Blutopia 2012

Blutopia Gaston Day School Literary & Arts Magazine 2012 Vol. XII

2012 Scholastic Awards (Mid-Carolina Region) National Writing Awards

Gold Medal Abigail Hartley: How to Be a

Seductive Goddess Gold Medal Austin Palenick: Nameless Silver Medal Portfolio Ivana Chan Silver Medal Portfolio Austin Palenick

Senior Writing Portfolios Gold Key Ivana Chan Gold Key Augustine Eze Gold Key Abigail Hartley Gold Key Jessica Mandell Gold Key Austin Palenick Gold Key Natalia Sanchez

Individual Writing Gold Keys

Abigail Hartley: How to Be a Seductive Goddess Abigail Hartley: Toddlers & Tiaras: A Tantrum Jessica Mandell: A City Girl / Graying Clouds Austin Palenick: Nameless Natalia Sanchez: Hero Worship

Individual Writing Silver Keys

Ivana Chan: Chat Room Ivana Chan: Nostalgia Augustine Eze: Promise Noor Kaur: The Man in the Red Turban Jessica Mandell: Fragmentary Jessica Mandell: Type / We the Powerful / Empty Room Rebecca Oden: Crushing Dreams to Better Lives Rebecca Oden: My Dad: A Southern Belle Jane Voss: Lawless

Individual Writing Honorable Mentions Augustine Eze: You’re Black?

Abigail Hartley: Paranoia Austin Palenick: OCD Austin Palenick: Youth is Wasted on the Young Natalia Sanchez: How to Be Voluptuous Natalia Sanchez: Miniskirt / Fishbowl

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American Voices Nominee

Abigail Hartley: How to Be a Seductive Goddess

Outstanding Portfolio Award Austin Palenick

North Carolina Governor’s Award for Creative Writing Jessica Mandell

Arts & Science Council Awards for Writing Ivana Chan Augustine Eze Natalia Sanchez

Senior Art Portfolios

Gold Key Rosemary Dunning Gold Key Jessica Mandell Gold Key Pooja Shah Silver Key Adelaide Weiss Honorable Mention Ben Carstarphen

Individual Art Gold Keys

Rosemary Dunning: un nariz al sol Jessica Mandell: Marcia. Empowered.

Jessica Mandell: Through the Lens

Individual Art Silver Keys

Josie Barger: Shoes Ben Conner: Pieces of Me Rosemary Dunning: cara eliminada Jackson Hartley: Cremated Maisy Meakin: Circumlocutory

Individual Art Honorable Mentions Rosemary Dunning: cerrado del sol Rosemary Dunning: en los ojos Rosemary Dunning: satisfacción Jack Harris: Jack in the Box Supichanee Thanjitpreedanon: Infinity Annah Whitehead: Threads

2011 Blutopia Honors 2010 NCSMA (North Carolina Scholastic Media Association): Scholastic Journalism Excellence Overall Awards Tar Heel Award All-North Carolina First Place – Art First Place – Cover Design First Place – Nonfiction First Place – Theme Development Second Place – Fiction Second Place – Layout Third Place – Poetry Honorable Mention – Photography Individual Awards First Place – Art: Kassandra Leiva First Place – Poetry: Kassandra Leiva Second Place – Art: Lauren Pendleton Second Place – Fiction Layout: Daniel Thompson Third Place – Feature: Abigail Hartley Third Place – Graphics: Leslie Caddick Third Place – Poetry: Ali Prow Third Place – Poetry: Layout Editors Honorable Mention – Fiction Layout: Editors Honorable Mention – Fiction: Daniel Thompson Honorable Mention – Nonfiction Layout: Editors 2011 CSPA (Columbia Scholastic Press Association) Silver Crown Award Gold Medal – Overall Magazine First Place – Fiction Humor: Abigail Hartley Second Place – Fiction Humor: Abigail Hartley

Blutopia Gaston Day School Literary & Arts Magazine 2011 Vol. XI

2011 NCTE (National Council of Teachers of English) Achievement Award in Writing Abigail Hartley 2011 NCTE PRESLM Highest Award 2011 NSPA (National Scholastic Press Association) First Class with Three Marks of Distinction Pacemaker Award Finalist 2011 NCCH (North Carolina Council on the Holocaust) First place - Amir Feinberg First Place - Austin Palenick

Editorial Policy: All students in grades 9-12 are eligible to apply for the Blutopia staff. The student editors are appointed by the faculty adviser. The editors are seniors who are current members of the Blutopia staff. These students have won numerous individual writing awards over the course of their high school careers and exhibit outstanding dedication to Blutopia’s vision. The student editors select candidates based on their interest in writing and their past participation on the Blutopia staff. Students are encouraged to submit works of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and English teachers submit pieces they feel merit recognition. Staff members are required to read and discuss all possible submissions. Submissions are blind: the students’ genders, races, names, and grade levels are not disclosed during the selection process. The staff adjudicates the works based on voice, style, creativity, and literary merit; however, the student editors choose all final pieces. From the selected pieces, preference is given to senior work. Content is not censored by editors or adviser.

Associate editors assist print editors with preliminary editing and contribute to the overall layout. The art editors are long-standing members of the Blutopia staff who are active participants in the Gaston Day visual art community. They are appointed by the faculty adviser. Both the art editors and print editors collaborate to ensure a purposeful collection of art and written pieces that represents the tone of Blutopia.

Colophon: The fonts are Palatino and Myriad Pro. 300 copies were printed. Our publisher is EBA Printing, Mequon, Wisconsin. We used 100# cover stock for the cover and 80# text stock for the inside pages. Blutopia was created using Adobe InDesign CS5 and Adobe Photoshop CS5.

Gaston Day School is a member of the following professional organizations: National Council of Teachers of English, North Carolina English Teachers Association, North Carolina Scholastic Media Association, National Scholastic Press Association.

Cover Art: For the cover, editors’ letter spread, and masthead, we chose artwork that embodies the paradox of dreams. In Safety Fear (12x12, acrylic on canvas), Ben Carstarphen’s ominous cover background contrasts sharply with the softer, warmer tones of his skin. He is alert, yet he occupies a dark and transient space similar to the ethereal realm of dreams. Each shard of the artwork in the table of contents represents the mood of its paired section and corresponds to that particular sleep stage. Just as the pieces of the painting have individual meaning, each remembered fragment of a dream provides insight. On the editors’ letter spread, Ben created a protective hand releasing sheets of paper to the menacing darkness to mirror our nightly surrender to mysterious, all-consuming sleep. The disjointed lettering sets the context for the first sleep stage. As the magazine concludes and we awaken from our dreams, Ben’s hand now releases a single page that dissolves into the promise of another night’s dream, which is as filled with possibilities as our own futures. © 2012 by Blutopia. All rights revert to authors upon publication. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying without permission.

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Table of Contents

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08 Rhino Grace Modlin 10 Where Did it Go? Abigail Hartley Infinity Supichanee Thanjitpreedanon 11 Confession Natalia Sanchez 13 Abstract Ben Carstarphen OCD Austin Palenick 14 Four Faces Will Oksen 15 Dysfunction Abigail Hartley 16 All-American Asians Ivana Chan Tiks Yelisa Leiva 18 How to Be a Seductive Goddess Abigail Hartley 19 Flowers Maddy Deely 20 Jasmine Van Gogh Courtney Kapczynski 21 Color Me Elmo Augustine Eze 22 Senior Artist Statement Adelaide Weiss 24 Crushing Dreams to Better Lives Rebecca Oden 25 Circumlocutory Maisy Meakin

26 Night Dreams Elizabeth Davis 28 Hallways, Life, and Other Things Caroline Lim Threads Annah Whitehead 30 A City Girl Jessica Mandell 31 Through the Lens Jessica Mandell 32 King of the Jungle Gym Ivana Chan Pier 39 Paxton Shaw 34 Graying Clouds Jessica Mandell Meltdown Caroline Maier 35 Blown Away Kristin Caddick 36 Autumn Roses Elizabeth Davis 37 Paranoia Abigail Hartley Cool Roses Elizabeth Davis 38 Warning to Peter and Andrew Abigail Hartley Overcast Josie Barger 40 Senior Artist Statement Jessica Mandell

Art Nonfiction Art Poetry Art Fiction Photography Poetry Art Fiction Art Fiction Art Poetry Sculpture Photography

Art Fiction Sculpture Fiction Art Nonfiction Art Poetry Nonfiction Art Nonfiction Photography Art Nonfiction Art Nonfiction Sculpture

II

42 44 46

III

48 50 51 53 54 57 58 60

Shattered Jay Hixson Lawless Jane Voss Highways Jessica Mandell Imagine a World Augustine Eze los ojos azules sin la mente Rosemary Dunning Orb Ivana Chan Stagehand Natalia Sanchez Mute Ivana Chan Equinox Melike Wilson The Desperation Diaries Abigail Hartley Just a Number Caroline Maier Type Jessica Mandell I am Noor Kaur Senior Artist Statement Pooja Shah A Simple Grain of Sand Austin Palenick Everyday Topics Ben Connor Chat Room Ivana Chan Intuition Jessica Mandell

62 Restrain Pain Supichanee Thanjitpreedanon 64 Defensive Driving Natalia Sanchez Bare Ivana Chan 66 Til’ Death Do Us Part Porter Yelton Runnymede Jay Hixson 68 The Attendant Ivana Chan Abyss Sara Bonesteel 70 Town of Prayer Megan Taite Celestial Jessica Davidson 72 Day Terrors Elizabeth Davis When You Grew Tired Abigail Hartley 74 Sea Monster Natalia Sanchez Barnola Ivana Chan 76 Nameless Austin Palenick Cremated Jackson Hartley

V

Art Poetry Photography Fiction Art Fiction Art Fiction Art Art Poetry Fiction Photography Fiction Art

Art Nonfiction Art Poetry Art Photography Fiction Poetry Art Fiction Art Poetry Art Art Fiction Art Fiction Art

IV

78 Waiting Noor Kaur 80 Neon Jessica Mandell Message in a Bottle Natalia Sanchez 82 Senior Artist Statement Rosemary Dunning 84 Laureate Jessica Mandell Hit the Bed Adelaide Weiss 86 The Man in the Red Turban Noor Kaur Henna Hands Noor Kaur 88 Nostalgia Ivana Chan Bishop Caroline Maier 90 Promise Augustine Eze Overflow Melike Wilson 92 We the Powerful Jessica Mandell Gambler Jane Voss 94 How It Feels to Be Colored Jane Jane Voss Ctrl Alt Del Me Jackson Hartley 96 Fragmentary Jessica Mandell Crumble Pooja Shah

Photography Photography Poetry Art Fiction Art Nonfiction Photography Fiction Art Nonfiction Sculpture Poetry Art Nonfiction Art Fiction Photography

Where did it go?

Abigail Hartley

Infinity | Supichanee Thanjitpreedanon | 10x10x10 | Sculpture

A fine question, and one that many a searcher has asked before you. Indeed, one that may be asked well into the future—what if your finding it constitutes another poor sap’s losing it?

But we mustn’t get caught in the metaphysical; you’ll find nothing but headaches there.

The first thing most people will ask you (which has always privately irritated me) is where you had it last. If you remembered where you had it last, you wouldn’t have asked for help finding it, would you? So we’ll skip that step. Instead, I’ll ask you where you do not believe it to be, because those are the places you haven’t searched yet.

You can’t think of anywhere it definitely can’t be? Surely you aren’t dim enough to lose something omnipresent, so we’ll have to assume that there are places where it does not exist. Here, for instance.

There, see? We’ve already made progress.

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My method stands.

Is it waterproofed, this thing? Does it bob when in water, or sink? Can it swim? More than half of the planet is underwater, you know, so if we begin looking in the ocean we’re statistically more likely to succeed.

I’ll take the Pacific, you take the Atlantic.

We’ll meet in the Philippines and see what we have.

I certainly hope you’re the seafaring type.

Failing that, we could always do the desperate thing and take out an ad for it. Write to the milk companies and have them put it on the cartons like they did in the Reagan administration.

“HAVE YOU SEEN THIS?” the milk would ask people every day as they ate their cereal and stirred their coffee. Quite effective.

But before anything, I must ask—are you sure it was there to begin with?

Abstract | Ben Carstarphen | 24x18 | Ink & Watercolor

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“And that’s not all, Father. Have you ever been to a ballet?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“You should do that, too. All those dancers, they become so much more than people dancing. They’re all lightness and grace and tulle. Art. Something had to have made us so that we could transform like that, so that we could become more than just people.”

“God?” “God. That’s why I don’t fear Him—He loves us enough to give us these gifts to see and feel and use. You can tell He loves beauty and He loves to see us happy. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t really see Him so much as a vengeful deity as well, a father.”

“And He is our Father.”

“Right.”

“Well, then, is that all you want to say?

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Any more confessions? Are you ready for your penance?”

“One more thing, Father.”

“Yes? What is it?”

“I’m a liar. I lied about my laundry.”

“Your laundry? Again?”

“Again. When I first came here, I told you that I did it every Sunday. I guess this should’ve been obvious, since I’m here, but I’ll tell you anyway. This morning, I didn’t do it. First time in, I don’t know, nine or ten years.”

“And why didn’t you?”

“I guess that’s another sin, one I tried to fix myself. I felt like I was being greedy. I mean, I enjoy my Sunday mornings so much, but I’ve never shared them with other people, people who need them more than I do. So, I’m sorry, Father, if my socks smell a little—I doubt the screen between us can filter that out—but I hope that you can finally know what happiness smells like.”

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Four Faces | Will Oksen | 24x18 | Acrylic & Marker

ysfunction

Abigail Hartley

It would be so much easier If I had a drug habit that ate at me like acid Or abusive parents and the cigarette burns to prove it Or a sex addiction, or hepatitis.

Poetry is such an easy medium When you’re serving a life sentence For killing your ex-boyfriend After he used your kitchen to cook meth And wouldn’t share.

As it is, I’m rendered useless.

Contentment cannot bait a thought-fox There is no blood jet, no icy moving hand On the whitewashed walls of my home.

So I have to chase the empty pages Walk until I lose my bearings Shed my clothes, forget my face Let my soul’s fire scald me skinless Until every word I had inside of me Lies face-up and staring on paper The conquered kill.

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and despite the rain, the bugs, and the dangers, my mother, sister, and I eventually allow him to talk us into another expedition.

It has only been a few years since that first disastrous encounter with the wilderness, but we find ourselves standing at the front lines, ready to face it again. The crisp mountain air fuels our energy, and within moments we have assembled a tent that can withstand heavy rain (at least the manual

said so) and discover the huge difference between mediocre microwave s’mores and deliciously golden with a tinge of burnt-brown gooey marshmallow goodness sandwiched between perfect graham cracker squares and a layer of Hershey. At night, under the safety of not only a tarp sheet hanging across the tree canopy but also the sturdy vinyl tent roof, I snuggle into a down sleeping bag atop an air mattress and dream of more forest adventures.

