Blue Review
MercersburgAcademy
Blue Review
Literary Editors-in-Chief: Bob Hollis ‘24 and Jamie Vulakh ‘24
Art Editor-in-Chief: Andrew Leibowitz ‘24
Art Managing Editor : Anne Sehon ‘25
Cover Designer: Taeeon Moon ‘25
Spread Designer: Andrew Leibowitz ‘24 and Anne Sehon ‘25
Art Staff : Andrew Leibowitz ‘24, Collin Jin ‘25, Taeeon Moon ‘25, Anne Sehon ‘25, Katie Lee ‘26 and Gaven McGuire ‘26
Literary Staff: Ivan Dwyer ‘24, Bob Hollis ‘24, Jonah Lee ‘24, Maria Rihn ‘24, Jamie Vulakh ‘24, Chloe Allis ‘25, Alex Eissenstat ‘25, Kaiya Hoffman ‘25, Elise Gao ‘26, Caroline Hobbs ‘26, Lily Hubbard ‘26, Malaika Mankey-Akogbeto ‘26, and Amy Wang ‘27
Faculty Advisors: Kacie England and Kristen Pixler
Blue Review is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association Published in 2024 By Mercersburg Academy 100 Academy Drive Mercersburg, Pennsylvania 17235
Strawberry Blond
Reagan Houpt
We walk through the narrow labyrinthine streets
Shoes making rhythmic contact with the stones
Placed carefully thousands of years ago
I imagine melting into the ancient roads
Filling up every crevice until I disappear
Reunited with history forever
A stray cat crosses my path
Bringing with the him the veil of fantasy
Unraveling my spiral
The silence between us is so intense
It echoes
Bouncing off the stone walls
Until, like a thief, it steals away
The pitiful amount of courage left in me
And embraces me
I am convinced it is the only thing I need.
“Gigglepuss” Anne Sehon Mixed Media 40” by 40”
Daughter of Dawn
Cricket Tatone
It was almost 5 a.m. in the rural, isolated village. The world was quiet, and there was a slight breeze in the air. The woman sat alone in a pool of her own blood. For the past 12 hours, through screams and drops of sweat, she had worked tirelessly to bring life into this world. And now she finally held her baby girl. She should be happy, but as she looked at her baby, into her big brown eyes, and at her thick black head of hair, she felt nothing but dread. Her baby looked up at her and cooed. As much as she tried not to feel it, she swelled with love and admiration. She thought of the perfect name for her daughter: Weihua, meaning beautiful flower. But she dared not speak it aloud, because once those words left her mouth, she would want to hold her baby even tighter and kiss her forehead and feed her milk and do all of the things she knew that she could never do.
She knew what women in her village did when they got pregnant with their second child. If they realized in time, they found people who knew things, people who knew how to make a woman un-pregnant. If they didn’t realize in time, it was a different story. She had heard stories of women from other villages ending the lives of their babies as soon as they came out of the womb and dumping their bodies so that the child could never be traced back to them. She had heard stories of women who were found pregnant by the executives and then taken into surgery to come out and realize that they no longer had the ability to be pregnant. The woman decided early on that she would do no such thing.
Despite the risk of it all, she intended to give her daughter a long and happy life, even though it shattered her heart in irreparable ways to know that she would not get to watch her experience that life.
Time was running out. Soon the sun would rise. Although she had only held her child for no more than 15 minutes, she used all of the strength she could muster to bring herself standing. With the gentlest touch she had ever used in her life, she swaddled her newborn in one of the two blankets she owned. She quickly scribbled a date of birth on a piece of paper and tucked it in one of the folds of the blanket. She wanted her to know at least one thing about her origins. She hobbled towards the door of her house and slid on her shoes. Limping, dripping blood every other step, she walked to the gate of her village at the very end of the dirt road. The darkness of the outside swallowed her. When she arrived at the gate, her arms were shaking. Tears ran freely from her face as she stifled her cries to avoid being heard. It took everything from her soul to let go and lay the baby down at the base of the metal gate. She looked down at her daughter for the last time. She saw hope in her eyes, the thing that would make her think, dream, and love for the rest of her life, the thing that would console her after her inconsolable loss. All the good things in the world seemed to be trapped in her daughter’s perfect, big, brown eyes. She knew at that moment that no matter who discovered her baby, her daughter would be loved. Looking into her eyes gave the woman comfort that nothing else in the universe could provide. It broke her to look away because all she wanted to do was grab her and run away to a place far away and give this child all of her love until her last breath. But she had to go. She just had to. The woman turned around and headed down the dirt road back to her house, just before dawn, before anyone in the tiny village awakened to start their day.
