This document contains a collection of poems and short stories from the 2015 Blue Review, the literary magazine of Charlotte Latin School. The table of contents lists over 30 poems on topics like nature, love, and reflection. It also includes 10 short stories or essays on subjects such as diversity, technology, and philosophy. The document shows the wide range of creative works published in the school's literary review that year.

1. 2015
Blue Review

2. 1
2015
Blue Review
Charlotte Latin School
9502 Providence Road
Charlotte, NC 28277
704.846.1100
www.charlottelatin.org

3. 2
Poetry
7 Dripping Life by Adam Bear
8 Telephone Wires by Hope Dragelin
10 A Funeral by Jonathan Chen
19 Gone by Mallory Evans
20 Booty Loop by Ryan Gardner
22 Mask by Somaya Gupta
26 In the Flower Box by Emily Hinshaw
29 Baobab:An Antebellum Slave's Separation
from her Children by Genna Holtz
32 I See Fire by Emma Haseley
33 Where I'm From:Digital Poems
by Hena Nair & Claire Friou
35 Give and Take by Charlotte Kohn
36 Appeal to Pathos by Jack Wrigley
41 Hole Self by Austin Lancaster
42 Silence by Somaya Gupta
47 Let Us Rest by Kiera Dowell
48 Sumatra Tiger by Andrew McKinney
50 What I Found Below by Mattison Shreero
55 Can You Buy Happiness?
by Daniella Mignardi
58 Petrichor by Maddison Shreero
62 Reflections on a Tombstone by Trey Powell
65 Awake by Hunter Willis
69 On the Edge by Adam Bear
70 Blue Ribbon Fading Hysterically
by Tatiana Krzesicki
74 Less Than It's Worth by Riley Singer
77 Dumb Luck by Hunter Willis
78 Four Years by Kelly Thomsen
83 The Nightgown by Jack Wrigley
84 You Know Nothing by Tatiana Krzesicki
88 Huygens by Jack Wrigley
Prose
4 Commitment to Diversity by Richard Cai
12 Dark Side by Mikaela Chandra
24 Word Tsunami by Kate Mace
30 Fairy Tale Girl by Audrey Davis
38 Skinny Jeans:The 21st Century Corset
by Sophie Madjarova
44 The Bird that Picked its Feathers
by Jasmine Leahy
51 Maybe Not Just a Goat by Paige Davis
56 The Fall of the Mountain (excerpt)
by Jack Wrigley
60 Plato's Cave by Inessa Chandra
66 The Point of No Return by Thea Boatwright
73 Self-Taught Lessons by Inessa Chandra
80 Serendipity by Mattison Shreero
86 Truthiness: The American Essence
by Robert Fuller
Table of Contents

4. 3
Art
5 Youthful Elder by Richard Cai
6 Urban Spiral by Harrison Bell
8 Simplicity by Caroline Ficca
9 El Castillo de Loarre
by Ann Chandler Tune
11 Ombré by Caroline Ficca
15 Queen's Wasteland by Andrew Fish
17 Ghosts of the Past by Rachel Hargrave
18 City of Shadows by Dalila Mendygaziyeva
21 Windmill by Genna Holtz
22 Trial Woan by Daniella Mignardi
25 Fall Sunset by Jack Balogh
27 Cat by Sarika Sajja
28 Old Kentucky by Caroline Ficca
30 Consumed by Technology Even Amid
Beauty by Daniella Mignardi
31 The White Palace by Dalila Mendygaziyeva
32 Incandescent by Mattison Shreero
33 Rays of Sunlight by Isabella Swic
37 City of Lights by Harrison Bell
40 Bliss by Juliana Vorhoff
43 Breaking Down by Anna Covington
46 Tranquilo by Emily Padgett
48 Untitled by Juliana Vorhoff
49 Las Tres Palmas by Isabella Swic
50 Recycled City by Matigan Simpson
53 Colored Camo by Emma Haseley
54 On the Fence by Harrison Bell
57 Into the Sunset by Jack Balogh
59 iSee by Isabella Swic
61 Shed by Sarika Sajja
63 Wintry Castle by Rachel Hargrave
64 The Anatomy of the Sea
by Mattison Shreero
67 ElMar by Caroline Ficca
68 La Piedra Amarillo by Ann Chandler Tune
71 Abandoned by Rachel Hargrave
72 Rose Garden by Genna Holtz
75 Desolation by Harrison Bell
76 Out of the Darkness and Into the Light
by Bridget Fish
79 Autumn:A Film by Emily Padgett
81 Light Outshines Darkness
by James McLelland
82 Scatter by Caroline Ficca
85 Cerca Rancho Alegre by Emily Padgett
87 Music of hte Spheres by Rachel Hargrave
89 Twistedcoaster by Ikenna Eruchalu

5. 4
Commitment to Diversity
by Richard Cai
‘Fore me stood a campus looming
Students around, welcomes booming
Inviting me to make a home
And greeting me with prideful tone,
“Commitment to Diversity!”
Let none know my Adversity
A Sea of White my eyes did see,
and yes, it’s true, my eyes can see,
and in my Heart I felt duress
I prayed I wouldn’t be friendless
But in that Sea I tried to swim
it wouldn’t float, my poor, poor Skin
And, when I did begin to sink
I wondered if there was a Link
with colored Skin that wouldn’t float
and Sea that didn’t send a Boat
The Ship ne’er came, that Ship called
“Friend”
Was it ‘cause I look like Raymon1
?
It couldn’t be! It couldn’t be!
There were others much unlike me
that found the Boat, despite their Skin
Their colored self was not their sin
So as I in the White do drown
I know it was my fault, my own
I did joke and self-deprecate
about how I must have ‘A’s straight
and how my parents ‘beat’ me hard
screaming my name “cahm heeyah,
Reechad!”
So as I in the White do drown
I know it was my fault, my own
These jokes will only alienate
do naught but differentiate
For in that jokester they’ll but see
a Yellow Joke! Its eyes can’t see!
So as I in the White do drown
I know it was my fault, my own
“The fault is not all yours to bear-”
What’s this? My Heart? There’s none to
share!
“-‘cause in homogenous Cultures
Differences are for the Vultures
Your Anchor’s not just from your jokes
but also from all the White-” Shush!
I tell my Heart to quit the fool
And hear again the prideful School:
“We bear you no adversity;
Commitment to Diversity!”
So as I in the White do drown
I know it was my fault, my own
Not them who rode to Chik-fil-a
and never asked whether I’ll stay
Not them who went to games to shout
and never asked if I’d go out
But as I in the White do drown
I see it was my fault, my own
Not them who shared a neighborhood
Nor them who bonded through churchhood
Not them whose kin each other knew
And in their childhood ‘gether grew
Still, as I in the White do drown
I think it was my fault, my own
Not them who made but jokes on race
“They look the same, the Asian face!”
Not them who rolled eyes and grumbled
when their grades slipped, mine just humbled
Well, as I in the White do drown
it probably was my fault, my own
In this sea I’m all alone
Besides my Heart I’m heard by none
So in this Heart I do accuse,
“Your Innocence is but a ruse,
‘cause as I in this White do drown
I know it was your fault, your own!”
1
Despite having been at Latin longer, I have never been able to
avoid being confused with Raymon Wang. See Yearbook 2013,
pg 17 as an example.

6. 5
Youthful Elder
by Richard Cai

7. 6
Urban Spiral
by Harrison Bell

8. 7
Tragic Slip
by Adam Bear
It’s a strange thing
falling
You only have ten seconds of fame.
The wind rushing in your ears,
blood pounds and the world spins
and then it is done.
Once in the air I see them flail,
One last dance in life.
maybe they want to hit the street
and bounce back up.
But the ground only comes closer.
I’m in love with the finality,
but they won’t know what they’ve done.
I’m in awe of their courage,
but they will never know the impact they made.
We see blood spattered, and skulls crushed,
and bodies broken on the pavement.
We hear a crunch, the snapping of bone,
and the ripping of tendons.
But they can’t see, they can’t hear.
After their ten seconds of fame…
After a step into the void.

9. 8
Telephone Wires
by Hope Dragelin
broken silence like broken pavement
cracked and uncomfortable
with a “well, that’s all I have to say”
words traveling 340 m/s through the air
but I don’t know how fast they travel through telephone wires
I was never very good at science
but I know one thing about the
chemistry between you and me
we don’t need ordinary conversations and interactions to bond us together
positive and negative charges don’t work on our side
we survive on the broken sidewalks and
long plane rides and our own voices,
traveling only so fast, through the wires
Simplicity
by Caroline Ficca

10. 9
El Castillo de Loarre
by Ann Chandler Tune

11. 10
A Funeral
by Jonathan Chen
At a funeral in autumn
It was a mere tease till morning
The November sun glooming awe over a old tired sky
The makings of a dark day
I was standing knee deep in a mantle of heavy grayish mist
Imbued with subtle hints of blue
Icy from a cool night silent
No breeze the morning’s pleasure sought
Among erect marble, an ancient tree stood
An Ent1
decked in gloomy dark magnificence
A judge on the Council of Vocations2
To their Death Mandate it had assigned
A songstress it sought with no luck
mellow tunes, gentle half sleeping
Drooping wet, black boughs3
weighing and rustling
In harsh the shades of waning hope
branches, nooses dropped in reverence
In supplication, bargaining to God4
with strange fruit5
it gave upon
From below or above it summoned
the angelic reaper chilling the morning a sobered hue
scythe harvesting harvest
good riddance and gleeful despair
the isolated lover on barren sands
forlorn planted with callus hands
bleed the soil by gaping scars
aimless wander with no command
Non omnes vagantes deerant6
The world, shamed and dark
a foundation built never on trust
where metals slay for metal
death excites more than birth
toil gains spoiled fruit
love but another’s forlorn

12. 11
`
Not all men are wise
And wise men are not always wise
but for all, wisdom
for all need wisdom
All wisdom comes with peace
To wish wisdom for all men
and peace when all men are wise.
1
Ents are tree-like creatures. They are a very old race that appeared in
Tolkien’s Middle-Earth
2
Council of Vocation assigns all people their Life Mandate (job role) in Ayn
Rand’s novella Anthem
3
“In a Station of the Metro” by Ezra Pound
4
Faust bargaining with the devil
5
Strange Fruit, a song written by Billie Holiday. “Strange fruit” was a term
she used to hide the real meaning behind her song, the lynching of African
Americans.
6
“All that is gold does not glitter” poem written by J.R.R. Tolkien
Ombréby Caroline Ficca

