Blue Review 2022 by Mercersburg Academy

issue no. 1

2022 blue review

blue review volume XXX

2022

issue no. 1

volume xxx

mercersburg academy

BLUE REVIEW Editor-in-Chief for Art: Nate Austin '23 Editor-in-Chief for Literary: Carina Cole '22 Cover and Thematic Designers: Nate Austin ‘23, Andrew Leibowitz '24, Anne Sehon '25 Spread Designer: Nate Austin '23 Art Staff: Nate Austin '23, Hannah King '23, Andrew Leibowitz '24, Anne Sehon '25, Yael Hochberg '25 Literary Staff: Mel Cort '23, Talia Cutler '23, Finn Sipes '22, Avedis Reid '22, Reagan Houpt '25, Kaiya Hoffman '25, Bob Hollis '24 Faculty Advisors: Kristen Pixler and Michele Poacelli

Blue Review is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association Published in 2022 By Mercersburg Academy 100 Academy Drive Mercersburg, Pennsylvania 17236

2022

TABLE OF CONTENTS 19

stardust out west

Molly Willis '22

3-4

To Belong

Jordan Yuan '24

Specky

Molly Willis '22

9-10

The Weight of a Feather

Avedis Reid '22

57-58

Temporal

Talia Cutler '23

Daze

Reagan Houpt '25

65-66

Ticket to Nowhere

Talia Cutler '23

15-16

Evergreen

Cole Smith '23 37

Country Time Lemonade

Mel Cort '23

Oh, To Be A Turtle

Carina Cole '22

writing poetry Is

Bob Hollis '24

Waking Up

Kaiya Hoffman '25

The Hill

Ivan Dwyer '24

The Tempest

Vivian Willoughby '25

Filth and Cleansing

Finn Sipes '22

Unknown Traveler

Avalina Orfield '25

SORROW

Isonah Dlodlo '23

The Sky

Isonah Dlodlo '23

Graduation

Reagan Houpt '25

Revival

Alaina Leasure '22

Red Noise

Andrew Leibowitz '24

Housewarming Smoke

Mel Cort '23

Note #37

Anne Sehon '25

My Weighted Spine

Finn Sipes '22

69-70

Winter Melancholy

Carina Cole '22

Brian Takes a Bath

Carina Cole '22

Cherishing the Ugly

Dayoung Kim '23

Edge of the Bay

Ava Brody '22

Emerald

Hannah King '23

Beach Cafe

Ava Brody '22

Flamingo Pair

Hannah King '23

Mother’s Hand

Carina Cole '22

41-42

Family Portrait

Andrea Garza Gutierrez '22

Head over Heels

Hannah King '23

43-44

Dance!

Charli McInturff '23

It’s A Beautiful Day In

Holden Walker '23

Divider Three

Nate Austin '23 and Anne Sehon '25

Ode to Sketchbook

Nate Austin '23

47- 48

TEENAGE 10+8

Shin Miyamichi '22

Divider One

Nate Austin '23 and Anne Sehon '25

Georg(i)e and the Duck(ie)

Carina Cole '22

Osmo

Nathan Gotera '24

stoicism

Dalilah Winter '22

Self Portrait

Dayoung Kim '23

Afternoon Stroll

Ivy Chan '24

Civilization

Nate Austin '23

Fishing

Ivy Chan '24

Bigfoot, Yeti, Sasquatch

Nate Austin '23

Ivan

Anne Sehon '25

In Motion

Ellie Jorlin '22

Divider Four

Anne Sehon '25

Self Reflection

Dayoung Kim '23

The Day The Couches Took Over

Holden Walker '23

Divider Two

Anne Sehon '25

Order and Chaos

Dalilah Winter '22

Runaway

Dalilah Winter '22

The Drowned Giantess

Joyce Cui '22

Ties That Bind

Joyce Cui '22

Harmony

Joyce Cui '22

Yue

Ava Anthony '23

RISD Bicycle Prompt

Sammy Titus '23

Picnic Time

Nathalie Mauer '23

VISUAL ART

Schuyler Waters '22

POETRY

What’s Up There???

PROSE

What’s Up There???