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how to be a seductive goddess

Abigail Hartley

If you’re ever going to entice a man into your web of seduction, looking the part is essential. Beauty may be only skin deep, but when Mr. Right bumps into you in the checkout line at Harris Teeter, the first thing he’ll notice will not be your ability to quote extensively from David Sedaris. Cut your hair into sexy inch-long hanks using nail scissors and your dad’s electric razor, with liberal application of the beard trimmer attachment for texture.

Draw attention to your powerful Scots-Irish shoulders and outsized ribcage by refusing to grow breasts. Some say androgyny, you say mystique.

Now, head shorn and 34A bra strapped firmly in place, you are ready to take the male world by storm. You have the feminine wiles of a wicked vixen now and by God, you’re going to charm and tempt someone with them. When you walk, let your hips swing wilder than the pirate ship ride at Carowinds. If you’re knocking things off desks and upsetting potted plants, you’re doing it right. Wiggle your shoulders ever so slightly for maximum irresistibility. Strut, strut, wiggle, wiggle, spin, turn, dismount. Your friends will do impressions of you, shuffling their feet across the floor: part salsa dance, part drunken swagger. Walk away, chest out and hips swaying, with your dignity intact. Ignore them when they trail behind you, a single-file line of Mick Jagger impersonators.

Leave the nest of friends you’ve built at your small, eccentric private school in search of fresh prey, preferably boys that didn’t know you in seventh grade, the Year of the Orthodontia.

Begin tutoring your peers for the SAT. When one of your “students,” a tall, blonde swimmer from the public high school, asks you to go see the musical Young Frankenstein with him, prepare 18

as though he had asked you to be his date to the Cannes Film Festival. Try everything you’ve ever read in a magazine. Rinse your lackluster brown hair with cold coffee to “bring out the warm undertones;” mix sugar and honey into a saccharine paste and smear your face with it to glow like a Brazilian supermodel; choke down half a gallon of warm water with apple cider vinegar to shed any fluids you might be retaining. If it’s one thing guys hate, it’s edema.

Finally, a heady perfume of coffee, hummingbird nectar, and ammonia wafting around you, answer the door for him. He’ll compliment you on your alluring scent—as will his parents, who accompany the two of you to dinner and sit next to you at the show.

When, on the way back from the theater, he asks you about your taste in music, reply that you love Florence+the Machine because of their dark, spiritual sound and constant allusions to animal sacrifice. He’ll smile nervously and change the subject to the pending results of his SATs. Hear from him only once after that, when he texts you a few days later to say that he went down ten points on his Critical Reading section. Call it a learning experience for both of you and return to the hunt.

Decide that the intellectual types are more your style, now that you’ve had some experience to draw from. Talk about Martin Heidegger’s dasein and the plight of the twotoed sloth as you sashay around bookstores and lounge in coffeeshops. Buy flannel shirts.

When your efforts prove fruitless, declare that you actually have no use for men and that your search for a boyfriend was really a search for yourself. Continue to wear flannel shirts, but this time do it ironically. Should no dashing young hipster come tossing pebbles at your

of your sins. As you begin to clean up the scraps of black fabric (there aren’t many) and put away the shoes, catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Four-inch heels in one hand, destroyed dress in the other. Slip into a reverie, and suddenly have the kind of life-altering,

spin, “Strut, strut, wiggle, wiggle, turn, dismount.” prom. Realize too late that you’re participating in a full Catholic mass dressed as an expensive prostitute. Be careful not to rip the back of your dress open when you genuflect. As soon as the service ends, try to waddle to your car as fast as possible before a priest can douse you with holy water.

Lie on your bed at home, and cut yourself out of the dress with kitchen scissors because the zipper jammed under the weight

dazzling realization you thought only existed in Judy Blume novels.

The boy from the pew behind you at the funeral got your number from a friend, and texted you a promising “hey its josh haha.”

There’s fresh game afoot, and you have new heights of smoldering intrigue to reach before he can see you again and fall prey to your womanly powers. Drop everything and run for the apple cider vinegar.

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Flowers | Maddy Deely | Photography

window and reading excerpts of Sartre up at you like an existentialist Romeo, begin to panic.

Now is the time to attract your soul mate or die alone. Attend a funeral in a short black dress, a little snug, from your days in the fifth grade band, and the stilettos you wore to

was, “Your mom’s a baby show!” which of course makes little to no sense now, but at the time, that was how I silenced their judgmental comments.

In the doctor’s office (after Mommy had her helping of Larry King), she reluctantly passed me the remote. I took two furtive glances around to ensure no one within five years of my age was there. Then, I illuminated the screen with good ole’ Mr. Rogers. Donning his red sweater and blue sneakers, I smiled with the sun. The excursions to Imagination Land were so enthralling that the nurses observed my absorption in awe and concern—most likely wondering if I was going to be one of those kids.

My twelfth birthday on the horizon, “TV time” became more of a secret mission than a controversial occurrence. As the bell sang at 3:15, I shot out of the classroom faster than Road Runner speeding away from Wile E. Coyote. Slamming the car door and jamming the garage button, I furiously fastened myself into my prized light blue Arthur undies. Frantically, I slid the rail to the family room, hoping I had not missed a second of it. There it was, precisely at 3:30 pm on channel 17.

Wearing nothing but blue undergarments, a pair of 70s bifocals, and a stuffed rabbit atop my head, I gazed upon the cloaked Halloween themed aardvark (this was my favorite episode). I could recite every line from each character: Muffy’s snobby snort, Buster’s goofy gasps, Francine’s snide snicker, and best of all, Arthur’s outlandish outbursts. Suddenly, an incessant screech filled the air as the doorbell sounded. Frustrated, I abandoned my cozy spot and proceeded to answer the door. There, I found “the guys” (my neighborhood friends), suffocating from their uncontrollable laughter. Dismissive of their stupidity, I angrily told them I was busy, to which they sarcastically responded, “Are you trying to pick out some girlier boxers?” As I peered down, I saw I had opened the door still sporting my toddler undergarments. I embarrassingly retorted, “Gotta pee. Bye,” slammed the door, and returned to my prior appointment, misunderstood once again.

Teenage years approaching, my parents decided to forbid my obsession with “childish garbage”(i.e. my beloved programs). Nonetheless,

I was not going to be banned from my friends. That night, when I was certain my parents were sound asleep in the next room and the baby was silent down the hallway, I found the courage to defy my parents’ new law. I crept downstairs, placing little weight on each essential step, and advanced to my father’s office. Secretly, on channel 53, I watched everyone’s favorite buff sailor. On this episode of Popeye, I saw the courageous seafarer fight for his Swee’ Pea by dangling Bluto from a flag pole after, of course, downing a hearty can of spinach that bloated his muscles to fifteen times their original size. But just as I was about to witness the epic kiss, the requited love, my father stormed into the room and Popeye prematurely ended.

“What they do not understand is that it is healthy to keep your inner child alive” Throughout my entire life, I have noticed people being chastised and ridiculed for their love and borderline obsession with children’s programs, most notably myself. What they do not understand is that it is healthy to keep your inner child alive; these undervalued programs teach life lessons. Mr. Rogers explained that everyone is your neighbor and you should always exude kindness (although his OCD switching of shoes would discourage most people from moving in next door). Sesame Street gave me my afterschool math lesson but not with linear regressions or quadratic functions—more like “the number of the day is 5.” Lastly, Popeye reminded me that if I ever aspire to be a macho ladies’ man Adonis, I must consume at least one can of spinach every hour, sometimes every half hour.

In remembering that piece of glittery mess that everyone constantly tries to hide or remove, I think I am going to leave mine right where it is, shining in its colorful bliss, permanently affixed to my personality.

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Senior Artist Statement Adelaide Weiss Sitting in art class during the last month of my junior year, I was stuck. How could I possibly come up with a project that expressed my love of horses without falling prey to the thousands of clichés that pervade the subject?

But I knew that the only way I could commit to creating a senior portfolio was if I could find some way to incorporate horseback riding. Determined to find something new and different to draw, I took my camera to the barn, my safe place. Within the comforting, quiet walls of my sanctuary, I don’t need to worry about judgments or expectations— only the essential tools of riding, tools that are familiar to me but otherworldly to outsiders.

I took pictures of everything I could think of.

Nothing seemed to be working, so I began packing to leave the barn, totally discouraged.

I was about to walk out of the tack room when I looked up—and there it was. The full bridle.

No single piece of equipment has more significance than the bridle. Quietly essential, the bridle consists of countless parts, all serving a specific purpose. If just one were out of place, all control would be lost.

Horseback riding can be explained by the intricacies of the bridle. Riding is far more demanding than many people realize, and I felt that concentrating on the bridle expressed the complex subtleties of the sport. I knew that the drawings should be mostly black and white to represent the stark contrast of Easy Boy | Adelaide Weiss | 17.5x20 | Charcoal & Soft Pastel

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society’s perceptions against my own reality.

However, as my first piece concluded, I was dissatisfied with the effect. I had gotten exactly what I thought I wanted, but something was missing.

The art moved as a difficult dance, a perfect representation of riding, and it stood out beautifully from the white background, yet I failed to represent the excitement of riding when everything comes together perfectly (a rarity). It needed color to bring that excitement to the piece and bring a portion of myself to the portfolio. Studying the black and white artwork, I learned that there was not enough me, enough Adelaide.

I am a glass-half-full kind of girl, always

looking for the better side of a situation with undefeatable, colorful optimism.

The bursts of color in the bridles represent different facets of my personality.

The red for the stubborn girl who never lets the world beat her down, and the blue for the more rational, calculating side that tries to always work smarter, not harder. To my delight and surprise, I later realized that these traits are also essential to becoming a good rider. In a sport where you must work with an animal that has its own ideas, it is important to be rational and have a well thought-out plan; yet on the other hand, you must be prepared to never give up, even if your plan goes awry and you end up with your face in the dirt.

Slow Down | Adelaide Weiss | 18x24 | Charcoal & Soft Pastel

Off His Feet | Adelaide Weiss | 17.5x22 | Charcoal & Soft Pastel Blutopia Vol. XII

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Crushing Dreams to Better Lives

Rebecca Oden

“Once more you open the door and you’re here in my heart, and my heart will go on and on…”, sings a spindly, middle-school girl with a Southern twang and the tone and pitch between a dying cat and a birthing cow. She struggles through her routine (as do many others) in this riveting talent show, and I am watching intently for mistakes, making mental notes of how certain performances could be better, or how some people should find new hobbies.

I have always judged people when it comes to the arts, but I prefer to call it providing constructive criticism. Growing up with musicians for parents, it’s hard to block out complaints about co-workers or colleagues that really have no business pursuing careers in music. It was a long time before I learned that it isn’t a good thing to criticize people, like how boisterous two year-olds don’t know that they shouldn’t color on the walls. These days I can easily switch into Simon Cowell mode, and at times it is hard to control this transition, a struggle to contain my Mr. Hyde personality. Judging people has become quite easy over the years. It makes me feel superior, or as if I’m in on some secret no one else knows about.

In critiquing people I find a way to share with the world my capital musicianship; after all most sixteen year olds aren’t as knowledgeable of the subject as I am. I take pride in this unique quality, and if I don’t project my opinions now, they won’t be nearly as important when I’m older. Once I’m the ancient and crotchety music teacher with years of experience, my superb skills will be overlooked.

“Of course, she’s good. She’s so old,” people will say, and they will wonder why I glare at them with evil eyes, for I will indeed hear their accusations even if it seems my elderly qualities have taken over.

My adjudication of others also became a means to protect myself. It automatically makes me unapproachable, as no one wants to talk to “that mean girl” and risk ending up in my Burn Book. I become surrounded with barbed wire fences with neon orange signs that read “No Trespassing” and “Do Not Enter.” No one dares to come near me, so there’s no need to share what’s really on my mind, and I can remain content knowing I will not be bothered. My

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critique helps me disregard the voices in my head that say people judge me too, empowering me so that I can feel confident that my walls will stand strong and won’t be torn down.

People often perceive that I criticize maliciously; however, I only crush peoples’ dreams so I can help them, except in the circumstances of good friends, for whom I just smile with gritted teeth and nod pleasantly. When it comes to strangers, nobodies and wannabes, I simply bestow my commandments upon these mediocre performers, slowly but surely leading them to the Promised Land, and graciously tell the unfortunate performers that they will never be able to repent for the blasphemous musical sins they have committed.

I have also been told that in any musical setting I constantly scrutinize people’s abilities, which is not always the case. In chorus class, Miles Cooper, the humble giant, was directed to stand beside me for the duration of the period. He lumbered reluctantly toward me to accept his fate, while our chorus teacher reassured him, “Don’t worry, she won’t judge you.” Right on cue, an almighty soprano retorts, “Yes, she will.”

Eyes widened at the ridiculousness of such an accusation, I watched as guffaws and chortles erupted from every direction, echoing and bouncing around in my head for the rest of the class. How could she say that, turning me into such a monster? Those three simple words smarted like a paper cut, slicing my ego just enough to second guess my plethora of harsh thoughts, but not enough to remove them completely.

Although some deny it, everyone judges others. People toss insults meaninglessly every day to empower themselves, as do I, but they choose much more cruel words to belittle the individuals they declare inferior. Surely, I am not so vindictive as to make anyone blubber like a baby because I am so ruthless (or am I?). So who are they to say I am too judgmental? One by one the performers trudge through their acts, trying not to fall into the dark pit of failure. All the while, I continue to sit, making my mental notes and bettering the lives of the musically talented and musically unfortunate.

Circumlocutory | Maisy Meakin | 7x12x7 | Sculpture

Hallways, Life, and Other Things

Caroline Lim

I struggle to keep up with the rest of the crowd as I head towards the school’s main building.

Speed walking to the door, I try to free one of my hands from the many bags that occupy my sore and aching limbs. Surprisingly, the door opens like magic, as if it were a sign that life would finally be on my side. I sigh in relief and quicken my pace to get to class on time when suddenly, a shrewd voice calls, “What do you say?” His sassy and snarky tone resonates in my ears.

Threads | Annah Whitehead | 24x18 | Mixed Media

Confused, I spin around to find myself looking down at a rather small boy, only reaching up to the chest of my 4’11” stature. Shock falls over me as I try to speak, but nothing comes out.

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“Thank you?” I finally respond, and with that, he turns on his heels and walks away, chin up and his ego ten feet taller. Scratching my head, eyebrows furrowed, I attempt to answer the copious questions swarming in my mind. Was that really a kid? Did that really just happen? What is this life? I stomp into class, furious that I can’t answer any of these questions.

