pang of guilt, yet she needed to plan for the day. She combed her narrow fingers through his dark brown hair, but he looked away. The heat rose throughout her body, and a rush of anger boiled her blood. If only her husband had been there to help get the children ready or run some errands for the party that night. The number of tasks seemed to double in her brain as her anxiety grew. She held her breath in for five counts then slowly exhaled. It was a coping mechanism her doctors always suggested after her increase in episodes. After regrouping, the children crawled into the shiny, black Mercedes SUV and rolled down the crumbling gravel road. The children arrived to school at exactly 7:55 with just enough time to get settled into class. Their ironed button down shirts and pressed khakis differed from the other school children’s t-shirts and tennis shoes. They always looked a little overdressed but nevertheless were envied by the other children. It was an envy that came out of fear, for each of her children succeeded in one stupendous way or another. Henry and Charles, the oldest twins, shone on the soccer fields, whereas the younger son took accelerated math classes outside of school, placing him top of the class. From a distance, it seemed that they had an immense number of friends, but really when it came time for birthday parties and sleepovers, it was hard to find children to invite. The friendships they did have were only superficial. The raging waters beneath the surface of their seemingly perfect lives intimidated the other boys and girls.
out of her handbag, she realized she forgot to sign one of them. Her slender fingers fumbled to find a pen. She couldn’t think. A bead of sweat ran down her forehead. The other mothers and teacher shifted in their seats. “The forms are due today, Mrs. Smith,” chimed in the teacher. She quickly wrote in “Mrs. Smith” and turned in the form. The air in the classroom choked her. Eyes darted from side to side. Once again, a rush of anxiety and anger ran through her entire body. She needed to get out. As soon as the clock struck 11:15, she rushed out of the classroom. Her phone lit up with a new text from her husband. She knew it was meant for someone else. Climbing into her Mercedes and reaching deep inside the center console, her hands grasped a small, cylindrical container filled with oval pills. Without glancing at the label, she slid one down her throat. Her emotions faded into nothing as she gripped the steering wheel. Street signs looked fuzzy, but she kept her eyes concentrated on the road. On her way to pick up the dress for the event later that night, her phone rang. She recognized the caller ID well and knew she would have to pick up. They hadn’t talked in two days. “Hello Mother,” she said with the upbeat tone she always had to display for her. “I’m just on my way to pick up the dress.” “Oh, darling, I hope they have fixed it. Your sister has a better figure for that dress, but I’m sure you can pull it off.” It took every ounce of self-control not to react. Her mother always compared her to her older sister, who moved to New York after graduating from Yale Law. It wasn’t that she resented being compared to Isabel, but her mother’s constant references always reminded her that she lacked an identity of her own. She was always Isabel’s sister no matter how much money Christopher managed to make. “I know you have the function tonight, but will you be at the charity luncheon tomorrow? I am so sorry you had to miss last time, Isabel gave a wonderful speech. I swear there is nothing like her when it comes to charm.” “Yes, Mother, I will be there. I’ve already arranged for the children to ride home with Monica’s nanny. And I will bring the cucumber sandwiches.” She gazed into the mirror from across the room. Her mother was right. Isabel would have looked so much better. Alterations could only help so much. The room was packed with chattering people. She knew
“Their saccharine smiles gleaming in her direction were tainted with fear.” Similarly to the children, the other mothers looked at her with an envy sparked from intimidation. Their expressions seemed to shift as she walked into the school conference. Their saccharine smiles gleaming in her direction were tainted with fear. Grabbing the forms 38
most of them all since childhood but really knew so little about them after all. The conversations were all small talk. People said the same things they so often said before with as little meaning as before. Their words were empty, and she really wasn’t interested in knowing them anymore than she had to. She checked her watch. A waiter dressed in a black tux carried around champagne and hors d’oeuvres. She snagged a glass of champagne and knocked it back. The bittersweet drink tingled against her throat. She walked around from person to person trying to have as little conversation as possible. Something was different about this cocktail party. The crowd wasn’t coming to her. Instead, eyes darted back and forth carrying looks of concern. Was her dress really that bad? Did they see the way she handled that glass of champagne? She tried to act normally, but her anxiety was bubbling back up. A group of women chuckled as she approached. Their made-up faces contorted into uncomfortable laughter. They knew. She then heard the word “Elizabeth” slip out of one woman’s mouth, confirming that the secret was out. It hurt her just knowing what Christopher was doing, but the shame of realizing the world also knew hit her like a ton of bricks. Elizabeth was younger, sexier, and confident. Everything she would never be. Her image was now shattered. She had raised three perfect sons and kept the family’s social status high. Deep down, she knew her time working in the house and running errands doubled compared to Christopher’s actual office hours. This was the last straw. She grabbed her Chanel clutch and stormed out. An anger so strong seeped through her entire body and she could barely breathe. Pills. She needed the pills. The center console. She ripped off the top of the container and poured four more pills down her throat. Hot tears filled her eyes, which began to glow a more vivid green. She didn’t even care that her mascara was running down her face. His car was parked in the driveway. In the top window of the estate she saw the silhouette of two figures. Without turning off the car, she grabbed a stone from the yard. The rock flew through the air, quickly coming in contact with the intricate stained glass window. Just like the window, her reputation had been shattered. Her life seemed to unwind in front of her as she realized how much energy she had wasted going from place to place, making sure everyone had what they needed all of the time. Her life was a lie. Her vision was now completely blurred from the pills. The shattering of the window seemed to go unheard, just like her cries out to Christopher. He no
“Their made-up faces contorted into uncomfortable laughter.”
longer cared about listening to her problems and instead kept her bank account lush with money. The window could be fixed. She could fix this. No one heard it. Maybe she could cover this up. Tell Christopher a bird flew through it. But deep inside she could not, so she clambered through the front door. Stumbling into the kitchen, she snatched a pack of cigarettes and matches from her secret cabinet. She had smoked in college, but her mother insisted she quit after she got married. She lit a single cigarette and took a long, slow drag. The red hair. The women whispering back and forth. The hot rush of embarrassment. It all seemed to flash in front of her eyes at the same time. Suddenly, the lit cigarette slipped from her grip. A small but steady spark of flames began growing and growing on the spotless wood floors. She wasn’t even aware what the flame connected with first, but her white dress began turning into a dark, ashy gray. Within seconds, the kitchen was roaring with orange and red streaks and thick, black smoke. The smoke crept up her throat, choking her steadily and surely. She did not fight back. Deep screams rose throughout the large house, but the sounds from her troubled conscience powered over them.
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Evan Dorsel
T h e g n a t f l i t s o ’e r t h e g r o u n d . Rain drops cascade around. The gnat, he rounds the bends, but water hits wing; life ends. The mouse rustles the grass. A kitten stalks the pass. The mouse runs, as claw rends, but teeth break flesh; life ends. The cougar moves his tail. Cars come; the cat does wail. Hairs up, when he stiffens, but tires turn; life ends. T h e b e a r p aw s at w at e r. F i s h t o o f e w t o s l au g ht e r. Food scarce, winter impends. But no reprieve; life ends. One may think it pointless, if breath stops regardless. From these thoughts one must fend. Make the most, for life ends.
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Wes Wise | Night Heron | 60 x 40 | Printmaking
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Ellie Beuley | Rubbish | 48 x 24 x 18 | Sculpture
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D-Day William Lloyd
can’t hear. I can’t speak. The blood, the body parts on the ground are like toys in a child’s room. Silver specks flash each millisecond. One speck dashes towards a man. I try to scream a warning, but nothing comes out. Suddenly: Bang! He topples, writhes in pain, calling for help. I run, placing my hands on his wound, but blood pours out and envelops my hands. I realize I can do nothing. Bodies surround him, as if the men are the sand itself, crying out to God in agony. He is dying. As he takes his last breath, he whispers, “My death had purpose, and for that I can die peacefully.” We had arrived. After breakfast at a quaint bed and breakfast tucked between two rolling hills in the luscious French countryside, we had finally reached Normandy. As we drive, the thicket twisting around each bend in the road stalks us until it abruptly ends and the ocean view after climbing hundreds of feet from Utah Beach astonishes us at Pointe du Hoc. The frenzied heart pounds, and the adrenaline rush sends electric impulses swirling down my spine. I hyperventilate, the mesmerizing view completely overtaking my body. Bunkers scatter the field, with the harsh gray of the concrete and the open area where the oncepowerful machine gun puttered steadily away. There are little hills everywhere left from bomb indentations in the ground, ranging from five to ten feet high. As I descend into the main German bunker built into the cliff of Pointe du Hoc, I realize there was no room for cards or camaraderie, only weapons — and pure war. My initial emotions dissipate and I feel empty now, the landscape no longer as pristine, marred by all the death and pain. “You know your great-grandpa participated in D-Day.” A look of confusion shoots across my face. I knew this trip would be special, but I never realized how real it was, how much this event changed our entire family history. “He was a truly remarkable man, a family man, and loved us all dearly,” Mom reveals as she holds back tears. Suddenly I sense another flashback, but this time I don’t look forward to it. I don’t enjoy seeing the war. My great-grandpa tumbles from the long, matte gray-colored ship as the back of the boat turns into the ramp,
screeching as the metal grinds against the coarse grains of sand. My heart swells with pride, seeing him looking so brave. This feeling is snatched from my heart the second I turn back to the battle. Blood squirts onto my his uniform and suddenly the man my great-grandpa was talking to just seconds ago dies as he falls to the wet sand. “Find cover!” I scream helplessly. This is not like I knew from TV. What I am witnessing feels real, not like a fictional death in a video game or fake blood on a Halloween costume. Wind whips my great-grandpa’s helmet, runs through his beard, and brings the metallic scent of blood fresh into our noses. The ground shakes from the boots stomping onto millions of grains of sand, booms reverberate all throughout the beach, moans of help and mercy do their best to cover up these sounds, but to no avail. My vision becomes blurry as the smoke of war infects each pupil, and I start to lose sight of my beloved great-grandpa. I have no way of knowing if he survives, no way of knowing how he will die or what he will mean to humanity. I give myself a mission: no longer will I forget the sacrifices he made for me, no longer will I forget what every man and woman has given up to sustain my freedom. These thoughts plague me as we arrive at our last stop, the American Cemetery. I start to cry. So beautiful, yet so many graves. I have one in mind. The man I saw die in my flashback. Tears streaming down my face, I need to find him, to express to him that there was a purpose to his life. He transformed my life. Not only will he not be forgotten, but I will thank him and love him. And not just him. He stands for all those who paid the ultimate sacrifice. A sacrifice I have never understood and still can’t. But one I have begun to grasp now. I won’t close my ears to their calls for help, their calls to be respected and their sacrifices appreciated. I run through each row, trying to find his grave. The wind whips the tears from my face, battering my body and soul; I am not giving up that easily. 15 feet. 10 feet. 5 feet. I reach his tombstone. I know what he wants to hear — what he needs to hear. “Thank you.”