Who to Thank for the Thunderous Noises in the Sky by Schuyler Waters I’m pretty sure when my uncle died he went to help the man who makes all the earthquakes and thunder and the big loud noises that come from the heavens above. He had been practicing his whole life for that exact job. Everybody knew when Uncle was coming. His stomps through the house were like the least graceful elephant to exist. At night, I could feel the vibrations shaking my bed as he pounded up the stairs to his room. Then, his snores left me dreaming that I was on a pig farm. When Uncle sneezed, the whole family—including the cats—were startled. Uncle was our favorite. His laugh boomed, and no matter how hard we tried, when Uncle laughed, we could not stop ourselves from laughing as well.

Uncle made sure that every night we were fed so full that we had to waddle up the stairs to our rooms.

The night Uncle died, the whole family shared a sense of doom. What were we without Uncle? But Uncle was never really gone. When it rains so hard it pounds on the roof like Uncle’s footsteps, he is just making sure we don’t forget him. When thunder claps and we all jump, we say bless you to Uncle, who, even in heaven, can’t manage to subdue his sneezes. He makes sure, just like before, that our house is never quiet.

“Brian Takes a Bath” Carina Cole Acrylic Painting CF 107”

To Belong

by Jordan Yuan

There is a swallows’ nest under the eaves of our old tiled house. In spring, the swallows come from far–far from where I have never thought about. Sometimes my mother and I would stand under the swallows’ nest, looking up at them as they flew in and out. Melodious notes sprang from their bright yellow beaks with the simplicity and joy of a beautiful spring in the wild. After a while, the rice has been harvested, and the fields are full of the colors and fragrances of autumn. One day, I raise my head and look up at the nest–the black silhouettes of the tweeting creatures were nowhere to be found, leaving an empty nest and the vacant echoes of their beautiful voices. “They have to go somewhere else,” says my mom, picking out a piece of grass from my hair, “but swallows come back every year.”

The old house is there, and the swallows’ nest is there. They will come back—they will hover above the reaped rice field, circle the barn clockwise, and fly away. Without the feathered friends, the countryside is just an empty world. I can only tell this little world is still alive by a few random barks, some chirp of the warbler, and the rustle of the red autumn leaves when the cold mid-September breeze passes by. “The swallows are coming back,” says my mom, wiping the tears that hang on my flushed cheeks. The nest has been there for a very long time, longer than I can possibly remember. The swallows in the nest seem to have a firm sense of direction. Every spring, they come back

here, fly around the house and the village, and fall asleep at night with the sound of the gurgling stream beside the mountain. Soon they will lay eggs, and the clear and vibrant sound makes the whole village come alive. Swallows can find their own nests. No matter how many peaks and rivers they cross, they are where they belong. This instinct becomes a mysterious natural force; everything always falls back to its rightful place. The leaves turn golden in fall, fall into the forest where they belong, and dandelion seeds fly everywhere. Every place can be their place to belong. When time flows by, I grow up, as time insists. From a babbling little child to a cultivated young man, the home provides all that is needed to complete this process of growing up, never asking for anything in return. Like the swallows, the time I am staying away becomes longer and longer. Strangers’ ridicule, friends’ betrayal, I realized that life is nothing like what it is in fantasy. I suffer, but I grow stronger. However, no matter what I am going through, I look to the end of the road from which I come: the light is always on for me, and the door is always open. Then I realize that it is home, the place where I belong after being beaten black-and-blue, and family is waiting for me with memories that I left behind. I am like the swallows, putting every pathetic feeling behind me after finding the place I belong and soaring through the houses and villages with joy and appreciation.

“Edge of the Bay” Ava Brody Emulsion Lift Photography 4” by 4”

“Beach Café” Ava Brody Emulsion Lift Photography 4” by 4”

Oh, To Be a Turtle by Carina Cole

I want to be a turtle. My soft pinky flesh and rolling hills of spine replaced with a hard, round shell: green and yellow and brown and black, rough and curved like an untumbled stone. A stone that could be held in withering hands, if not ignored among pebbled shores. But turtles are rarely forgotten, poked and prodded and studied. So instead I’d retreat all of my limbs to live in motherly darkness. Solidarity has never been such a comforting thought! And in that solidarity I’d wriggle around, and scream and shout until I’d shred the noise into rasps. Then my head would poke out carefully, not so fast. Where do turtles get it? That steadfast patience, serene and slow. To be a turtle would be a gift, sheltered until decidedly seen. Oh yes, to be a turtle would be a gift.