13. 12
Dark Sideby Mikaela Chandra
My name is Lexanne, and I am evil.
Do you think I want to be? No. Does
it bring me joy? No. But for as long as I can
remember I have been malicious, manipulative, and
cold, along with a whole litany of derogatory names
and titles. Every single heart-piercing description is
true.
I am evil.
There, look there. There I am, playing the
popular nice girl while sneaking and slithering
my way down to every heart, filling each beating
organ with the poison of gossip and cruelty. I look
adoringly towards Brad, the stupid yet endearing
quarterback.
“Babe, I can’t wait until Friday’s game! You’re
going to be awesome!”
As soon as football practice starts, I am
whispering to my “friend” Maria, “What a total
loser! He’s so dense and desperate that he’ll eat
anything up. But check out hottie over there!” And
so on.
It sickens me. I see that look on their faces, as
if I just told them Santa Claus was not real. And that
malignant facet of me revels in their silent pain.
You might say to me, if you had any sympathy
for my plight at all, “You aren’t evil. Just a little
mean and misguided.” Or if you were truthful,
you’d slander me with another awful label and stay
away from me as if you’re life depended on it.
But I can’t help it. I know so many others
chime in on that same refrain, and I am just one
other chorus member of the pathetically spiteful.
I don’t want to do it, yet I watch as the part of me
in control of my body molds each verbal dagger
and hateful lie. And that is what makes me evil:
my inability to be anything but a bystander to the
corrupt part of my soul.
Roxanne is what she calls herself. Roxanne
is that cruel part of me who never feels anything
but smug delight at other’s misery. She isolates her
targets. She will hurt friends, family. She will dig
her icy talons into the abandoned victim, and will
wallow in the hopelessness and despair. On any day
that she has the slightest conscience, she tells me
that her prey is so miserable that it really is an act
of mercy. I could count those days on one hand if I
had control of my physical body.
Worse still are the nights when I helplessly
observe as my body slinks out into the woods,
locating a trap and extricating some poor creature
unlucky enough to have become ensnared. Oh how
that poor rabbit shivered, trembling like a weak
leaf in the winter wind, its fur, snarled with debris
from its frantic efforts. I had wanted to pet it, and
to my surprise, my hand started stroking its wearied
anxious head. But Roxanne was the one stroking it,
to enhance the brutality of the deed, to add betrayal
to the growing list of grievances for which I am
responsible. I knew what was going to happen.
I shrieked inside my hand and beat against the
mental barriers that kept me contained as Roxanne
maneuvered my body.
With a quick movement, she broke its neck. I
broke its neck, the blood seeping like tears from the
jagged wounds sliced open by the sharp edges of
broken bone.
I wept within my mental chamber, pleading
for forgiveness for not being strong enough to stop
myself from committing the dastardly deed. With
the blood Roxanne drew sigils on my forehead and
arms, chanting words I did not know. A surge of
power pulsed away from me, and I swore I heard a
distant wail, like that of a mother losing her child. A
returning wave of magic nearly swept me away, and
Roxanne drank in the pure innocent power, making
her stronger than ever.
Roxanne’s spirit is a lot older than mine,
though I don’t understand why. She brags often
about how she had a different, more beautiful,
more powerful form, and how she was the greatest
sorceress in a far away land, a queen who
enchanted all around her.
I once questioned her, asking her why
she wasn’t still ruling that land if she was so
magnificent and omnipotent. I felt her power
swamp me, wrapping me with her spider threads,

14. 13
constricting her coils until I knew that she could
easily crush me. She released me afterwards, and
I always had wondered why. But I never inquired
anything of her again.
My spirit hands jerk to a stop, ceasing the
line of writing in my mental journal. There is a
disturbance around my mental chamber. I manifest
my spirit into the likeness of the body in which I am
entrapped. The mini bright stars that are memories
and past thoughts recede from me, and I orient
myself once more.
Bare, like a transparent medical room, the
place has been my good side’s home since I can
remember. No pictures, no personal items. Trapped
in the glass chambers within my mind, I have no
chances of experiencing anything myself. Not
anymore. Not after the time my spirit was almost
consumed…
Anyway, I had once tried to conjure imaginary
pink paint and wash the walls with the vibrancy.
I concentrated hard and brought forth from the
fabric of my imagination posters of boy bands that
I had seen in other girls’ rooms on my out-of-body
excursions. But they weren’t me. Or, rather, I didn’t
know if it was me. I was uneasy with it, feeling like
an imposter stealing parts of other people’s lives to
fill my own. In the end, I wiped everything away
except a cot that could have come out of a horror
movie set in an insane asylum: white stiff sheets,
deflated pillow, thin mattress, iron frame revealing
the truth about my room.
I feel nothing. Not emotionally; I am all
emotion and thought. But without control of my
body, I have no idea what “soft” feels like, or
“sharp”. Instead, I have to watch, like someone
watching a movie, unable to really feel and
experience. The mind is a fickle thing. Often, it is
just a vast dark expanse, like a clear night in the
summer, with thoughts and memories swirling
in compressed forms, waiting to be touched and
visited.
The glass walls of my bubble provide a barrier
from the rest of Roxanne’s territory. Windows,
which, I suppose, represent the eyes show what
is going on outside the mind. However, in times
of anger, the darkness becomes a heavy red fog,
suffocating. In happiness, it seems brighter,
and the windows expand, showing a panoramic
view of a vivid world. That rarely happens with
Roxanne in control and her happiness illuminates
images I never need to see. Right now, though, the
window widens with disbelief and the dark stars of
Roxanne’s memories and thoughts.
I peer out to see a boy, handsome enough,
cooling down after a fencing tournament. The dark
sweep of his hair is plastered to his forehead and
dimples frame his grin. He’s shaking hands good-
naturedly with his defeated opponent, providing a
quip and a laugh, relieving any remaining tension
between the two.
I feel the pressure of Roxanne’s rage pushing
on my bubble, her spirit form, spread out like
a mist, expanding and darkening with negative
emotions.
Looking again at the boy, I wonder why
the sight of him angers her so much. He gulps
down some water while a man, his coach perhaps,
admonishes him, causing the boy to laugh. His
laugh sends metaphorical shivers down my
incorporeal form. His laugh is… nice. It makes you
want to smile and be in on the joke.
“Stop it,” my bad self glares at my good self.
“Don’t enjoy yourself too much. He will die soon
and painfully; you have my word.”
“No, you can’t,” I accidentally let the thought
slip from my good manifestation.
Roxanne, my bad self, the part of me I wished
did not exist, peers condescendingly down her
spiritual manifestation’s nose, hissing, “You have no
idea what his family did to me. Revenge. That is his
fate: to be the fodder for my revenge.”
v v v
I slump helplessly against the cold glass walls
of my bubble. Sometimes I wish that the walls
were solid and opaque; then maybe my inadequacy
wouldn’t hurt so much. I had pleaded with Roxanne.
I watched as she dressed my body in pretty clothes
for her date with Avery.
Avery.

15. 14
A swirling memory star spun towards me, and
I willingly let it envelop me.
He had headed straight to me as soon as the
medal was around his neck and he had stepped
off the platform. I caught a snippet of Roxanne’s
thought, snide with disdain for his sheen of sweat
and rumpled hair. I on the other hand was enthralled
by his last performance, his graceful movements
and half-suppressed grin that was unveiled as he
took off his fencing gear.
“Hey.” He leaned back in the seat next to
mine. He paused, probably expecting some sort of
congratulatory remark or gushing.
Roxanne just gave him a tiny acknowledging
nod.
Run away! I screamed to him from inside
my glass bubble. But I really wanted him to stay. I
wanted him to peel back the layers and find me here
and to break open my glass cage. Something about
him… drew me. Or maybe my long suppressed
defiance was rebelling against Roxanne’s will.
Maybe it was just my romantic imagination, trying
to find myself a prince to break the evil spell.
Hopeless, I know. But there it was. The small star of
my wish flickered into existence beside me.
The web of the memory falls from me,
leaving me in the harsh present. Roxanne is the
one who was going on the date. And I would watch
helplessly as she destroyed him.
“Wish me luck,” Roxanne mocks me
from outside my glass prison. She’s dressed
for seduction, like a cobra with its mesmerizing
headdress and beguiling dance, waiting for the
fatal strike. Her hair, my hair is curled in shiny
raven barrels hung over one shoulder. Her eyes are
sparked with intense anticipation.
A bitter star forms near my head. This is all a
game to her.
I wrap my arms around my legs and curl up,
as if I could hide from the disaster about to unfold. I
try to distance myself.
Pretend that this is a movie. It might as well
be; you’re an observer. You can’t change anything.
She’s there, with him. He’s dressed in a
windbreaker and jeans, a light breeze teasing his
hair, a crooked smile brightening his face.
It hurts, to watch them. To know what will
happen and not be able to do anything about it.
What is it called again? Ah. Dramatic irony. That’s
what this feels like.
He makes a nervous joke, and Roxanne forces
a laugh that I would have effortlessly smiled at. I
see my hand clutching his. No. Not my hand. Hers.
She pulls him into the surrounding trees,
where he has set up a picnic blanket with pepperoni
pizza and cans of Coke.
They sit down and eat. He is speaking, but
Roxanne’s sneering thoughts block out the words.
She is bored! Roxanne can’t wait for this to be over.
I see a malicious black star growing bigger on her
side of the glass. My name is whispered from within
it.
That can’t be good.
Roxanne appears before me, haughty and
smug, a secret smile that promises doom.
“You know what,” she smirks at me. “I can’t
be bothered entertaining him. You do it.”
And with that, I’m suddenly blinking up at
him, at Avery. Blinking. I can feel the skin around
me eyes open and shut. Something is poking my
legs- Grass! Grass from beneath the blanket, the
plastic filmy blanket, which sticks a bit to my skin,
bristles against my legs. Weight. I feel an anchor;
I no longer drift aimlessly. Something invisible
brushed my face. I look around surprised. It is the
wind! The pizza in my hand has texture and a smell.
This is what greasy feels like, I wonderingly tell
myself. The surface is wet and slimy, leaving what I
can only describe as grime on my finger. And these
aromas of what I guess are tomatoes and buttery
crust…
“You look like you’ve never seen pizza
before.” A voice breaks my spellbound fascination.
I blush (is this warmth in my cheeks
embarrassment?) at Avery who had stopped his
anxious rambling to smile at my childlike wonder.
“I’ve seen it before,” my voice, it vibrates
from within me! “Just not held it or tasted it.”
“Really?” Disbelief paints across his features.
“You’ve never had pizza? What bubble have you
been living in?”
He launches into an eloquent description of