“City Depth” Delia McCabe Mixed Media 10” by 14”
“Mji Mkwonge” Indira Moshi Digital Photography 10” by 15”
In a Daze
Kaiya Hoffman
Softly crumpled layers of thin polyester come apart from the coarse cotton stuffing. My hand pushes away from my body and into my bedding, forcing my mind out of its sleepy haze and into the present. My bed: its thin sheets. My walls: a sunbleached yellow. The child: asleep at my feet. I ground myself with these soft aesthetics while I lay in wait for what’s to come.
As the morning passes, I watch the sunlight projecting from a faraway window. It travels up the adjacent wall until the entire room is bright. I rise slowly, not to wake my sister who’s beside me. She would have cried in protest at being parted from her warm bed. It’s built from different textured blankets and pillows, like a finch that takes nature’s varied materials to build her nest in the trees. Trying to console her, I would offer a cup of her favorite tea, but she would want me to braid her hair while I draw myself a lukewarm bath.
I brush my soft hair and I realize that soon its luster will be gone, and the built-up oil will be washed away by the water. Taking a large step over the side of our rust-ridden tub, water splashes up my legs sending my whole body into a sudden shock. Then I yield… reluctantly… and sit knees tucked against my chest.
“Aesthetics
of the Void” Dean Tae Soft Pastel Drawing 40” by 40”
3:34 a.m.
Lily Hubbard
We all wandered through life lost and pretending. My mind fills with endless summer days of sunshine and laughs, long treks through countryside weeks exploring under molded porches. Our small little world that shielded the rest from view.
You had your cool party tricks and I had my chubby cheeks, filled round from smiles of admiration and runaway wagons. We made a pinky-promise to never turn mean.
As we grew older, long gone were the days of American Girl Dolls, no longer played with by mud-covered hands. Soon replaced by overpriced coffees and parking garages. It was as if in one moment the world that surrounded us had suddenly changed.
I watched a Barbie movie today, the one where the 12 princesses dance around their room to open a doorway to another world. I smile as I remember the time we put our pillows on the playroom floor and tried to relvé our way to the magical lake. It didn’t work, but I like to think we got very, very close.
Tomorrow, I will read a picture book and say goodbye to you. Tomorrow, I will experience life. But tonight? Tonight, I will make a teddy bear, eat a chocolate cake and look out to the sunset wondering about things you’ve already lived. Last week you sent me a poem. This poem said that siblings are the only ones in it for the entire ride and my heart fluttered like it always does the minute I think of your name.
I smile as I think of the three musketeers, all off to save our own little corners of the world. But then again, maybe we’re the three blind mice, because I think we are all just a little lost but always pretending to know.
“Self Portrait” Cocona Yamamoto Pastel Drawing 32” by 40”
The Bouquet
Taimur Rehman
The flowers of a bouquet are so carefully chosen
Each petal examined, each stem trimmed, each flower fresh–never frozen
Much thought goes into a bouquet, to symbolize one’s care
But what to do when your bouquet is cast aside, each flower left to wallow in despair
“Social Anxiety” Yuma Matsuo Mixed Media 14” by 11”
“The Michelin Man 3” Dean Tae Acrylic Painting 36” by 72”
“Mwanamke”
Indira Moshi Acrylic Painting 36” by 72”
golden tears
Billy Quick
the boy sat, crouched on the shore skipping stones into the ocean as it melded into the sky
his father stumbled over to him out of the mouth of the cave
his face gleamed dollar signs flashed in his eyes he held his hands out to the boy gold chains, lifelines of human experience, stretched between his fingers beyond him, the boy watched the figures marching into the sea
a final reprieve from their self-induced damnation their plunders swindled by golden tears
“All On My Own” Hisano Enomoto Charcoal Drawing 22” by 17”
“Lucky Penny” Grace Chi Soft Pastel Drawing 40” by 32”
Call Him
Emma DiLalla
Call HIM an anadromous fish, a species that spends its life switching between salt and freshwater, constantly fighting to make it upstream, trying to avoid getting snatched by predators. He grew up in a strict household, with four siblings and two parents who didn’t have much. At a young age, he started working for everything he would ever attain and developing a unique work ethic that would pave the way to greatness. He actually was a swimmer. At school, there was an escape from reality he was Dick the swimmer, not Richard the son, the son who was blamed for putting a cat in the freezer or chased by his dad for breaking a window. But as a fish out of water, he was fighting against the current of reality. He did not have a background of wealth to fall back on. He had to create it, fighting his whole life to give his future children the best life possible. And boy did he do that. He may still have some of that old-school “things are the way they are” attitude, but he is the best dad I could ever ask for. He is still fighting to make it upstream, forever fighting his own mind. Never believing that he is doing enough. But I have never seen a harder worker, someone who will pick up the phone at 8 p.m. just to be a good boss. Someone who provides for his family. Someone who has given me everything that I have today. I wish I could be a fish like him, but I fear that may not be my species.