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
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Zoe Miller | Portrait of Zoe | 15 x 24 | Pen & Ink
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India Persson
at age six — i wanted to be grown up because they told me that i’d be great, that i’d have such a bright future, and i was so pretty.
at age nine — i wanted to be a dentist because they wanted me to be a doctor, but i didn’t like all the red inside, so i’d take the teeth as a compromise.
at age fifteen, i wanted to run a brothel because they thought it was funny — still do, but i wasn’t grown up yet, so i wanted the harem without the harem.
at age seventeen, i want to be a rapper (yeah yeah) because i wanted to wring them on 16 bars, but then i had no words because 17 years had given me nothing to say.
1 A reference to the protagonist of Scarface (1983) mentioned in or serving as the subject of many rap songs such as “Tony Montana” by Future, a track on August D’s mix tape titled “Tony Montana” featuring Yankie, and in Owen Ovadoz’s verse in “Eung Freestyle”
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Nikki Reinhardt | T h e Pain of Dance | 24 x 12 x 12 | Sculpture
I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to know why story-truth is truer sometimes than happening-truth.
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Emily Holtzman | Prisoner in the Board | 62 x 12 x 1 | Mixed Media
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O TO L SE
A MOCKINGBIRD
Mallory Evans
I
n seventh grade I wrote about my everyday hero, my dad. I idolized his wisdom and wit and depended on our constant friendship. In my mind everything he uttered was truth, and in my eyes he could do no wrong. He played the role of my dad, religious teacher, and academic mentor. Partners in crime, we hiked together, watched movies, and played video games and poker. An old soul with a pastor for a father, I engaged in dinner table debates with him that ranged from religion and philosophy to history and literature. I observed a shift in his behavior towards the end of seventh grade. He isolated himself from the rest of us, fixated to the computer screen. Instead of the inquisitive grin that greeted me after school, an averted gaze assumed its place. Wary, I avoided interactions, and our relationship suffered. I glimpsed a paranoid shadow who declared the rest of us “puppets in a play.” He questioned reality and faith and demanded to know “the truth.” I crept on eggshells and watched with dread as the Atticus Finch to my Scout distorted into an erratic stranger. Enraged, he spit insults like fire. Consequently, I drew inward and silenced myself. To him, money meant nothing, so he deserted his job. He drove for hours with neither sleep nor destination, and we lost communication for days on end. He experienced a bipolar break and suffered from schizophrenia yet refused to see any doctors. My mother and I endured the pandemonium alone. I’m the youngest with two brothers that left for college before I entered middle school. With no one else to confide in, my mother appointed me her personal advisor, and I juggled homework and home life. While other middle schoolers fretted over fitting in, I embraced my sobbing mother and concealed my grief. If I couldn’t bring him back nor magically save our financial situation, I could be there for my mom. I grew reclusive, retreating to my bedroom to escape the firestorm below. I suffered my first panic attack as an invisible force choked the air from my lungs. The tension between my father and me only widened with time. Frustrated with his inability to reason, I pleaded with him to return to preaching and act like my father again, but that conversation simply wound us in circles. He argued that I was born with a PhD in life but lost it.
“...the Atticus Finch to my Scout distorted into an erratic stranger.” “Mom, I want dad to leave.” Relief washed over me. My hands trembled as I freed the truth from its shackles inside me. No longer silent nor compliant, I proclaimed the words she needed to hear. My soul crawled out of a hidden corner because after endless darkness, I called for light. I realized that nobody could change him. As I gazed at my mother’s drained face, I knew she needed to start living again after two years of chaos. Soon, he drove off in his car to pursue the truth. Unemployed and unwilling to seek medical treatment, he lives out of his car and follows his spiritual journey. For years I struggled between shutting off contact with my father and talking on the phone. To lessen the pain, I pushed him from my thoughts like a distant memory, but the unhealed wounds festered as I ignored my emotions. The loss felt like a death, for the father I knew disappeared. While I often miss the father I cherished, I now answer his call every Sunday afternoon. I established the boundaries of our relationship and currently am the only person who stays in touch with him. We discuss my life and aspirations, and he listens. Gradually the relationship continues to heal, and I finally regained a sense of stability. I unearthed inner strength and matured to survive. I called for an end to the toxicity to preserve my sanity. I became my own hero.
“My soul crawled out of a hidden corner because after endless darkness, I called for LIGHT.”
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
CLARE DOWNEY
Mary Elizabeth Anderson | New Me | Digital Art
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T
he ping of a pocket sized Talthybius Brings news of hate and injustice. My burden is a pebble compared to the boulder they carry I want to help them shoulder the weight of what I don’t bear. I try to learn. I try to comprehend that
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onald Trump is our president. He was carried into the house on the back of a system That turned the majority into the minority Without the consent of the people that will live with the consequences of his actions Except those who vote with no regard for humanity, only for their wallets and their hymns. When the oval office welcomed him with open arms Sexism, racism, xenophobia, homophobia Took control.
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ears rolled down the faces of Those hoping to live out the American Dream When he slammed the door In their faces. Only that door knows my footprints and his.
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ur daughters and sisters and mothers Were belittled when our safety was diminished By a businessman on a bus. The mic was on; we all heard it. Held back by men who make decisions About our bodies based on their interpretation Of a book written 2000 years ago.
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hots rang again. Children on their way home from school and Men and women minding their own business Lived their last day in a world that never accepted them At the hands of a blue shirt and a badge And a leader who does nothing To reduce aggression towards them The face of the American Dream battered, Black and Blue.
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got lucky. But just because I don’t feel the pain doesn’t mean others don’t. So I try to learn. I try to empathize. he pendulum swings back, pervasive and wide. This is not the dream that King had in mind.
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
long distance Michael Quartapella
Jack Fernandez | Silhouettes | Photography 52
Passing horses roaming on acres of untouched farmland, up in a rainforest among the Blue Ridge Mountains, I run on the road long enough till asphalt turns to dirt. Trees become dense as I enter forest shade, leaving behind the flat, straight road in July. The ash-gray, clay trail shoots into changing sky. Rays warm my already sun-kissed skin, then cool, misty rain dances onto my lucky, teal running shirt. I catch glimpses of Lake Glenville through the trees on my right, its blue-green surface rippling in the light drizzle at the foot of the mountain. Raindrops patter on huge Red Oak leaves, reminding me of nights spent under a rusty tin roof, And of the musical sound it makes on a tent just above me. Past the lake is Cashiers High School miles below me, smaller than the specs of dust underneath the table saw my dad uses for our never ending canoe project. The undulating trail works my different muscles Until the sun breaks through the gray clouds, drying the hair matted on my forehead. Clouds disappear faster than they arrived, As a cardinal returns to its nest to feed its young, Chirping a song sweeter than the watermelon my brother and I eat on the dock over the glassy lake.
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Zoe Miller | Black Women Empowerment | 62 x 12 x 1 | Colored Pencil
Real Men Don’t Cry: Fighting Hypermasculinity and Bridging the Gap in Feminism Austin Fitzgerald
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The veritable elephant in the room — though invisible to most — is an issue screaming to be discussed. Feminism is a hot-button topic. It is defined as activism to reach a goal of equal rights for both men and women. We often focus on the negative effects of our patriarchal society on women since they are numerous and widespread. Women from all walks of life face issues ranging from the wage gap to rape culture. However, what are the negative effects on men in this misogynistic culture, and what can intersectional feminists do to promote positive change for all people? These questions simmered in my head after watching the documentary The Mask You Live In, which brings to light the detrimental effects on men from our societal expectations of masculinity. The film showed how in America young men are groomed to suppress emotions except ones which convey machismo. Our hyper-masculine societal expectations tell boys not to cry or show weakness, to take criticism and deal with it “like a man” and to look
friends, when dealing with a difficult situation at home, told me on the phone afterwards that while he felt like crying he simply could not because he was a man, and that wasn’t manly. Instead, he yelled and stormed out of his house. A relative of mine refers to girls as “hoes” and talks about their bodies in a vulgar manner because, “That’s what Lil Pump does!” So why is this topic so under-discussed? When speaking about feminism, there are typically two opposing sides to the discussion. The first is that of the feminist who believes in fighting for equal rights for all people but tending to focus on the discrimination and issues women face because of their gender. The second is the side of the ultra-macho meninists who do not recognize the privilege of men and believe they have it the hardest and face discrimination based purely on their gender. Because the side of the feminist as an advocate for women’s rights is one that stands for equality, it is what the discourse typically centers around but can
and act tough. This mindset creates humans who deal with their pain in harmful ways. One of these masks is evident in emotional health issues. While some girls experiencing depression might become reclusive or sometimes cry because it is socially acceptable, some young boys might cover their emotions of sadness with a mask of anger or violence instead. Another example of how boys and men don their masks is how the media feeds them the idea that women are objects and that to be a truly masculine man, you must treat them as such. This rationale contributes to the problem of rape culture. But can the blame really be put solely on these boys’ shoulders when they are constantly bombarded with sensory images enabling them to objectify women? This behavior is also fostered by parent-child relationships handed down through generations and cultivated by siblings, coaches, and mentors. As I think about the males in my life, I find this social issue to be frighteningly true. One of my best
stifle educational conversation about how feminism can expand to males as well. Often we do not hear about the negative effects of patriarchy on boys because of the overwhelming number of effects on women, or we do not bring up the topic for fear of being labeled the coldhearted, heinous meninist. Discussing this unpopular topic (not to ensure victory, but simply to learn) helped me to discover new truths and expand my own role as an intersectional feminist. Having this discussion more often, even if it may seem uncomfortable, will result in progress to help erase the negative effects of the patriarchy and even the patriarchy itself. We all must join in this discussion and act to create a society in which young men are allowed to define their own forms of masculinity. Hopefully, it will someday be considered masculine to see women as more than just sexual objects, and males will be allowed to fully explore every part of their own emotional capacity and identity. Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Isabel Crews | Blank Faces | Photography
La Biblioteca Emma Gerden
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push my hands deep into my pockets, walking quickly down the sidewalk. The sky is a darkened gray, bruised clouds gathering overhead, and pale streetlights begin to flicker
on. I shift my heavy backpack on my shoulders and breathe in the thick scent of gas and smoke and rain. A siren goes off somewhere in the distance, and the scream echoes through cramped blocks. That noise has always scared me. The neighborhood library is never busy: a small concrete building, paint chipping off the walls, the exterior so bare it really could’ve been a prison. But the inside is warm and welcoming, rows of old encyclopedias and picture books and magazines and faded bean bag chairs, washed over by yellow lamps. The wind makes me shiver, and I hurry to the front doors. It’s not too busy inside; a few middle school kids, an old man, the kind librarian, and my mother. She’s sitting where we always sit, at the small table pushed against the window, right beside the picture book section. I slide my backpack to the ground and sit across from her, catching a whiff of her perfume among the backdrop of books and pencil shavings. “Hi,” she says. “Hi, Mom.” She smiles at me, her lipstick faded, her skin wrinkled and tired, a uniform under her purple raincoat. She took a second job a couple months ago. I hate the game we play, the schedule we dance around, the way we don’t know what free time feels like. She slides the textbook across the table to me. Its pages are worn, the cover cracked and bruised, a smiling white student on the front. I flip open to the page we left off on yesterday. “I will go to the grocery store,” I say, my
“Paint chipping off the walls, the exterior so bare it really could’ve been a prison.”