16. 15
pizza, which apparently is not all the same. This one
is okay, but the one from another place has fresher
ingredients and tastes like summer. Another pizza
place is only good because of the garlic bread.
I smile and absorb every word, every sound,
every feeling. His lips open and close, and even
though I’ve seen people speak before, it’s like an
enchanting new discovery, and my fingers itch with
the urge to touch him, discover what he feels like
before my time runs out.
Roxanne. She’s planning something, but
right now, all I can do is absorb the world and its
wonders.
I roll onto my back, spreading myself as if I
could embrace the world and breathing in deeply
like I could inhale everything. I laugh, liking the
way my chest rumbles, and I surprise a laugh out of
Avery, who seems enthralled by my curiosity and
drunken freedom.
“The world is so beautiful!” I breathe out to
him. He is enjoying me as I revel in the currents of
air and fresh coolness of each intake of invisible
sustaining life. I understand that he is perplexed, but
he is also glad that I’m happy.
“Yeah,” he smiles, almost shyly, lying down
next to me. “Right now it feels like I can do
anything.”
I listen to his breathing and we take in the
world together, listening to the crickets chirping, the
hum of electricity lighting the nearby shops across
the street from the park.
He points out real stars, which Roxanne
had never really seen since I can’t remember
seeing them like this. I ask questions about the
constellations and he tells me their stories. And
when he doesn’t know, he makes up completely
unbelievable stories which make me giddy with
excitement and giggles.
It’s perfect.
That’s what she wants. A dark thought crosses
Queen’s Wasteland
by Andrew Fish

17. 16
my mind. Roxanne wants me to feel, so that when
she takes it all away… I can’t bear the thought.
Glancing over at his grinning face, with a
dimple adorning one cheek and eyes sparkling, I
understand that Roxanne wants that for him too.
She wants him to feel comfortable and happy, just
so the knife of betrayal would wound deeper.
No. A pang shoots through my chest and for a
second I can’t breathe.
“Are you okay?” Avery is peering down at
me, propped up on an elbow, a line creasing his
forehead.
Unthinkingly, I reach out and caress his face.
He draws in a deep startled breath, but leans
into my hand.
His cheek is soft, like the petals on the flowers
he brought for me. His breath is a warm wind
against my skin.
He leans in closer.
My breathing hitches, but I am drawn towards
him. My eyes flutter shut the moment our mouths
meet, and his lips are the warmest thing I have
felt, pressed against mine. It is even better than the
pizza.
I feel him against me. He is shifting, or maybe
I am shifting, to get closer.
And then nothing. I am back in my glass cage,
and like I had predicted, it’s even emptier than
before. But now, there’s a hollow feeling in my
stomach, and tears leak out, and I shout and scream
for Roxanne to let me out. My anguish darkens
my chamber and the glow from certain stars is
enhanced; those stars, memories, emotions fuel my
anger within my own mind.
I hear her laughing, maybe at me, maybe
at him, or maybe it’s coming from one of the
memories.
The stars are buzzing with energy and the
space in my chamber is heavy with tension. Without
knowing how exactly, I begin harnessing the force
from the stars, and the hollow place in me is filling
up with power. I feel like I’m about to explode.
My intuition tells me that I have to act now;
Roxanne is about to strike.
I explode.
v v v
Avery
Something is wrong with Roxanne. She was
fine, laughing, kissing me one minute. And know
she pulls back with an unrecognizable cold glint
that makes her look like a different person, not the
warm vibrant girl who had never eaten pizza and is
so fascinated with the world.
She reaches behind her and when she brings
her hand forward again, it is clutching a dagger.
I don’t understand. She was perfect-we were
perfect. I felt lighter than I had ever felt. What’s
going on? Why is she acting like this?
I stare uncomprehendingly as she looms
over me, the silver tip of the knife glinting in the
moonlight.
I don’t move as she coils to strike.
I can’t believe it.
This can’t be happening.
THUD.
The dagger is embedded by my head and I see
the girl I was kissing before. She looks scared and is
heaving, like she was fighting with something.
“Run!” She hisses out between her clenched
teeth.
I am thrilled by her. I want to touch her again,
soothe her pain, kiss her, know her.
“Run,” her eyes, wet with tears plead with me.
She throws herself backwards, and I run.
I am ashamed.
I run. v

18. 17
Ghosts of the Past
by Rachel Hargrave

19. 18
City of Shadows
by Dalila Mendygaziyeva

20. 19
Goneby Mallory Evans
You left,
I gaped in silence as the world I knew so well,
turned upside down.
A comforting presence in my life,
snatched before my eyes in a flash.
Why do you not want to be with us anymore?
You changed,
No more smiles,
No more laughter,
No more light.
That bright twinkle replaced with a hollow stare.
You stopped,
Being there for me,
An empty shell greeted me each morning.
I crept on eggshells,
each step carefully calculated.
Why are you allowed to leave,
and we are left with these broken shards?
You missed,
The victories and the losses,
The raging rants of a hormonal teenager,
The moments I needed you most.
I understand,
But that does not make it hurt any less.
Things must be the way they are supposed to be, right?
I’ll cherish each wonderful moment we had,
the games, the hikes, the laughs, and the smiles,
all of it.

21. 20
Booty Loop
by Ryan Gardner
7:00pm, the clock starts, the loudspeaker says “Go”
and we’re off- 24 hours of non-stop cycling starts now.
The pack of 1,200 cyclists enter the loop like a colony of ants escaping their home.
Starting as a large conglomerate, the group begins to thin as we spread out over the loop.
This is year 8 for me, so I know the drill-
Get as many laps in during the night when it’s cooler, and try to finish by lunch the next day.
I aim for my goal of 100+ miles,
A feat I’ve accomplished before.
I hop on my saddle like a jockey on a horse,
But my trusty mare is a Fuji Grand Fondo 2.5 C.
*Click* my cleats are attached to the pedals and I’m ready to go.
With each downward pedal, I propel myself forward.
The wind grazes my face as I accelerate.
I draft behind my riding partner as we cruise down the hill,
And at the bottom we perform the “slingshot maneuver”,
Using my momentum and speed from the draft to move into the first position.
As I round the corner, I see my misty mountain- the Hopedale Ave Hill.
Early on in the event it seems like a breeze but by hour 16 and mile 70,
The hill turns to a mountain- and my legs beg me to stop each time I approach it.
My mind has other plans though.
I’m riding for the cause.
With every pass of the Start/Finish line, I’m 2.97 miles closer to my goal.
Though the loop is the same, each lap is unlike the other.
I complete the laps in different times, thinking about different things, and I see different people.
So the perceived monotony of riding the same loop for 24 hours is disproved.
As the sun sets and the moon comes out, riders switch on their headlights.
The moon shines down like a night light from the heavens guiding the cyclists down the street.
The noises die down as the night goes on.
By midnight, the course plays the songs of crickets chirping, bicycle wheels whistling, and the
occasional cow bell from the dedicated supporter.
But it’s this time that I love the most.
Night riding gives me time to think.
There alone on the saddle, eyes straight ahead, head bobbing up and down, and legs pumping in
a synchronized fashion.
I remember why I ride.
I ride to support those who endured more pain and suffering than riding up Hopedale Ave Hill.
For those who spend their lives bound to a loop.

22. 21
For those who lost the battle to the great disease.
And for those who battle every day for life, love, family, and friends.
Together we can beat cancer,
24 hours at a time.
Windmillby Genna Holtz

23. 22
Trial Woman
by Daniella Mignardi

24. 23
Maskby Somaya Gupta
’ve been wearing this mask for so many years
Painted with a smile, but never tears
It’s yellow like the sun, to hide my blue
For so long no one could see through
But I took off my mask for you
I ripped it off and showed you the truth
You told me you could handle my real skin
But then you ran away in the end
So I’ll never take off my mask again
I can’t feel my heart in my chest
Something in your eyes made me confess
But hiding is the only thing I know
I told myself I’d never let my bones show
But I took off my mask for you
I ripped it off and showed you the truth
You told me you could handle my real skin
But then you ran away in the end
So I’ll never take off my mask again
All I have to show is a broken soul and a heart that never
trusts
My memories that haunt me and fill me with disgust
So I put on my mask and look the other way
Put on my mask and drown in my shame
But I took off my mask for you
I ripped it off and showed you the truth
You told me you could handle my real skin
But then you ran away in the end
So I’ll never take off my mask again

25. 24
Word Tsunamiby Kate Mace
Walking into a typical teenage girl’s room, one
might expect to notice posters of 5 Seconds
of Summer taped precariously to the walls or an
overwhelming amount of pink before any other
details, but even though I could be classified as a
‘typical teenage girl’, books are, without a doubt,
the very first objects to be taken mental note of in
my room. I own so many they are overflowing off
the shelves and pooling onto the floor; you might
even call it an infestation of literature.
A simple fact of life is that you can never own
too many books, and I have chosen to live according
to this statement. Setting a limit to the amount
of books you could read is like setting a limit to
knowledge, which is completely impossible to
anyone logical enough to admit it. I’m personally
extremely picky about which books make the cut
in order to hold a place on my shelves. There are
the obligatory ‘I need to look smart’ books like The
Odyssey and Life of Pi, but crammed in next to
them are stories such as Peter and the Starcatchers
and The Strange Case of Oragami Yoda. I don’t
discriminate when it comes to genre, length, or
color scheme, only on content. For example,
Edward and Bella are not welcome to sit next to
Scout and Jem or Harry, Ron, and Hermione. My
penchant towards quality reading material is quite
an acquired taste, but it took years to develop it.
The inception of my borderline obsession
with literature came at the tender young age of four.
There really wasn’t much for a restless four-year-
old girl to get into in my old New York house as it
was wisely childproofed by an anticipating mother
long ago. Of course it wasn’t boring, but I needed
something I could wreak havoc with. The most
obvious place to start looking for tools to cause
mischief with was the playroom, the room in which
my imagination was most active. As a small child,
the room seemed massive enough to house a family
of elephants quite comfortably, but looking back
on it now, it was more suitable to a single zebra.
The rug lying placidly on the wooden floor was
luxurious enough for me trip over in order for me
to lose a glass slipper, and the closet was a dark,
mysterious cave whenever I needed an invisible
villain or bat companion.
By far the most intriguing architectural
feature of the room were the floor to ceiling
bookshelves covering an entire wall. They had
this quiet, simple elegance about them that no
one but me would associate with Amelia Bedelia
and Danny the Dinosaur. Gazing up at the books,
their pages seemed to huddle together under their
vibrant covers. Their spines stared down at me as
if challenging me to just reach out and snatch one,
two, every last one of them and unveil their secrets.
I couldn’t stand not knowing what lay inside them,
and the sheer magnitude of this task was enticing
enough for a four year old looking for trouble to
tackle without mercy.
The fact that I couldn’t read the majority of
the words was completely irrelevant as I waddled
towards my ambitious afternoon activity. I reached
out my meaty toddler fist towards the shelf and, in
the least delicate way possible, extracted the first
book, a particularly variegated animal encyclopedia,
from its place on the shelf and let it plummet to the
floor. This action was repeated until I was standing
in a shallow puddle of books.
I didn’t mean to be so caustic with them, but
it’s so very hard for a four year old to be gracious
and cautious in times of extreme euphoria. There
was no way that I could have possibly predicted
how satisfying it would be to drag something from
its proper, mundane place, throw it somewhere
new, and know that when you, or your mother, put
it back, you would know everything about what
lay mysteriously inside it. This notion drove me
to continue pulling the books away from their
protective shelves with the sort of reckless abandon
only a small child could maintain for such an
extended period of time.
Each shelf was a mountainous incline to be
conquered. A craggy peak waiting to be dominated.
I could feel my excitement building as I reached
towards the last shelf. Suddenly very tender, I