“Open to Suggestions” Bob Hollis Digital Photography 10” by 15”
“Insomnia” Renee Jin Acrylic Painting 20” by 16”
Isola Bella
Reagan Houpt
Shuffling across the slim, sunlit strait, shoes in hand, striving to slightly absorb shock with every single step, to spare our soles some suffering.
Ambulatory attempts at avoiding the aquamarine Adriatic are actively abandoned as our ankles plunge into aplomb water, amusing all of us adolescents.
Neither the nanoscopic fish nibbling on nothing noteworthy nor the naked nonna napping near the shore noticed our nimble navigation.
Dancing delicately on the dubious distribution of dark pebbles, doubt disrupts our dimwitted decision to delve deeper into the domain. Deliberating the dilemma, that damp, displeasing dust could be delightful.
“Structured Fragmentation” Abby Yang Digital Photography 14” by 19”
my crobes
Selena Feng
every day i think about you about what went wrong about what i can do to fix it all the topic of my every thought present in my worst dreams yet you don’t care you don’t spare me a second glance
i spend my every minute of free time
trying to make this work i ask for help i blame my own faults i was careless i went too fast
i did something wrong i’m the reason this isn’t working out it becomes a cycle
when you’re nice i’m ecstatic because finally i’m doing something right when you’re apathetic and dismissive i’m dejected because i messed up again
my life revolves around you and when we’re not together i’m glued to my phone
looking through my hundreds of pictures of you cluttering my camera roll smiling at fonder times i look at the tens of thousands of words dedicated to you pages upon pages written about you and i about my dreams for our future months of trying and i have nothing to show for but i don’t care because you you are my passion this can’t be for nothing? love can’t be this futile why can’t you grow? like my dedication and affection and endearment to you? not escherichia coli, but a share of misery, a key to my heart, yet a constant lie
“Main Street” Abby Yang Digital Photography 10” by 15”
“King of the Jungle” Grace Chi Copic Marker Drawing 16.5” by 11”
Last Night I Visited
Kaiya Hoffman
Last night I dreamt that I visited a highland wall where the earth was fresh and smelled of early morning rain that had not long since passed. Powdery-brown, pebbly paths wound around the cliffside.
As I pressed myself on my stony wall… I saw the earth that weeds and wildflowers intertwining, blinding my sight. With new height, I saw the delicate separation between clumps of similar plants of vibrant purple, blue, and yellow. I saw that each grouping was still distinctly different from the other. I jumped from the low wall and ventured through the bushes to a nearby path partially obscured by low-hanging willow branches.
It was darker through the willow branches, they blocked the sunlight’s natural path. The moisture was thick and almost suffocating. It nurtured the moss pads and mushrooms, on which I was tempted to rest my head, never getting up.
“Flower-Heart” Siheyon Bae Acrylic Painting 18” by 13”
The First Touchdown
Andrew Chang
I saw the steam come off my breath as I requested clearance for the very first time. Mere moments later, response from air-traffic faded into the background as the concrete megastructure filled my windshield to the last inch. There it stood, a concrete symbol of greatness ostracized by the fading autumn flora. And there I was, my plane a shaking and swaying child’s toy descending upon it. I feel the cabin heat up… or maybe it just feels that way from under my sweater.