“She smiles at me,
her lipstick faded, her skin wrinkled and tired, a uniform under her purple raincoat.” index finger pressed against a row of words. “I will go to the grocery store,” she repeats. “I will go to the laundromat.” “I will go to the laundromat.” We continue down the list. Her words are tainted with an accent. She rubs her fingers together in concentration, and I know she’s trying. After a little while, I glance at the clock that hangs on the wall. “Casi es hora de salir — ” “English,” she says. I wish anger didn’t know how to spark in my chest. But it does. Thunder cracks and rain begins to pour from the sky, streaming down the glass. I glance out towards the street, distorted against the veil of dripping water. I say, “It’s time to go.” Her face falls subtly. What does she want me to say? She has a job to work and I have homework to do, and little siblings to feed, and sleep to toy with. “Little more, Santiago,” she says, and rubs her face tiredly. Her skin is brown like mine, and her heavy eyes flicker down to the textbook. “I like apples. I do not like apples.” I flip the page, clearing my throat. I want to scream. I want to take a hot shower and let the warm water stream down my back for hours. I want to shout, What’s the point? I think of the nonexistent documents that we own. Sometimes, I want to cry. My finger slides down the textbook page. “Do you like oranges?” I ask. “Yes, I like oranges,” says my mother, and she smiles. Outside, thunder rumbles. Blue Review Vol. XXIV
domesticity Mallory Evans and Grace Works
How To Be the Perfect Wife: the Good Housewife’s Guide (This is in audio form because reading is not for you, No need to strain your brain on books when you could be cleaning the kitchen) Step One: Always look your best Fresh, youthful, and glowing Skin smooth as satin and hair as shiny as gleaming gemstones Plaster on your smile after smearing on lipstick Paint your face with makeup to conceal those dark circles and bags underneath your eyes that whisper how being the good wife isn’t easy But you cannot let anyone know that it isn’t easy Fill in your insecurities with Botox and pump up your lips with your husband’s credit card Easy, breezy, beautiful, Domesticity Step Two: Scrub, Sweep, Sew Iron away any uncertainty and unhappiness Don’t question whether there’s more to you than carpool lines and laundry baskets Stitch together each moment of loneliness Make your bed with poise and perfection Okay, so maybe the washing machine is your closest friend, but Remember, the good housewife never complains At least you have tennis with the ladies and can gossip about Susan whose only companion is her fat tabby cat Step Three: Have a decadent dinner on the table when he gets home For the kitchen is your sphere, Not the classroom With the cookbook as your textbook, You’re sure to receive a top grade from your hungry husband Measure out each ingredient One cup, Two tablespoons, and Heat the oven to 350 58
Good thing you aced algebra Avert your gaze as dust accumulates on that Masters degree Hey, at least it helped you meet him! Later, give your husband time to watch sports Place a beer in his hand and give him space After all you’ve had the day off, he’s the one who worked all day Step Four: The kids should be your pride, joy and top priority It is your duty to shape them into respectable human beings After all, motherhood is your sole purpose in life The more kids the better! God forbid you ever need help caring for them Hiring a nanny is a sin and shows you are unfit to be a mother Step Five: Don’t be too showy, gaudy, or anything in between Class is key That means enough cleavage to dazzle his golf buddies, But not too much, you don’t want to look like a stripper he picked up off the streets You should be the trophy every man aspires to have But remember your husband is the one who won you Your body is for him and him alone His wish is your command Forget your day of cleaning and cooking, your husband is always entitled to you Look at all he’s done for you! Your house, those new shoes you bought last week You owe him this It’s the least you can do to repay him Always remember the job’s never finished So try to ignore that indescribable feeling that something’s missing The feminine mystique
Emily Holtzman | Atomic Spin | 13 x 13.5 | Colored Pencil
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Annabelle Oates | Party Horse | 21 x 25 | Chalk Pastel 60
“Luna” Before my bed there is bright moonlight So that it seems Like frost on the ground. Lifting my head I watch the bright moon, Lowering my head I dream that I’m home.
T
— from Quiet Night Thoughts by Li Po
he night closed the curtain of the sky, leaving out few stars and a bright moon to guide the sleepwalkers. The wind slowly flew under the sky, kissing everyone good night. I sat on the front porch looking up at the sky. The moon was clear, but not quite; the gray areas covered up some of the moon’s smooth skin, stimulating human’s curiosity to explore the space. At the peaceful night, everyone else seems to be tired. I look around; the neighborhood falls into its tranquil dream. Even the lawn in front of me slowly lowered its head, and I could hear its breath getting slower. People fail to remember the beauty of nature, just like they tend to forget those off-Broadway shows. But as a gentle human being, I decided to cherish this wonderful opportunity and have a cup of coffee with my old friend, the moon. I started to imagine. On the other side of the
“S
he looks up at the sky, missing her daughter
”
world, China, my mom just wakes up, makes her bed, puts up the curtain, and lets sunshine sneak into our house. She looks up the sky, missing her daughter. My dad sits in the living room, watching daily news while eating his new breakfast invention. Since my dad owns a Chinese restaurant, he always wants to discover delicious food. But just like scientific experiments, there’s a chance to fail, and I become the victim of disgusting food. My parents celebrate the day, while I guide the night, teamwork.
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
I am a foreigner in America. My life here looks similar to the one I had in China, though everything is actually different. My cousin Tina asked me how I felt being a foreigner in a foreign country. I don’t actually know. Sometimes I wonder why I am even here. Back when I was young, I lived in a peaceful city called Nanning, which means “southern tranquility”. People always call it the green city, 22° 49’ 0” N, 108° 19’ 0” E, making the temperature perfect for every tree to live. When I was young, I read literature that described the snowflakes in the winter, and I always wondered how it felt; outside of my window in the winter, the trees were still as green as they shone in the spring. My hometown is not like Shanghai or Beijing, where foreigners have their own place. I remember at one point we had an English teacher from Great Britain. When he walked down the street, everyone turned his or her attention to him. Most of these
“A
we laughed together and hid secrets from our parents. During the mid-autumn festival, we decided to go down to the lake and to view the perfect round moon. The lake was a sleeping mirror at night, reflecting the moonlight and people’s smiley faces on its smooth skin. Around the lake was a broad lawn which extends to the edge of the world and the extensive green has no ends. Just like our life, although we will die one day, hopefully our memory and influence will extend to the future. My cousins and I found a place to lie down. Above us, it was the sky without edge; under us, it was the green without boundary. We are just tiny passengers in the world, enjoying the never ending blanket embracing us. The moon was bright and round; around it, few stars guarded the innocence of the moon. According to the Chinese lunar calendar, the moon is at its brightest and roundest time on the fifteenth of August, the same day as the mid-autumn
bove me,
innocent civilians, just like the young me, had never seen a person with such white skin, tall nose and light colored hair before. I was curious what he, as a foreigner, would think of the moon, so I decided to test it out. By being a foreigner in a foreign country, I might be able to understand his feelings. Here I am. People ask me why I am here. As time passes by, I forget the answer. It might be for a dream, a distant and untouchable dream. I look up to the moon, and the moon kindly smiles. Just like guiding the sleepwalkers, the moon tries to guide me through my confusion. I remember I have looked up to the moon like this before. I was in my last year in middle school. My cousin Jun, a naughty but handsome guy, was in his junior year in high school. My other cousin, Tina, was in her last year of college. We were the stable triangle; 62
festival. Chinese ancestors didn’t have enough scientific knowledge to understand why the moon is bright, but they thought the moon is divine. On that day, family will gather around and eat moon cake, the round representation of the moon. So we did. We sat in a circle, generally talking about life. I was about to depart to America, Jun was applying to college and Tina was looking for internships. None of us knew what would happen in our lives. We all had dreams, although we weren’t sure if they would come true. Tina loves animals, and she wanted to be a biologist. Jun is good at math, and he dreamed of STEM majors. I am fascinated by languages (yue, la lune, mond), and my goal was to learn six languages before I die. Although our parents might not agree with our decisions, we still got enough support to start off on our journeys. We had access to internet,
library resources, schools and even social networks. On the other hand, the enormous amount of information in the city sometimes blurs our focus. Under the system, older people told us to work in a specific field because it provides higher income. The moon just smiled at us. For the moon, we were too young, too naive; when the moon guarded us, it understood that all dreams come down to a naive but thoughtful idea and a forever-lasting effort. That night, we peeled an orange, ate the fruit part and wrapped the orange skin around a candle. Through this process, we made an orange light and sent it off on the lake. As the water slowly moved forward, the light, just like our dreams, sailed to the unknown. I drink a little bit of my coffee, putting it back on the table next to the couch. The moon gladly recalled that memory with me. “So what happened to the light?” I asked the
the moon
lack of resources, their academic skills were not as refined as their peers’ in the city, but their passion to learn was not less than ours. When I talked to Lin, a local kid who worked for the grocery shop we stopped by, I felt closer to my heart. He told me his passion of biking, and that he imagined to bike in Tibet one day. He knew he faced many difficulties, but he wanted to conquer them and chase his unshakable belief. The moon told me that during mid-autumn festival, Lin also sent off his orange light. Hoping his dream will come true, he even sculptured a bike figure on his orange light. Although Lin had a harder time gathering his biking equipment, the moon above him is as round and bright as the one in the city, representing equality. I finished my coffee and put aside the cup; then I looked up to the moon again. Sometimes I wonder if all the answers to my questions are hidden in the moon, hidden in those gray areas on the surface.