“Mother’s Hand” Carina Cole Acrylic Painting 18” by 17”

The Weight of a Feather by Avedis Reid The party was in the ballroom of the green hotel. There were gold streamers hanging between the marble columns, and a fountain stood on a three-step pedestal. The room was packed with noise and tuxedos.

She said, “It’s gorgeous,” I asked, “What is?” “This glass.” She was leaning on one of the columns, holding a flute of champagne. “Yes,” I said, looking down at her hands. “It’s beautiful.” Bubbles raced toward the surface, excited by the movement. “We should ask where they’re from.” “Ask who?” “The caterers.” “I’m not sure the caterers will know.” “Why wouldn’t they know? They’re the ones who brought them.” “I mean, I’m not sure the people will know.” “I’m going to go and ask,” she decided out loud but instead took a step and rested her hand on a column. I saw the hand and touched her shoulder. “I’m okay,” she said, before I could ask. “Yes,” she snapped. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” “Because you know what he said, we can always step outside.” “Yes, I know what he said. I was there.” She turned away from me. The feathers on her dress brushed against my leg. Her back was lithe and pale, except for a dark freckle on her left shoulder, which shuddered slightly as she took a breath. Instinctively, I reached out to grab her arm. She shrugged my hand away, violently, a butterfly on a boxer’s shoulder. She turned. Her eyes alight. “I’m here,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I put on this dress and these heels. I got out of that bed to be here, and I will stay here.” I felt her grab my hand, too tightly, crushing my knuckles together. “I’m getting a drink.”

She walked away. I watched her go, shaky but determined in her silver stencil heels and on her own two legs, and she disappeared into the throng. Something heavy tugged on my leg, and I looked down. A single feather clung to the crease of my pants, precarious and sensitive, fluttering with each passing exhale, begging the twirl of a hem to sweep it up onto the air above. I picked it off gently, fragile and soft between my fingertips, and tucked it inside my coat pocket. I buttoned it closed. She wasn’t at the bar. In the sea of people, few dresses were white and none had feathers. She might have left—it was a long walk to the valet, and I still had her feather. I’m here. I stared at a knot in the polished wood of the bar. Then I stared at the inside of my eyelids. I saw her face there, the corner of her lips creeping up into a smirk, as if to say, What? After a while, I noticed that the noise of the party was louder than it was before. I opened my eyes and rubbed them and looked around. The people around me were all pointing at something on the ceiling. I wished I could stay and keep looking at her, there inside my eyes. “Oh, my god,” an old man said, his fingers going slack around his glass. I tilted my chin upwards, and there she was: rising slowly, suspended among the streamers, the tips of her heels dangling twenty feet above the ground. Her feathers ruffled in the phantom wind and her skirt swelled around her, the way a sheet billows in the breeze when hung out to dry. As I watched, a single feather slipped free from her dress and swayed back and forth on the air. She turned her head and watched it fall. The room was silent, and I could hear the feather tickling the air, or the air tickling the feather, and it drifted slowly towards me. I lifted my gaze to her. She was looking back at me, right back at me, and she smiled as the feather settled at my feet.

Daze

by Reagan Houpt

We lie in a circle, slumped across the oversized, dark green Adirondack chairs, the chairs you can never get comfortable on, no matter how many positions you try. Slight pangs shoot through my lower back that awkwardly rests against the hard polywood. Around us dirty tupperware is strewn, containing the remnants of what was lunch: the crusts of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the bones of a barbeque chicken leg, the grains of rice too small to be picked up by a fork. A sweet, slightly sour aroma emanates from the scraps. The luscious leaves on the tree nearby provide a canopy of shade, cooling our area. The slight breeze, beginning to pick up, chills us even more. Goosebumps dot my arms and make the thin light brown hairs stand up on my legs. In a daze. Our brains foggy and our bodies physically exhausted from the long week. The free time feels alien to us, having previously been so busy and occupied. We look around, feeling unrest about doing nothing but having no motivation to do anything else. Across from us, the Center for the Arts stands, its geometric glass walls reflecting light in every angle. Sandwiched between the towering, angelic Chapel and the triangular, stone building reminiscent of Hogwarts, lay a field of lush green grass.

Our bodies slide, slow and lethargic, off of our chairs and inch over to the patch. Dragging as though we are newly resurrected zombies, we reach the middle. The hot sun beats down, warming our skin. We sprawl out on our backs, arms to our sides like starfish on the ocean floor. The grass is pillowy and ever-so-slightly itchy. Our heads all meet at a common center point, our bodies just offshoots. We close our eyes and bask in the sun's company.