Thoughts of the sunrise, the lake, and sun rising above the horizon blurred as I centered in on the centerline, my only motive. Time whizzes as I fly atop the runway, my cue to pull the throttle and cut power.
Now, it’s just the runway, me, and the space in between us. I ache at the distance inching down between me and my monumental achievement, it was so close I could see my shadow sharing the runway with me. My shadow’s presence grows as I get lower. My legs are shaking, and my plane joins in as ground effects start rattling the wing. I tug the controls to level out, whilst still battling
crosswinds veering not an inch off centerline. Contrary to popular belief, planes don’t descend onto the runway. They hover a few feet above and then stall to fall onto the runway, a “soft” landing is when a pilot can stall close to the runway, so the drop onto the ground is soft. Any minute. Any second. My airspeed continues to fall.
It’s a matter of time before I do too. I think about what to do after landing, then comes the stall warning. Chaos ensued as my plane dropped from the sky, hard enough to bounce up again before settling for good. Everything is shaking and rattling as I careen down the runway at 80 miles per hour. I push the brakes harder than I ever have, feeling the plane rattle through my legs. It ends quicker than it started. It was done. The shaking. The squeaking. The ruckus. The first landing.
“Stiched” Quin Caretti Fiber Art 32” by 18”
“Paje” Indira Moshi Digital Photography 10” by 15”
Time Passing
Maddie Weiss
I hate time because it steals everything
And all I can see is people pass me in every aspect of life
But rarely do I feel on time
I feel on the right track one second
And then, all of a sudden, I’m running late
And I’m not even sure whose clock I’m following
That sprouted thoughts like:
“I’m not capable of that”
Or “Why can’t I be good at something”
Or “I can’t do anything right”
“What is wrong with me?”
I’m not sure whose clock I’m following
But mine seems to be missing a battery
Or ticking backward
Or maybe it was dropped too many times
Maybe if my clock wasn’t so broken
I would’ve caught up by now
I’m not sure whose clock I’m following
But every day feels like a reminder of who you are
And I can not change who I am
I’m not sure whose clock I’m following
But love feels like summer
And I’ve been stuck in January
I’m not sure whose clock I’m following
But life feels like a marathon
And my jog will never beat their sprint
But if I sprint to catch up to them
I know it will make me want to walk instead
And it’ll end up worsening my time in the end
So I jog
And I watch people pass me without blinking an eye
But I know
That I will pass that finish line one day
And maybe it’s not aligned with the timeline
I envisioned for myself
But finishing 8th
Leads to a better story, anyway
“Temporary Memory” Siheyon Bae Mixed Media
30” by 13”
Letters Sent from Eden
Caroline Hobbs
You get to be created by god–handcrafted in his image, the lines of your smile, the hair on your arms, and the arches of your feet all sculpted into perfection. I am only a chunk of your rib. No longer protecting your lungs and heart.
Now just crooked bone void of its purpose.
I am just a chunk of your rib. Was the cartilage connecting me to your breastbone hanging on when I was pulled out? Did I put up a fight, when you ripped my solid roots out of the ground, dirtying your hands, pulling sediment from the earth? Or did it, did I, fall right out? Like tearing the petal of a rose, or the crisp edges of a leaf from its veins? Was I begging to be removed?
I think I was—begging, pleading to be on my own.
I run because I can. My ribs harden and my heart beats on its own, without you.
I can breathe without your lungs. Your skin is no longer tight around my muscles. My choices are mine to live with and no one else’s.
I breathe in the air I emit.
I ate the fruit and licked its juice off my hand. It is sweet and I stand unforgiving.
“Fauve Guinea” Colin Jin Acrylic Painting 24” by 24”
“bugeyes!” Anne Sehon Soft Pastel Drawing 40” by 32”
“Stop Giving Me Suggestions” Bob Hollis Digital Photograph 10” by 15”
“Self Portrait” Taeeon Moon Colored Pencil Drawing 40” by 32”
“Sunny Days” Gaven McGuire Acrylic Painting 14” by 11”
And Still
Ivan Dwyer
Dark.
Alone, untouched pool and clear reflection below.
Small, spindly legs drag themselves up the ridge of my spine.
Why am I unable to turn away?
Pinching, pulling, jerking.
Cold up onto my neck, to my ear, it forces inside. Screaming, crying, laughing.