The school hallways have always been my worst enemy. Prone to accidents and injuries, I’ve attempted to avoid them completely; however, it’s proved to be impossible. I constantly find myself tripping over my own two feet, running into hyper kids, and falling down the stairs. Like a pinball

machine, the hallways and their inhabitants bounce me back and forth, ricocheting me from wall to wall. I don’t fight back; instead, I pray to God that someone’s backpack will not knock me into the boys’ bathroom, my greatest fear that haunts me to this day.

Filled with giants and deceitful, deadly weapons, the hallway is a battlefield: me vs. the world. I seem to have a bright red target on my back as I’m the one who is always pushed, shoved, and occasionally run over. It is enough trouble that I struggle to carry everything: my textbooks, my binders, my pens and pencils, my calculator, my lunchbox, my laptop, my music, my flute, my saxophone, and my last ounce of sanity. However, it seems that balancing everything isn’t enough of a challenge as I am faced with dodging the

unavoidable stampede of students: the basketball players whose heads reach the ceilings, the new kids who wander aimlessly, searching for their next class, and the freshmen whose inflated egos tower over me, the unfortunate results of their newly acclaimed

“Am I doomed to live an invisible and tragic life for eternity?” social status upgrades from pre-teen to teen.

My worthy attempts at defense against what seems like World War III fail as a little girl, hearing the sound of the late bell, zooms past me, crushing my feet with the most dangerous weapon that inhabits the hallways: the rolling backpack (it turns out that this girl was actually fifteen years old). The careless troll doesn’t even look back as my precious instruments come crashing to the ground. Really?

Seriously? Am I doomed to live an invisible and tragic life for eternity? What is this life? Flustered and tardy, I pick up my instruments and conclude that these reccurring questions may never be answered.

I thought that I had hit rock bottom long ago when the only thing I could ever trust, my body, failed me. Hit with an eye and sinus infection, I saw it as some sort of a sign from above. It was as if the black plague had returned, to taunt me and only me. I anticipated that blindness would follow the hallucinations. Who wouldn’t imagine such things at such a low point in life?

Over time, things would only get worse. My academic failures soon angered Mr. Lekavich, whose bear-like wrath triggered my insomnia. How could I even think of sleeping when his face, turned scarlet, was painted so vividly in my mind? The proximity of his voice quickened my pace. In the empty hallways, I would look over my shoulder, eyes darting side to side as if I was a criminal, on the run for my terrible crime. Was this how life was going to be? Did my desperate measures really sink below the level of pathetic? One more time I asked, “What life is this?” and at that moment, as a middle schooler’s pleather purse smacked me in the face, I realized the answer—mine.

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A City Girl

Jessica Mandell

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City girls don’t walk in the woods Unless we find ourselves lost Irrevocably and literally Lost.

And if we are, we are caught surprised Momentarily leaving a luncheon Strolling innocently in a new coat A wrong turn, another Ending up under leaves Covering the sky.

We city girls We metropolitan women Crane our necks to see tree tops That aren’t anywhere near scraping the sky But those trees seem inexplicably massive Colossal, unreal, unbelievable.

And before we know it We’re standing in the middle Of a circle of trees A perfect circle Like a swirling design on Baroque china.

In all our confusion We give ourselves to the forest If only for a moment.

But that moment is long enough To notice just how perfect Random is Our cities are never random.

No human arranged these trees They plopped themselves there Without asking for permission Or an audience or applause.

No architect planned Nor could any plan Such beauty.

Dizzying.

With all our wit We won’t see the party Just a mile or so away Not far at all From a quietly thriving masterpiece But unnoticed just the same.

We city girls have level heads But we got lost In a nearby wood Or maybe we were lost before.

I will never again feel as loved as I did When I stood amongst giants Whose life rushed in.

King

of the

Rocking on the soles of his shoes, Kyle suddenly launches upwards. His hands, sweaty with nervousness, clench tight around the rusty metal bar. He is determined to swing upwards, but he hangs there, dangling for a moment, feeling his weight slowly settle into his feet. Gathering his strength, he pulls hard, thin muscles straining, and finally shifts his body through the small metal opening. He’s made it to his favorite spot, a green colored plastic and metal cube atop a complicated web of metal rods. Huddling, he crouches and grins triumphantly.

100...99...98...97...96...

When he was born, Kyle had been very short. The men with cold hands wearing pristine lab coats explained his condition with long, complex words: “hormones,” “chromosomes,” and “birth defect.” He didn’t understand these words. He simply understood that he would always be smaller than the other children. He just happened to have his own special coat hook and his own special stool at the water fountain and his own special desk in class.

They grew. He didn’t. They outgrew him.

Soon, he became “Kyle the shorty.” At recess, he wasn’t allowed to join their basketball games and could not run fast enough for freeze tag. He often ended up sitting in the 32

Jungle Gym

Ivana Chan

small sandbox with little toys and tiny grains of sand. The boys sneered at him. The girls whispered about him.

35…34…33…32…

His breathing slows and his feet are tingling painfully. They must be asleep, but is it safe to move? There are distant scurrying noises and he hears the creaking of large kids sneaking across the wooden bridge. He knew that if he crossed the bridge, he would never make that much noise. Kyle unfolds his legs, legs that do not peek over the edge.

“They will never find me here,” he thinks to himself.

He loves this game. After all, it is stealthier than both his older brothers’ paintball wars and his cousins’ laser tag tournaments. His game is the most challenging by far. It tests one’s endurance and strength, and everyone, even Kyle, can play.

3…2…1…

He stills, even though he is perfectly hidden away. Suddenly, he hears a startlingly loud whoop, a holler. He also detects yelling, first closer then farther away. As he peers through the metal slats, he sees each child emerge slowly after being discovered by the

Pier 39 | Paxton Shaw | Photography

boy who is “it.� Once he counts them all, he realizes he is the only one left. The children all begin shouting his name in earnest. They scramble all over the playground, kicking mulch into the air, looking for him. Excitedly, he plans his debut, a proud winner emerging above the other competitors.

Kyle pokes his head, a speck to the onlookers, out of the cube and waves cheerfully. Ten sets of eyes stare at him in awe. As he climbs down each rung, he seems to get bigger and bigger until he stands right beside them. They gather around him and embrace him with their friendly laughter and congratulations. The boys give him high-fives. The girls bend to fluff his hair. His

confidence swells. They will probably ask him to play with them forever! He feels like a king, giddy with victory, surrounded by his loyal followers.

Kyle sits down on a bench, still happy, and he watches them go. However, nobody asks him to play or to be friends or to join them. His subjects scatter around the park (to find their parents to play Frisbee) and desert him. They must not see him. Kyle goes to sit on a swing. The wind blows and he is lifted up before swinging back and forth. Back and forth. His short legs are kicking hard, but they raise him only a little bit higher.

He is small again.

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ro

A

R I

N

G

Autumn Roses | Elizabeth Davis | 8x10 | Linoleum Blockprint

The voices are

for me.

pots). This is my one chance every day to evade the spectators, the people who come to marvel at my misfortunes and watch me suffer.

I make my way over to a small, uncut patch of grass where the tops of the weeds brush my thighs. Up here, the world below can’t bother me. I slip to my knees and neatly fold my selfinjury proof hospital gown over my scarred legs.

Suddenly a small glimpse of a white flurry floating in the air catches my eye. I scan the patches of grass for this uncommon gust and notice a tiny weed perched in the corner of my uncut patch.

It is a small dandelion, standing exalted and tall.

I reach over to the furry stem and press into the base with the very little amount of fingernail I have left. It snaps over easily with a simple cut.

Break. I grip the dandelion tightly between my

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raw hands. Give up. You’re done for. The voices are roaring for me. I start to whimper in fear. I grip my head and cover my ears as the dandelion intertwines in my fingers. The voices grow louder and stronger. I shriek desperately. All of them calling out at once, repeating the same things they always have. You’re going to die here. Die. I shut my eyes tightly. I can see the white-cloaked figures lunging at me. I have to get out. I have to go. As the tears of hopelessness begin to stream down my red cheeks, I bring the dandelion up to my lips. Hopeless. With all the breath I have left from my hysteric episode, I blow on the white flurries of the dandelion as they fly from the green chains of the weed. They’re set free at last.

I clench my fists as I wish for one thing. I wish to disappear.

Paranoia Paranoia

Abigail Hartley

birthday instead of a vanity license plate for the car you can’t find. There’s the car, I’ll just run to it, nearly there, not that I’m afraid, I’m really just more angry than anything.

All right. Where’s the key, found the key, is the car even still locked? Yes. Unlock it quick before someone changes his mind. Get in, slam the door, lock everything. You made it. Bask in the warm glow of the map lights before they turn off. I can breathe now, deep breaths of air, like I was drowning before.

I’ll just fire up the car and go home to my bed and my hot shower and my favorite Wednesday night episode of Psych.

So I put my purse on the passenger seat, turn to put my keys in the ignition, and look up—but wait—why are there gloves on my dashboard?

Cool Roses | Elizabeth Davis | 8x10 | Acrylic

I’m being followed. That’s ridiculous. Who would follow me in my sweatpants at the mall on a Wednesday? Don’t flatter yourself. Just keep walking.

No, there he is again. Stop looking over your shoulder, it only encourages them. Pedophiles.

Only, I’m eighteen now, which makes him a less of a pervert and more of a garden-variety rapist. Is that less terrifying? Not really.

I don’t even know this guy. He’s probably just out shopping. He might have a wife and thirteen kids at home, how could you know. He’s shopping for his teenage daughter. Shopping at American Eagle and Urban Outfitters and Yophoria for his teenage daughter. With gloves on? Oh my God, they’ll never ID him.

Stop that! There, he’s gone now. Disappeared into the madding crowd—I would be one to make a Thomas Hardy allusion right now. Why not do that turning thing they always tell you to do in women’s self-defense classes? Turn right and turn right and turn right again. Just to be safe.

Now I’m in the appliance department on the second level of Sears, but he isn’t and that’s the important thing. No one’s up here, actually, it’s just me and a cold, bright white room full of sensibly priced washers and dryers. It’s unnaturally quiet, with the neat rows of fridges like mausoleums and the maze of shelves at the back. This whole thing is a slasher movie waiting to happen; I’ll take the long way out and just go to the car.

I’m in the middle of the mall and he’s nowhere in sight. I’ll stop and spin around and take a good sweeping look. Nope. Oh my God, I’m shaking so much. Why didn’t I bring my phone? Just go to the car. Just get home.

?

When did it get this dark I hate parking lots, I hate them I hate them.

Is someone walking in the next row over? It’s boots, I hear boots. Make your keys bristle through your fist, go for the eyes, have your whistle at the ready, wish Mom had bought you brass knuckles for your Blutopia Vol. XII

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Warning to Peter and She’s so dangerous.

She has her best barbs out today The supple flex of her waist tied tight in ribbons.

She has unfurled herself on the shore A smiling, lolling jellyfish, no substance but so soft and so beautiful And so dangerous.

Will she stay here for long Bubbling prettily on the white-hot beach Releasing clouds of her perfumed steam to condense on the wandering male?

Will she keep grinning this way Biting her lips with her sharp oyster teeth so they’re as red as the seas incarnadine Keeping the laughter corked down in her throat with a lump of bitter saltwater?

She has shaken out her shadiest parasol; Her fingers worm into the sand, probing tentacles tipped with eggplant.

Look, she tilts back her head. She’d like to swallow us shadow-first.

Don’t answer her—though her legs curl, enticing, Nature never has seen a woman so coldly, wholeheartedly Dangerous.

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Andrew

Abigail Hartley

Overcast | Josie Barger | 29x14x11 | Sculpture

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Blutopia Vol. XII

Marcia. Empowered. | Jessica Mandell | Photography

Adelaide. Abstracted. | Jessica Mandell | Photography

Senior Artist Statement Jessica Mandell

Frame subject: check. Adjust ISO, shutter speed, and aperture: check. Manually focus: check. Press that silver button and hope for the best: will do.

For two weeks, 2000 miles away from home, I looked only through a viewfinder.

Everywhere I went, I carted around the Nikon DSLR on loan from my temporary home and school, Stanford University. I began to see the world with a frame around it, always wondering what lie just beyond, what I wasn’t capturing. By the time I discovered photography, I had already missed seventeen years’ worth of nontraditional Kodak moments. Those fragile, fleeting instances.

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Instances that capture a common scene, accidentally reveal a secret, only to hastily cloak it once more. Photography documents the truth, and there is ordinary, unapologetic beauty in that.

Additionally, and perhaps more importantly, photography defines without limiting the subject. A picture captures a secret but does not solve a mystery. There is always the question of what actions led up to the documentation, and what results followed. I chose to do a photography portfolio for my senior art portfolio to truly test my photography skills, and to blur the line between photography and art.

Ivana. Wistful. | Jessica Mandell | Photography

Augustine. Bold. | Jessica Mandell | Photography

Portraiture absolutely captivates me. A photographer must balance her own visions with the subject’s personality. I embraced the challenge. Furthermore, I wanted to incorporate my designs into the pictures, so I drew on my subjects’ faces with eyeliner.

The designs act as a mask that both hides and reveals. Since the viewer sees less of the subject, he or she can envision more. More is left to the imagination. And my art has always been about interaction with the audience.

I hope that people viewing my work identify with my subjects and their portrayals.

I also want the viewer to imagine what his or her own design would be and what that

would signify. Perhaps my portfolio will show people how to look less at a person’s flesh and more at the soul. If I hide the superfluous, I leave you only with the truth.

My subjects represent an array of emotions, personalities, perspectives. But they are all enduring their senior year of high school, wondering where they will be next year, imagining where they will be in five years. The portraits document their mixed emotions: fear and excitement, worry and joy.

There is so much more to a person than can be revealed in one photograph; I merely want to show you a side that most people do not even glimpse.

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III “The black frost crackled along the glass like so many pine needles.� ~Ivana

Shattered | Jay Hixson | 18x24| Graphite

Lawless Jane Voss

His gaze wanders from plant to plant.

Budweiser in hand, his button-down (ironically unbuttoned) flails about in the bayou breeze, a faded turquoise complimenting his burnt sienna skin which conjures reflection on his Creole ancestry.

Like his descendants, he is immersed in this vast swampland, treading barefoot across fifteen acres of crawfish holes and thistle weed; the sod collecting between his callused toes serves as an emblem of his endurance and connection to his land. He enjoys the rebelliousness of it all, the unconventionality.

My father has spent the past two hours pontificating on every single aspect of the flora inhabiting his beloved property, property which he and I know more affectionately as, “the land.” He speaks to me, but not for my satisfaction. And as he speaks, I observe him wondrously, brought back into our version of reality only by his frequent demands that I recite plant genera and species. I immediately slip back into a state of enchantment as I watch him. John speaks to hear himself talk; my presence’s purpose is to eliminate the sheer ridiculousness of it all. I am caught between admiration and disgust for this lawless frontiersman, fascinated by our relationship to one another. He is fiercely insensitive, a sixty year-old man with the vigor of a teenager.