”
was smiling...
moon. “Well,” the moon said. “You were not the only ones who sent off the light. ” Last summer I went back to China, and my parents took me to a typical Chinese village about two hours from my hometown. People’s lives are simple and joyful there. Without the strong competitions in the city, people live according to the sunrise and sunset. They feed their stocks and grow rice and vegetables to eat. Compared to people in the city these villagers are poorer, but they are the most amiable people I’ve ever known. Kids there were less educated; when they finish secondary school, they go back home to help out family farms. Most of the primary and secondary tuition is covered by the government, but the textbook and living expenses still prohibit many teenagers from pursuing their education. Due to the
The wind blew, and the clouds walked away from the moon. Gradually, the moon grew brighter. I walked to the front lawn, lying down on the grass. There, I thought I was back to the same green that my cousins and I used to lie on. Above me, the stars and the moon still guarded the sky. While everyone was asleep, these stars maintained the peace for our Mother-Earth. The neighborhood was extremely quiet. Even the wind tried to walk slowly in order not to wake up the sleeping babies. I closed my eyes, turning around and cuddling with nature. I felt the wind slowly kissing my cheek with its wishes and love. Above me the moon was smiling, guarding the dreams of every believer, letting them fall asleep in its arms. This is probably why I came over: to feel the different soil, but to look up to the same moon. Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Emily Holtzman | Aura | 40 x 30 | Acrylic
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carpenter Abby Carpenter
Bombarding with its screeching ring The iPhone illuminates my tired face My eyelids struggle to open until I startle at reading 7:00 AM sharp beside my bed L’Oreal and Cover Fx first because I can’t look natural Miss Manga on Miss Manga to build up thin lashes Amazonian Clay on Amazonian Clay because no shine no glow Fill in the brows by the blueprint Plug in the straightener because my hair should be straight I’m white My hair being steamed under the CHI Is it perfectly level Any bumps any kinks Grab the 7 jeans Frye boots and chunky sweater laid out Put the pieces together like a Lego set This does not look as good as I thought Not like the picture Change once change twice I guess no time for Frosted Mini Wheats or warm coffee Dart out the back door and down the cobblestone steps Is it me who cares Or is it all to please the men That make me walk faster on the streets That make me pull up my shirt to cover up That make me feel the need to carry pepper spray That make me afraid to take an Uber alone That make me question friendly strangers If only I was just a carpenter
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riggered.” The word blares through my head and I roll my eyes. Maybe someone in my history class made a comment I disagree with, began chanting for Trump in the cafeteria, or cracked a “harmless” sexist joke. Many people will dismiss what I’m saying because I am unapologetically liberal. I’m certain some students reading this are already thinking of the perfect snarky comment to say the next time they see me in class. The problem with their eagerness to throw these comments at me is the blatant offense to my basic human decency; the issue isn’t my political beliefs. I’m not being a “crybaby” or a “snowflake” when I hear a male student say, “Most of those [rape] cases are just drunk
Lib
girls at frat parties” after reading my article where I stated the fact that one in five girls will face sexual assault in their lifetimes. Those people are right when they say comments like those get under my skin, but no matter your political beliefs everyone should be bothered by the shaming of rape victims. Being as outspoken as I am, everyone knows how I would respond. This isn’t unusual for me. I experience such situations constantly, and I know that it’s purely because hiding my emotions is impossible. If I just kept my mouth shut, I might be able to avoid their taunting. I don’t put up with offensive jokes because I feel that even minor witticisms contribute to the oppression of large groups by normalizing and trivializing major issues. However, it isn’t the boys who yell “triggered” when I attempt to offer reasonable counter evidence to their jokes that concern me as much as the people who respond to my articles with startling comments. Now let’s go back to that ‘drunk girls at frat parties’ comment. At most that boy received a few harsh glances from some of the girls who heard it, but no one ever corrected him for it. The ignorance in his statement was the reason I wanted to write articles like that one. I don’t want to live in a world where boys walk around with the mentality that rape doesn’t happen, isn’t a real issue, or the victims are to blame. Regardless of political affiliation, all people should condemn this kind of thinking. Maybe people see me as placing myself on a moral high ground; however, I feel that someone needs to speak up, and I’ve chosen to write articles in order to do so. Through writing these pieces, I channeled my passion
era
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that will hopefully impact people. Unfortunately, the loudest reaction to these writings come from those who disagree with what I say. In the spring of freshman year, I wrote about what I perceived to be a non-partisan issue: the dress code. I explained the sexism that is promoted through the it. I remember seeing boys gather around the article joking and saying things like, “Well, I’d appreciate it if girls wore shorter shorts.” One boy came up to me, hiked up his shorts, and said, “Does this make you mad, Chiara? Should I be dresscoded for it?” I feel strongly that schools shouldn’t promote sexism, and it is my opinion that the dress code contributes to it. I didn’t understand why this issue could become so trivialized. I don’t believe that boy truly cared in the slightest about the dress code, but he wanted a laugh. While there were many people who did react negatively to what I said and wrote the more I spoke out, the more people I heard praising what I did. My dress code article, for instance — while no action was taken by administration, it did raise girls’ voices on the sexism that is embedded in the code. I know from conversations with other girls that they agreed and were glad to finally hear someone say something about it. When people reached out to me to let me know they liked my articles (whether they agree with my stances or not) it made me feel that I’ve reached someone in a positive way. Most people like to believe because we belong to a private school that we live in a perfect, accepting community; however, I do think that there
at
remains a lack of understanding between both sides of the political spectrum. We are so quick to throw a label on and disregard someone if their beliefs differ from our own. It’s far easier to shout “triggered” when someone reacts harshly to a sexist joke and for those offended by these jokes to have an initial reaction that might be to call them “privileged white boys”. While our impulsive reactions momentarily feel good, they
n i t a L Chiara Evans
won’t inspire any sort of positive change. I can’t persuade everyone to believe what I believe. To try would be a waste of time, but I will never live my life in a way where I ignore real problems. I’m not sure when being a liberal meant caring about human issues, but if there’s one thing I hope to change it is that both sides of the political spectrum will be able to care about and actively tackle human issues. After all, decency and kindness should be characteristics republicans and democrats alike embrace.
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Emily Holtzman | Flower Boy | 35 x 39 | Acrylic 68
amor fati India Persson
her eyelashes fluttered the way butterflies settle on petals, softly, slowly : and her eyes — oh, her eyes — they were filled with stars and storms two nuclei, two selves, the beloved (and) lover.
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Dominique Martin | Electric Tree | Digital Art
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here was a commotion among the townspeople. Quarreling was common during the dry season, for resources were low and people were often forced to share and conserve. But this was different. “Are you a dang idiot? We build like that an the whole town’s goin swimmin!” exclaimed a prominent figure in the community known as Cooter. “I do this for a livin! I know howta build a dam,” said Elrod, one of the town’s best carpenters. “I ain’t puttin’ up witcho bull today.” The small community of six-hundred or so men, women, and children was led by a man named Clyde, and he assigned each person to a specific job in order to benefit all. Farmers for produce, seamstresses for clothing, blacksmiths for tools, carpenters for shelter, and so on. The townspeople had been thriving for hundreds of years, living off of and giving back to the land. Their previous village had been burnt to the ground the month prior, nothing but ashes, scorched earth, and sad excuses for trees were left behind, so Clyde insisted they move. A handful of the dwellers protested, but Clyde insisted it was for the best. Several of the farmers in the town had been watching a plot of land. During the dry season, it was healthy and plentiful and the soil rich as gold, but during the rainy season a massive river stretched its legs over the land. Legendary for its power and godlike strength, the river had reigned over the land for thousands of years, never ceasing to reappear in the same place yearly. It was as wide as the tallest trees were tall and when angry, its waves could demolish the boulders stationed in the mildest of the waters. During rainy season, it served as the central resource for this neck of the woods; the animals, the plants, the trees depended upon it for nourishment. Seemingly every species of North American trout, salmon, and bass thrived beneath the waters, for its depths could have Blue Review Vol. XXIV
been as vast as the ocean. The impressive body of water dictated all that lived in, among, and around it. This information of the hallowed plot was brought to Clyde, and he concocted a plan. For many weeks, the townspeople would work together to construct a levee to keep the river off rich soil during the wet season so the town could prosper off the land. Food was running short and the rainy season was on their doorstep, so the townspeople had no choice but to work together and work quickly. On this particular day the food was particularly short, the weather was particularly hot, and the people were particularly impatient.
A fight had broken between a carpenter lumberjack. At first they
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ground. Infuriated at the fighting and for it preventing work from getting done, Clyde began to make his way towards the crowd. But he was stopped short. A nearby forest dweller, a wrinkly old woman, heard the commotion and her interest was piqued. She watched the townspeople for some time and upon realizing their intentions, began to hobble towards Clyde. “You mustn’t build there. The river is far too long and you must move before it is too late.” “M’apologies, ma’am, for the ruckus, but we have this here dam under control. We’ve got the best dam builders around and even a river like this ‘un won’t stand a chance against my boys and they build’n,” he almost chuckled under his breath. out “Do as you please,” the old woman sighed in and a resignation, hobbling back to her sanctuary in the forest. She had seen many wet seasons and many commenced dry seasons and knew the river as her neighbor. She
White, foaming water
barreled through
a quiet discussion regarding which type of wood would best suit the supports for the levee, but neither would consent to back down. As the bickering escalated, onlookers and workers divided themselves to sides of the argument. A wayward man named Bucket, who had sided with Elrod, stepped in and threw a punch right into Cooter’s nose. “Oh, yer going straight tuh hell when I’m through witchu,” growled Cooter, clutching his gushing nose. He attempted to swing back but already handicapped, he was easily shoved to the 72
knew how the vigorous waves could dominate their surroundings and how the robust and mighty waters could force themselves over any obstacles. Sheer manpower was simply not enough to cease the flow of the authority of such a river. Many months passed, the levee was constructed, and houses were built. The town flourished in its new location. The speed at which the people erected an entire town was impossibly impressive, almost a miracle. The soil produced
new crops unable to be grown previously and the trees nearby provided for stronger materials for houses and buildings. Every person in the town enjoyed a spacious home and full-course meals, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The wet season approached, and the river lapped up against the levee, growing wider and deeper and stronger day by day, but it remained contained. The town was as rich as gold. Clyde, now elected mayor due to his leadership and wisdom for moving the town, thought again of the silly old woman, and he chuckled again to himself, even more confident in his intelligence. Sure the river was powerful, but he was even more. The rainy season had persisted for an odd number of weeks now with bearable showers and scattered storms. That night, the rain was to die down, but a peculiar noise kept Clyde’s eyes open. Was that — creaking? He thought to himself. No, it couldn’t be — but yes, it had to be. It was loud and ominous and could not possibly be ignored. The mayor peeled back his satin curtains and peered out into the darkness in the direction of the levee. The river had reached close to the top of the levee (and had been competing with it for a week or so), but the dam was as sturdy as can be. Just as he expected. Of course the old woman was wrong, he assumed. She lived in the woods! What could she
Yet he was once again awoken by a dangerous noise. Only this time, it was on his doorstep. His eyes flew open just in time to catch a glimpse of the wooden planks that comprised his walls snapping in half like twigs and barreling towards him at an impossible speed. And that was it. The treacherous waves of the imprisoned river ripped through the town with no mercy. Like a vertical waterfall, the river plummeted through the measly levee. The luxurious houses became driftwood and the prospering crops swam from their plots with unmeasured speed and aggression. The townspeople only had a second’s warning before they, too, were ripped from their sleep and never seen again. Swept right off their feet before a thought could be rendered or a word could be muttered or a scream could be hollered. A rumbling like that of a massive earthquake permeated the night sky and the ground violently
the town and back into the
forest
possibly know about building a levee. And besides, this dam was impenetrable. The orders had been executed by him, so it had to be. He wasn’t going to let some brook strip him of his power. Once he had reassured himself of his superior wisdom and his confidence was restored, he pulled back the curtains and went to sleep.