Nails broken, I claw and maim my back and face. Rivers flow.
Crimson drops leak over the ledge and taint the reflection.
But even through the ripples and red, I can see.
It whispers inside.
We still know you.
Hide.
Whisper.
“I don’t want you to.”
“Agaze” Grace Chi Acrylic on Panel 18” by 24”
“Aliens” Yule Kwon Photography 7” by 5”
“The Driver” Sean Qin Digital Photography 10” by 15”
atrial fibrillation
Zoe Duffy
please, my love, break me open.
i pray each night, to whatever god is listening, that she would open me. dig her nails in, use her hands to crack my ribcage. my love, hold me down, cut the skin over my sternum, break bone. then you would cup my heart in your hands. they are bloody and raw, but they are hers. please, carve your favorite words on me, sit with me, know me. after we’ve cried and you’ve held me in your arms, please do what i ask. she begins to consume my vessels, our love reaches a fever pitch. i watch as she traces up and around my vena cava, treasuring each arrhythmia. your forehead is touching mine and a little smile spreads across my lips. i see god in her face and i am so incredibly content. when you are finished, i cradle you in my arms like a child. her shirt stains and the grass fertilizes as my cavity pours out. the stars are so bright tonight, my love. your forehead touches mine, into my eyes you delve. you whisper softly to me. i am done now, my love.
“Accident” Sophie Sun Acrylic Painting 19” by 16”
Spilt Wine
Elise Gao
Today, we are gathered, friends, family, and anyone who had a place for my daughter in their hearts.
She was all pale, and dolled-up. It looked so unnatural!
She never looked like that in real life.
Her casket was pretty, though.
Kay, Kay! What do you think you’re doing?
It’s okay, Mrs. O. This is my choice.
Kay, get down from there!
Please, just leave me be. I just don’t know what to do, anymore.
Then let’s talk!
Please, please, please, don’t do this.
I see you.
I know you’re going through so much, and I’m so, so, proud of how brave you’ve been.
I know what a wonderful, resilient, and hardworking girl you are.
I know that you haven’t got many friends, and there are some people who are less than kind.
I know there’s a lot of pressure to perform well at school.
But I also know your future is bright, and it is there, just so long as you reach for it.
And I wish I could have told you all this before.
I know your mother would be so sad, even if she can’t show it.
I know your father would blame himself for the rest of his life, because you were his darling. And you.
I know you would regret it, too, if you didn’t hang in there a little bit longer till this dark tunnel ends. So please, take my hand, and let’s figure it out together.
Why couldn’t you have said this, before it was too late?
Like everyone, you held your silence.
I don’t know, love. I don’t know… …but is it too late to say it now?
“Prow of a Waka” Leah Willis Graphite Drawing 11” by 8.5”
“Umoja” Indira Moshi Acrylic Painting 40” by 40”
Floral Fecal Point
Anne Sehon
I’ve been sitting on the edge of this field on a swinging bench under a tree. I spend break and meals intermittently observing the various flowers while I write and plan my eventual attack. A flower crown is a time commitment. I do not have time. I will pursue the craft nonetheless.
There’s a larger variety of colors and species and stem lengths than what nature typically provides me with in Northern Virginia or South Central Pennsylvania. So the restraint I’ve practiced is impressive. And now I’m saying bye bye! to restraint. With peace and love, of course.
As I begin to pull and pick and weave and fold and give the ground too much attention, I notice deer tracks in the soft mud or dirt patches interspersed throughout the field. I dodge dried dog shit with small holes dug by bugs that may be dung beetles but may be a distant relative or something. The remains of another distant relative or a comrade are smudged on my achilles because me and my heel aren’t ready to lose in battle yet.
Everything here is dying or dead or will die someday. I think flowers don’t live that long, so even if they’re young, I’m estimating a three week max life span for them. Like absolutely max. Unlike my usual natural palette, in this field there are clovers living past their white colored infancy into blush pink adolescence onto purple adulthood, where their lives will end for the purpose of being joined with their massacred siblings in a mass grave that sits atop my head. But everything is dead or dying out here, so what harm does a little death do if it’s making a girl who has a hard time connecting with itchy-ass grass and shit-eating bugs feel more alive?