“Head Over Heels” Hannah King Collage 36” by 26.5”

Silence. Peace. Deep breaths. Relaxation. As we lie on the ground, our souls are grounded. In this short and fleeting moment, we are here. We are present. We are living.

14 “Ode to Sketchbook” Nate Austin Mixed Media 16” by 26” “It’s A Beautiful Day In” Holden Walker Mixed Media 30” by 24”

Evergreen by Cole Smith Today is the 20th of December, just a few days before Christmas. Earlier today I noticed something was wrong. The roots were setting. The changes were slight at first, barely even noticeable–the branches a bit fuller, the tree an inch or two taller. Now it’s gotten much more apparent. Wooden tendrils reached out from the base of the Christmas tree, either growing over the stand or burrowing their way right into the floor. That was odd enough on its own; what made it worse was how it felt. The tree was warm under my fingers, not hot or cold, just warm. It seemed like I was the only person seeing what was going on. I tried to tell dad once, and he looked at me like I was going crazy.

Today is the 21st, everything has only gotten worse. Somehow in just one night, the roots have spread. They stretch onto the walls and the branches spread over ornaments like a virus. The tree itself breaks through the ceiling. I ran my hand over the trunk earlier, and it felt even warmer than before. I could have sworn that I felt a deep thumping from inside it. It’s the 22nd now. Things are getting really bad. I tried to leave today, but every entrance to the house was covered in roots. There’s plenty of food in the house, but I’m not sure how long I’m going to be stuck here. I tried to take one of the ornaments off the tree but they were stuck to the branches and made of solid wood. I haven’t seen mom or dad since yesterday morning, and I’m starting to wonder if the tree

had something to do with it. It’s grown a weird knot on the trunk; it almost looks like a face. It’s always watching me. It’s the 23rd. I found my parents today. They were hung upside down from the branches of the tree, growing from it as if they’ve always been a part of it, completely petrified. I tried to pull them down between the times when I was either crying or vomiting, but I couldn’t do it. It made me feel sick every time I did, and being near the tree wasn’t making me feel comfortable either. It’s more alive than a tree should be. It’s huge now, growing straight through the ceiling nearly into my room, and it definitely has a face now. Its features are full. The worst part is its expression. It doesn’t look angry. It looks sorrowful. It’s the 24th, Christmas Eve. I’m writing this from bed. I know the thing has a plan for me. It’s grown into my room now. The face has been watching me for hours. It’s so detailed that I can see every aspect of its features, even in the dark. The sorrow cut into the bark, the eyes almost glowing. I don’t know what will happen if I fall asleep. It’s 10:49 now. I’m scared. The 25th. It just hit midnight. It’s weird to think I’m writing instead of running, but there’s no escape anyway. I can hear the roots running along the floor surrounding the bed. The face doesn’t frown anymore. It smiles.

Waking up by Kaiya Hoffman

Where has the time gone? I wish to sleep, but I must Conquer the mind’s haze. 17

“Divider One” Nate Austin and Anne Sehon Polaroid Transfer Photography 7” by 5.5”

stardust out west by Molly Willis

as much as i would like to imagine myself as a child of stardust, i cannot picture something as pure as the moon and the sun swirling within me. a small tornado, but a calm one, happily whipping and whirling about in between where my solar plexus and sternum meet. bouncing off my rib to my vertebrae to my stomach, painlessly knocking around, like a child in a trampoline obstacle course. and i think it is grey, but a beautiful grey, not a concrete-coloured one but a fog-coloured one or an old fox-coloured one. maybe there are blips of yellow–no, purple–streaking across the surface of the thing, weaving in and out like the chocolate rivers in a rugelach or a child’s braid. it feels like cotton sheets, but they havent been washed in a while and are blanketed with hint of lime chip crumbs and brown cat hair. and it smells of rain and dirt and whatever creation smells like–probably stainless steel and a little lemon. if i were to taste a piece, pluck a bit out like sticky cotton candy and set it on my tongue, let it dissolve there until i have a beautiful fog-and-old-fox-coloured mouth, it would taste of pine needles and sage and a slight twinge of grilled cheese. hoist it up with a rope, dangle it in the space between my largest ribs, tie it to my collarbone and let it swing back and forth, still whirling, just slightly more constrained. give it a home next to my heart but dont let it hit it, bruise it with the softness of a cattail in a marsh because it WILL leave an expanding purple dent on the surface of the beating thing. i couldnt handle a stardust-sized scratch anywhere, maybe except the inside of my ribs, carved in like mauis hook and

showing swirls and curves and all the beautiful things the universe has, but i dont. I let the storm re-create me from the inside out and cover all my skin in fox-grey and blips of purple and revert me into stardust.