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vibrated with the crash of the waters. White, foaming waves barreled through the town and back into the forest as far as the east is from the west, taking every last reminiscence of the quaint town with it. It was as if God himself flushed these people from the face of the Earth. The next morning, the old woman returned to her usual fishing spot and perched herself on the banks of the enormous but still river. Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Black Reflection Ashton Barlow
Sideways, we walked sideways Up the slanted, creaky stairs The air suffocating, stealing the air. Sent to find the quilted star blanket Stumbling across something, someone More than her simple stitchwork. First day of July on Boulder Island, We’d always known the myth, The myth of the girl in the empty attic Above the kitchen house. We never believed it until now. Partly hidden behind a beam, Her back turned away from Andrew and me. The white light illuminating her white t-shirt, Reflecting off the antiqued mirror in the corner. Sinking away, closer to the mirror Her brown eyes met my blue.
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Martha Elizabeth Watson | Helping Hand | 10.5 x 5.5 x 11.5 | Sculpture
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Ella Lavelle | Serpent | Digital Art
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morality’s
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Gracie Matthews
Money speaks, its tongue scaly and slith’ring curved and slides around society’s rocks, Morality and Law. It glides toward the ears and minds of powerful elite and swathes the cogs of favor with pecuniary grease. Power speaks, in honeyed tones and sugared flourishes saccharine sweet, it flatters yet is laced with poisoned threat. It gleans partiality in once decent enterprise and tramples with a knowing grin the average person’s prize. When was it that morality did slip so fully from the public heart and wither in the grasp of those who have so much to start?
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
agen She. Her. Ma’am. Miss. Girl. Why does this bother me so much? Why does this feel so awkward and uncomfortable now? I don’t remember feeling this way before. Ever since grade school, the world was set in stone. Girls went to one side, boys to another. Girls are like this, and boys are like that. And that’s how it was. Gender was decided, biological, destined. Everything was gendered from clothes to toys, and that was the way it was. I saw no reason to question it or want it to change. I was a girl. But deep down, I feel I knew that something felt strange about saying it. Like ‘girl’ was a foreign word I didn’t know how to pronounce. I felt detached and separate from this label encumbered by a multitude of stereotypes. Even saying it aloud to myself, ‘I am a girl,’ felt wrong to me. It wasn’t that I hated women. I was a feminist before I knew the term. It just felt wrong to call myself one. For a very long time, I considered this the norm. The world is a strange, weird and uncomfortable place, so it felt like it must be normal that being uncomfortable with your gender label would be uncomfortable too. So for a very long time, I ignored what I was feeling. Let my parents call me their daughter, friends say ‘hey girl’ when approaching, and the store clerk call me ma’am. The world is full of uncomfortable situations. This is just another one. Right? Wait a minute. There are other options? Surprisingly and strangely enough, hearing a single phrase made something click in my brain. At our first 78
diversity club meeting of the year, they were asking questions and whether you agree or disagree. And once I heard it, I went to the “unsure” area. Because I wasn’t sure. I had never considered the options of nonbinary gender identities, but I felt ready to at least try. About five minutes in, I quickly realized that being uncomfortable with your gender label is definitely not something everyone experiences. And after a lot of searching and jumping back and forth, I settled on my identity. Nonbinary agender, I’m neither a man nor a woman and I don’t have a gender. Unfortunately, the comfort I felt by figuring myself out was quite short-lived. This was more than a skirmish; this battle was an uphill climb. I knew I wanted to be called by they/them pronouns and a name change was very prevalent in the back of my mind. It seemed fast-paced, but I had never felt so pleased before with who I was as a person. So I did the only thing I knew to do. I started coming out. “I always knew, it was obvious.” Um...How? “What do you mean you’re not a girl? You’re my daughter.” Uh... “So you’re a boy?” Erm, no. “So you’re gay.” Gender and sexuality are different, my gender identity doesn’t indicate my sexual orientation. Misconceptions I was prepared for, and I was definitely over-prepared for negative reactions. At my
nder Gray Cacheris
conservative bubble of a private school, I assumed the administration had transcribed transphobia into the honor code itself. But the reactions for the most part were overwhelmingly positive. The validation I got, that most trans people can only dream about getting, was exhilarating. I was okay, I was here, I could be myself. My journey isn’t finished. I wear a binder until I can pay for top surgery, and I’m considering going on hormones. I know as a trans individual I don’t have to transition, but it’s what I’d like to do. This journey has been deeply personal and eye-opening and although it was difficult to understand and come to terms with my identity, I would gladly do it all over again.
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I was okay, I was here, and I could be myself.
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Gray Cacheris | Nonbinary | Digital Art
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COLD december morning Emma Gerden
Inside a classroom, pens scratch on loose-leafed paper. Heads are slumped against hands, eyes flickering from the whiteboard to desks, and the teacher paces the front of the room. The air smells of pencil shavings and rubber erasers, and the sharp, cool scent of spearmint gum. Textbook pages are flipped, dry-erase markers squeak against the board, and throats are cleared. Above the door, a simple clock ticks. The first gunshot goes off. The teacher freezes, marker pressed mid-sentence, and tightly-grasped pens hover above notes. The silence is deafening, ringing, heavy. Outside the window, a tree shivers in the wind. Hearts beat under sweaters. Maybe it was
Cecelia Berens | Jack | 12 x 20 | Mixed Media 80
a dropped textbook, the slam echoing against faded lockers, down hallways filtered by light particles. A second shot goes off and it is clear now, what it is, and panic begins to bubble like foam at the mouth. Voices whisper harshly, chairs scrape back against the floor, and pens roll loudly across desks, clattering to the ground. The teacher sets down the marker gingerly, like it’s made of glass, and glances towards the intercom as if the voice of God will crackle through. No one clicks on. From a neighboring classroom, someone screams, and fear hardens into veins like lead. How ironic, this place to die, a shadow sinking over a poster of the United States Constitution.
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
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Abby Adams | Birth of Color |24 x 14 x 6 | Sculpture
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Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Emma Martin | Pansy Flowers | 13 x 9 | Watercolor
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Marie Lauren Williams
We picked the light green pears from trees near the creek And swung from the low branches that made our hands tough The cool Michigan air brought a swarm of mosquitoes rising from the grass Biting up our sun kissed arms and legs But we didn’t mind Hot pink sparkly sneakers Black patent leather sandals Dancing into the grassy field Looking for the green flash where the sun hits the horizon When the myth we believed belonged to us The way your hand fit like a puzzle piece in mine Collecting the parts to make this now intangible place ours Again pulling me along through our Backyard World Far apart from the deteriorating city nearby We crossed the foggy creek Taking a leap of faith to make it to the other side Peeking down at the families of tadpoles making this nameless creek their home While the sweet pear juice poured on our lips and chin And fireflies and paintings drifted across the night sky in July
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Lindsay Robelen | Puckerface | Printmaking
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t’s just past 2:00 on a Wednesday afternoon at Olde Providence Elementary. My scrawny figure hides behind a plastic rock. My heavy brown eyes occasionally peer out from behind the rock to survey my surroundings. As I sit curled up in a tiny ball, I enviously watch a flock of girls snickering obnoxiously at Smiley Riley’s failed attempt to swing the hula hoop around her neck. Their uncontrollable laughter reminds me of the time when The Powerpuff Girls giggled non-stop at Blossom’s fruitless effort to be as tough and as strong as Buttercup. Soon a dose of reality slapped me across the face as I realized everyone, even the weird kid Dylan, belonged to a circle except for me. Each circle carried a certain trademark with them as if it were a faction. Unfortunately, the “painfully
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Hairy Mess
Lily Farr
shy new girl” charm drowned out in the horde of Polly Pocket fascists and tree climbers. I lived with the factionless and needed a way out. Right when the piercing sound from the bell reached my ears, I rushed home to craft the perfect remedy for my factionlessness. It was vital that I bring something big to the table to capture everyone’s attention, so I cooked up the most logical scheme: I would tell people’s prophecy by eating their hair. People love knowing what the future holds for them, right? So why not invent a new, intriguing way of fortune-telling by eating people’s hair instead? With that idea stored in mind, the next day I strutted onto the playground sporting a new pink polka-dotted romper with my pigtails tightly secured next to my
ears. I knew what I had to do. I ditched the “shy-new-girl” look and headed for a dangerous place only the “elites” knew about: the swings. As I climbed onto the swing, air thick with arrogance, I spotted multiple beady-eyed snakes glaring at me. However, my determination pushed the stares aside, and I ripped a golden strand from my scalp. As I stared at the yellow thread like a biologist studying a terminal illness, one of the cold-blooded snakes slithered up to the rusty, tattered swing where I sat. I met her beady, green eyes and gasped, “You didn’t know I used hair to predict the future? You see, I just predicted that you would come up to me.” I smirked as I held the piece of hair up to her face. She gawked at me as if I were holding the newest My Little Pony figurine. Awestruck, she bolted to her friends to announce the exciting news and proceeded to bring them to me, the budding new prophet. I led them to my magic lair underneath the playground. Apparently word spreads fast on the playground, and within the blink of an eye, a sea of impatient third graders encompassed me. My first customer, Clare, also known as Clarebear, handed me one delicate, crimson strand plucked and ready for inspection. As I swirled the scarlet lock between my fingers, I licked my lips, contemplating when to take the first bite. I noticed a couple of boys rubbing their hands together, unable to sit still. While others narrowed their eyes in cautious skepticism, the pressure slowly crawled up my body, suffocating me. Finally, after a long, deadly silence, I jammed the piece of hair into my mouth. I immediately bit my lip to stop the gag that rolled from the back of my throat. “Mmmm, your hair has a hint of strawberry and tells me that you will gain a new friend in the near future,” I declared. “OMG, you must be my new friend!” screamed Clare. A gasp erupted from the crowd. Myth became fact: I could tell people’s prophecies. As Clare and I skipped through the crowd, I realized that my spectators sat jaw-slacked with awestruck fascination. After a couple of seconds their brows unfurrowed, and they clapped their hands together. When Clare and I neared the swings, she pulled me away from the group and ordered, “If you wanna stay in this group, you are going to have to read my prophecy once a day, even if all that hair makes you sick.” Despite her harshness, my smile stretched from