I fear him. He, a vagabond of his own world, fears nothing. It is in fear of him that I find safety from the outside world, which he could surely tackle with his bare hands (and feet, for that matter).

Two hours and four beers later, we pile into the cramped cab of his Ford F-250 pick-up truck, smudged to off-white by Louisiana’s red clay. I move an industrial grade flashlight, a box of screws, and a bag of cherries to reveal a seat for myself beside an impending landslide of blueprints and construction tools. Must and mildew spew from the air conditioner, flooding the truck with a sweet nostalgia that always leaves me craving more. We set off on our usual journey, twenty-four miles across Lake Pontchartrain by means of the “Causeway,” a single, rail-straight bridge. The excursion lends itself to my slumber and to my father’s gregarious

44

tendencies. John drones on about his experiences with sadomasochism before recalling his stay in 1970s Guatemala, during which he contracted Hepatitis A. As he contends that working on an oil rig in the Virgin Islands was far more miserable, I am sure that my father is fit for a Dos Equis commercial.

The Causeway finally runs out as we cross the Greater New Orleans threshold to be greeted by glistening

lights out on the piers juxtaposed against an eerie lack of nightlife among the sleeping pelicans nestled in the oyster shells strewn about the shore. We are home. In adoration of this “unnatural metropolis,” we are the same.

“Thank you, honey,” John oozes to our waitress in a lilting tone. A night at the boathouse has deposited us in a quaint coffee shop overlooking the

Highways | Jessica Mandell | 24x18 | Oil Pastel

marina. The sights and sounds of laughing gulls and shiny boats and the melodious clanking of buoys and masts to the wooden docks envelop me then drift away with the morning sunrays. My father is sickeningly smooth; sleazy, even when sober. His flirting is as meaningless as our discourse. John flirts for himself, not for the waitress. Any reciprocation boosts his ego. Years I have listened to his reflections on his own father, whom he resented for what have become his own actions. He found himself disgusted as every waitress of his childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood became another “sweetie” or “honey” in the presence of his father. I feel not disrespect for my father, only disappointment, pity. He has become his own enemy, a Steppenwolf of the bayou country.

A brief mention of college as he slurps the remainder of his coffee incites a response neither of us expected. “Well, it doesn’t really matter what you do in life, because you’re probably gonna be totally miserable no matter what.”

I pity him, although I am thankful that he has raised me not to expect happiness. Every ounce of contentedness I find becomes invaluable. Because my father has taught me to expect misery, I have been content with what little I’ve had at times. In believing him, I have become different from him. Thanks to John, I am not miserable.

As we exit the coffee shop, I take in a breath of the sweet New Orleans marina air. I am happy. John comments on the dock’s rotting planks and sighs.

“That waitress was checkin’ me out, huh?”

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Freedom close your eyes and imagine the word a screw twisted into a hinge nearly stripped.

Now say it notice the syllables between, like a petal floating in a fountain spinning, drifting, gliding.

The final syllable, a disjointed appendage mistakenly grafted dissonant, misplaced the shards of glass on the marble floor.

The petal begins to slow, begins to sink a necklace thrown abandoned, lost.

Awake.

The world pauses.

A faucet stops dripping.

Even it can be silenced momentarily.

Turn your head avert your gaze From your own thoughts, the sharp stings of your mind the brutality of animosity Inhale the lavender scarlet, cheap, hers now it reeks from your hands.

Wrap yourself in the synthetic flower, covering the violet bruises leave the bath, escape alone.

For a moment recall the petal once flourishing now withered, faded, chained, submerging beneath.

Be. Be the strong one, be the indignant one, who climbs over the stairs of Babel looks towards salvation, or damnation.

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Imagine a World Augustine Eze

los ojos azules sin la mente | Rosemary Dunning | 15x20 | Watercolor

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Orb | Ivana Chan | Photography

Stagehand

Natalia Sanchez

Jack stood in the wing, staring absently over the university musicians’ heads. It didn’t take him long to find it—that flurry in the bright stage lights, glowing white from the intense illumination, fluttering, swooping, flying about with an intensity that matched the students’ music. He laughed to himself at his comparison: this humble moth had at least as much passion as did these self-proclaimed musicians, who went around breathlessly declaring that music was their life and that Shosty Five gave them goose bumps and that they only practiced seven hours yesterday but would do better tonight. Jack’s creature was much more discrete in its devotion.

Drawn to the warmth, it flitted about the stage’s stadium-like lights, rejoicing in the music, silently contributing to the ensemble: the unrecognized patron saint of the orchestra. Jack knew it well.

Every ensemble had one. Every concert, every stage. Jack had always noticed, even before. He closed his eyes to the lights and remembered a time when he was one of them. He had been young and hopeful, and the luminous brass of his horn had felt warm under his fingers, and he had been a part of this music that had filled him and swelled in his heart and given him chills. More than once, he’d glanced up during a performance and had seen that reliable pair of wings. Back then, they’d been merely a nuisance—annoying, but insignificant enough to let alone. They certainly hadn’t been a part of the orchestra: back then, he was a musician, and the stage was a place for musicians only.

It had been with a patronizing smile that he’d acknowledged his venue’s guests.

He was a child then. He opened his eyes and blinked as his vision quickly adjusted to

the lights. A violist, turned slightly in her chair, momentarily caught his gaze and grinned at him before resuming her play. Jack recoiled from her look, for he remembered that exact smile from his prior life. Unable to bear her innocent contempt, he turned his gaze skyward, away from the naïve child. He looked up just in time to watch the glowing Icarus drop from the lights and blend into the black railing of the catwalk overhead.

He had been a child, and it had been insignificant. And, he realized, his horror growing, it still was. The violist’s smirk tormented him: the children had been right all along. All these years, he’d been delusional, in denial, but not anymore.

Insignificant.

Suddenly, he knew what he must do.

He turned and climbed the cold metal ladder, the one off-limits and practically invisible to the musicians. The orchestra spread out below him, and they were all bathed in light, warmth, music. They may have never even have noticed that pitiful soul, helplessly addicted to the lights, desperate to share in the musicians’ joy.

It didn’t take Jack long to find him. He perched on the metal rail, opening and closing his wings—drab without the spotlight—in wistful, silent applause. Jack understood all too well: he would never be one of them. The lights would never be his, no matter how close he hovered, how passionately he craved the music. No matter how hard he beat his little insignificant wings.

The orchestra swelled, and he hungrily tensed his worthless body in need, in preparation. They wouldn’t miss him, Jack thought—ironic, for they were playing his requiem. And then, he leapt and threw himself into the light.

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Mute

Ivana Chan

I think that I think I Silenced Collect strangled words Caught and Broken Mangled syllables Chained and Suspended Whole thoughts Dangle Where the albatross Hangs Empty Word-less Name-less Sound-less

Sift through Metallic dust For soft vowels And hard letters As the story unfurls I dare you To mute Unspoken pages Silence

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Equinox | Melike Wilson | 11x14 | Scratchboard

In the deafening quiet Bite and gnash And grind The bullet

The Desperation Diaries

Abigail Hartley

11/2 8:03 am Disaster has struck the quiet offices of Crutchfield Meat Products, dear Diary. The office next door, the one everyone knows I had claimed as my own personal storage space after its owner left to be a vegan chef, has been invaded by outside forces and its contents stuffed into my current workspace. As I write this, wedged between my collection of Cold War-era alarm clocks and my decorative chimenea, I have but one name in my thoughts: Jeremy Hanes.

Is this, you ask, the malcontent who stole Scott’s second office? The very same. I learned his name earlier this morning when Mr. Prufrock came striding purposefully into my office, steamrolling over my Tears for Fears cassette collection in the process.

“Good morning, Appleby!” he called in his hale and hearty voice as “Songs from the Big Chair” met its demise under his firmly planted loafers. He’s taken to stomping about the office and using a loud, commanding voice out of fear that one of us will smell old age on him, want his position, and pounce on him like a job-hunting lion. The overall effect is that of an oversized, graying three-year-old, which nonetheless encourages us to keep our distance. But I digress.

“Goodness, it’s close in here, isn’t it?” he said, eyeing the gallon jar of shrunken heads I was using to prop the door open. “Anyway, I want you to go next door and meet your new team member, Jeremy Hanes. It’s important to make a connection with him because only through teamwork and synergy can we efficiently use e-commerce network space to deliver for our valued customers.”

Some of the less motivated people on my floor have a betting pool based on how much meaningless jargon Mr. Prufrock can cram into

one sentence. These are the same people who call him Mr. Porkchop behind his back because he has the fattest face any of us has ever seen.

11/2 5:30 pm I have seen the enemy, Diary, and Operation Reclaim the Office (known hereafter as Operation Jennifer to protect the mission) is looking pretty grim. Jeremy Hanes has thick, wavy hair, reasonably defined calf muscles, and a sense of humor; ergo, he could be here for a very long time if left unchecked. I heard Janit from HR telling someone that he’s “a great guy who has enormous potential to be a vital asset to this company.” This coming from a woman who can’t be relied upon to spell her own name correctly.

There he goes, walking by on his way out of the office! Sashaying by in his Europeancut sport coat and his fancy black shoes. I bet he didn’t even own those shoes until he saw Mr. Prufrock wearing ones just like them. He’s adopting them as a form of subconscious affirmation. The nerve of the bastard.

11/7 8:57 am Sorry I’m late—I sidestepped a spilled coffee in the lobby coming up here, but my new shoes have slick leather soles on them so I fell and my briefcase burst open on impact. It’s my cosmic punishment for caving in.

I spent the last five days doing nothing but formulating the details of Operation Jennifer, and I’ve come up with a plan to assert my dominance over Jeremy Hanes and recapture the territory I’ve lost. I can’t risk an open confrontation with him because a public display of force could jeopardize my high social standing among my co-workers, yet I don’t have time to waste with a subtle, drawnout campaign of harassment, so a delicate balance must hold true through the course of the mission. I dare not write the details down Blutopia Vol. XII

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in case this diary is compromised, but know this: Operation Jennifer is as ruthless as she is effective.

9:30 am Phase I: Success, as predicted. Jeremy Hanes is satisfactorily flustered, and the day has only just begun.

Two days ago, I went to the kitchen fridge to retrieve my lunch, as I have done for the past six years, four months and eleven days.

Upon opening the door, however, I received a nasty shock when I discovered that Jeremy Hanes had placed his crustless watercress sandwich directly on top of my egg-free meatloaf, allowing mayonnaise-contaminated crumbs to associate freely with my food. I could have died, Diary. To correct his behavior while simultaneously making him feel unwelcome (which he is), I paid a trip to the Lunchmeats and Consumer Products division and returned with enough sliced ham to make exactly 263.5 safer, less pretentious sandwiches; sandwiches I used to stuff his desk drawers, filing cabinets, potted plants, word-a-day calendar, printer, and picture frames. He just stormed by, a look of what I like to imagine as perplexed horror on his face, and now I need to make a stealth cleanup sweep before Prufrock sees the mess. After that, it’s on to Phase II. 1:24 pm …And Scott Appleby triumphs again with the second stage of Operation Jennifer.

Yesterday I caught Jeremy (or, as I like to think of him, the Anti-Crust) using the industrial copier to make invitations to his daughter’s seventh birthday party. Personal use of the copier is, of course, against company policy, so I revoked his employee copier pass card and buried it in the rooftop garden, bearing the headstone: Here lies J. Hanes’ copy card, Let me serve you as a caution I did more than should have been asked And expired from the exhaustion.

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He spent his entire lunch break looking for it, while I took the opportunity to move several of my things back into his (my) office.

The keys to my old apartment, a small statue of Buddha dressed as Elvis, an unopened bottle of flavored baby aspirin—small victories, lying in wait for the rest of my machinations to catch up to them. God, that’s brilliant.

Thrilling as it always is to talk to you, Diary, there is still much to be done for the third and final phase of Operation Jennifer. Again, I am not at liberty to tell you where I am about to go and what I am about to do, but I can tell you that you won’t be out in the cold for very long.

This one’s for the win.

4:41 pm The battle has been long and the stakes high, yet nothing compares to the sweet scent of office space, dear Diary. Mr. Prufrock is still sound asleep under his credenza, Jeremy Hanes is safely in the gloved hands of the Environmental Protection Agency, and I sit here at my desk, basking in the warm glow of triumph. I’m considering designing a flag for my offices to discourage any other invading forces in the future. Perhaps something involving a woodland beaver to communicate hard work, determination, and oversized, rabid incisors.

I suppose you’re wondering how I managed to get rid of the bubonic Hanes.

Suffice to say, you’d be surprised at how far a little insulation will take you, and by “a little insulation” I mean “several hundred kilograms of illegally purchased Canadian asbestos stuffed into the ceiling cavity of Jeremy Hanes’ so-called office.” Two Ambien in Mr. Prufrock’s coffee and one anonymous tip later, and J. Hanes is out of my domain forever. Granted, so is everyone else besides Prufrock because the building is being evacuated as we speak, which means only one thing—I, Scott Leslie Appleby, am now the sole proprietor of approximately 280,000 square feet of workspace.

280, 560 if I can get rid of Prufrock.

Just a Number | Caroline Maier | 18x24 | Collage

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Blutopia Vol. XII

Type.

Jessica Mandell

Keys line the stage showing off eccentricities talents. Pick me.

As if with stamped price tags for each one.

Almost.

The judges systematically scan for flaws that everyone knows are there but well hidden.

The weariest of the three judges with all the power sees them for what they are.

Little keys on a typewriter indistinguishable from one another.

Except for letters pricing and labeling.

Miss Natural Beauty, S. Miss Foreign Beauty, J. Miss Perfect Body, B. Little do they know the public doesn’t revere them for their uniqueness but rather for their monotony.

Look around you, girls.

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What is it you’re winning?

What have you lost?

The weary judge rises ready to announce eliminations.

He eyes the keys his gaze lingering on broken bottles within infinite grains of sand.

S, J, and B catch glimmers from the sun sparkling.

Only fistfuls of used confetti can shine here.

After, S straightens her stubborn hair J resents her French accent B vows never to eat again.

You must fit in line not attract too much attention.

S and D must stand together seem the same be the same all except for the letter.

Anything that makes it easier on the author the typist the husband.

No temptress can be too tempting be strong so he can be weak.

I am | Noor Kaur | 18x24 | Watercolor & Ink

Senior Artist Statement

Pooja Shah

Throughout my journey as an artist, I have learned many techniques and explored numerous media and substrates. I enjoy art classes as an opportunity to express myself for an hour each day when I do not have to think about anything else, and I can focus solely on what my hands create.

When I was in Art III and Art IV, my art teacher always played Art21 videos, which showed new artists of the 21st century. It was through these videos that Shahzia Sikander, a contemporary Pakistani American artist expressing the ideas of blending the Pakistani and American cultures, sparked my interest.

Since I had already explored so much of my American life in my other artwork—often with ordinary objects filling my house—I was inspired by Sikander to explore the other culture within me: my Indian heritage.