“Osmo” Nathan Gotera Ceramics 11” by 6” by 2.5“

The Tempest by Vivian Willoughby

21 “Self Portrait” Dayoung Kim Acrylic Painting 40” by 32”

Where resides reality if not within identity? Unless you’re pretty or dying, no one cares when you cry But you still expect her to try The day I was granted a smile, I was handed a weapon With it, I kindly beckon the shining tempest Hope She bestows a narcotic joke and to your head rush a plethora of falsities worse than those delivered by so-despised authority We forget without her the world would cease to pivot and we’d retire true to the human spirit As the smallest star in the galaxy she’d outlast in false hypocrisy How pathetic we devalue her power She smites hearts waiting to devour So innocent she seems but to those without reality She’s just a tempest and in a teacup, she’s contained.

“Civilization” Nate Austin White Charcoal Drawing 17” by 13”

“Bigfoot, Yeti, Sasquatch” Nate Austin Soft Pastel Drawing 23.5” by 19”

Unknown Traveler by Avallina Orfield Traveling along in an unknown world Which itself Doesn’t even know what it is. So how do I Know exactly who I am, either? Except someone Who exists Traveling along in an unknown world.

26 “In Motion” Ellie Jorlin Acrylic Painting 40” by 40”

The sky by Isonah Dlodlo

Riding on the air God breathed into Adam the same air he breathed into me. The Sky a reflection of God’s eye all knowing, all seeing a marvelous blue against his black skin, against my black skin. The sky.

“Self Reflection” Dayoung Kim Mixed Media 28” by 21”

Revival

by Alaina Leasure

a lush, green graveyard life emerges from decay a grim festival 29

“Divider Two” Anne Sehon Polaroid Transfer Photography 7” by 5.5”

Housewarming Smoke by Mel Cort I found a pack of cigarettes under my welcome mat. Or, more truthfully, my mother tripped over the carton of Camels while helping me haul soggy cardboard boxes into the cheapest and most off-campus of off-campus housing: ¡Mira! Mira, hija– She picked up the package pinched between the nails of her thumb and forefinger, and flung it towards the rattling ice machine and linty laundry room. It’s a bad neighborhood. You’re much safer at home! Boxes continued to fill the shoebox room–clothes and mutters and a hotplate and halfhearted efforts to move me back home with each childhood heirloom I unwrapped.

A nicotine housewarming gift— a new neighborhood saying you’re here, we see you here, light up and move in and we want you here. Safe in mama’s danger, a Camel between middle and forefinger.

And she leaves. And my bed is unmade and packing tape flutters around the radiator in sticky strips and mama’s gone. I think of the smokes.

“Runaway” Dalilah Winter Digital Photography 15” by 24”

by Finn Sipes

My Weighted Spine:

I relax every muscle surrounding my spine and let it collapse in on itself. I fold in the moment I am alone, out of sight, so my body may be unleashed from its posture and give into gravity. I release but find my spine keeps rolling and tumbling. The columns fold further than I thought possible. Each section slides out from the other and soon my spine is no longer a spine but a pile of small cylinders, all trying their best to kiss the ground and caress the earth. I allow my knees to follow, then my shoulders. My ankles give out and my shins topple over. My tibias split away and push off from my careening femurs. My pelvis seems to be suspended in the air for a moment as its support system falls, but quickly follows suit. I let my skull sink, rolling downwards, bouncing and sliding across the air currents guiding it downwards. Now I am a pile of bones. A mound of tensionless mass. I have never felt so happy without a body.

34 “Ties That Bind” Joyce Cui Oil Painting 20” by 16”

36 “Yue” Ava Anthony Ceramics 4” by 12” by 5“

“Picnic Time” Nathalie Maurer Ceramics 3” by 4” by 4“

Country Time Lemonade by Mel Cort My mom always taught me to stop for lemonade stands. To pull up to the curb and pull out my wallet for a cup of sickly-sweet half-dissolved powder (or the real stuff, if you’re by the private elementary) from the snotty hands of neighborhood kids. Her voice won’t let me drive past a finger-painted cardboard sign without exchanging a dime turned quarter turned dollar (back in her day, a nickel) for the sugar-crusted smile of piggy-bank-rattling children, as that smile was worth more than the half hour on the elliptical it earned her.