ear to ear. I was in. For the rest of the day, wannabe Strawberry Shortcakes and Tinker Bells clustered around me, for I possessed a new, magical power. The line for my services wrapped around the playground and back. In this moment, I felt like the Cheetah Girls had just welcomed me into their clique. Nevertheless, this short-lived fame met a tragic demise thanks to the infamous Fatty Matty. The next day, nearing the front of the line I caught sight of Matt, the meanest meanie of all time. I knew I had two options: give him what he deserved or just give him an average prediction and move on. When he finally reached the front of the line, he stomped toward me with a clenched jaw. His breath reeked of peanut-butter crackers and stale milk. He pushed his greasy, black hair into my dainty hands and demanded his prophecy be told. I eyed the piece of hair up and down and finally retorted, “Your future is soooo bad that I can’t even eat your hair. It looks like you are going to get hit by a bus soon.” The entire class howled with laughter and before I could enjoy my small victory, Matt darted out of the hideout and raced to the teacher. While I frantically searched for a place to hide, Mrs. Gibbs grabbed my hand with a tight grip and pointed firmly at me, “I don’t want to see, hear, or even think about whatever nonsense you have cooked up here. It ends now.” Shaking from embarrassment and shock, I glanced around to find that everyone had gone back to their circles. So I dashed to my new squad, ready to rant about the audacity of my teacher. However, as I tried to join my posse, Clare and her little worshipers turned their backs on me and tightened the circle. I caught their leader crinkling her nose as she muttered to her acolytes, “What good is she if she can’t tell prophecies anymore? I guess she’s back to being a nobody.” Her nasty words cut into me like a dagger and sent me into panic mode. I glanced around desperately, trying to find a friendly face, but everyone avoided looking my way, afraid that by making eye contact with me I would infect them with the social pariah virus. I noticed a couple kids giving me the “I told you so” look while others simply shrugged and turned away from me. I finally surrendered to my class and decided to visit an old friend. After I trudged through the angry mob of eight-year-olds, the plastic rock greeted me excitedly with a freshly-cut patch of grass to sit on. Blinking back hot tears I accepted the offer, crouched down, and surveyed the playground once again. Blue Review Vol. XXIV
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hen people ask me why I can’t just keep my room clean, I respond with: “I’m busy. Stop asking me questions.” The stern nature scares them. Just leave me alone, I think, Stop making me feel like an ant in your kingdom. But then I begin to think, why do I always start the week being able to see my floor, then, by the end, I open my door to find myself in a sea of clothes, papers, and miscellaneous pens? I tell myself that it isn’t my fault I can’t control how my teachers continuously drop boulders on me. I can do it, I say aloud, trying to inject myself with the hope of opening an oyster to find a pearl. Dust, clutter, are no match to my army, fueled by determination and raised expectations. After my Ithacan journey, my content makes all my work worthwhile. This is so easy, I repeat, and
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repeat, and repeat. All I have to do is put everything back where it goes. There is a reason why the milk doesn’t end up in the microwave and the peanut butter doesn’t move to the freezer. As the fifth day passes by, my confidence dwindles the way my sleep does. Crumpled clothes laugh at my unwillingness to touch my toes in the same time span as putting on a sock to keep my room clean. I tried, I mumble, giving myself an invisible pat on the back. All competitors are winners in their own minds. Well, not really, but that’s what I say to make myself feel better. I could persevere, work my hardest, try, try, try again, but why would I do that when clothes and shoes always end up greeting me as I crash on the floor on Friday?
The
Bedroom
Takeover Catherine Clover
JP Smith | Big Ram | 40 x 28 x 20 | Sculpture Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Emma Martin | Flower Universe | 24 x 24 | Watercolor
It loves me, it loves me n 90
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coffee,
my ex-lover Dear Coffee,
We need to break up. I know our relationship fares like a flowering plant, blooming, dying, then regenerating, but the time to throw out the plant and move on with our lives has arrived. When I first laid eyes on you, I knew I our destinies would cross. You played the role of the bad boy, the forbidden drink meant only for adults. Every morning my eyes felt compelled to stare at your brown color reflecting in my dad’s eyes. I viewed this ugly, disgusting yet strangely appealing substance every morning until one day our matchmaker, my father, set us up together. He placed your scalding cup in my hands; I lifted you to my lips, and you went sliding down my throat. Wow! My taste buds erupted with combinations of vanilla and Equal. You tasted how I would imagine a rainbow would taste. Everything worked out perfectly, for a while. I woke up and saw my steaming mug of goodness; I thought about my steaming mug of goodness; I drank my steaming mug of goodness. Your savory, delicious flavor amazed me, but you lacked a punch, a wake-up call, as many say. Then everything changed. I met the real you, the coffee without the word “decaf ” written on its torso. Oh, how I loved you even more because you allowed me to experience crazy extreme emotions from joyful bliss and ecstatic excitement to atrocious despair and devastating anguish while keeping me wrapped around your finger. You became my life. We shared many laughs. Remember that time when we stayed up till eleven o’clock in Boston and then woke up at four in the morning to exercise? Remember that time when you helped me withstand a day of debate, encouraging me and cheering me up at every turn? After a few months, I labeled you as my boyfriend, which meant you became my personal property, not to be shared with anyone. My mind
would not waver from you, I could not function for more than an hour without craving your excitement, and I bowed to your every command. You took me all over the United States. Together we made The Hajj to the Mecca of coffee, Seattle, Washington, to the original Starbucks, and we visited the furthest most tip of the United States, Key West. You even allowed me to conquer the world with you by traveling to Israel together. Through bomb zones we drove, but none of this ever mattered, as long as I could stand by your side. I could not let you go. I required you. My head throbbed without your help. I realize now that you shrunk my blood vessels around my brain, and when you left they would expand again causing me extreme pain, so I stayed with you. For months I could only talk about you, because nothing else in my life seemed to matter. Coffee and Sierra forever. I even planned out our wedding. The chocolate dress I picked out amazed everyone. It perfectly matched your skin color. We could have created a mocha. But, no. You never truly loved me but pretended to love me. I never held a special place in your heart, like the place you held in mine. You love three out of four Americans which totals up to millions of people. You cheated! You betrayed! You lied! I never could forgive. So I write to you this letter, for I wish for you to know that I loved you, but no longer may we see each other. I felt pain because of you; I lost friends because of you. For that I will forever loathe you. Right here, right now I exclaim, we are done! Go find yourself someone else to torture, because I want my life back, and I wish for you to realize it was you, not me. Kisses! Your Ex-Girlfriend,
Sierra Kanofsky
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
There is s no way I am doing this, I think after
Bela Marcus | Cliffs | Photography
my dad suggests I try scuba diving during our vacation in the Bahamas. I hate deep water. Actually, I am deathly afraid of it. There is just something terrifying about being in the water, seeing the bottom, but not being able to touch it. Nevertheless, I agree. Maybe it will make a cool story that I can tell to my kids and grandkids someday. But what if I die? Perhaps I will run out of air, lose my mask, or get lost. “Rachel,” my dad says, waking me from my panicked thoughts, “it’s time to go.” An hour later, I sit on a boat with a wetsuit up to my neck. It hugs me so tight it is almost suffocating. I feel the way my heart thumps inside me, so hard I can almost hear it. I put on my scuba gear
RACHEL LEBDA
cautiously.
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I desperately try not to fall over or faint from the fear of what could go wrong. Who knew a tank of air could be so back-breaking? I hobble over to put my flippers on. Tiny drops of sweat roll down my neck. My instructor tells me to sit on the edge of the boat and fall backwards into the water. I look at her, and the expression on my face reads, are you serious? I could hit my head and pass out! I am nervous thinking about the whole experience. Trying to act calm, I shuffle to the side of the boat. I put my mask around my sweaty head and and my regulator in my mouth.
We slowly descend 20 feet underwater, and my ears begin to hurt, so I squeeze my nose and blow out,
releasing the pressure. I can no longer feel the weight of the air tank on my back or the belt around my waist. We start to swim to a large patch of reef, and I realize that I no longer feel scared. There are so many different kinds of fish in one small area of the ocean. I see a red lionfish, an invasive species that is a prevalent problem in the Atlantic Ocean. In the distance I spy 50 shades of blue, and in this state of vulnerability, everything I know to be familiar and terrifying slowly drifts away from me.
I notice the way the water hugs me. However, it is a welcoming embrace, not a suffocating one. The multi-
colored coral waves with the current, waving at me. I follow some fish, as if inviting me to their home. Best of all, I feel like I am flying. The weightlessness of my body creates an environment of imagination, and I pretend that I am a mermaid, kicking my way through the water, experiencing a whole new world. I reflect calmly, listening to the silence. I see bubbles dance to the surface cheerfully, and I know exactly where I belong. The longer I spend away from the security of the surface, the more comfortable I feel. I think, this is something I am going to remember for the rest of my life. The whole world is waiting for me now.