26. 25
grasped the flimsy paperback between my fingers
and pulled swiftly, completely oblivious to the
tsunami of stories that was about to rain down on
me. As the books dove off the shelves, I suddenly
thought that this was what it must feel like to stand
under a waterfall, to have a seemingly endless
amount of mass pushing down on your shoulders
and head. Even though the rain of books ended just
as soon as it had begun, I was still swimming in a
pool of knowledge. If only I could just absorb the
words through some sort of literary osmosis; that
certainly would have taken up much less of my day.
Placed contentedly amid my new best friends,
I hastily reached for one to begin my extensive
quest. Regardless of whether I was actually reading
the story or simply just enjoying the illustrations for
a split second, the pages flew by as if I were in the
center of a tornado. I was lost in the center of the
Sahara with no chance of escape, and suddenly, the
books were my oasis, and I drank the words in as
though they were the first I had seen in weeks.
“Kate, honey, what have you gotten yourself
into?”
Though my mother was obviously confused as
to why half my body was submerged in the former
contents of her bookshelves, I couldn’t help but
notice that she sounded slightly impressed. Frankly,
I was impressed with myself.
“I’m reading them all.” I stated, very confident
in my abilities to avoid my diurnal nap that was to
be inevitably advised.
“Alright, Kate-Kate, tell me when you’re
finished.” My mother answered in a tone that
suggested that she thought I would eventually get
bored of reading and have nothing better to do than
take a nap.
The pages turned late into the afternoon.
The already skewed four year old sense of time I
had before committing to this task melted away
completely, and the hours drifted away without
consistency. My mind imbibed every last detail
from the books, soaking in the endless tales of
fictional characters. As my mother appeared in the
doorway, the realization that I wouldn’t be able
to read every single last one of the books before
bedtime didn’t sadden me as much as you might
think. The thought only brought me the hope I
needed to continue reading tomorrow, and the next
day, and so on and so forth.
I am still trying to read every single last one
of the books today. The best and worst aspect of
being an avid reader is that authors keep writing
new stories for you to lose yourself in. Just as you
fold the back cover onto a freshly completed story,
there is another bound set of pages waiting for you
to lift into your lap and open with a deep breath.
The kind that only comes with new beginnings.
The abundance of knowledge waiting for me on
those pages drives me to keep reading as much as I
can. No matter how many times life’s dull events
interfere with the action and suspense nestled in
the stories, there will always be room for a bit of
relaxation in this chaotic world of ours and a good
book. v
Fall Sunset
by Jack Balogh

27. 26
In the Flower Boxby Emily Hinshaw
Grandfather clock ticks in the hallway outside by bedroom
Its pendulum swinging
And I remember the time mom broke it off and buried it in Gramma Paula’s flower box
Ever since then, we keep him closed
we keep him locked
we threw away the key to that clock.
From my bedroom across the hall,
I can still smell his cigarettes choking us
Until grandfather broke again and we buried it one last time in Gramma Paula’s flower box
I tiptoe down creaking stairs
frigid against my feet
In this abandoned house
abandoned by all but me
Neighborhood kids peering through overgrown windows
with flashlights saying
“What’s going on in there”
Well, i’d like to know too
Their curiosity breaks down the door with an axe
Cutting my chest open with a scalpel
So they might read me like the
books scattered across the room
I close my eyes and whispers fade to poppy’s whistling an unchained melody
The room to my left holds a future I don’t know that I want anymore
To my right, a world map ripped in half
waiting for me to step through
Take that back exit
That escape route from the abandoned house
abandoned by all but me
Why do those kids want in?
Who wants to see this?
Who wants to see the silent yellow phone on the nightstand?
Who would pick up the chained crucifix from the floor?
the books
the map
the room to my left
Who will wind up my grandfather again?
I think I smell nicotine in the flower box

28. 27
Cat
by Sarika Sajja

29. 28
Old Kentucky
by Caroline Ficca

30. 29
Baobab: An Antebellum
Slave’s Separation from her
Children by Genna Holtz
Cut deep by ripping winds
Baobab stands still
As they tear leaves away
Flung into the air
Violently contorted, ever shriveling in and out on themselves
Cormorant caws out of the marsh
Like black paper torn by cold teeth
Mongoose stands alert
Like fireworks of colored string
Gravity outstretches
His heavy arms
To caress his estranged offspring at the end of their cascade…
His children who used to favor Baobab,
Clinging to their Mother’s limbs
Now broken by biting pricks on the soft undersides of necks
The wind slides between sand
Like beetles caught in a droplet of rain
Baobab moaned in the tundra
Gravity brings them close
Embracing them in the harsh solidarity of dirt underfoot
Laying them down, tucking them into a bed of forgotten comfort
They fall into a deep slumber as he coos
“Nature’s sweet death takes you into its folds now,
My children. Lay to rest your burdens
And dream of April’s warm breath in a quiet Autumn slumber.”
His melodic voice trembles
Into recesses of memories
As the wanderers of Fall chained to loneliness
Accept the time and tide of cold’s inexorable defeat
Once more.

31. 30
Fairy Tale Girlby Audrey Davis
She is a princess, all glowing lines and
radiance. Untamed curls fly in every
direction, not to be quenched by restrictions of any
sort. Her shining face resembles a delicate marble
statue, save for the twinkle glittering in a sparkling
eye. Her lips tilt upwards in a smile, matching that
spark that shines in her eye. Small and compact,
lithe and graceful, she does not walk on water: she
floats above it. Heart of gold, she is precious metal.
She is the diamond that glows with a gentle yet
proud radiance. Her every action is made to please
you, to keep you happy and laughing along with
her. Going out of her way to surprise you delights
her. You might be rewarded with a twinkling of a
starry eye, a babbling brook’s laugh.
Perhaps she resembles not a princess, but the
dragon, fierce and powerful. Fiery words replace
the gentle ones, her eyes glowing red-hot. She sets
off a crackling energy that is both great and terrible
to behold. Her hair rises around her head, gravity
no match for your impending doom. You can barely
recognize her face through the furious mask that
she wears. Her might throws all to their knees. You
yourself cower away from her, fear building in your
throat as that scorching fire rises in hers. You know
the princess, how to make her smile and forget
her pain, yet this horrifying image before you is
painfully unfamiliar. Your fear for your own safety
mingles with your worry for her, with the worry if
she will ever come back to herself.
Not the dragon after all, but now the damsel
in distress. Tears drip down her saddened face,
crushing your heart into thousands of droplets.
She sobs over the witches that hold her captive,
over their cruel and harsh words. They do not see
her dying a little more every day, locked away in
her stone tower. But there! Her prince fights all
odds to reach her, crossing desserts and oceans
and mountains to find her, to find his one true
love. He fights against those witches until they are
vanquished, and it is then that he pulls her into his
comforting arms. Yet even as he holds her close,
you see her scarred heart that will never be whole
again. Each pulse tears at the stitches that hold it
together, and you wonder if there will be a day
when it falls to pieces.
Now she is a queen, crown glimmering on her
shining head. She is proud, she is mighty, she is
great. She is the lovely princess, the awe-inspiring
dragon, the delicate damsel-in-distress. She is all
things that can ever be imagined, both the good and
the bad. Yet never does jealousy once simmer in
your mind: you are her loyal subject, ready to die
for your sovereign. She is your light at the end of
the tunnel, your savior from your darkest days, your
closest companion through all times. She is your
fairy tale girl. v
Consumed by Technology Even Amid Beauty
by Daniella Mignardi

32. 31
The White Palace
by Dalila Mendygaziyeva

33. 32
Incandescentby Mattison Shreero
I See Fireby Emma Haseley
The deep red
And bloody orange
Flames
Lick the dead trees
That have been cut to size.
The deep
Red and bloody
Orange flames lick the
Dead trees that have been
Cut to size
They gnaw away at the
Layers of years
And centuries
And history
That each log has written in its fibers.
Crack. Pop.
Each of its memories
Are whisked away into
Tiny pieces of confetti-like chips
Composed of the remembered sounds
Of the September winds;
The slicing of air by paper leaves,
The cold front breaking into the heart,
The heart of the heat.
Crack. Pop.
The sleeping mother of the ground
Purses her lips and lets out
A long, calm breath of sorrow and chill
That casts up towards the pillows of the sky
And carries the chips through
The night’s air-stream of dreams and quietness.
Crack. Pop.
Higher and higher they climb.
Crack. Pop.
Brighter and brighter they get.
Crack. Pop.
Flying of the breath of soul,
The ashes twirl and tumble;
They shine and glow and resist and—
they die.
The last of their light shuts off
The memories of the better days fall,
Unseen,
Back to the earth that bore it.

34. 33
Where I’m From: Digital Poems
by Hena Nair
by Claire Friou
To watch these Digital Poems,
scan the QR codes above with your mobile device

35. 34
Rays of Sunlight
by Isabella Swic

36. 35
Give and Take
by Charlotte Kohn
If I hold out my hand,
Can I know you will take it?
Like a reflex
Reaching out
To meet mine.
If I hand you my writings
Can I know you will read them?
Out of the goodness
And the support
You have in me
One hundred percent of the time.
If I give you a list
Can I know you will remember?
Everything on it
Like the snapping of fingers
Immediately
Without the need
To continuously remind you
Of everything on it.
Now,
If I give you an inch of my time,
Will you take me a mile?

37. 36
Appeal to Pathosby Jack Wrigley
Can you teach me what it means
to feel something from the heart?
And I want details, please
no cliché shorthand
make me feel like I was there–
or on second thought, don’t.
Because you’ll just lie again.
I’m tired of hearing how much you burn
with passion and emotion, how much you tremble
with love, fear, anger–
you can run through the whole sobbing spectrum
while I struggle to fake a smile.
I’m sick of people puking serotonin
onto a page, saying the tear stains on their scribbles
make them somehow mightier than an armory of rifles
and turn graphite into diamonds
not realizing how it’s all just carbon:
in a few decades it’ll feed the plants
like all the rest of us.
Am I just another phony
if I don’t spend every second
screaming my soul from the rooftops?
Are my friends not my friends
unless I wrap them in my arms,
remind them I love them,
and affirm on Tumblr that they’re beautiful?
So much for Horace’s aurea mediocritas–
even an Epicurean would say you’ve lost your shit,
but I guess we can forget the golden mean
and moderation; now we just up the ante,
up the volume, up the energy
and up the prescription.
So much for negotiation. So much for conversation.
So much laughing and so much crying,
it all blends together
and fills my lungs like cement.
Is this just how we communicate now,
drenching empty cardboard boxes
in rainbow-bright colors
screaming songs of protest
that can’t quite hide the silence?