Is this legal? I’d mutter to myself between yes-pleases and no-thank-yous to tots who couldn’t pronounce their r’s, serving nectar on the side of the street. Surely not, I’d decide as the condensation-slick styrofoam cup nestled in its holder where it would sit for three right turns before rising hesitantly to my lips. Surely not, as I took the last turn for a refill.

“Cherishing the Ugly” Dayoung Kim Acrylic Painting CF. 88”

“Emerald” Hannah King Watercolor 20” by 15”

“Flamingo Pair” Hannah King

Soft Pastel Drawing 20” by 26”

“Family Portrait” Andrea Garza Gutierrez Digital Illustration 10” by 16”

writing poetry Is by Bob Hollis

eAsy. writing poetry is *insert convoluted metaphor* now add like or as and Make it a *synonym for convoluted* simile after that, Add some weird s P a c i n art (or both?)

g that

could eitherbe mistakes, or

throw in the word *insert word you would use in an art museum* with three commas,,, (all meaningful, ,obviOusly,) the best poEms have purposeful little inconsistencies

for example, introducing a letter format a the end. sincerely, a self-appoinTed poet?,.-

“Dance!” Charli McInturff Mixed Media 24” by 24”

The Hill by Ivan Dwyer

Pink, orange, purple, Clouds light up over the hill, Light is seen again. 45

“Divider Three” Nate Austin and Anne Sehon Polaroid Transfer Photography 7” by 5.5”

“TEENAGE 10+8” Shin Miyamichi Acrylic Painting 36” by 60”

Specky by Molly Willis

my great-grandmother’s braids were twisted and woven in a circle on the top of her head. unornamented, they looked like dying white tree roots locked around an old artifact. bright red lipstick always on her lips, even in her dying days. two golden hoops, with clasps that easily slip out of their holders, rest within her ears and shake at the slightest movement. light purple teddy bear, forever planted on her walker, who goes by the name of teddy but has since been renamed lavender. the hallway to get here was terrifying–i watched an old woman reach out to me and say a name that wasnt mine. crying out, she beckons me, but a nurse in the room gives her tea and pushes her back into her seat. i kept eye contact, of course, and watched her mournfully stare as i walked away. my own great-grandmother does the same thing. she asks my mother who the young lady is and states that we have never met before when she was, in fact, at my 9th birthday party and held me a month after i was born. this is a common routine we share. she wonders how i know her name, and sometimes doesnt respond to the yells of “grandma heydt” from her son’s daughter’s babies. i remind her of my name and the strawberry earrings that she bought me for “someday,” and the pink cupcake we shared at my sister’s birthday but she has no memory of me. i am a speck in her mind and she is the same for me. i dont see her enough to remember her name more than once a month, and her voice fades from my ears until i go to massachusetts and walk the halls of the care home (cautiously) and tell her my name, age, grade, and relationship to her once again. my hair is not long enough for twisted woven crowns, and i have no opportunity to display a crimson lip, but the holes in my ears are filled with gold that comes unclasped very easily and sometimes features an amethyst pendant that was hers, too.

“Georg(i)e and the Duck(ie)” Carina Cole Acrylic Painting 36” by 24”

Filth and Cleansing by Finn Sipes I am the sweetest doormat, welcoming grime and muck alike into my open embrace. I am sometimes smeared by the unwelcome smudge, one inconsiderate blotch, that could have been wiped before the door. It is a bit too much for a doormat like me, but I do my job and I cleanse you. Perhaps I shall object someday to this filthy burden, but for now I am silent, because how cruel would it be to make you feel like a doormat, too. Take a step.

Wipe your feet.