AT
SEA Blue Blue Review Review Vol. Vol. XXIV XXIV
i r g o i n e al h t
m e h i c s l t a Wyatt Nabatoff
The bronze Sun beats down from high above The cars pass the gated yards The leashed dog yaps at the city folk on the concrete sidewalk Charlotte’s dull skyscrapers and malls Dwarf the trees below The manicured lawn is trimmed But heat turns flowers into cracked copper The constant commotion of Providence Road fills the air with weight that sticks with you and weighs you down like lead and takes you inside to the AC But to the west in Blowing Rock The ruby-throated hummingbirds are overhead Cool breeze drift over the Blue Ridge fresh mountain air sparks life The gravel road beneath your feet The dog runs through the primeval forest Ancient trees hundreds of feet above A brook in the valley Down the curving trail Twigs and Kindling crackle under your feet Wind rustles the fiery golden leaves The creek’s watery shore White foam rolling over rocks Stick your feet in the water, Let the city wash away from your mind as all transforms to gold
Martha Elizabeth Watson | Bee’s Knees | 14 x 11 | Acrylic
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Dillon Lee | Baxter | Stencil
How to
Pick Up
Girls Gavin Gwaltney
There’s not a lot that all men have in common. We don’t all like the same movies. We don’t all have the same favorite color. We don’t all make the same amount of money. That said, all (straight) men do have one thing in common: we all wish we were better at picking up girls. Men, this guide is for you. I will give you step-by-step instructions on how you can improve your game with the ladies, so listen up. First, you need to look good if you want girls to talk to you. Confidence sells, so remember, you are God’s gift to the ladies. Package yourself accordingly. Let’s start with the shoes. I recommend wearing a pair of driving shoes handcrafted from an endangered animal to show females that you a bad boy that don’t 96
play by no rules. These shoes should be made from the skin of the last ivory-billed woodpecker on earth or from a pair of twin, albino leatherback sea turtles (one for each foot). Don’t forget to tell everyone you meet how much they cost to show off the size of your wallet. Contrary to what everyone might think, size does matter. Speaking of size, let’s talk about your pants selection. I prefer to sport a pair of tight, low-cut khakis that you should sag as much as possible without them falling off. Don’t sag them the way a wannabe rapper sags; sag the way Justin Bieber would. Think swagging not sagging. The more sagging the better because this shows the fairer sex that your pants could come off at any moment. It’s important to give the
girls a sneak peek that represents everything you have to offer — a tank top that you outgrew when you were six years old accomplishes this goal perfectly. If this wife beater doesn’t cut off circulation to your arms, try again; it’s not tight enough. The eyes may be the window to the soul, but it is not important for you to possess one. Leave a little to their imagination, so be sure to wear mirrored sunglasses (and don’t forget the Croakies). These shades must stay on your head at all times because they define your look. It doesn’t matter if the darkness outside reflects your intention towards the ladies, you must wear the sunglasses in any location and at all times of the day. The specs are designed to protect women’s eyes from the magnificence of your presentation (and reflecting their own inferior bodies back at them subtly reminds them of your dominance). Finally, consider your hair; it must illustrate your superiority over other men. To best display your supremacy, you will need a tub of greasy hair gel. More is more — the slimier the better. You wouldn’t want your hair getting in the way later. Next, you need to have a great body for girls to have any interest in you. A perfect body creates the ultimate foundation for your manliness. Think about it: if a girl didn’t have a perfect body, would you ever waste your time on her? In order to achieve an enviable, muscular physique, you have to work out whenever possible. Do you know what your grandmother’s funeral, church, and a family dinner all have in common (other than being excruciatingly boring)? They are all chances to work out. You can deadlift your grandmother’s coffin, do curls with the bibles, or plank with your younger sister on your back. You need to spend every additional moment of your free time in the gym as well. To make your muscles even larger, your main food group should become protein powder. Drinking this vile and repulsive substance mixed with water shows your true dedication to your guns, so you need to tell all your friends about it. It’s called a post-workout beverage because after every workout, you need to post about it. The best way to show off your guns (other than your tank top, of course) is to contour your muscles by getting a spray tan. Spray tanning rather than baking yourself in the harsh sun proves you are health-conscious and not in the least bit superficial about your appearances. Purchase a can of Orange You Glad You Won’t Get Skin Cancer, Tan in a Can, or any other brand of spray tan, and apply it all over from your biceps to your quads and your fibula to your
temporalis. The darker you can be the better because this will make your muscles stand out even more. After that, you need to decide how you want to arrive to the club, your sister’s wedding, or wherever else the ladies are located. Some men use more modest forms of transportation such as Uber or a mid-sized Toyota, but women view such vehicles as a weakness. To truly impress the girls, the only acceptable means of transportation is the sports car. More than just a conveyance, the sports car perfectly compensates for any other area in which you have a deficit. The muscle car embodies what makes men like James Bond and Iron Man so great. After all, it’s called a muscle car because all that really matters is your muscles and your car. You can’t drive the muscle car like a normal person, though. Pretend that you are in a race with the cars next to you. No, better yet, pretend that you are a NASCAR driver and they are the only obstacles that stand between you and the Sprint Cup. To truly get the most out of your sports car, you must accelerate as quickly, and as loudly, as possible. Women will only know you drive a muscle car if you rev the engine loud enough that every woman on this planet can hear it. Finally, you need to know how to talk to girls. First comes the introduction. You have two possible ways to introduce yourself to a lady. You could nicely walk up to her, shake her hand, and introduce yourself, or you could employ a suave pickup line. This woman has probably met plenty of boring guys that have been polite; therefore, I would recommend the pickup line. You could choose a classic such as “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” or use a more original line that alludes to barnyard animals that lay eggs or the number of bones in her body. Now that you have made such a great first impression on this woman, she will surely want to continue talking to you. “Gentlemen,” if you follow these steps, your night will go perfectly. Your shoes, your spray tan, and your sports car have all set you up for success. I’ll leave the finer details to you, but all the game you need is right here.
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We all wish we were better at picking up girls.
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Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Isabel de Armas | Cordoba | 27.75 x 25.75 | Acrylic 98
Riley Davis The faint remnants of day retreat into the watery horizon Darkness asphyxiates the warmth of day, Cooling the sandy grains beneath my feet Thick air fills the atmosphere around me, An apprehensive potential augments the air’s mass As a storm’s omnipotence saturates the salty shore A celestial energy falls like lead from above Carving through the ebony sky, Ruining its perfect darkness The raw, forking voltage of lighting electrifies the earth’s crust It strikes the shore Fusing particles of sand with an alchemical force Metamorphosing individual grains Into a cohesive glass Fearful energy courses through my veins Yet, my reverent eyes remain transfixed I am not blinded by the golden light’s brilliant facade I stare in awe
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Emma Landry | Bridge Over Colors | Digital Art 100
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In the corner of my bedroom stands a tall bookshelf, replete with books and mementos, a lifetime of memories collected in one place. Front and center sits a plastic cookie jar in the shape of a blue police call box with a blue light attached to the top. In eighth grade, as we filled our backpacks at the end of the school day, a friend asked me, “Have you ever seen Doctor Who?” “No,” I replied. “Should I?” “Yes!” she said. “But don’t worry about getting through the original series first, just watch the new stuff.” So I did. And thus began my year-long journey of watching the seven seasons of Doctor Who available at the time. I fell in love with a quirky, time-traveling alien who changes his face whenever he “dies.” With his tweed jackets, coiffed hair, and bow ties — because “bow ties are cool”— the eleventh Doctor won me over with his quirky personality, childish actions, awkward mannerisms that I could easily relate to, and his hundreds of years of pain and loss. Instead of fighting the dangerous aliens, he aspires to save the universe in peaceful ways as he travels through space and time with his companions. Obsessed, I checked for spoilers online, read fanfiction, and learned everything I could about the lore of the show. My friend even gave me the cookie jar in the shape of the Doctor’s time machine (the TARDIS, or Time and Relative Dimensions in Space) that stands on my bookshelf. Propped up by the TARDIS are some of my father’s old comic books, their thin spines a stark contrast to the thick books near them. In middle school, my dad introduced me to the world of superheroes by showing me the first Iron Man movie. Since then, I’ve seen every DC and Marvel movie. My dad further fueled my fascination by sharing old
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Daredevil and Batman comic books he found while cleaning out his office. He’s even given me his beloved copy of the iconic book The Killing Joke. I can lose myself for hours in stories of blind vigilantes and caped crusaders. They either depict superhumans, in the case of Daredevil, or atypical people with a greater sense of purpose who want to help and protect their cities, as with Batman. These heroes remind me that anyone is capable of tremendous accomplishments but that we all have our flaws as well, such as self-doubt, which I experience frequently in my life. Scattered along the shelves are the plastic figurines of some of my favorite fictional characters. My newest acquisition is a bobblehead of one of the strongest characters I know, Wonder Woman. I remember the night I first saw the film. While my friend and I laughed and cried through the movie, when it was over, we sat in awe. We felt empowered. High school exams and boy trouble didn’t seem that intimidating anymore. With her shield and sword ready for battle, my figurine of Diana, princess of the Amazons, serves as a constant reminder to never abandon my beliefs. I need to fight to protect some of the people I love and respect most: my gay uncles. Everyone should be able to be with the person they love, and I want to protect that right from those that would judge and restrict their relationship. We all deserve to be free of oppression, and Diana reminds me of that. The smell of old and new books, the feel of shaped, smooth plastic in my hand, and the siren-ish sound of a closing cookie jar are symbols of who I am: a quirky warrior who finds strength in others. Studying my bookshelf I realize that no matter how old or odd any particular object appears to be, it represents a part of my journey to becoming the strong (if sometimes awkward) girl I am today. Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Nanshan Road Tony Liu
A flaming day in Shenzhen. Dry. Unbearable. That’s why I decided to hide under a roof. Because roof to me Means comfort. Watery eyes, Or where I need to go. Imagine being a bubble On the lonely Nanshan Road. I like walking As much as I like roof. Walking on the road Means comfort to me. Soft soap bubble, rainbow color. Surprised at its ability to attack. You think of it as The purple moon. It seems so gentle, Yet the symmetry of the bubble Split in half, equally across Its diameter, is how This universe is born. Splitting a rainbow To me also means Comfort.
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Isabel Crews | Childlike Reflections | Photography
a g i m n I . eb . .“
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Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
An American Cooking
Emma Martin | Donut Factory | 16 x 12 | Painting 104
Sh ow
Le Rachel bda
SCENE 1 Stage is set with a 5-foot wide countertop table center stage and an oven to the side. ALEXANDER HAMILTON enters, stands behind the table, and looks out at the audience. HAMILTON: Ladies and gentlemen, it is a pleasure to be here with you all tonight as we have a very special guest. As you might be able to tell, our country is going through a rough time. [Hamilton picks up a plate of crumbs from the table and shows it to the audience]. HAMILTON: This is the current state of our beloved country. Our nation is breaking apart, crumbling into pieces. It is in a state of disarray. We are in a state of disarray. However, we will overcome this. We have done it before, and we will do it again! [Hamilton places the plate back on the table]. Today, I am here to introduce you to a very special friend of mine. You might have read his new pamphlets, heard his speeches, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, Thomas Paine! THOMAS PAINE enters from stage right, joins Hamilton behind the table, and shakes hands with Hamilton. HAMILTON: It is so great to have you here, Thomas. It has been such a long time since we saw each other last. PAINE: The pleasure is all mine, sir. HAMILTON: You must have heard the news about the war, I assume? PAINE: [PAINE sighs]. Yes. Well, as you know, “these are the times that try men’s souls,” and I like to think my soul strong enough to make it through rough patches in our country’s narrative (Paine 331). Now tell me, why have you really brought me here today? HAMILTON: America is in dire need of a new recipe. I wanted to discuss, man to man, intellectual to intellectual, how to rebuild our country and its, let’s say… morale. [PAINE makes a slight smirk]. HAMILTON: And to make apple pies of course! Both laugh. SCENE 2 [Baking ingredients are on the table, and HAMILTON and PAINE are wearing pink checkered aprons with the names, “Ham” and “Pain,” large on the front]. PAINE: So, building up the country and getting the people involved, obviously in every aspect of the government. What’s your stance?