38. 37
If I hunted for peace in a bottle or little white pills
or something,
slashed lines into my arms
and wrote an anthology of clichés–
if I fulfilled the criteria for your automatic tears
would you start taking me seriously?
Would you think about why?
As I stand up here, why are my standing orders
shock tactics, stun grenades,
kicking down doors and coming in shooting?
Does it look more impressive
than just turning the handle?
City of Lights
by Harrison Bell

39. 38
Skinny Jeans: The 21st Century
Corset by Sophie Madjarova
The challenge of finding and wearing “socially
acceptable clothes” in order to be deemed
beautiful has plagued women since before the
time of the Bubonic plague. Women have been
expected to portray the ideals of their time through
their beauty and aesthetic. Beauty was much
simpler before the world of fashion. A woman was
either beautiful, or she wasn’t. Togas and animal
skins didn’t make a maiden any fairer than she
already was, and women didn’t have to worry
about matching their dresses to their shoes, to their
stockings, to their jewelery. All women really had to
worry about was whether or not they were naturally
pretty.
After the world of fashion was born, this all
changed. Women no longer had to rely solely on
their natural beauty; they could rely on the beauty
of the clothes they wore. They could rely on how
beautiful these clothes made them look, or in some
cases how beautiful they made the clothes look.
The reason clothes increased the beauty of a woman
was that she could now compare herself, and be
compared, to other women wearing the same style
of clothing. New trends became a way of trying
to measure up to the image of the ideal woman of
the time. Because of fashion, men could also more
easily decide which woman was most beautiful, and
the early world of women’s fashion was dominated
by male opinions as they were the designers.
Clearly the better a woman wore the clothing, the
closer she was to being the most beautiful woman.
The world of women’s fashion was limiting
for a long time. Women never wore pants and
were forbidden to do so because when a woman
wore pants, her body was too close to its natural
ungodly state. Besides, they were too practical for
the women of the past who didn’t ever want to
walk anywhere alone or do anything active. What
a woman had to wear was a dress. Any woman in
sixteenth-century Europe did not have an option to
do otherwise. At this time however, simple dresses
on their own were not considered enough to make
a woman beautiful. The sore sight of a woman’s
unshapely body could still be recognized under
her dress, so the corset became widely used and
extremely popular. The purpose of the corset was to
cinch a woman’s waist and make it appear smaller,
so that she would have a more hourglass-like figure.
Any Elizabethan would surely disapprove if they
were to see me walking around in pants, more
specifically skinny jeans, instead of a gown with
a proper corset, but I would argue, in an atrocious
English accent, that they aren’t too different.
The corset was very restrictive both literally
and metaphorically. Literally while wearing a corset
and a hoop skirt, the simple task of walking was
nearly impossible. (Though walking isn’t much
easier after putting on a pair of skinny jeans fresh
out of the drier as bending your knees simply isn’t
an option.) Corsets always made a woman sit up
straight and obedient. Metaphorically, the corset
restricted a woman’s right to be an individual. Due
to the corset’s limitation of a woman’s mobility, she
could not do many things for herself, making her
dependent on others. A corset restricted a woman’s
right to make choices and act on her own free will.
(At least I can go to school and get an education
even if my pants dig into my stomach.) Either way,
touching your toes or picking something up from
the ground while wearing one or the other is worthy
of the rank of a Herculean labor.
Simply getting a pair of skinny jeans on is in
itself a very laborious task. Anyone who has ever
been shopping for skinny jeans and been tricked
by the lady at the store to“try the pants on a size
down because they tend to stretch,” will agree. If
this tragic experience is not familiar, allow me to
explain.
You get into the small changing room, and
you start pulling these extremely tight pants on. You

40. 39
can’t even get them over your ankles, despite your
desperate leg-wiggling, and once you finally do get
your feet through, fear strikes that you may never
be able to take them off. You’ll have to hop around
like a shameful Easter Bunny until the end of time,
but you’ve already been fighting these pants for five
minutes. You can’t give up now, so you keep going.
You pull the pants up inch-by-inch, nay, centimeter-
by-centimeter while you try to literally wiggle your
way into them. You finally manage to get them up
all the way and zip them, and by this point you are
sweating like you’ve just run the mile. But you
aren’t done yet. You must face The Button.
Now you suck in as much as a possible, and
while you are holding your breath you frantically
struggle to get the pants buttoned. Your hands start
to shake because you are pushing and pulling on the
denim with so much force, and your face is bright
red. Just as the corners of the room start going fuzzy
and dark, you manage to get the pants buttoned with
one last push of superhuman strength. When you
turn to look at the mirror, it’s not too bad, except
for the fact that you can only take small breaths as
the pants act like a boa constrictor around you; the
more you struggle, the tighter they get. On top of
all this, don’t even dream of privileges like walking
or, heaven forbid, sitting down. And when the sales
lady goes by and asks you if “everything is okay
in there,” you’ll lie through your teeth. As soon
as you hear the clack of her shoes getting further
away on the gross linoleum floor, you’ll peel off
this second layer of skin. Then you’ll make a break
for it, wondering how so many women could ever
get used to wearing something as torturous as these
pants every day.
Putting on a corset was unimaginably tortuous
and required more brute strength than one woman
could muster on her own. It was a team sport, unlike
pulling up a pair of skinny jeans, and women would
require assistance from others to pull the laces of
their corsets tight. The woman would hold onto
something as her team mates yanked and pulled at
the laces. If she wasn’t strong enough to hold on,
she would surely topple over due to the intense
forces pulling her backwards and sideways while
the corset got tighter and tighter. These laces were
threaded through metal eyelets each one as pesky
and taunting as The Button on a pair of skinny
jeans. As each metal eyelet did its job and made
the corset easier to tighten, breathing became a
privilege for women. A woman would hold her
breath as the corset was tightened, but there was no
opportunity to gasp for air when all was said and
done. There was no euphoric moment of defeating
The Button, or in this case, the metal eyelets. The
woman would just have to live with the corset’s
angry squeeze until her team was ready for the next
stage of tightening. Due to the multiple stages of
tightening, the entire process was dreadfully long. If
putting on skinny jeans is running the mile, putting
on a corset was a full-blown marathon.
Corsets were extremely detrimental to the
health of the women who wore them as they
squeezed women into impossible shapes. This
tightness around the ribcage was bad for a woman’s
lungs, and in some cases corsets were pulled
so tight that ribs were broken and lungs were
punctured. Many internal organs were displaced as
the extremely small, forced waist pushed them into
to a new position. Imagine a two-year-old squeezing
a handful of pink silly putty. It’s kind of like that.
Women would tighten their corsets and “tight lace”
them in hopes of creating the illusion of a smaller
waist, of the smallest waist. It was an achievement
to have a twenty-two inch waistline then, just as it is
an achievement to be a double zero now.
The effect skinny jeans have on health
today has much more to do with mental health.
If girls are not a double zero and are constantly
surrounded by people who are, they begin to feel
out of place. They begin to feel wrong. It can make
them feel disgusting when the topic of jean size
arises in casual conversation. To avoid further
embarrassment, they choose to squeeze themselves
into a smaller size, so when the time comes girls
can say they are a size eight, when they are really
a ten. When they come home and tear off the pants
squeezing the life out of them, they are left with red
lines where the seams of the pants tore into their
skin. And then they stop eating breakfast, so they
can one day be an eight who’s faking a six.
Fashion is criminal in this respect: it expects
all women to look and feel great in the same articles
of clothing, or feel left out if they choose not to

41. 40
wear them. This idea is absurd as all women are
different. We are not molds of the same body with
the same mind and the same personality. Wearing
corsets was expected by society, and that is why
corsets were so truly evil. Nobody thought twice
about what women really wanted to wear. People
simply forced women into their corsets, pulling the
laces tight as if women were dolls to be dressed up
and played with. Women weren’t even allowed to
think that they could wear anything else and still be
beautiful. They had to do what society expected of
them; their society was so accustomed to the use of
corsets, that they were numb and unfeeling to the
women’s pains and insecurities. Modern society is
on its way to numbness like this as we ignore the
problems created by the unrealistic expectations of
society for all women to fit a perfect mold. Modern
women choose to tighten their own corsets as we
force ourselves into clothes like skinny jeans in
hopes of society considering us beautiful.
Whether women wear skinny jeans, corsets, or
any other kind of clothing, we need to accept that
it is okay to not wear something because it makes
us uncomfortable. Not following a trend is okay
if you find it outrageous, bland, or it just doesn’t
match your style. You can even decide not to wear
a certain type of clothing simply because you don’t
feel like it! Fashion can act as an incredible medium
for the way people express themselves, but we must
tread with caution always keeping one thought in
mind: wear something only if you want to wear it,
and it truly makes you feel beautiful. v
Works Cited
“Corset.” Columbia Electronic Encyclopedia, 6th
Edition (2013): 1. History Reference Center.
Web. 5 Jan. 2015.
Fields, Jill. “`Fighting The Corsetless Evil’:
Shaping Corsets And Culture, 1900-1930.”
Journal Of Social History 33.2 (1999): 355.
Religion and Philosophy Collection. Web. 5
Jan. 2015.
Zacharias, Kristen L. “Corset.” The Oxford
Companion to The Body. Ed. Colin Blakemore
and Sheila Jennett. Oxford, United Kingdom:
Oxford University Press, 2001. 180. Gale
Virtual Reference Library. Web. 5 Jan. 2015.
Blissby Juliana Vorhoff

42. 41
Hole Selfby Austin Lancaster
A wall of trees in the hazy summer morning of the August peak,
Greets the hikers for a winding 8 mile journey,
This day will make them weak
Their hearts will grow with no need for a gurney.
Pitter-patter, Pitter-patter,
Feet constantly moving over the landscape,
Discovering why we matter
Being one in nature is our only escape.
Falling towards the green moss,
Hands reaching to embrace the tumble,
Hoping no injury has occurred and escaped without any loss
This bloody stumble.
Hole lip throbbing,
A seemingly rude awakening for me
Take my time to figure out who I am being,
The blood trickle opens the door to heaven or infamy.
Fork in the unknown trail,
Rendered waterless, throats beginning to clinch,
Unbeknownst, the path less travelled is chosen and we fail,
Darkness settles in on the worried travellers as they begin to flinch.
Scurrying over Nature’s traps,
The peak now in view,
Screw the imaginary maps,
Praying to find the group as if on a pew.
I found myself on a dreary day,
Lost on a mountain in Maine,
One needs time to discover their way,
But relations will forever keep me sane.