After picking flowers for long enough, I do not perceive light in the same way I did when I came outside. The sun has most likely not only done a number on my eyes, but on my skin as well. I will probably have a few new freckles on my arm, potentially cancerous and slowly killing me. But I think the brown spots on my arm are kind of pretty, so I’ll put up with some death if it’s making me feel more alive.
“Wave” Dean Tae Assemblage Sculpture 21” by 26” by 38”
“Under the Sea” Siheyon Bae Ink Drawing 10” by 15”
Amore Serious Poem
Bob Hollis
I have never written a sonnet.
I think I was supposed to use iambic pentameter.
Why do we measure rhythm in feet? What a weird parameter. But artists think outside the box. I am like Monet.
I’ve never tried my hand at sonnets, man.
Iam-bic, pent-ameter, understood (I am wrong); Nepal, obese, bonsai, impeach, prolong. That was exhausting. Here is the next stan-
za. I find it weird that all of a sudden we change the rhyme scheme. What’s the point this late in the poem? There are only four lines left? How many rhyme schemes exist? Let’s do a fun one: plumber. This sonnet turned out odd; I think it may lack a theme.
Speaking of themes, does this poem have a color or a pallet? (theft). That last rhyme made me blue. Bummer.
“Psyche Revived By Cupid’s *” Anne Sehon Collage 11” by 8”
“Head Above Water” Tso Sowah Mixed Media 17” by 22”
Oracle
Chloe Allis
The rain falls outside. I listen to the many drops hitting the window as I wash my dishes. I think about anything and everything, but mostly nothing. I feel bad. I waste so much water and the dishes don’t get much cleaner. The rain continues to fall outside, so I don’t feel as bad. The water outside is making up for my seemingly endless use of the water inside. My hands get pruney and I continue to scrub without any thoughts. Zeus attacks and retreats. I think nothing of it. I scrub the plain white plates. The god strikes again this time. Louder. The lightbulb flickers. I move on to the cups. The water has gone cold. Scrubbing with the same absent-mindedness, nothing else happens. I turn off the faucet with my water-logged hands. It’s still raining. I find myself on my couch. I am thinking about everything and anything, but mostly nothing. I take a few short breaths. I am no longer scrubbing plates or cups. Poseidon will eventually want his water back. For now it sits in my hands which have moved on to another task that leaves me without thoughts. The old Greek siblings fight for my attention. I listen as the raindrops hit my window, the divinity lost on me. Tomorrow will arrive soon and tomorrow I will scrub whatever else is required.
I’m Sorry, My Love
Malaika Mankey - Akogbeto
It’s a sad thing, realizing you will never be who you were truly destined to become. I don’t hate myself. I can’t—I don’t know myself. I am a curated thing, shaped and made and molded by the happenings around me in the least artistic and romantic way possible. There’s nothing to do about this sad thing though, only watch it happen, pray it comes to a slow, and, perhaps by the grace of God, a stop. I hope you know, my love, that I didn’t realize when it started happening, so I couldn’t stop it. I thought this was just growing up. Now I’m 16 and just beginning to peel back the layers of myself for a much needed inspection. My love, are you in there? I really hope you’re in there. I really hope all of you has not melted and hardened into all of everything else. I really hope they are only pieces placed next to each other, easy to pull apart. I really hope a part of me knows what is me and what is not, so I’m certain of what to rid myself of, so I don’t throw away anything I want to keep. I hope you’ll love the unaltered version of yourself that I shall attempt to reveal. I hope it has a long shelf life. My love, are you in here? I fear we’re running out of time. My love, close your eyes—let the blue light incarcerate them no longer. Take those things out your ears, for I’m sure that the sounds they make can not be better than the songs the bluebird sings, perched upon the tree you once used to climb. This way, my love, you may know who you truly are.
“The Workshop” Sean Qin Digital Photography 10” by 15”
You, Looking Back
Andrew Leibowitz
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” The man cleared his throat and repeated the phrase, this time deepening his voice, “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” Slumped against the edge of the pool so only his head was visible, he chanted until he was satisfied and sank back into the water.
The lifeguards exchanged glances. The man’s unusual chant along with a roar of poolside gossip broke the day’s rhythm, rupturing the placid atmosphere of a Sunday evening shift. Curious with slight concern, I began to approach the man, navigating through groups of gossiping bystanders, hearing fragments of conversations, especially the snarls of speculation and judgment.