Where does Hamilton stand? Scan the QR code to continue reading and find out!
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Ella Lavelle | Cosmic Dog | 25 x 21 | Watercolor 106
KILLING “to be” verbs
Paige Nurkin
stop
The phrase “To be, or not to be: that is the question” written by William Shakespeare holds the place as one of the most recognized and frequently quoted lines of literature. But, according to modern high school English teachers, this sentence has no place in writing. It abides to comma and semicolon rules, and appears grammatically correct. So, why would teachers have a problem with it? Merely because it contains to be verbs. Teachers drill the idea of eliminating to be verbs from writing into their high school students, yet this task remains nearly impossible and completely unnecessary. In fact, by the way English teachers vehemently hate to be verbs, you would think they served an anti-to be verb god, and eternal damnation awaits those of us who use even one to be verb. Teachers claim to be verbs “lack specificity” and “confuse the reader.” You know, because the sentence, “I am fifteen years old” confuses you, right? At least it confuses you more than “I blessed the world with my existence fifteen years ago,” a perfect sentence void of to be verbs. But even worse than vagueness caused by to be verbs, teachers assert that they make writing “dull” and “show laziness” on the writer’s part. “You used the word is in your writing? How disgraceful! You think you will get into college by acting lazy? You will not get anywhere in life like that.” However, even world-renowned authors such as C.S. Lewis, Charles Dickens, Charlotte Brontë,
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and F. Scott Fitzgerald include to be verbs in their writing. For example, the first page of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby consists of less than two paragraphs but contains six to be verbs. If the first page includes this many to be verbs, imagine how many exist throughout the whole publication. And thousands of first lines alone contain to be verbs. Fahrenheit 451, a book included in high school curricula across the country, begins with “It was a pleasure to burn.” Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities starts with the famous line “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” and then many more paradoxes using was follow it. And do not forget about the cliché “It was a dark and stormy night” that kicks off Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time. Or, the start of Leo Tolstoy’s classic Anna Karenina: “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” All these distinguished authors, and many more, use to be verbs in the opening lines of their books, so one can expect countless to be verbs to appear throughout their works. No English teacher, or any teacher for that matter, would consider these authors lazy or bad writers. And if someone found these works boring, the verbose style claims more responsibility for this than an over-usage of to be verbs. If even world-acclaimed authors use to be verbs, why should teachers expect high school students to eliminate them from their writing?
to be
Eternal damnation awaits those of us that use even one verb Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Blue
the
you
An entire world of blue awaits you. Scan Emily’s QR code to journey inside.
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Emily Holtzman
Your face is brown. The warmth And bitter of black coffee. But you, my love, were so blue. Magenta caressed your cheekbones. Strong. Unforgiving. Chrome kissed your mouth while ice bit your bottom lip. Your forehead bled deep ink, Scribbling tales of romance and maybes. All indigo and fiction. I’d create ripples, Delicate and quiet, by grazing my fingers On top of your navy pond of hair that trickled down your back. Into the black of your waist. And disappearing. How could it be, that someone so blue, is now your chestnut hue? Why is it, my love, when you smirked Your cheeks would flood with all the sapphire of the sea? And the blue stained your features Like blackberry on my fingertips. Rendering you my baby blue. Until the day you fell asleep. when your spirit And your blue Drained from your face. An ultraviolet river that ran to the red of the stars.
Sophie Smith | Flower Pots | 8 x 8 x 8 | Ceramics Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Emma Martin | Succulent Galaxy | 18 x 24 | Watercolor
Chavanne, Chavanne, My My Melody Melody Michele Tian
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I
sit in front of my Chavanne monochromatic piano. A breeze waltzes through my living room, yet my mind fails to wrap around the waltz I’m learning. I attempt to screenshot the chilling music, hoping that the whole notes, rests, and trills will remain in my mind like the ice that lingers on the roads during the winter time. As I sit on my rustic bench, my mind flows to the memories of my homeland, Canada, and I reflect on my experiences. I remember the times that I used to hear the pattering rain against my stained glass windows. The gray and blue clouds that scattered the sky prevented any light to escape the layer of darkness. The windows become translucent rather than colorful, allowing me to see only the dark colors of the outdoors. In this moment, as sleet drags down my clear window, I remember the last conversation I had with my competitor, Sunny, who was practicing a contemporary piece by Ludovico Einaudi. While she’s practicing a bright, positive composition, I’m stagnated, like a frozen river, unable to memorize my waltz. I dread the moment when I have to present myself
at Queens to my judges who will determine my fate. I continue cramming, trilling, fighting. I play an augmented chord, crescendo, minor scale, diminuendo. I finally halt, defeated in front of the pages of Tchaikovsky,
succumbing to his musical notes. I slam down on the keys, an unharmonic chord ringing through my lamplit living room. Echoes of the booming strings ring, Chavanne’s haunting laughter playing in my ears, as I fail.
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
Sarah Coston | Girl in the Stars | 30 x 15 x 15.5 | Mixed Media
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shooting star
Nick Quartapella
Contemplating stars lighting a path. Scorpius scuttles across the heavens, Ursa Major narrowly dodges Orion’s arrow, Sirius shines bright during these dog days of summer. Something faint zips across the celestial dome — Once again consumed by darkness. Shooting star, Return, Show what it is like To roam the universe With no limits, No worries of light pollution, Of global warming, Binding it to Bald Head Island, At Cape Fear. The stars are the ceiling of vision But decorate a floor Who taught you? Who inspired you? To look past the stars, I can see no more.
Want to bring life to the shooting stars? Scan the QR code to experience the shining lights.
Blue Review Vol. XXIV
2017 Blue Review Honors NCSMA (North Carolina Scholastic Media Assocation) Scholastic Journalism Excellence Awards Individual Awards
1st Place, Photography: Hayes Woollen 2nd Place, Fiction: Margaux Pollan 2nd Place, Personal Essay: Vanessa Ramirez 3rd Place, Fiction: Emma Gerden 3rd Place, Photography/Art Layout: Ansley Nurkin 3rd Place, Fiction Layout: Ansley Nurkin HM, Fiction: Adithya Suresh HM, Art: Mallory Evans HM, Graphic: Mallory Evans
Overall Magazine Distinction 2nd Place: Poetry 2nd Place: Fiction HM: Photography HM: Theme Development
CSPA (Columbia Scholastic Press Association) Overall Magazine
Colophon
Gold Medalist
The body text is Minion Pro. Headline fonts include Avenir Light, Trattatello, Zapfino and Cochin. We explain the theme in the editors’ note. 500 copies are printed and distributed free of charge to the school community. The Blue Review staff has access to one iMac desktop and three MacBook Pro laptops. We are grateful for the school’s support in covering printing and other expenses associated with Blue Review. Our publisher is AlphaGraphics, Charlotte, North Carolina. We used 100# cover stock for the cover and 80# text stock for the inside pages. Blue Review was created using Adobe InDesign CC. Charlotte Latin School is a member of the following professional organizations: North Carolina Scholastic Media Association and the Columbia Scholastic Press Association.
Editorial Policy
All 504 students in grades 9-12 are eligible to apply for the Blue Review staff. The lead editors select general staff based on their interest in and dedication to the Blue Review; staffers must attend regularly scheduled meetings and a required editing session, and they assist in hosting the launch party when the magazine is presented to the school community. All student editors are appointed by the faculty adviser. The lead layout, copy, and art editors are juniors or seniors who are current staff members. Lead layout editors are responsible for every aspect of publication, including conducting staff meetings and editing sessions, selecting the theme, delegating tasks to the associate and junior editors, etc. Blue Review is an extracurricular activity; every part of its construction is completed after school hours. The lead and junior layout editors work together to design every element for each spread; 114
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. The copy editors oversee the editing process and organize all print submissions. Associate copy and art editors are in grades 10-12; 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.
2018 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards Writing Keys
Individual Gold Keys
Individual Silver Keys
Hannah Barnes: Critical Essay Cecelia Berens: Poetry (2)* Anna Calloway: Flash Fiction Abby Carpenter: Poetry* Olivia Clements: Flash Fiction Catherine Clover: Memoir Clare Downey: Poetry* Connor Downing: Critical Essay Will Egan: Poetry Chiara Evans: Journalism Lily Farr: Memoir*
Riley Davis: Poetry Andrew DeWeese: Critical Essay (3) Emma Gerden: Short Story Sierra Kanofsky: Humor* Rachel Lebda: Dramatic Script* Gracie Matthews: Poetry* Cecelia Monnin: Memoir Wyatt Nabatoff: Poetry* Michael Quartapella: Poetry* Nick Quartapella: Poetry* Sophie Smith: Flash Fiction* Lauren Williams: Poetry*
Austin Fitzgerald: Critical Essay* Emma Gerden: Short Story (2) Fleming Landau: Poetry Emma Martin: Poetry Gracie Matthews: Poetry* Paige Nurkin: Humor* Ellie Perrigo: Poetry Mary Catherine Pope: Memoir Nick Quartapella: Critical Essay Austin Sharrett: Critical Essay
National Scholastic Medals & Special Awards Gold Medal: Emma Gerden
American Voices Nominee
Governor’s Writing Award
Riley Davis
Wyatt Nabatoff: Poetry
Individual Silver Keys
Adams Outdoors Advertising Billboard Award Andrew DeWeese
Art Keys
Cecelia Berens: Mixed Media* Gray Cacheris: Drawing & Illustration Marion Donald: Sculpture Mallory Evans: Painting Lindsay Hinrichs: Mixed Media Emma Martin: Drawing & Illustration* Zoe Miller: Drawing & Illustration* Annabelle Oates: Drawing & Illustration* Abby Owens: Printmaking Matigan Simpson: Photography
Individual Gold Keys
Abby Adams: Sculpture* Isabel Crews: Photography* Mallory Evans: Ceramics & Glass, Mixed Media*, Drawing & Illustration* Emily Holtzman: Mixed Media*, Painting* Molly Kennelly: Drawing & Illustration Alison Moore: Jewelry Abby Owens: Drawing & Illustration* Lindsay Robelen: Printmaking* Neely Grace Tye: Sculpture*
National Scholastic Medals & Special Awards Art Pop Award
Emily Holtzman: Painting Neely Grace Tye: Sculpture
Gold Medal: Emily Holtzman Silver Medal: Neely Grace Tye
New York Life Scholarship Award Emily Holtzman
*Featured in book