When trying to find an aspect of my culture to portray in my artwork, I quickly thought of when my mother signed me up for henna classes in India, learning the art of traditional Indian bridal henna. She had learned the art herself as a child and wanted to carry on the tradition. The intricacy of the Indian henna all over the women’s arms reminded me of the Pakistani women’s veils covering their faces. This connection made me want to incorporate the traditional henna in my artwork. The two traditions symbolize women, all their strengths and fears and hopes. Ultimately, I decided that the truest, purest way to convey the emotion and rich sense of community henna inspires was through my own face. With self-portraits, I endeavored to offer my visage, with its many expressions and subtle moods, as a symbol for the women of India.

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I wanted a circular substrate to illustrate how emotions flow into one another. I remember my father always played our old, Indian records on our record player. I grew up listening to the beats and rhythms of my culture resonating throughout our home; this music has always intrigued me. I harbor a deep love of Indian music; I have taken Indian dance lessons since I was only three years old, and the melodies have become part of me over time. It felt natural to choose the records I adored as my substrate.

The circles, the women, the emotions, the henna, and the music all connected to who I am as a person. I feel that as my portfolio grew this year, I grew alongside it— piece by piece, record by record. oja Po | i hr ne u S

h|1 Sha

Charcoal 2x12 |

Ni n lee

oo |P

ja S hah

| 12 x rcoal 12 | Cha

Sasmita | Pooja S

hah

| 12

x12 |

Blutopia Vol. XII

Ch arc oa l

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A Simple

I

Grainof Sand

didn’t know where I was or how long I’d been there. I awoke from a hazy-eyed slumber feeling as though my head was far from my body. It ached, and each time I tried to tell my arms to move up to rub my bloodshot eyes they failed, responding with little more than a simple jerk. My eyes were fixated on the approaching storm. The sky was a murky gray and the ashen froth of the waves fell down on to the cold carcass of the water. There were no boats, and all that existed beyond the thrashing red and white buoys were sporadic veins of lightning. But there was no thunder. There was no sound at all. Slowly, I began to feel my arms come back to a functional form of consciousness. The sand was cool as it pressed into the raw flesh of my feet, the dried blood suggesting I’d been traveling barefoot across this sandpaper path for a long while. Without thinking, I stumbled into the moving water, each step a numb and awkward fall forward until the salt filled the wounds, reopening them and forcing out still more blood into the swirling white froth. The pain was excruciating. With each surge inland, I felt the lightning striking me, stabbing me, rushing into me, up my pale legs and into my heart. Eyes watering and lungs failing, I forced myself from the water’s grasp and fell back onto the shaking and distorted sand.

I must have blacked out because I couldn’t remember what happened after that, but a drab gray light flickering in and out of focus came into my eyes.

I sat up and tried to… tried to…to…

Head rush.

Everything was spinning, the salt water spewed into my eyes, I blinked several times. Looked up, down, right, left, right, right, left. Close.

I kept them shut for a minute and waited for the burning to leave the backs of my eyelids. I felt my shallow breathing as it just barely raised my chest.

A large wheel protruded from the ground, rocking slightly in the silent wind—where the beach once was there now stood a pier that seemed to connect to a long boardwalk. I think I was sitting on the wooden railing at the joint where the path on the boardwalk met the entrance to the pier. I was looking down to

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Austin Palenick

the end of the pier and I saw something. My chest rose and I could hear the blood pumping through my ears. An older man standing alone was staring out at the colorless horizon looking for nothing in particular. I couldn’t move; I was terrified, and I didn’t even know why. Then he turned. As he slowly rotated his head, I saw only his left eye peering over his rigid, bony shoulder. His expression was submissive. My body shivered and I could feel the ground shaking again. I panicked and I tried to find my breath. I looked up and as the darkness clawed at my eyes, I saw him return to his useless searching.

Collapse.

The Ferris wheel continued to rock but the wind picked up, and with each gust it came closer and closer to rotating. I stayed like this for quite some time, sprawling on the planks with my head cemented into the hard wooden coffin, staring at this poor mechanical creature desperate for life. The wind blew harder and faster and the great collection of metal rocked accordingly; soon it would spin. And, at last it did.

My arms and legs trembled as a deep rumble echoed beneath the fragmented planks of wood. Then light. The old carnival filled itself with a bright light emanating from the endless stands of glass lights that lined every street. I lifted my heavy torso to a sitting position and the tents came to life in a frenzy of reds and bright, untouched whites, the sand glowed with the golden light and the smell of cotton candy tickled my nose. I looked back out at the sea and saw that the storm was beginning to dissipate. The clouds were drifting away from the opaque blue that now shone down onto the calming sea. I was cold, but there seemed to be a kind of warmth reaching out from the familiar new world. I staggered to my feet and then practically threw my body into the archway.

The streets were filled with people. They were everywhere, and soon I found myself in the center of it all: parents and their overexcited children hopping around with giant stuffed animals, young lovers on their first date, an old married couple walking hand in hand down the boardwalk. It was beautiful. There were games and rides and I could smell all of the

into the craters left behind. The strength in my body was gone and my shoulder met the ground. I could feel my body getting heavier and I stopped fighting as my eyes sealed shut.

The room was dark and still so it must have been very early when I opened my eyes. I reached over to my bedside lamp and twisted the little plastic knob until a small shadow of light slid across my bed and onto the wall. The crimson red numbers of my alarm were flashing back at me but there was silence.

No radio, no buzzer, nothing. I was groggy and tired but too awake at that point to go back to sleep. I pushed off the heavy black and white comforter and found my way down off the bed and onto the ground. Motionless.

Panic.

ics | Ben C onner | 22

x17.5 | Mix ed Media

My entire body went cold and I could feel the hair on my legs charge with electricity. A vacuum sucked oxygen into my lungs and my chest tightened.

I couldn’t look down and I couldn’t hear. All I could feel were the gritty grains of sand that lay in a cold heap beneath my feet.

Everyday T op

greasy foods filling the air as they passed by in the hands of the hungry carnival goers. I ran through the streets like a child, exploring all that I could find, hoping, praying that I would never have to leave this fantasy. My once bloodied feet were healed and speckled with the warm sand. My chest felt full and everything I saw seemed to be in colors that I’d never seen before. Eventually, I came across a sign in deep blue with black lettering that read, “House of Mirrors.” I saw no line, so I ventured forward into the bright little tunnel.

Crawling through the cylindrical prism, I found myself in an open room filled with hundreds of my clones, some much larger and others much taller.

It was spectacular. Here I played with the peculiar reflections. I puffed up my cheeks and made funny faces, laughing at myself. But in my juvenile game, I kept feeling a weight on my shoulder. There was an odd kind of coldness to it that seemed to radiate into five curved straps. In the mirror, I follow this strange gnarled root latched to my shoulder and I traced its stem to the edge of the glass frame. I turned around and I met the old man’s eyes. His grip on my shoulder tightened as I tried to run. I writhed and struggled to pull away, to detach us, but his grip was too tight.

He pulled me closer and I looked away and into the mirror. But there was nothing there. I just saw myself crunched together at my left shoulder joint, and then I saw my feet. I was on the boardwalk again and shrill silence flooded my brain. I recoiled and tried to cover my bleeding ears, but the wooden planks started to snap and break, crumbling to sand around me.

I ran from the disintegrating floor, tripping off the edge and into the cold dark sand once again.

The sea was ripping through the skyline and as I ran I could feel the gashes in my feet opening up, leaving a trail of blood behind. I ran without thinking, without breathing, just desperate to get away. I ran until my knees fell forward into the rough, gritty ground, and I listened.

As the silence grew louder, my hands found their way back to the black sand. I wanted to scream; I wanted to call for help, to let someone— anyone—know that I was there. I opened my mouth, but nothing left my lips. I could feel the pain and the anger building up in the front of my throat as I frantically tried to produce a horrified wail.

I threw my fists deep into the sand and tears fell

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Intuition | Jessica Mandell | 24x18 | Mixed Media

Chat Room

Ivana Chan

She scrutinizes the stark walls of her apartment, bare except for a few artsy pictures and a clock. The kitchen doubles as a living room area, which also acts as her home office. One coffee maker, one timepiece, one person. She takes a break from staring at the bright screen, tired from typing up countless documents and waiting for a reply. Tick. Tick. Tick. Suddenly, his screen name appears.

...

Baxter647 is online.

Melanie31: hey, r u busy? we didn’t get to talk yesterday.

Baxter647: sorry Mel, been working late to meet new deadlines, but I’ll always have time for u. how r u tonight?

Melanie31: pretty good. that’s funny, cuz I still

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haven’t run into u at work tho I thought I saw someone today wearing the same shirt as u in ur profile picture.

Baxter647: well I’ve been working from home lately because all my documents r there, so that probably wasn’t me and I bet everyone has a black dress shirt.

Melanie31: ur right. I thought I recognized the pattern, but I guess I was just being silly, the person was pretty far away.

Baxter647: don’t worry about it. so, u want to meet me? I’d love to see u in person…

Melanie31: yeah that could be…interesting. U know wat? I better to go to bed. I have an early morning tomorrow. goodnight!

Melanie31 has signed off.

...

Sighing, she kicks herself mentally.

Love. It’s just one word. People say it all the time now. Why is she being so paranoid? Her cousin recommended this dating site to her last Christmas and her cousin’s fiancé seems perfectly normal. Also, after reading countless reviews, she learns that www.lifetimefriends. com is less popular www.eHarmony.com or www.plentyofish.com, but safer due to its smaller community. Though she was opposed to participating at first, recently, she decided to join—it stopped her mom’s incessant nagging.

And then she met Baxter. Well, they haven’t met, yet. They have been talking for weeks now. Not only does he work at the same office but also they share similar tastes in food and music. It helps that the online match generator has declared that he meets ninetytwo percent of her demands. After time and time again of dating the wrong man, it’s reassuring to know that Baxter is only eight percent away from being her perfect partner. She promises herself that she will settle things tomorrow.

...

Melanie31 has signed on.

Melanie31: hey, Bax? Baxter647: Mel! u left in such a hurry yesterday that I forgot to tell u about this new band. they’re this really cool group from Denmark.

Melanie31: yeah, I was just tired. wat r they called?

Baxter647: The Blue Van. They have a pretty popular song called “Independence.” u should try that, but u should also listen to “There Goes My Love.”

Melanie31: u and ur love songs…

Baxter647: hey, just because the word is in the title doesn’t mean the song is about love.

Melanie31: so the song isn’t about love?

Baxter647: I didn’t say that...just listen to it. I think u’ll like it.

Melanie31: hmm. ur right, it’s pretty good.

Baxter647: I was hoping ud say that. they r having a concert at the park this fri, wanna go?

Melanie31: Um…I’ll be honest, this is the first time I’ve ever really talked to someone long term before, like online.

Baxter647: don’t u kno me by now? I’m not some serial killer or sadistic rapist. It’ll be fun, trust me.

I would never hurt you, Mel, you know that.

Melanie31: of course I know u wouldnt, and thanks. I was actually gonna to tell u that I think I’m ready.

Baxter647: so I’ll c u tomorrow at the park? I’ll b wearing the same shirt from my profile, but in grey. u should wear your red dress. looks gorgeous in ur pic.

Melanie31: alright, thx, I guess I’ll see u tmrw! night, Bax. Baxter647: night, Mel. love you too.

Baxter647: oh wait, before u go and I forget, theres one last song u need to hear. listen to “Lay Me Down and Die.” Melanie31 has signed off.

...

Melanie scuffles to the sink, washes her hands, and breathes deeply. Though she enjoys the rhythm and melody of the song, their logo (a frightening red and black mask) is as ominous as their strange lyrics. She shakes her head. What is there to be afraid of? If her cousin can find a husband, then she can, too. Heading towards the sink, she reaches to put away her coffee mugs and goes to turn off her laptop. However, as she exits out of each page, she lingers on Yahoo! News. The article is absolutely gruesome; it discusses the way a recent killer dismembers his victims’ bodies; they are all female. She senses déjà vu as the hue and pattern of the investigator’s only piece of evidence, a torn black shirt, seems more and more familiar.

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“What am I when no one can hear me scream?”

IV

~Austin

Restrain Pain | Supichanee Thanjitpreedanon | 18x24 | Graphite

Natalia Sanchez

Defensive Driving 64

It’s him The King of the Road Himself And he is above the rules Above altruism Above the speed limit The haughty gray of his suit Demands attention, Urgency And his windshield wipers complain: Late, late, late As they push away the clean rain He sees her Ahead at the crossroads Not his problem She’ll move The stoplights glare disapproval Foreshadowing Though neither expects Traveling in the dark She’d braked carefully in the rain And looked both ways And followed the rules And done everything right But then his car came careening And his brakes shrieked And so did she And it’s not fair And it’s not fair And they crashed.

The thick air reflects red No longer pure red Or even sinful red It makes no difference now One man’s transgression Consequence for two She lies shattered Polluted with his spilled greed His wiper blades creak Their steady lament No one can hear them now Late Late Late

Bare | Ivana Chan | Photography

Til’Death Do Part Us

Porter Yelton

Without a miracle, today will be the last day of my life. The last day of what has been merely a series of horrible, horrible days. Why should today be the last horrible day I ever experience? It shouldn’t be.

There should be more misfortune to grieve over, more losses to mourn, more impossible debts to repay,

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much more sheer sadness to experience. However, I will not be granted that luxury, because they won’t believe me. None of them will. You see, I did not kill her. No, I most definitely did not kill my wife. In fact, the day she passed was the day the melancholy hours of my life turned repulsive. Having come home

from work, late as usual, I was caught by a strange stench at the door. I mindlessly wondered why my own house would smell as if a body had been rotting inside. Much to my chagrin, that is exactly what had been happening. I followed the trail of blood to the kitchen, where I found my wife’s body. I immediately felt a peaceful sort of agony. But I did not kill her. No, it was not I who killed her.

The husband is always the first suspect. I knew this, so I absentmindedly cooperated with the police, agreeing to ride downtown to the courthouse for some preliminary questioning. I did not cry, I did not scream. In retrospect, that was probably the first

same roads, walking into the same courthouse. The same reporters are there, and the same judge sits on the pedestal he has made for himself. The same gavel rests beside his hand—the same gavel that could easily give me the freedom I haven’t felt in years, or that could prevent me from feeling freedom ever again. It’s a peculiar thing, my situation. I am calm. I am calm because I know I did nothing wrong, and I know justice will be served. I just know it. Somehow, someway, justice will be served.

Today, not much has changed. Not much in the sense of my surroundings, that is. Today I am still in a cold room. Today I am still accompanied by

Runnymede | Jay Hixson | 24x18 | Graphite

“I most certainly did not kill my

lovely, e n c h a n t i n g,

revolting wife.”

thing that led them to mistake me for a criminal. They were wrong, of course. They were wrong all along. You see, I loved my wife. I loved her dearly. But in spite of my love for her, our relationship had been going nowhere for quite some time.