52 “stoicism” Dalilah Winter Digital Photography 15” by 24”

54 “Fishing” Ivy Chan Digital Photography 10” by 15”

“Afternoon Stroll” Ivy Chan Photography 15” by 10”

SORROW by Isonah Dlodlo

When I broke into the world, I battled down my first breath my screams were those of joy my fists swung in triumph when death first broke my heart, I swallowed sorrow so that my fists would not swing in tragedy I duct-taped the cleaved pieces of my heart closed with thick silence and sticky indifference My heart bleeds nonetheless

“Ivan” Anne Sehon Acrylic Painting 16” by 12”

Temporal by Talia Cutler On December 10th I bought a candle. It was birthday cake-scented, bought because it was the cheapest one, sitting lonely and forgotten among flowers and campfires and freshly cut grass. When I brought it home that day, I looked at it for hours, its sticker declaring BIRTHDAY CAKE in giant lettering, the wick and creamcolored wax covered in a layer of dust. I felt sorry for it, if one can feel sorry for a candle.

On December 15th, I lit it for the first time with matches I stole from a restaurant. I saw it spark, and catch, and burn slowly. I tried to read a book by candlelight, but instead my eyes glazed over as I fixated on the unturned page. I was too busy thinking about the smell of the burning wax. It wasn’t quite birthday cake, not a celebration of lighthearted fun. It smelled sweet and quiet. I lit the candle every week—both with an abundance of emotion or none at all. I lit it to smell it, to admire it, but mostly to listen to the sound the wick made right as it lit. It was a little sigh, a human breath of air.

It was almost as if it wanted to say something, but faltered and stayed silent. The candle was a friend of mine, and I told her many things. I whispered secrets into the smoke and cried salty tears to her. And no matter what, the candle never said a word back. I almost believed that one day she might whisper a secret back to me in that tiny exhale. On April 6th the candle died. What once was a fist-sized cylinder of wax was now a scorched puddle at the bottom of a glass cup. The worn sticker still read BIRTHDAY CAKE, only some letters were faded from my hands gently picking it up and putting it back down again. Incomplete and decrepit, killed by my own hands, my selfish want for love and comfort. On the night of April 6th, I felt myself melting.

Graduation by Reagan Houpt

I feel nostalgia for the innocence of youth. But I can’t return. 59

“Divider Four” Anne Sehon Polaroid Transfer Photography 7” by 5.5”

Red Noise

by Andrew Leibowitz

I have never been bothered by noise. Not the wailing and buzzing of fire alarms, Or the sounds of my nails dragging across a chalkboard. Noise has always just been in the background, Not important, Not of any value. But when I am there, The house with no walls, The television with no screen, The book with no words, The life without laughter, I just jump so easily. It angers me. The noise angers me. I don’t know why, But it just makes me so mad. In my head, I scream, And I yell, And I punch the wall Until my knuckles are painted red. I want the noise to stop, But it doesn’t. And I don’t think it ever will. My forever torment.

“The Day The Couches Took Over” Holden Walker Acrylic Painting CF 107”

Note #37 by Anne Sehon

You know I am an avid overthinker. You know my cognition and conscience run wild with confusion, impossible to concentrate. You know my confusion comes from my overanalysis and odd ability to observe every outcome. You know there is a need for confrontation, a need to comprehend information directly.

You know it took all of me to tell the truth when I wanted to watch it run its course and watch myself wrestle for whispered words while I watched you watch me do it. So now I wait unknowing, uncertain, observing. Wrestling with my own imagined words.

“Order and Chaos” Dalilah Winter Acrylic Painting 48” by 32”

Ticket to Nowhere by Talia Cutler

I buy plane tickets every other week. To beautiful places, exotic places, France, Portugal, Thailand. I love holding them in my hand, crisp white paper coated in wax, dotted with black lines and bar codes, numbers and letters, and my name on the upper right corner. I have a black suitcase pre-packed in my closet, as many mismatched clothes as I could fit. I couldn’t quite tell you how many pairs of socks and shirts I have folded away in there–I haven’t opened the luggage since I packed it six months ago. I fear if I slide the zipper open, I’ll never be able to zip it back up again.