43. 42
Silenceby Somaya Gupta
Sing me a lullaby
Make me forget everything I feel inside
Congratulations, you’ve won
I’d take a bullet for you, but you’re the one behind the gun
And the silence is slowly killing me
Never thought you’d say you’re better off without me
You had me in the palm of your hand
But now you’re gone and no one understands
You broke my heart and you didn’t care
I still hear everything you told me through the air
And sometimes I pray at night that you’ll come back
Other times I thank God you haven’t done that
But the silence is slowly killing me
Without you here I can hardly breathe
I thought I could do this, but I guess I can’t
‘Cause now you’re gone and no one understands
Oh the silence, silence in my heart
Oh the silence, silence I feel in the dark
The silence is slowly killing me
Without you here I’m just lonely
The silence is slowly killing me
Please, please God, just let me be free
For a performance of this song by Somaya Gupta,
scan the QR code below with your mobile device

44. 43
Breaking Down
by Anna Covington

45. 44
The Bird that Picked its Feathersby Jasmine Leahy
Abird named Harold couldn’t replace a
mother. I knew my dad bought the parrot as
an apology for the divorce. I didn’t want anything
to do with the animal. Occasionally I threw him
some saltine crackers and cleaned out his cage
when I couldn’t bear the smell anymore. The only
time I bothered to make eye contact with him was
when I left for my weekly excursions at midnight,
a backpack and bottle of water slung over my back.
No matter the time of night I left the house, he was
always fully awake, perched silently on his artificial
branch, his shiny black eyes following me like a
painting.
The first buttery rays of sunshine melted into
the dark sky. I took in a deep breath of city air.
Even this high up, I could feel the acidic sting of
pollution in my lungs. Bright cars buzzed below me
like fireflies. My feet swung slowly back and forth,
dangling over the concrete edge of the building’s
roof. My only true refuge: an abandoned high-rise
apartment project on the outskirts of downtown.
The building was only partially finished, a hollow
shell of an idea. Once such a bright prospect, now
crushed by the financial meltdown. Most of the
windows were smashed or missing. Sitting on the
roof almost fooled me into believing the building
was finished and healthy because I couldn’t see the
emptiness and destruction below me. If I closed my
eyes just in time for a gust of wind to hit my face, I
swear I could fly.
I didn’t choose this place because it was
creepy. I chose it because it looked out over a park
I used to play in with my friends when I was little.
Epic games of hide and seek. Until I got lost, of
course. Wanting to prove to the boys in my play
group that a girl could beat all of them in hide and
seek, I wandered far away from the grassy fields
of the park and into what was then a dangerous
construction site, now an empty building. I weaved
through piles of dirt and machinery and found a
hiding spot behind a stack of wood slabs.
I sat there for an hour, pleased with my hiding
abilities. As the day grew darker, however, I started
to wonder if anyone would ever find me. The wind
was picking up, and I didn’t have a jacket. I turned
my shivering body left and right and could not see
a single person. Suddenly, a gray blur emerged
in the distance. It barreled down the road at an
alarming pace. As the blur became clear, I realized
that it was my mom’s minivan. Someone had found
me. Her car slammed to a stop on the curb, my
mom running towards me without bothering to
shut the door. I stood up for the first time in hours,
and we embraced. She told me to never run off to
unfamiliar places again. To never leave. How ironic.
Despite the leftover bitterness I had from the
divorce, gazing out over the park still caused the
corners of my mouth to instinctively curve upwards.
The woman who left me continued to bring a smile
to my face.
“You’re neglecting this bird, Jenny,” my
dad said to me at breakfast one day. “Just look at
that thing.” Harold was awake, but his eyes were
drooping like a sad cartoon. There were three gray
feathers resting at the bottom of his cage.
“I never wanted that thing in the first place.”
My head sagged towards the table and into my left
elbow.
“Can’t you bother to at least look at it?” he
implored me. “That bird is supposed to be your
friend. That’s why I got him. For you. Look at
him!”
No matter how much he begged, I couldn’t
find it in my heart to lift my head up from my arms.
We sat like this for some time: my face buried
in the crook of my elbow, my dad whipping his
head between me and Harold. The silence almost
put me to sleep until I heard my dad shout:
“Look at him!”
I said in a muffled voice, “Dad, stop trying to
get me to pay attention to Harold. I don’t–”
“No, look at him! He’s pulling out his
feathers!”
I lifted my head up at this. Harold was pulling

46. 45
clumps of feathers off of his body and spitting them
onto the floor of his cage. His beak fiercely picked
at his flesh, dots of blood forming where he pecked
the most. The pile of three feathers I saw earlier at
the bottom of his cage had tripled in size.
“He’s truly something, isn’t he?” I
deadpanned.
“He’s injuring himself and that’s really all you
have to say?” my dad said incredulously, moving
his eyes away from the bird to me.
“How do you want me to react?” I retaliated,
standing up from my seat at the breakfast table.
“That I care about what happens to him?”
“I’d like to think you would!” my dad replied.
My eyes squinted until they almost looked like
I was challenging him. “You really wanna know
why I don’t care about that bird?” I said.
“Yeah. What’s the twisted logic behind feeling
so indifferent to an animal’s suffering?” he dared
me.
“If we both care about Harold, then that stupid
bird has one more person who cares about him in
his life than I do in mine.”
This comment took the contentious edge off
of my father’s voice, “If that’s how you feel, then
I suggest you leave the room while I try to care for
another living thing.”
Without a reply, I grabbed my backpack at the
bottom of the stairs and walked out the door.
I rarely climbed the apartment during the day, but
today I needed to go somewhere where no one
could talk to me. I parked my car in front of the
building and began to scale its rusty rungs. Right
now my dad was probably waving saltine crackers
in front of Harold who I’m sure was picked clean
by now, a sad sack of flesh. I pressed the heels of
my hands into my eyes. Out of the side of my vision
I saw a brown clump nestled into the corner of the
concrete roof. I got up from my spot and walked
over to it. As I got closer, I realized it was an empty
bird’s nest. I picked out one of the pine needles
embedded in it, held it up to the sun, and waited for
the nest’s owner to fly back. Sliding the needle back
into place, I speculated what type of bird lived here
and what it was doing away from its home. Getting
food? Gathering more supplies to build its nest? I
sat beside the pile of brown material for over thirty
minutes. It soon became obvious no creature was
going to return to it. Maybe the bird was hit by a
car. Maybe it ran into a window. Maybe another
bird killed it. Or maybe the bird knew it had to
relocate. Leave this roof. Maybe I should to. Leave
this roof. Return to my bird. I thought of Harold
furiously picking at himself, blood everywhere, his
awful moaning…
I stood up and made my way back down the
building. I hoped my dad still had some saltine
crackers left. v
For more work by Jasmine Leahy,
scan the QR code below with your mobile device

47. 46
Tranquilo
by Emily Padgett

48. 47
Let Us Rest
by Kiera Dowell
At night the hawk lies down to rest, sleeping silently in his nest
And next morn over when sun arise, remain closéd do the hawks eyes
Until 9:30 when not a single peep, is heard from the hawk, still fast asleep
For a simple nap is not enough, as the day that follows will be tough
Filled with flying, scrounging, and hunting too, attempting to discover the world anew
His beady eyes sharp from a restful night, no predator dare take a bite
Clear vision, of course, an essential part, of making decisions deemed to be smart
A clear mind as well is necessary, for the world can be quite scary
But when he’s had a good nights rest, he surely will perform his best
But if this hawk were deprived of zzz’s, eyelids prickling as though stung by bees
Shaking his head to clear the haze, for the brain cannot function through a foggy glaze
His reaction time not quite as fast, into the darkness he soon could be cast
For to a larger animal charged complete, the hawk would provide some tasty meat
The hawk’s lack of rest would soon produce, a corpse dangling from a woven noose
As he fades to darkness down that treacherous slope, he avidly wishes he had not awoke
And down to hell he doth proceed, because he was short the sleep he need
Earlier the student, woken by a clock, who rise before doth crow the cock
Interrupted from his slumber, glaring at that fateful number
For 6:45 the image reads, and the awoken scholar’s ear still bleeds
For a terrible sound emits, awakening those most near in fits
Blaring out from within, the devil that doth cause all sin
For without this fiend who thinks it best, to wake him from his stunted rest
He would be able to perform, with perfect scores and now forlorn,
He doth try to maintain grades good enough, to meet the standards set so rough
And when his eyes close once more at night, he thinks about his sorry plight
Late to bed, and early to rise is sadly the motto for his poor eyes
The student and the hawk do tell, a story valid no matter where you dwell
For sleep and health cares should precede, all other factors you supposedly need
A lesson they tell, which all should know, about just how to run your show
Pleasing others has no worth, if misery to yourself it birth
So rest young child and close your eyes, to the never-ending skies
And steal that little bit of juice, to give your life a lively boost
Worth it is that little nap, to avoid the energy zap

49. 48
Sumatra Tiger
by Andrew McKinney
Sulking into still darkness
Only pausing to dance eloquently around the soft light that basks down
Salting the pavement, rough
Paws digging, yearning to connect with the sound that is silence
Silk encases the graceful curves that develop into a stunning bone crushing hunter
A sandy growl encompasses the once hollow evening
Minding his own yet instilling fear into innocent star gazers
He runs across longing to connect with the gentle gaze of the moon that illuminates his soul
Waning, wanting to welcome the amber morning
The fear subsides leaving the bleak night as a sheer memory
A sandy growl encompasses the once hollow evening
Untitled
by Juliana Vorhoff

50. 49
Las Tres Palmas
by Isabella Swic

51. 50
What I Found Belowby Mattison Shreero
Lying on the bottom
I look up to discover what must be seen
through the eyes of those below
Poignant sunlight dances across,
casting ripples
that leap and dip in the beams
Drops of the sun turn to downfall
The instant dissipates,
replaced by gentle shards
The surface becomes fractured
(or was it always like that?)
It is pelted by the never-ending rain
The water gives way to catch every drop in its grasp
But in the end it was I who broke the moment
Forced to resurface
How fickle this need for air
Recycled City
by Matigan Simpson