In fact, we had been regressing.

Regressing so fast that we were bound to hit a roadblock dead on, and there would be no looking back. Luckily, that was avoided.

But I loved my wife, I really did.

But all she brought to my life was sadness and misfortune.

Plentiful, plentiful misfortune.

I loved my wife, but I hated the person she had become. Even so, I did not kill her, would not have killed her, for I knew the impossibility of getting away with murder.

It has been a series of monotonous days. Being escorted by the same guard, walking down the same dark, disgusting hallway, getting in the same patrol car, riding down the

a judge, still accompanied by a police officer, and still accompanied in spirit by the mob of ignorant imbeciles outside that have looked down on me since the beginning of this horrifying experience.

However, today I see no lawyer. Today I see no courtroom. Today, my fate will not be decided by that hideous gavel. No, that part is over. Instead, today I see only a hideous room and its appalling contents.

A room painted in the ugliest color of red your eyes have ever seen. A room containing disgustingly friendly artwork painted by an inferior artist who was surely paid a nickel per painting. A room that was made to disguise the quandary it would cause fools like me. And I’m sure I am the only one who has ever noticed this façade and possibly the only one who has been able to see straight through it. Today, in this hellish room, I see a syringe. I see also the chair that I am strapped to and the clock that tells me I have only minutes left to live. Live. Dealing with the consequences of my wife’s untimely passing is not what I would call living. Lastly, far below the room, I see evil, evil in the eyes waiting to punish me for my worst sin.

What? What sin? There was no sin committed, I must argue. After all, a man cannot be punished for something accidental, can he? But no, I did not kill her, you see. I most certainly did not kill my lovely, enchanting, revolting wife. I did NOT kill her. I did not mean to kill her.

Blutopia Vol. XII

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The Attendant Ivana Chan

Squinting, I peer into the room that I have been sentenced to serve for the past three weeks. Those hideous walls can only accurately be described as yellow mold. I despise having to release my pent up breath, forced to refill my lungs with the stale, sterilized air that burns my nostrils and fills my mind with visions of hell. Somehow, it is as if I can even detect traces of formaldehyde oozing into the room from the morgue across the street. But then again, how is that possible when I am so careful to scrub that disgusting smell off of my body every single day?

A shiver crawls its way down my spine, but I shake it off and push my cart forward. I have done this work for over a decade now—I still get nervous. This is my job. This is my job. This is my job. The little wheels click against invisible tile cracks as they turn, repeating my mantra, even after I’ve stopped.

The charts and instructions for each patient are placed in thick manila envelopes on each door.

On my first day assigned to this faded woman, I marched down the hall, passing the worst of the victims, until I reached her. Her file was thicker than two Charles Dickens novels; I couldn’t bear to read it.

She sits in the bed, no different than usual.

Nothing but a body, a shell, a carapace of what she once was. The rumors say she was a singer, a celebrity, a doctor. She was magnificent.

Nowadays, she remains perpetually shrunken with her appendages wrapped in clean, white gauze, barely even alive. She gazes straight forward, never deviating an inch from that knowing position. Her head tilted slightly up with a sagging nose, wrinkles, and crusty leather skin.

She is as daunting as she is perceptive.

It is difficult to be near a person who has experienced this magnitude of misfortune without sending pitying glances her way every few seconds,

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and my reactions are no exception. Since my first day, I have had to turn on the television so she can have something to look at, something to keep her attention off of me, something to give me a break from staring into her curiously lively, fierce black eyes. The little static box stays turned up loudly to cover her broken breaths. But eventually, I found it easiest to redirect my eyes. I couldn’t help or hurry her, for she was something I could see but could never fix. Viewing her as an unsolvable problem was the only way I could do my job.

Luckily, today is my last day of working with her, my very last shift. I have the courage to speak to her. I chat about where she is relocating to, and I tell her about the perfect weather in that wonderful outdoor plot outside this drafty building. I describe the pretty flowers that grow around there, very pretty ones, the marigolds and the poppies, and the old friends she will be reunited with. Her eyes are very active today. She seems to understand. They dart back and forth, anticipating.

A small bead of sweat traces a crease down my back. I push on. As I clear away her small plastic food tray and exchange her wilting flowers with fresh ones, her little brittle arm suddenly shoots out and chains itself around my wrist. Efficiently, mechanically, I remove the tiny cap and quickly slide the needle between the sheets. I see her large pupils shaking violently back and forth until they slow to a quiver. They stop. I pull my arm out of her loose grip. But I still feel her black eyes watching me, unlike the other patients’. I shut them.

Now, the lifeless body bag zips up easily; it is lighter than I thought it should be. I load everything onto my sturdy, metal pushcart. As I move it towards the door, I feel nothing. There is no resistance. This practiced routine seems strangely efficient. The wheels click smoothly onwards. This is my job. This is my job. This is my job.

Abyss | Sara Bonesteel | 24x18 | Acrylic

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Blutopia Vol. XII

Town of

Prayer

Molly lived in a peaceful town where there was never any violence, for each member of the community managed to get along. She was an ordinary thirteen year-old but with thinning hair, brittle nails, and dry skin. Singing soothing hymns, she walked through the streets, ignoring the sound of the sick and the hungry. There were plenty of other people to see, thoughtfully praying and humming vocational rhythms. They prayed for the sick, for the hungry, for the dying. Molly felt no concern; she felt hope.

She continued on her route until she reached a large, old building that was twenty-four floors closer to the skies. She stepped inside and glanced around the familiar place. Familiar to everyone since the hospital was one of the most frequently visited buildings. Molly began to move up the stairs at a moderate pace until she reached the seventh floor. There were crowds of people in each room, either coughing or writhing in pain. It would have been a rather unpleasant sight, but she heard the low whispers of the prayers being murmured. She smiled with confidence that everyone would be well in time. Molly turned into a room and scanned the patients. Some were sick while others were merely visitors, many of which she knew well. She saw her brother, Jeremiah, and made her way to his bedside.

He was scared—only seven years old. His eyes glowed pain and he reached for his sister’s hand. In a meek voice he asked, “Why can’t I get surgery?”

“What?” Molly blinked, uncomprehending.

“Surgery,” continued Jeremiah, “In school I learned that they used it to take care of the sick.

It fixed them.” He looked hopeful. “They got better instead of dying.”

It’s a shame, thought Molly, that he was

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Celestial | Jessica Davidson | 24x18 | Collage

Megan Taite

removed from school to come here before he was taught the magic behind prayer. She didn’t know how to explain to him exactly why they didn’t use surgery, but she thought she’d give it a try. “Jeremiah, surgery is bad. If God wants you, He’ll take you, but then again, maybe He’ll listen to our prayers and let you stay with us a little bit longer. In school they’ll teach you every prayer we know. There are prayers for food, drinks, health, new possessions, and so much more. You’ll learn someday. You’ll get better, Jeremiah. That’s how it is with all things in this wonderful town. We don’t need surgery. We pray. We don’t need to work because we pray! No, we don’t need to farm,” she giggled at the thought, “because we –” “We starve,” he interrupted. “Why starve

when we can make our own food?”

Molly gasped and then took a moment to recollect her thoughts. “We don’t make anything.

We pray for what we need and God delivers with what seems fair. If He thinks we don’t deserve food, then we shall go hungry.”

Jeremiah gave up. He surrendered to the pain wrenching through his body and leaned back against his bed while his sister sat, holding his hand firmly. He heard her patronizing diatribes, though he tried to drown them out. Tired of hearing unending praise to the God that never delivered, he closed his knowing eyes and his grip on Molly’s hand fell limp.

Molly paid her respects, staying by his side for a few more hours. When she thought due respect had been given, she crossed herself and stood up. Her

feet moved her towards the door, past the rooms piled high with the living and the dead. She walked calmly down the steps, quietly singing hymns until she reached the first floor.

Before exiting the building, Emma, a very close family friend, stopped her. Emma too had brittle nails and looked emaciated, exhausted. It was understood that Molly had been here to visit her brother.

“Has he gone?” she inquired.

Molly nodded and made the sign of the cross, and Emma did the same before speaking again.

“Well, have you done all you can, then?”

“Yes,” Molly responded with certainty, “for I have prayed.”

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Day Terrors | Elizabeth Davis | 18x24 | Charcoal & Eraser

When You Grew Tired of Being Unfinished Abigail Hartley You ripped her from the inside first As your bones knitted in her womb Yanked the cord from the wall as if from an outlet Then wrapped it, Once, twice Around your translucent, venous neck.

Six months she’d kept you under her nightshirt Knotting lump, solid thought, loved parasite.

Six months was long enough, you thought.

I was six myself, I remember Maroon pooling on the linoleum, the pallid green of her eyes As she ran for the cool tile of the bathroom Later the hospital, the bowels of it The dark windowless cell With the blank cinderblock walls And the fluorescent lights And the chrome and the mirrors.

She stayed for six weeks with you, Making you wait While you kicked to leave She begged you to sleep Stay, stay, stay But you went And lived To one day Repeat yourself.

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Cold water. That is all there is. It stretches all around me in a perfect circle, like a wide eye or a gaping mouth. It reaches beneath me, too: deep, deep, deep, deeper than I can imagine. I stretch my leg out, toes reaching, just to make sure, and I am right.

The only thing there is even colder water. I look down. That really is all that’s there, right?

Sea

ons er

Natalia Sanchez

I squint hesitantly, trying to decipher the opaque depths. Through the salt, I can see the blurry outlines of my perpetually moving arms and legs, and I wonder how long I can keep swimming. But I push that thought aside and focus instead on my solitary limbs. I see no fish, no sea scum, no other semblance of life, and I remember high school biology, the food chain, how if there’s no grimy plankton, the small fish all die, then the medium fish all die, and then the big fish all die. And the other things, too. The sinister things. Waves around me lap gently, and the ocean seems dead itself. Sinister things can’t live in dead places.

They can’t. I try to envision what it’s like deep inside the ocean. Cold. Frozen, even.

Pitch black and so silent—those depths don’t know sound or sunlight. And it must be heavy.

Yes, I’m sure it is, with an infinity of water 74

pressing down from the surface and in from the sides and up from that black, nonexistent bottom all at once. With that unfathomable weight, it must pull down, down and in with a gravity of its own. Nothing could live down there—it would collapse on itself. Unless it was colossal, solid, ancient. It wouldn’t move much—how could it when the pressure is so great? Would it swim? Would it surface?

What would it eat?

But it doesn’t exist. It doesn’t. It doesn’t, it doesn’t, it doesn’t. It can’t. Can it? I contemplate dipping my head to let the cold clear my thoughts, but I decide against it and keep my face above the surface. Just in case.

But what if it does? Would it have fins?

No, tentacles. Curling, creeping tentacles that snatch up its prey from the pressing, suffocating dark. And it would be pale, pale from never having seen the sun. It probably wouldn’t even have eyes. And it would smell like sulfur and evil and thousands of years under the sea.

Or would it?

Suddenly, cold realization creeps into my veins. Of course it doesn’t have grasping tentacles or pale skin or blind eyes. I was silly to have imagined such trite horrors, to have wasted my energy on such irrelevant questions. I’m too tired for imagination now, and I finally see clearly; I wasn’t far from the answer after all. It is colossal—massive, too great to ever be crushed by anything. It doesn’t have eyes, for it doesn’t need them.

And that smell. Even now, my nostrils fill with salt. My heart would be racing in panic, but now all it can do is flutter feebly in terror and resignation. I am cold and I am tired. I cannot win against this endless monster. I close my eyes and shudder as the gaping mouth swallows me whole.

Barnola | Ivana Chan | Photography

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Blutopia Vol. XII

N

Austin Palenick

ameless

He hit me. No, that’s not right. He threw me into the bitter-tasting dirt and beat me. He and his buddies had turned this little game into a weekly event. They would usually start drinking before three, each probably on his fifth can when I walked in the door from school. I would always give the same, absent greeting and ask how their days were, as if I cared. But I don’t think I ever got much of a response.

Sometimes he would ask me to grab some more beers from the fridge or to make some food for him and the guys. I had no other choice. Defying him was never worth it.

Once they start drinking, I’m never around to see them stop. But when I was still allowed to go to school, in the safety of the classrooms, I liked to imagine them sober and working on the farm again.

But I knew that wasn’t the case. I knew that they were sitting there in the den talking about nothing and smoking cigarettes. It used to terrify me, when they would come after me: the breathless cracking of thin twigs under my bare feet as I ran for the woods, the iron taste of my defeat as it mixed with the dirt and stained my lips, the misshapen blue and gray blotches that gripped my skin and throbbed with his slurred words. But I guess one day the fear just went away. All the pain just seemed to stop, and I was numb. And when they finally left me there on the muddy floor covered in garbage, I would stare up at the branches of the trees, trying not to cry. Then I’d get up and stumble back to the house where I’d find him passed out on the couch. It became routine.

When it first happened I was nine. The bank had been threatening to foreclose if he continued to fall short on the amount of crops that his contract required him to produce. But the fields were bare and yellowing with disease. He and the local farmers started meeting on a regular basis, hoping to fix the problem, but meeting after meeting nothing changed. Nothing changed and nothing changed

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and that’s when they began to drink. Then it just happened one night. I was working in my room on homework when he came in and told me to get up and start running. I didn’t ask questions because I knew that they were forbidden. I just heard his word “run.” So I did.

I was still on fall break that night and I’d been just one day away from returning to school, but he said that wasn’t going to be possible—probably so that my teacher wouldn’t see the cuts on my face. He said that he was going to need help on the farm and that I had all of the schooling that I needed. I never went back.

Of course, I never once worked on the farm; there was nothing for me to do. There was nothing for anyone to do. Two years he struggled to keep the dying land alive, but in December of the second year the bank finally took his land and we were forced into a trailer park twelve miles away. It was a dirty place filled with old dip canisters and empty gun shells, but the trees that surrounded it were oddly peaceful.

Each season brought something different and the colors of the leaves changed as they pleased. The greens and the yellows and the oranges and the reds.

It was the only real color that I think I’ve ever seen. At night and sometimes early in the morning, I would sit on the step outside the trailer and watch the trees and listen to the coyotes as they took command of the still night, singing in the woods.

There was something out there that was still living. There had to be. The trees were proof of that.

There was a part of me that wanted to run, to just run as fast and as far as I could, but I knew that he’d follow me because, in reality, I was all that he had. I was the only thing that he could control, and I think that was the only thing that prevented him from drinking himself to death. I did think about trying to kill him once. One night, after they’d chased me into the woods and attacked me, I came home and found a shotgun left on the counter. It was loaded and they were all vulnerable invalids on the floor. I could have done it. I could have ended all of this then, but when I

Cremated | Jackson Hartley | 18x24 | Gun Powder

put my hand on the trigger, I saw how tragic he really was. If I would have killed him, I would have become him. That wasn’t something that I wanted, regardless of how badly I wanted out. I told myself that I was done; I was going to leave this hell. It didn’t matter anymore that I had nowhere to go. Anything was better than this life.