Kneeling down beside him, I noticed a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were somewhere else entirely. I hesitated. “Are you ok sir?” He looked up, startled, and then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. “I’m fine,” His voice relaxed. I stood up and the man turned his gaze back onto the pool.
I nodded. “Sir, what’s your name?” I asked, hoping to establish a more personal connection.
He looked at me for a moment, as if weighing the decision to reveal a part of his identity. His expression softened into a faint smile as he extended his hand from the water to grasp mine, murmuring, “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I smiled back.
As the evening waned our conversation continued. “I know how they look at me, but this is just how I cope,” the man said with a reflective tone. His eyes held a distant look as he recounted his experiences during the war and the scars they left on him. He spoke of his struggle with PTSD, a condition that profoundly affected his life returning from Korea. The way he repeated the childhood mantra about sticks and stones seemed like a coping mechanism, a way to shield himself from the painful memories and the harsh judgments of those who didn’t understand his journey. However, he also shared profound stories of revelation, about life and love, and ultimately the best advice I had ever received–commit yourself to meaningful work, because there is always something challenging your own meaning.
As the night closed and the pool cleared, a part of me was nervous that I might never see him again. However, he continued to show, and our conversations became a regular part of our evenings. My coworkers, watching us from a distance, saw me as the lifeguard who did his job, perhaps going a bit beyond. But for me, it was much more than that–I wanted to hear a good story.
“The Neighborhood” Sean Qin Digital Photography 10” by 15”
“Contrived Precipitation” Bauhinia Chen Acrylic Painting 14” by 18”
“Dark Rust” Eric Wang Digital Photograph 10” by 15”
Atomic Impact
Kate Kalinowski
Everything is made of atoms
Atoms smaller than sand
Sand covers the ground
The ground is bare and empty
Empty like the shacks and souls of the people
The people come and they go
They go to the jungle
The jungle is full
Full of trees and colors and the people
The people have dreams
Dreams of going back to the desert
The desert is simple
Simple like the atom
The atom took away their dreams
Colophon
In the 2024 issue of Blue Review , we explored the idea of “beautiful destruction” as a theme for our publication. We began our ideation process by investigating supernovas in both a visual and literary sense— art that explored destruction in an ethereal, beautiful way. The concept of beautiful destruction urged us to investigate related ideas: space explosions, artistic rebellion, and vandalism as art. Our pieces span across varying crafts, from digital photography, mixed media, poetry, and flash fiction, and our writers and artists captured a unique conception of our initial theme.
2024 celebrates both the 50th year of our publication and a half-century of hip-hop as a musical genre and cultural phenomenon. Our staff worked to incorporate artistic elements of the movement: graffiti art, urban landscapes, and themes of rhythm, rebellion, and funkadelics.
The cover art depicts a rusty train car en route and alive. The color scheme of both the back and cover page is influenced by the vibrant elements of hip-hop. These aspects of our design were influenced by our initial theme and coinciding anniversaries. The orange symbolizes luxury and danger, while the turquoise complements the warm hues. This pattern wholly connects Blue Review’s theme with components of graffiti and lively coloring.
The layout of this book was designed by our staff on an iMac 3.2 GHz
6-Core Intel Core i7 using Adobe Illustrator CC, Adobe Photoshop CC, and Adobe InDesign CC. The body text was set in Avenir Light and the title font was set in Freight Sans. The book was printed and bound by Mercersburg Printing in Mercersburg, Pennsylvania.
Blue Review is an extracurricular publication at Mercersburg Academy. Submissions from all artistic disciplines and literary styles are drawn from the student body from the start fall Term to the start of the spring Term. The submissions are then critiqued by staff members who evaluate them based on a rubric. Roughly 60 pieces, which are accepted for their strong merit, are paired and ordered in a thoughtful progression to advance the theme of the book.
Blue Review is Mercersburg Academy’s annual literary-arts journal. It serves not only as a showcase but also as a motivation for students to share their creative world with the school community. An annual literary review has been published since 1901, with visual arts introduced in 1974.
The content within this book are expression and opinions of the author and artist and does not necessarily reflect the Mercersburg Academy community as a whole. For further information and to order additional copies at the cost of $20.00 each, please contact the staff of Blue Review at Mercersburg Academy, 100 Academy Drive, Mercersburg, PA.