52. 51
Maybe Not Just a Goat
by Paige Davis
Almost all art museums seemed the same
at the time. Each one seemed to have the
speed-walking crowds that gathered around the
famous paintings by famous painters, and every
crowd was filled with an endless chain of people,
all pushing each other to try to get closer to sloping
velvet ropes that marked the forbidden line no
one could cross. These sacred ropes were always
manned by museum workers who, like medieval
soldiers guarding a moat, bellowed at those who
bent over to peer closer at the work.
The MoMA in New York City did not seem
much different to me at age twelve, except for
the fact that it spanned seven whole stories. This
vastness allowed for hordes of people, all clad in
identical, black, puffy coats, to squish themselves
into the already crowded museum, creating a
claustrophobic warmth in all the rooms.
I had only ever been to art museums in Charlotte,
where the troll like museum workers demanded
quiet by just one deathly blink and a look at
whichever adult was accompanying me. These
trolls, who usually had only the smallest of crowds
to control, were able to keep the noise so low that
their hoarse reminders, directed to those who were
leaning over the velvet ropes, were the only sounds
to bounce off the walls. The museums in Charlotte
also seemed to showcase only artists that never had
any sort of official training. While my mom and the
wrinkled trolls that surrounded us thought this was
a reason for high praise, I would skeptically stand
away from the velvet rope, wondering what the
brownish blob with the pieces of glued aluminum
foil was. Only upon the reading the translucent
sign did I understand that it was a dog. Since I had
only ever seen this untrained art in Charlotte, I
had associated this type of picture with the small
Charlotte museums, and I hoped and thought that
MoMA would hold better.
But the MoMA was chaotic, with people
speaking a million different languages while
shouting at their families to come look at some
painting by Matisse that was simply the best thing
they had ever seen. The museum workers, who
were more like feeble doughnut-eating policemen,
could only manage to guard the velvet ropes. “Extra
security” glass had to be placed over the really
important paintings, which ultimately created a
disappointing glare.
Along with the MoMA workers, robot-like
crowds “oohed” in unison while lifting their
cameras or iPhones to snap a quick picture and
turn to the next piece of art. This process continued
around the room as if each person was on a
conveyer belt that only jammed up in front of the
famous works, so that the people could push each
other to the side and praise the work loudly. These
“oohs” suffocated each room even when the only
art being praised was a bunch of roped-off window
blinds that were scattered about in the corner.
When I arrived at the outside sculpture garden
though, the sound of water trickling though the fake
stream and nearby honking of car horns traveled
around this secret little square.
Empty, black metal chairs crisscrossed along
the bridges, and spindly, gray trees blocked the road
from view. The whole area was completely empty
except for the portly, slumped over museum worker
who was struggling to put another coat on top of his
already thick black official MoMA jacket. Thinking
I knew everything about art museums, I came to
the conclusion that this little garden must be quite
unimportant as not a single crowd was pushing to
see any of these statues, and none of the statues
were roped off to tell me that it was forbidden to
peer closely at them.
In the middle of the garden, a scraggly goat
statue cowered beneath large iron fixtures that
curled up into the sky. These iron statues, which
appeared to be growing out of the ground, curved,
swayed, and framed the city above us while the
goat, with its lumpy belly, chipped away finish, and
clearly defined ribs, looked weak in comparison.
With a running start, I sprawled myself over the

53. 52
goat’s narrow back and grasped its rough horns to
heave myself up. Looking toward the museum’s
glass wall, I smiled proudly at the crowds of people
inside who were paying no attention to me as I sat
on top of this unhealthy looking metal goat.
“Hey kid, get off that!” the museum worker, who I
had thought to be too intent on not having enough
jackets to notice me, shouted as I stumbled off
the statue. This man, whose jacket was still only
half on, crossed the stone pathway with his arms
chugging back and forth. He, who was previously
slumped over himself, now stood exactly upright,
his anger uncurling towards the sky like the statues
that surrounded us.
He was at the goat faster than I expected,
stopping suddenly at the edge of the platform
with his eyebrows furrowed in anger. I stepped
sheepishly off the platform, leaning backwards
to further myself from this scraggly animal while
trying to arrange my face to look like I was
completely and utterly innocent and naïve. The
fuming man above me just leaned in closer over the
goat, managing to not touch it at all.
“Well…um…sorry,” I stuttered out as I turned
my face slightly away from the employee, hoping
he would let me leave with out further explanation.
“What did you think you were you doing?” he
hissed while his outstretched arm sliced the air and
pointed directly at me. His boulder shaped head was
starting to turn red as he leaned farther across the
goat.
His foggy white breath was now hitting
my face, and when I looked up to give a nervous
laugh in apology, his eyes, which were staring
uncomfortably into mine, demanded an explanation.
I glanced back down at the goat, hoping that its
scrawny appearance would give an answer to the
waiting museum worker above me.
This goat was not even art. It had these long,
metal cylinders that were roughly fused on to the
goat to resemble two shoulder plates. The goat’s
back, which was the only smooth surface other than
the disgusting, leg length udders, came together in
an unnatural looking triangle. The crooked legs and
thin, frail neck were not even fully attached. Instead
they jutted out from the body as if they had been
thrown on and then fused with a single match.
The fuming museum worker clearly did not
understand this though and was waiting for me to
explain myself. This man, who I had originally
thought as unable to guard the emptiest part of the
museum, was not going to give me any help.
The silence, accompanied only by the light
flow of the stream, continued for what felt like
months and I, wishing that the never-ending crowds
that were huddled in the museum would appear
around us, searched for an explanation in the scarce
trees, the lonely metal chairs, and the other, more
impressive, statues.
Above me, the museum worker cleared
his throat, waiting for me to answer. I stepped
cautiously back, watching as my feet revealed the
bronze plate that they had secretly covered before.
I closed my eyes and felt myself deflate and try to
become smaller as there was not much I could say
about sitting on a Picasso, no matter how ugly it
was. v

54. 53
Colored Camo
by Emma Haseley

55. 54
On the Fence
by Harrison Bell

56. 55
Can You Buy Happiness?
by Daniella Mignardi
Money, he was told
Wrong
Head implanted with deceit
A woman who should be his role model
The one feeding him these lies
Money is everything
Manipulative
A dark cloud strikes from above
Cold fills the air
Short term bliss
Her heart transformed
Degraded morals
Thin, green pieces of paper
Millions
Still unsatisfied
Manipulated by the dollar amount
She began to stray
Far away from home
into other men’s arms
Irresponsible behavior
Now abandoned by his mother
Strong state of pain
Alone
Fantasy world
She lives in
3 a.m.
He waits up
Nights never returning
He waits up
Bringing strangers home
He waits up
Intoxicated
He still waits up
Late nights
For her
Slowly being destroyed by these actions
Inside
Torn up
A million tiny pieces
Crushed on the ground like a stepped on Daisy
Lack of principles
Desire for wealth
Beaten down
Bruised
A broken glass bottle
Shattered
In the shards of glass he sees a reflection
Broken, damaged, gushing, red, throbbing
heart
In the distance a faint noise is heard
The sound of a child crying
A blue tear runs down the side of his cheek
The truth speaks
Money is the root to self destruction

57. 56
The Fall of the Mountain (excerpt)
by Jack Wrigley
“Morisset! A light, ho!” I looked over my
shoulder, resting a hand on the oaken door of
the Hotel de Ville.
A thin, humid rain was trickling from the night
sky, and dirty clouds stood thick over the moon’s
bright face. Barras’ troops watched the streets,
muskets on their shoulders, droplets of water
glistening on their fixed bayonets. In a gutter across
the road, a drunken sansculotte in a filthy waistcoat
and a gray-clad harlot slouched together, holding
hands and mumbling patriotic songs.
“What a mockery they’ve made, eh? Liberty,
equality, brotherhood,” Lieutenant Almont beside
me said bitterly. He gestured at the couple lying
in the gutter. “It is Gaillard. He and his friends
dragged my sister to the guillotine not two weeks
hence.” Taking a musket from a corporal, he pressed
the burnished stock to his shoulder and cocked the
hammer. “Watch, I shall put an end to the dog.”
I reached out and grabbed his uniform sleeve.
“Hold. This business is bloody enough already.”
“And his kind has made it thus.” He grimaced
as he sighted down the barrel. “All these years of
revolution, what a waste they have been–”
“Not a waste, Almont.” I gripped his arm more
tightly. “In spite of all their sins, do not forget: we
had a vision for France. And we are better than
murder.”
“My sister did nothing but read de Gouge. Is it
so wrong, for a woman to want the rights of a man?
It is for de Gouge, the women, the peasants, the
Third Estate – all those oppressed by bread taxes,
foreign debt, aristocratic swine – that we began
this whole business. And now we behead them?”
He sighed, then lowered the hammer and returned
the gun to its owner. Water dripped from his damp
hat and epaulettes as he leaned against the Hotel
de Ville’s facade. “You are not wrong, Capitaine
Candelier.” He counted pedantically on his fingers.
“We deposed Capet, that bloated pig, and instituted
a parliament; we ended the tyranny of feudalism
and the crime of aristocratic privilege; we abolished
the shame of slavery.”
“Look what we have done for the army,” I
offered encouragingly. “Citizen soldiers, Almont.
They love La France. They will die for her. The
Prussian melted before their volleys when we took
the field together in Ninety-two.”
A reluctant smile pulled at his stubbly cheeks.
“You speak the truth. But…” It slowly faded as his
pensive expression returned. “Would that we had
looked to the Americans and ended this revolution
in Ninety-one. That was a fine government – an
assembly made our laws, most men of good repute
had a say, the king’s veto could be overruled.
But no: after the storming of the Bastille and the
women’s march on Versailles, we could not forget
the sight of royalist heads on pikes. As soon as
Capet ran for Austria, we wanted to see it again.”
I laughed. “Almont, have you turned royalist?”
“Not royalist, Capitaine, merely realist.” He
smiled again, thinly.
“Well, I cannot fault that: it is in the spirit of
the Enlightenment.”
We laughed together, leaning against the door.
I chuckled and wiped rainwater from my eyes. “Oh,
where is Morisset?”
“I am not certain,” Almont said. Again, his
face became melancholy as the laughter left it, and
he heaved another sigh. “‘Fore God, I have waited
long for this day. Would that my sister were here to
see it.”
“So have we all. The Jacobins and their
madness have cost France more than her share.
They have blasphemed God and slaughtered
man. Your sister, I am sure, resides now with the
saints.” I glanced towards the dark street, where
Gaillard and his companion still sat sprawled. As
I watched, he slumped to one side and, bowing his
head, vomited richly into the gutter. She stroked
his matted brown hair with the idle altruism of the
drunk.
“Where is Morisset, that villain?” I asked
again.