From then on, all I thought about was escape.

I didn’t know how or when it would happen, but I knew that it would. It had to. So I waited patiently and watched his every move. It had to be a time when I had a chance, a time when he wouldn’t go after me.

Then one night when he was particularly loud as all of them drank in the den, I knew my opportunity had come. I would egg him on when he had so much alcohol in him that he would surely get dizzy and fall if he chased after me. I waited an hour and walked downstairs, but it didn’t take any aggravating, he was ready to play his game and so were they. I ran for the door but tripped on the step.

I couldn’t get up in time. He picked me up and threw me into the pile of logs near the trailer. I felt the dry slivers of rotting wood as they made their mark on my weary arms and bruised chest and bleeding chin. I looked up at the turning leaves of fall and I told myself that it wasn’t over. Then I ran. I hid behind a massive oak tree and I closed my eyes and held my breath. I heard him curse and throw his empty bottle against a tree. Luckily, he gave up soon after.

Quickly I started a fire, recalling undervalued Cub Scouts knowledge from years ago. As the golden embers began speckling throughout the brown kindling and the smoke gained weight, I put down the twigs and started

collecting water from puddles with fallen leaves as spoons and a discarded soup can as a container. I was tired. But I knew that I couldn’t give in yet. There had to be something in these woods, something that was better…

I used a tree to stumble up to my feet and I tied strips of cloth from my shirt over the wounds on my chest and I did my best to move out into the black unknown. Leaving the fire was a risk, but what else could I do? I was probably going to die either way, so shouldn’t I at least try to survive? I couldn’t go back.

That life was dead, but it was trying to pull me down with it. But I wasn’t dead yet. Not yet. As I staggered on, the early autumn leaves began to fall, guiding me as they glided to the ground in spirals of color. Tree by tree, step by step, I pulled myself farther into the woods, farther into the life that always teased me.

Waiting | Noor Kaur | Photography

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##

“Nothing seemed clearer than that first initial fog.� ~Jessica

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Neon | Jessica Mandell | Photography

Author of Piece- Myriad Pro

Message in a

Natalia Sanchez And I soon came to know mermaids were just sorority girls.

Brown glass in hand, tipsy at sea discarding judgments clothes bottles worthless they shrieked and giggled as their finery, sinking was lost forever

Bottle

As a child I collected broken glass from the sand in clumsy hands I held the pieces admired them loved them and imagined pirates’ chests filled with emeralds worth my life and they’d take it, too if they caught me pilfering their riches.

In the streets of Atlantis where kiosks sold novelty land baubles license plates and wedding rings these treasures were currency two greens and a clear for a trinket browns were the pennies blues, the quarters reds, two dollar bills.

If I ever found one I’d never let it go so I understood why they never found their way to me I envisioned mermaids’ earrings amber and quartz to lure sailors to illuminate eyes and contrast with wet hair these perfect women’s voices to find their possessions missing stolen.

And my pirate treasure my glass jewels dumped overboard the tragedy of cheap beer of consequences not worth my life or theirs or anything The stars escape above the sea to worthier hands the sand and the salt dull their shine and pettiness broken corners edges transformed and submerged ladies in wait waiting to return And they will they will rise as phoenix from sea foam reborn beautiful enchanting a song of immortality.

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Senior Artist Statement Rosemary Dunning un nariz al sol | Rosemary Dunning| 24x18 | Ink

Artwork, in my life, plays the role of a best friend; it is there when no one else is and when I want no one else to be. It relieves me of the stress that comes with being an overly analytical individual. Until I am no longer able to lift a finger, art will always be a part of my life.

My portfolio, a series of selfportraits in black ink, follows the arc of dealing with a problem.

With the transition from face to face, I would like to portray the journey from uncomfortable helplessness to a proud sense of resolution. The first piece, showing my averted eyes and bowed head, embodies avoidance. The next piece demonstrates confrontation, which segues to an atmosphere of complete discomfort as I learn to cope with my problem in the third piece. The portfolio ends on a note of acceptance and management.

The clean-cut precision of the centered piece’s borders directs focus to the work, providing the viewer with space to contemplate their individual reaction to the piece. With a single swooped motion of the head, a fifteen-second glimpse into my life, and layers upon layers of amorphous, inked scribbles, I wish to express my struggle, playing hide-and-seek with a lifelong enemy: the sun.

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Since I was a child, El Sol has not been a friend of mine. We fought over most everything, from when I could go outside to play to how bright he should shine on a cloudy day. It was not until I began to feel burning sensations pulsate along the entirety of my exposed skin did I realize that these quarrels were not just ordinary tiffs among pals. He was getting physical with me. From then on, El Sol was my enemy. His bullying antics were discovered when my mother stole a glance at my naked stomach while I was frolicking in an inflatable Elmo kiddy pool in the backyard.

“You’ve got the Dunning curse,” she affirmed.

I had acquired an allergy to the sun. As counterintuitive as it may seem, chocolate

cara eliminada | Rosemary Dunning| 24x18 | Ink ojos cerrados | Rosemary Dunning| 24x18 | Ink un mejillo | Rosemary Dunning| 24x18 | Ink

people are susceptible to this rare allergy as well; the lighter chocolate that one is, the more vulnerable. I am caramel. Every encounter with the sun leaves my skin seared, splotched with scars wherever the rays touched me.

I was forced to be in a constant state of concealment, forced to hide. I refused to wear any sort of sun blocking agent.

Subsequently, I remember most of my childhood covered in ridiculous amounts of clothing and spent looking out of the window at my brother playing tag with the rest of our band of neighborhood children while I remained behind the bars of a window pane, devising my glorious escape plan. After I grew tired of living in my house, a shelter for the sun-battered, I decided it was time for me to seek.

Now, I do not mind smothering myself in sunscreen before venturing outside for soccer practice or a day on the beach; I can live life with minimal side effects from the demon in the sky. After seventeen years of playing hide and seek, I am now officially a professional. For me, it isn’t just a popular childhood past time; it is the game of my life. First, I hide. Not hiding in the cowardly sense, but avoidance to buy time for concentrated contemplation.

Then—I seek.

Laureate

Jessica Mandell

Lacy looked up at the empty house. She had lived there alone for twenty years, and now she didn’t. Could Lacy really live anywhere but that house? Of course, she could. Lacy was the strongest woman anyone in town ever knew.

She refused proposal after marriage proposal in a time when a girl really ought to get married.

She lived alone in a bright blue house in a time when women didn’t choose to live alone and no one chose blue houses. She kept singing jazz music with the windows open in a time when jazz was entirely passé. So Lacy could do anything, but did she want to do this?

Lacy had always been different. When all the girls in the fourth grade ran around chasing and teasing boys, she picked daffodils from the field and tied them together in a little laurel.

After Miss McKesson called the children in and everyone returned to class, other girls would ask Lacy why she always wanted to dirty her hair with ugly pickings from the yard. Lacy asked those girls why they spent every recess hunting for boys.

Years later, those girls caught boys. Some moved out of town with their game; most stayed and set up camp in perfectly situated residential neighborhoods. Lacy kept making daffodil laurels—which still made her feel prettier than any man ever did.

Shortly following her high school graduation, many of the girls got married.

Lacy wore hideous bridesmaids’ dresses to each occasion, wondering why her friends threw their lives away just when the world’s adventures opened up to them. Instead of

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planning her wedding and preparing a life for two and counting, Lacy picked a blue house and borrowed money from her parents to make it hers.

All she wanted to do was paint the walls with scenes from the mythically beautiful city of Santorini. The blank walls begged her to paint, though she hadn’t painted before.

Listening to the silent encouragement from an endless white canvas, Lacy glided through town with a paintbrush in her hair, waiting for someone who had grown bored of white backgrounds, someone who needed her assistance. Lacy, the town’s extraordinaire, grew wildflowers in the most barren expanses.

While enjoying pink lemonade one Saturday afternoon, Lacy realized that there was one thing missing from the scenes painted on the stucco in her kitchen. Her. She should be strolling along the brush stroked streets, collecting yellow dotted flowers, jumping into the acrylic seas.

Twenty years of painting later, Lacy knew she wasn’t truly living the extraordinary adventure she made for herself. She was merely painting it. And paint only gets a girl so far.

That was it. She was moving to Greece. Not because she hated this town, or any other town; not because she was running away, and most certainly not because it was anyone else’s idea. But because she wanted to touch the beaches, smell the flowers, hear the waters as more than echoes in a dream.

Upon the announcement of her departure, Lacy broke many more hearts. Men,

Hit the Bed | Adelaide Weiss | 24x18 | Acrylic

still begging Lacy to be theirs, still hoping to become hers. A hastily planned marriage proposal or two—as filled with love as words can be—as final pleas. She again said no. That wasn’t her lot in life, yet.

Honestly, Lacy didn’t know why she was so fickle. She didn’t know why she always said no to men who proposed with beautiful diamond rings. She didn’t know why she cried at weddings but didn’t see herself having one.

She didn’t know what she was looking for, until it found her.

So, while the house held years of hope, of inspiration, of living, she could walk away that day without the unbearable burden of emptiness. Her life was as full of potential as it was when she first bought the house.

Maybe she would swim everyday in the bluest water she ever hoped to see.

Maybe she would paint every cobblestone in Santorini a different color. Maybe she would accept the next proposal if he offered her not a ring but a daffodil laurel made of dirty pickings from the yard.

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Henna Hands | Noor Kaur | Digital Photography

The Man in the Red Turban

Noor Kaur

My alarm goes off, a shrill sound invading the inner confines of my head. I glance at the calendar, which blends into the white wall. October 2. The 2, strikingly bold against the pale of the paper, is the day that he died, sixteen years ago. Throughout my life, I have only seen one picture of my father. It’s a straightforward shot—his face, fair-skinned with a black beard, a bright red turban resting on his head. The man who stares back at me isn’t smiling, but he appears content. Looking at the photograph, I realize that I know nothing about the man who gave me his DNA and loved

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me unconditionally for the last five months of his life.

I have searched for clues, though; I have strived to learn. I know that I inherited his dark, bushy eyebrows and dimpled chin. I know that he was a professor. I know that he named me. But I don’t know anything else. A part of me could never bring myself to ask excessive questions about my father. I found everything I knew about him from my grandparents and my mom. My grandparents constantly informed me of the similar physical features I shared with the man who they claimed “was

very, very nice.” For many years that was all I knew of him. With my mother, the subject was like a sealed box of recollections. I have pried open the lock, but the lid is yet to be lifted.

I want to yank off that lid. I want to know everything about my father, to reconstruct him in my head. My mother seems to guard all knowledge of him, as if to keep me safe.

Perhaps she simply does not care to share. The reality, I do not know. We have, I suppose, a subconscious pact never to speak for too long about him. I have no moments, no memories, no mementos by which to remember him. I want something, I need something, something more than what I have been given. But I am left with only hopes and speculations of what he might have been like and with stark realities of what he was not.

Aside from his “niceness,” I’m also told that my father wished to see me accomplish many things. Even when my skin was still too soft, and my eyes still closed, I imagine that he filled his head with dreams and aspirations of my future intellect that would garner me success. Today, I do well in school, and whenever I receive recognition or accolades, my mother always tells me, “Your dad would have been so proud.” And I want him to be proud. I wanted him to be so proud, when I learned how to read in kindergarten, when I overcame my stage fright at my first ballet recital, when I learned

in crime against my mother. When she would deny me, you would say yes without skipping a heartbeat, and we would share secret smiles behind her back. You would instill in me your thirst for knowledge, inspired by your own father, and you would make me a better thinker with your worldly dealings of literature and science. I would grow older and we would have scintillating conversations about current events all over the globe. You would gift me stimulating novels or beautiful books of poetry that I would cherish above the meaningless and superficial gifts I would receive (and certainly do) from others. And you might even indulge my addiction to chocolate, spoiling me with sweet treats (much to my mother’s chagrin).

We would sip hot chocolate and stare at maps, itching to go on excursions around the world.

You would be joyous on the clichéd milestones of my life: graduation, college, and graduation again. I would start a new chapter in my journey, fall in love and get married. And perhaps, on my wedding day, you would pull my mom close with shining eyes, and remember the day I was born. Maybe you would marvel at my transformation from a miniature creation of your flesh, bones, and blood to the woman I became through your love, nurturing, and guidance. But I really don’t know, do I? Because you’re not here. You’re not you. You’re that hole in my life that I superficially fill with my own

“I imagine that he filled his head with dreams.” how to ride a bike without training wheels— forgot—and learned again.

I know you would have provided me with a kinship completely different from anyone else in my life. We would be partners

imagination. You’re that box that is hard to open, gathering dust in the attic. You’re that picture, stained and threadbare, and pictures can only do so much. All you really are is the man in the red turban.

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nostalgia

Ivana Chan

Breathing in the dusty smell of the thick, clean-cut Polaroid square, John began to cry.

The glistening tears followed familiar tracks along the grooves in his face, ultimately falling onto the faded picture. As his eyelids drooped shut, his callused hands knowingly traced the engravings where once visible pen ink resided, spelling out their names: Victoria & John.

Many years had passed since he had seen her face; it was getting harder to remember it, but the photo froze time, taking and capturing the idyllic scene. At first glance, he could only see a person down on one knee as the other held fluttering hands to his shocked face. However, as he strained his weary eyes, he began to recognize her perfect figure, her elegant leg bent for support, and her ring.

He had always been gentlemanly, as far as he could remember, and he had certainly done everything correctly, or as society dictated. Early each morning, he would drive his dad’s rusty old Ford (passed down to the youngest son after three older, successful, happily college-bound brothers) to her home. He made sure to keep her seat clean and open her door and buckle her in and give her fresh flowers.

In fact, every weekend, he made sure to cancel his plans, to free his schedule, so that they could go out together. He drove them slowly along the bumpy road and they always joked about the small hole in the flooring (the result of a hunting accident involving a gun) that allowed passengers to see the pavement rushing by. Often, they found themselves pulling into their usual spot across the street from an antiquated theatre. It no longer

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hosted dancing and singing performers, but it occasionally played cinema classics projected onto a king-sized linen sheet hanging above the stage.

A giant bucket of warm, buttery popped kernels cost only a dollar. Frosty Coca Colas could be added for just twenty cents each. He always bought one bucket and one Coke, and for a dollar twenty-five they could share a moment just as romantic as the one shown by the looming actors on the screen.

Afterwards, they would stroll towards the nearby park and grab a tri-colored shaved ice (Crazin’ Cherry, Looney Lemon, and Blueberry Blitz), but he always got her home in time for her curfew, which pleased her parents very much. For the holidays, he liked to save up his extra change to get her presents, little symbols of their commitment.