Every other week, I sit at my kitchen table with the ticket in my hand, the suitcase by the door. I study the dotted lines, the checks, the boxes, the seat number. 9B, 14A, 5D: each letter and number combination printed abstractly in the corner, like a Jasper Johns artwork. I wait and I wait, the sunlight sliding across the surface of the wooden table. I wait until the second hand on the clock moves the minute hand, and then the hour hand. They tick and tick and slip right by with fluid, unceasing movement. It’s

a sort of game I play with myself, a sad, self-pitying sort of game. Will I finally do it? Will some divine intervention release me from my chair? I wait until the time on the clock reads one minute past the plane’s departure time on the ticket. 11:30 the ticket reads. The clock hands awkwardly form an angle to display 11:31. The next time, my departure time will be 4:10. And I have no doubt that I will sit at the table unmoving until 4:11. And with a wave of relief and a sigh, as though I hadn’t anticipated it, I slide the suitcase back into the closet, where the shadows and cobwebs envelop the black fabric, until all I can see is the glint of the zipper. It taunts me from its darkened alcove, laughing at me. It doesn’t matter, because I know in the back of my mind that the very same luggage will be used in another two weeks, anyhow. I slip the ticket, now just a scrap of paper instead of a grand symbol of possibility, into my desk drawer. I can’t bear to look at it any longer. “Maybe next time,” I tell myself.

“The Drowned Giantess” Joyce Cui Oil Painting 20” by 24”

“Harmony” Joyce Cui Oil Painting 20” by 24”

Winter Melancholy by Carina Cole By the time the sun had set, I sat perched in the living room of my cabin, back resting on a rigid mahogany chair in a posture that matched the looming glass windows. Sweet smells of hearty chestnuts and neroli float atop smoke signals from the hearth. I unfurl from my precariously positioned pose, moving from the beam of light cast by the chandelier to relish in blinding visions of mid-winter. My rose-tinted cheeks press to observe a view spectacular: the dark, rotting wooden steps to dying earth that prompt me to adorn a jacket, wool socks, and snow boots for thin ice. The rows of wheat that stood proud and golden are now smothered by a blanket of discomfort. I try to step on the scalp of the Earth and avoid the roots, but with every move I feel snapping under my weight.

But I can’t. So I swallow the match along with my words, light my throat on fire and shriek with the Earth. When the snow finished falling to the ground, I found my footing and followed my tracks to the cabin, to the warm glow that I could only hope would welcome me back in from the cruel night. I stumbled up the steps, locking the door tight to keep any remaining howls out with the cold where they belonged. And then I shed. I stripped myself down to my core, off with the pants, off with the jacket, off with the very socks that strangled my toes. And I sat holding myself in front of the hearth. Stripped of my being, surrounded by winter melancholy.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry!”

I lean down and whisper to the decomposing field. It screams in response, tiny spines halved. I desperately attempt to tip-toe the rest of the journey through a bombardment of tiny testaments to sub thirtytwo degree weather.

I feel a complete absence of warmth as I climb. Not because of winter’s breath that numbs my skin, but because I am set on being enveloped by sweet misery. My toes, now suffocated by layers of socks, are my role models: I want to smother and hide my sorrows. I want to burn the evidence and throw the matches in with the flame.

“RISD Bicycle Prompt” Sammy Titus Graphite Drawing 16” by 20”

Colophon In the 2022 Blue Review, the staff explored the feeling of being suspended in limbo. We asked ourselves the question, “How do we feel? About our creative and mental states?” Early in our exploration, we felt we could not pinpoint a strong, concentrated feeling at all. We had emerged from the cacophonous confusion that enveloped us in the past two years, but we hadn’t exactly experienced the rebirth we so desperately craved. The feeling of limbo was present in every art and literary piece we received and reviewed. There was an undeniable sense of longing in the work, a feeling of languishing in a honey-like state, but not necessarily of despair. The work published here captures a sense of self-reflection, floating, fogginess, and uncertainty about the future.

On the cover of the book, limbo is expressed in the atmospheric suspension of sky and clouds. Throughout our book, we represented limbo visually through the use of Polaroid transfer photography. The landscape photography was inspired by the work of Sam Ehrlich, particularly his photos featured in the November 13,1970 issue of Life Magazine. We emulated this nostalgic feeling through Polaroid pictures distorted by color bleeding and light damage. Our staff explored the auditory aspects of limbo as well, listening to ambient, space, and progressive rock on a collaborative playlist that embodied our theme. Albums like Stratosphere by Duster and The Glow, Pt. 2 by The Microphones sounded like the experience of limbo, and their album covers visually inspired us.

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 and title font was set in Futura. The book was printed and bound by Mercersburg Printing of Mercersburg, PA. 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 of the 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 work with the school community. An annual literary review has been published since 1901, with visual arts introduced in 1993. The content within this book are expressions and opinions of the author and artist and do 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 us at Blue Review, Mercersburg Academy, 100 Academy Drive, Mercersburg, PA 17236.