They would alternate houses for Christmas, one year at his, the next at hers. Every year, by a crackling fireplace, she unwrapped his pretty trinkets and donned them excitedly, just like all his brothers’ girls.

Standing side by side at graduations, at weddings, at baby showers, they grew older. Their weeks, their months, and their semesters flew into the past, until that day.

That day, he knew, would eventually come.

His brothers had each left the car, the house, and the family behind. They had married and gone away. He had it in his mind that he wanted to do those things also. After going on all the right dates, having the obligatory rough patches, and uttering the three sacred words, he knew she was the one.

But he was too late.

She cheered for him from the sidelines as the team scored the winning goal. Triumphant, he and thirteen other sweaty, grinning, football payers stormed off the field and into the locker rooms.

When he reemerged, she was waiting for him. One knee down. Beaming eyes. Hope.

“Will you marry me?”

Bishop | Caroline Maier | 18x24 | Ebony & Colored Pencil

The wetness of the pointed blades of grass sticking between his toes felt like nothing at all, like a dream. He looked down at her. Emotions flitted past, matching his quick-paced heartbeats.

Confusion. Elation. Happiness. Anger. He grimaced, not only because she had broken the rules but also because she had ruined it for herself and him and their future.

Nevertheless, he said yes. Everyone was scattered about the field in a post-game haze, and he did not want to risk anyone seeing him in this terrible predicament, this shameful lie.

She looked quite calm when he sped towards her home. Maybe he was just a faster driver than he could remember. It was only when he had left the car running, rushed her to her room and quickly drew away that she even began to suspect how wrong things were. Her brows were bunched together in bewilderment, so he clarified.

He tried to tell her that if she had only waited for him to do it, they could have settled in the peach colored house right down her street. He tried so hard to explain what could have been, what would have been, what wasn’t. In the end, he had to leave her; it was her curfew.

John smoothed his callused thumb over the onceglossy plastic paper cradled in his large, leathery hands.

He wiped his tears away and carefully placed the little square back inside the box.

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“E ga dim ma,” my father whispers as he removes his stethoscope and leaves the man on his deathbed.

Tears falling from every face, family members appear and disappear as they pay their final respects. Translated from Igbo to English, his words mean, “I hope you will be fine,” a customary final blessing. In America, diabetes is a manageable disease, controlled with medicine and clinical visits. However, in a country where resources are scarce, where medical knowledge is limited and rare, where hospital conditions are poor at best, it becomes fatal. Many more diseases like diabetes become fatal in a country where a government spends minimal time in the care of its citizens and more time and energy on securing its wealth. To be successful, a country must be concerned with all aspects of life, and I will eventually be a leader of this change.

Promise

Augustine Eze

Since I can remember, my father has strived to create an idyllic life in the United States for our family. As a vascular surgeon, he saves lives every day. As a father, he returns home every night to spend time with his wife and children, balancing work and family. Nevertheless, he has not forgotten his homeland. At the age of seventeen, my father sailed away from Nigeria, leaving for better opportunities. Thirty-five years later, he returns home annually to share that opportunity with his Nigerian brothers and sisters.

The first time I visited Nigeria, I traveled farther emotionally than I did geographically.

I saw scenes of a worsening dystopia that are forever engraved in my mind. Driving down the gravel road, I watched infants bathe in a 90

polluted river and cars burn uncontrollably in the streets, sans concern from anyone.

Bodies became covered in the sewage as they cleaned themselves with the only water available. My heart broke when I saw a family of five trying to take cover beneath a pear tree, limp and bruised by crossfire. Practically broken, the tree could not provide shelter from rain; it only served as a place to call “home.” I thought about how effortlessly I could find a bottle of ice-cold, purified water back home, but here, people struggle to find an uncontaminated drop.

The locals of Aba, our hometown, had horrifying experiences to share. They told stories of police officers knocking down doors, feigning innocence when they had ulterior motives. Some of these corrupt individuals

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another, I feel anger. When one of us steals from another, I feel loss. And when one of us dies from disease, I feel grief. Nigeria is my home; whether or not I live there, I will defend its honor, pride, integrity.

Learning from my father’s journey and my personal experiences, I have discovered my own purpose. Though I live a privileged life in the United States, I realize I have the power to better the existence of those who lack the opportunities with which I have been blessed. I want to transcend the stability in my life to all Nigerians. My dream is to become a pediatric reconstructive plastic surgeon, correcting cleft palates and working with burn victims. I will travel as far as necessary to find afflicted patients and cure them with my knowledge and compassion, following my father’s remarkable footsteps. And like my father, I, too, will continuously return to our homeland to give back what we have graciously been given—a chance to survive.

Ov er

held family members for ransom, threatening murder if their demands were unsatisfied.

Even when the money was received, the officers would sometimes demand more and more and more. These tortured natives lay awake in their beds, wondering if they would live to see daylight. As we rode away, my father and I reflected on the severity of this problem; he claimed that salvation for his people seemed impossible. However, I see hope in Nigeria’s future. My encounters have motivated me to break away from my sheltered life and enact change.

Even here in the United States, I still feel Nigeria’s pain. As I read every news article, every blog, every obituary, I empathize with the citizens of this abused country, where the government allows its people to be oppressed. When I entered a Nigerian restaurant, my greeting was cold. They saw an “Americanized Nigerian.” Their comments were harsh as they berated my demeanor and proceeded to demand that I sympathize with the Nigerian plight. Though I do not appear as the typical Nigerian citizen, I am. When one of us kills

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Gambler | Jane Voss | 18x24 | Ebony

We the Powerful Jessica Mandell

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Fifteen think of how your lip folds against your teeth just to form the sound a rift, fiction, if.

Fifteen feel the break between vowels the spaces between Allow yourself a moment linger.

Wander into your own fifteenth year fold yourself in the corner of a couch shift your eyes from the screen to the outline of his face how the colors dance till he turns to you notice. Be noticeable.

Will he steal glances in fifteen more.

He won’t.

Yet inch closer because you know you won’t later.

Because you know.

Startle yourself while swimming alone water moves between your legs thrash around and look realize within the oceans of space the noiseless sound beneath the water

the opaque of absolute silence you are safe hidden painful certainty.

Fifteen.

Who listens to fifteen?

To a break between words to an imploring glance to those we silenced we seem more cognizant we, the people we, the powerful.

You, the young soon you will leave fifteen’s sanctuary fifteen’s prison.

Listen to fifteen for the last time hear the silence.

A fifteen year old doesn’t count for much not really whole a mutation a distortion where there used to be a hyphen fif-teen.

A fifteen year old cannot stop being, becoming.

Most of us wouldn’t do it. Not again.

We are on the front line a headline and wonder why some young girl chose her own death so meticulously, so soon.

To give up power for freedom seems absurd to us.

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How It Feels to Be Colored Jane

Jane Voss

Voluptuous, robust, plum fruits and pomegranates burst open and spill out over the pages. Charismatic letters stab one another and the blood red spurts through my mind, woven into his every word. A drama within seeps out onto the story, which can no longer restrain itself, and Vladimir Nabokov’s thoughts are stained a deep, emphatic crimson.

How could anyone hate reading? Before I could even understand writing, I could see what I read and feel it deep within my soul.

Unimaginable to me is the average person’s black and white reading experience, for like Nabokov, I am a synesthete. Without even taking meaning into consideration, words come alive to me through their colors and personalities, auras if you will.

As a young child, the emotional void that prompts some children to invent an imaginary friend was, for me, filled with numbers and letters. Years spent evaluating the dynamics of relationships within the alphabet and number family gave me a very different perspective on life from that of the average kid. “3” and “6” were always best friends, and myself an eccentric, outgoing 6 (presumably projecting a neon green aura), I spent much of my youth searching for someone with an orange aura, a comical 3 for a sidekick.

Synesthesia’s relationships had reflected reality so vividly that at age five, I predicted my parents’ divorce four years in advance. My mom, a dreamer, self-conscious yet prideful, bore an uncanny resemblance to the 4,, emitting a purple aura. My dad, a brown 9, was apathetic yet aggressive. I knew 4 and 9 never got along for extended periods of time, and neither would my parents. I was right.

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Over time, I have become an 8, lethargic and thoughtful. I constantly contemplate the lives of the world’s non-synesthetes, who must learn through observation of the real world. I can’t help but think they have the advantage of open-mindedness. Many a friend have I turned down due to premeditated incompatibility just as I have rejected many a book because I disliked the color or mood exuded by the author’s writing.

Kindergarten introduced me to Brandon Pichon, a small, seemingly frail, tow-headed boy who was shy and rarely caught associating with any of his fellow students. He was quite obviously a 2, his aura the color of melted butter, outshined by all the other numbers or more realistically all the other members of our class. “Hey… is this spot taken?” he asked me uneasily one day at lunch.

“No, you can sit here,” I replied, but I failed even to attempt making friends with him as I knew that 2s and 6s never had anything beyond a tumultuous and superficial companionship. Inhibited by the curse of synesthesia, I left Brandon to continue his endless search for someone compatible, an S with a similarly urine-tinted aura, a shrinking violet among the rest of the alphabet.

Ten years later, synesthesia still restrains me. I recently picked up a copy of Daniel Defoe’s Moll Flanders but failed to ever make it past page twelve. Yellow, orange, beige, brown, beige. His writing appears as though it has been baking under a desert sun, cracking like scorched earth for the past three centuries since he put it on paper. Rude letters dominated my reading experience and a faint stench of sulfur crept up my nostrils until I gave up reading Defoe’s work once and for all, although I found the actual meaning behind his words exquisite and rather enjoyable.

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Ctrl Alt Del Me | Jackson Hartley | 24x29 | Mixed Media

As I pioneer my way through academics, synesthesia sets up a series of advantages and obstacles for me as it expands and narrows my experiences just the same. I am thankful for my unique perspective, although at times I feel limited by it, bound by the chains of my inherent, irrelevant perceptions. Nevertheless, life without synesthesia I cannot fathom. My mind allows me to dance through every word and math problem I encounter as though I am visiting a carnival for my senses. I wonder if Nabokov knows he’s a Q.

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3 “I have become an 8, lethargic and thoughtful.”

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Fragmentary Crumble | Pooja Shah| Digital Photography

Jessica Mandell

“Eloise! Eloise!” Eloise waited until the little voice sounded closer. “ELOISE!!”

“Yes?” “Can you come fix the—what are you doing?”

“Gluing the lamp back together.”

“Who broke that?”

“Dad.” “Classic,” he commented. It was true.

“What’ d ya need?”

“The sink’s spraying again, from two different spots.” Eloise carefully got up, making sure her bare feet touched no hidden shards of glass. With one quick step over her luggage that still needed unpacking, she temporarily abandoned the millions of fragments of the living room lamp scattered across her old bedroom floor.

“I thought Mom called someone to fix that while I was away.”

“We did. Mom says no one is as good as you.”

“But I’m not always around.”

Eloise ruffled her little brother’s crazed hair as she followed him to the kitchen. ...

“So. Disaster struck the kitchen. What’s next?” Eloise rolled her eyes skyward, waiting for an answer.

“I’m so happy this happened while you’re home. You know I have no idea how to deal with stuff like this.”

“Maybe you guys shouldn’t have bought a house in need of some major renovations the year before I

left for Ghana,” Eloise remarked, more to herself than to any of her anxious spectators.

“You know I didn’t mean that I’m happy you’re home because you fix things. I’m happy you’re home for a lot of reasons. We missed you because we need you—and just because.”

“I know, Mom.” Eloise did know.

“The lamp is looking great.” Her mom stepped in closer, leaning on the half-unpacked suitcases, resting on her knees, so she could further examine and compliment her work. “Ouch!”

“Mom, what happened?”

“I cut my knee! Gosh, that hurts!”

“Let me see.” ...

Standing in the shower, enjoying hot droplets of water warm her skin, Eloise realized that this was the first shower she’d had in a long time that didn’t involve a waterfall or a stream. The water’s temperature submitted to her whim. Hot. Cold.

Anywhere in between. But these showers could break. They do break. The water stops listening, stops streaming out. A waterfall always works. ...

“What do you do when you’re in Ghanny, El?” “Ghana.”

“Ghana.”

“Right.” She smiled. “Well, I fix things. I make sure everything at the hospital works. I do maintenance on people’s homes. I help people if they get hurt. I get them to the hospital.”

“That’s kinda like what you do here.” Eloise laughed. It kind of was.

“You’re leaving already?”

“I’m packing, Mom. There’s a difference.”

“You barely finished unpacking. And people only pack right before they’re about to leave. That’s what you are: about to leave.”

“Will you stop freaking out? Please. I’ve been here a week. They need me there.”

“And how much longer will they need you there? Last time you were gone for six months. We only got to talk to you three times a week. Maximum.

If you were better about calling us, maybe I wouldn’t be supposedly overreacting right now…”

“I’m moving there, Mom.” Say it quietly, unobtrusively, unapologetically.

“And if you would just take a damn cell phone…What?”

Breathe, she commanded herself. “When I’m there, it feels right. I’m not just re-gluing a lamp together, or stopping a leak. I’m fixing the only hospital’s electricity or spraying dozens of homes to keep away poisonous insects or rescuing some man with three kids and counting who fell down a canyon.

I wasn’t just put here to run around doing handiwork.

There’s more out there that’s broken.”

“There are plenty of impoverished regions on this side of the globe, Eloise. There’s no need to run away from us across the Atlantic.”

“I’m not running away. I’m running to.” ...

“If your flight gets delayed, give us a call, doll. We’ll turn right around and pick you up. Not a problem.”

“Thanks, Dad. I’ll let you know.”

“We’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you guys, too. And I will call more often. Promise.” Eloise and her brother performed their secret handshake slash pinky promise. “You guys should come visit me soon. It’s beautiful. Really.

There just isn’t anything like it.”

“We love you, El, if you can believe it. After all the nagging we do, and all the craziness you put us through…”

“I know, Mom. ...

Sitting on the plane, smelling that synthetic freshness mixed with eighty other strangers’ scents, Eloise closed her eyes. She had always been good at fixing things, at solving problems, at dealing with the tough stuff. She came home worried that her absence was breaking up a family. Her family.

Preparing to rebuild that which she destroyed, she found out that all she needed to fix was the collapsed dining room chair and a temperamental microwave.

Her family was strong. Even when she wasn’t close.

Now she knew, more certainly than before, where they needed her. ...

“My name’s Oscar. What’s yours?”

“Eloise. Where are you headed?”

“London. Light of my life. You?” Eloise smiled. “Ghana. Center of my soul.”

“Ah, you don’t miss a beat. Long way from home, huh?”

“Depends on where you’re coming from.”

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“A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.” ~Theodore Roethke

Gaston Day School 2001 Gaston Day School Road Gastonia, North Carolina 28056 704.864.7744 www.gastonday.org