58. 57
“I do not know,” said Almont.
“‘Fore God, full three minutes have passed.
A light! A light!” Rapping on the door with my
knuckles, I placed my other hand on the butt of one
pistol. “Morisset, a light, I say!”
“My apologies, Capitaine!” The boots of
armed men clattered on wet cobblestones as Sous-
lieutenant Morisset hurried over, holding a lantern.
Four soldiers with muskets followed close behind
him, marching in quick steady formation.
Out of breath, he climbed the five marble
steps up to the door and stopped at the threshold
to salute. His detachment stood at attention on the
cobblestones, staring ahead with their weapons held
in front of him.
I nodded and tapped the door. “Hold your light
to the hinges.”
He raised his lantern high, casting a flickering
gleam over the rain-beaded metal. “Nearly rusted
through, Capitaine.”
“As I expected,” said Almont, tugging again
on the secured doorknob with both hands. A fresh,
excited gleam lit up his eyes. “Robespierre and his
pack of savages have made their final error.”
“Shall we break it down?” asked Morisset.
I nodded, and instructed one of the soldiers in
his detachment, “Assemble the company.” v
Into the Sunset
by Jack Balogh

59. 58
Petrichorby Mattison Shreero
The night cold attracts
It is a magnetic force that keeps me under its grasp
Next to nothing separates me from the sea
Tendrils appear
Are they that of fire or of fear?
The closeness presses closer
Silence
It is done
Noises of my distant past are those of my future
but when will a future come?
Now is here but now has passed
Is there a present at all?
Evermore I wait,
wait for the present moment
Pensive notions perpetually grasp,
yet my seemingly melancholy tone breaks momentarily
to allow the petrichor into my senses
My descent begins
I fall,
fall in love with the night
Its darkness brings light just for me
because I am an opposite
My mind reverses that which the “normals” perceive
Light is dark and dark is night
and night is the one I love
The stars are but bullet holes that allow the remaining
darkness
in the existing realm to make a final exit
I watch them as they go

60. 59
iSee
by Isabella Swic

61. 60
Plato’s Caveby Inessa Chandra
“Draw this.”
Twirling the chalky stick of charcoal with my
fingers, I study the image projected in the dimly
lit room. The image is a blur, hazy contours and
brushstrokes. This is Philosophy in Art class?
Philosophy in Art is an elective at the North
Carolina Governor’s School where I am a Natural
Science student. I had arrived in the classroom,
cheerily imagining my hand making beauty out of
a simple pencil and paper. However, nervousness
now bounds through my veins as I realize that many
of these kids around me came here for art; they are
probably much better than amateur me with few art
classes tucked under my belt. I have an itch to just
leave now, but I’m intrigued by the powdery feel of
charcoal on the tips of my fingers and the lopsided
circular blob framed by the light of the projector.
The elective is supposed to reflect Plato’s cave
allegory about revealing the truth behind the
shadow. However, I soon forget all about good old
Plato as my digits blacken and I lose my conscious
self to the art. Curve here. Darken there. Are those
wisps extending from the circle?
Little by little, the teacher focuses the image.
“It’s a person!”
“That’s the nose!”
I hear exclamations of discovery around me. But
in my head I challenge, “Is it a nose? Is it a face?
That girl next to me glances at the image and thinks
she’s discovered all of its mysteries. But does she
notice how a curl of ebony just barely brushes the
darkness of the innermost curve? That boy over
there who smugly claims that he’s figured it out-
does he appreciate the slow deepening of shadow as
it nestles against that arch? Is their knowledge, my
knowledge, truly fact or is it mere assumption?” I
startle as understanding dawns on me. “No. These
are contours and shades- I know nothing more. I
know nothing.”
At this epiphany I glance up to see if anyone else
came to this thought, but all I see are heads bent
over paper, ignoring the picture they were supposed
to be referencing. I hastily chide myself, focusing
my wayward attention onto my own work.
The voices of art teachers past echo in my head as I
turn back to my charred canvas. They scold, “Draw
what you see, not what you think you see.”
When I finish, I am pleased with my opus, which
decently resembles the image that the only
brightness in the room illuminates. It seems to be
a portrait that had been turned on its side. Blinking
around the room as someone suddenly flips the
lights on, I proudly realize that my efforts are the
closest to the original; my peers’ labors are distorted
by what they think mouths, eyes, and chins should
look like.
Murmurs of unhappiness and disappointment
whisper through the room among the laughs and
self-ridicule. Then-
“Wow! Your guy looks really similar to the
original!”
But it isn’t a guy. I did not draw a man. I drew what
was actually there without labeling the work and
making assumptions.
The teacher gives voice to my thoughts. “That isn’t
a man. It’s something that looks like a man.”
Plato’s allegory became clear.
Challenge foregone conclusions. Instead, focus on
the actual lines, curves, tints, and hues and look

62. 61
beyond the shadow of supposition that obscures
true form. This is necessary to gain true insight, for
knowledge turns out to be little more than a quick
glimpse of some far away bird. Enlightenment is the
understanding that what is seen or known may not
be real. It’s the realization that knowledge cannot be
taken for granted; it must be perpetually reanalyzed
and observed with uncluttered eyes and minds.
It’s the awakening of senses that allows one to see
past preconceived notions and enjoy the intricate
contours and colors of life. v
Shed
by Sarika Sajja

63. 62
Reflections on a Tombstoneby Trey Powell
I went to the place, I had a guide
But there was none, not this time
I was on my own this time
I walked through the trees,
Took in the intoxicating odors
Of changing seasons.
The clearing, tinged with the last
precious light of day,
was being chased away by the shadows of uncertainty
The outlines of the tombstones, the certainty of the day
Melted into the mystery of the evening.
Nature spoke and I listened
As I approached my lonely hill.
Leaves whispered and
Streams spoke and Stones remained stoic
The winds howled through the cemetery and
Passed through the tombstone carrying the lamentations
thought to be forgotten long ago.
As I sat there on top of the lonely hill,
The tears stream down my face to join the streams
My sobs are lost in howls of the winds.
I was lost but nature .
It has seen the grief of so many before me.
Loves lost, Children taken,
Many flames extinguished too soon.
But upon that hill and in that darkness
I found the hope and passion of lives well-lived
The beauty of death is that I was given an opportunity
to live, to love, to experience.
The stoic tombstones taught me to appreciate
an ending as necessary to the beauty of a beginning.

64. 63
Wintry Castle
by Rachel Hargrave

65. 64
The Anatomy of the Sea
by Mattison Shreero

66. 65
Awake
by Hunter Willis
My love you may be falling but it looks to me like our flying away
My love you may be hurting I know you’re thinking what’s the point in all this
I know you are strong enough to make up your own lines
But your wrists and hands need not take the blame of messing up this time
I see something you can’t.
The whole worlds in your corner you just don’t know it yet
Flowers wilt and clouds may gray but lilies still bloom on the darkest of days.
Won’t you stay awake for me?
So low you think you’ve gone down past the point of no return.
I swear it’s never over I’ll throw a rope down to pull you back to fresh air
I think you might underestimate yourself so try to heal.
But your wrists and hands should not take take the pain of what your heart can’t
feel
I tried to dull your sword and take your crown of thorns you made for yourself
Be known for what you’ve done not a loaded gun.
You mean so much to me.
I can see everything you are.
Everyone is on your side I just hope you just can’t see that far.
All the laughs all this life has meant.
You’re always the light the darker I get.
Won’t you stay you for me?
Won’t you stay you for me?

67. 66
The Point of No Return
by Thea Boatwright
Shhh!
We slip out the side door. The back gate
creaks as I squeeze past the ocotillo and shut the
latch. Gravel beneath our sneakers and dovesong
break the silence as we walk down the driveway.
Cool air blows through my arms and legs and lungs
and stomach.
We run. The road rises in front of us and we run
faster, onward, upward. The road stops.
This is where the ascent begins. At first we are
wary; we duck behind the nearest boulder or shrub
whenever a car grumbles by. We don’t know whose
land this is. But we climb on, and they look smaller,
and the mountain looks bigger. We scramble up to
the first rock outcropping. My brother calls it the
Outpost. All else fades from my mind.
This is no man’s land.
Gravel scatters as I reach the top. Without a pause
we move on. We know this first peak well.
Looking over the valley of the sun, the dirt and
smog seem a little less opaque today, and it gives us
energy. We turn toward the rest of the ridge. We’ve
never traversed the whole.
Why not?
We start through the next pass. The first obstacle
comes as a nearly vertical cliff face.
Take the high road whenever possible.
We start upward. My trusty Chuck Taylors won’t
fail me this time. Craning for fingerholds, toeholds,
hoping no scorpions or rattlers are out this early in
the year, I avoid gravelly patches and pull myself
over the top. Looking down the path I just climbed,
I realize that we can’t go back down that.
The point of no return.
On we go. The next challenge is a narrow ridge,
drop-offs on either side, nothing to hold on to.
Focus.
A rock slips under my foot and slides down into the
brush with a cascade of pebbles.
Freeze. Frightened eye-contact. Don’t think, just go.
And we’re over the ridge. Several peaks pass under
our calloused hands and feet before the next test.
Where are we?
We can see roads, but it’s hard to see which they
are from this far away. In the mountains the only
directions are up or down. We take a final look over
the whole valley. Now the air has turned shimmery
with heat waves. Dodging cacti with various rates of
success, we race down the mountain. No cell phone
reception. I shout back over my shoulder.
Hey, don’t fall, ‘cause I can’t carry you out of here!
Almost off the mountain, we stop and stake out the
mansions’ backyards, looking for people and dogs.
Waiting until the road is clear of bikers, we slip
through the nearest empty one, onto the road. Now
the dangers are cars, not cliffs, but the heat and the
thirst still hound us. We take some bitter oranges
from a convenient tree, dropping peels in a little
trail behind us, through the network of quiet back
streets and into the rush of traffic.
Now we’re back in civilization.
Clear water is unbelievably delicious. v

68. 67
El Mar
by Caroline Ficca

69. 68
La Piedra Amarilla
by Ann Chandler Tune

70. 69
On the Edge
by Adam Bear
Just like the white winged dove
sang a song of life,
The trees whisper of a forgotten place,
A city by the sea...
Now the heart of darkness
where Death keeps his throne.
And the days go by
like dust in the wind,
In the world that was never mine
to know.
I begin again
with the last words I said to my friends,
“Nothing else matters.”
I was no more.
My world had ended then.
I must’ve seemed broken
hearted.
Something within me was taken
in that moment they first laid eyes on me
All alone on the edge of insanity
I went today
to a place I will never go again.
The music there,
it was hauntingly familiar.
When I saw what they were doing,
what I try to do to save myself,
I fled and didn’t stop running.
Not until the wolves cried to me,
“Don’t go!”
With the words of a poet.
And a voice from a choir.
And a final
chilling remark.
They were the only ones,
They saw me run,
They knew where I had been.
And the earth never expects it when it rains.
But the sea changes colors,
and the blood in my veins stays the same.
Not in all my time alone
did I learn.
Never have I changed.
And with the uneven flow
of age,
I went forth with an angel,
On the brink of seventeen.
And then suddenly,
there was no one left standing
in the hall.
In a flood of tears,
You faded into old photographs,
and no one really ever heard
the fall at all
When I went searching for an answer
through the night and into the day.
Just to hear the call
of a night bird crying solemn words.
The cause of my downfall.
I hear you in the morning.
And I hear you at nightfall.
But sometimes to be near you,
Is to be unable to hear you,
My love.

71. 70
Blue Ribbon Fading Hysterically
by Tatiana Krzesicki
There’s a blue ribbon on the Wall
That reeks of cheap craft store frames,
Old memories,
And it smiles.
See, because of this,
She smiles too
There’s a blue ribbon on the Wall
That radiates an assured superiority
And “with merit” it stands proud
Memories are dusted off its surface
From time to time
And its image reflects
As a mirror
The inner corridor
Of the viewer’s eye
Until pictures fashioned from these memories
Enshrine their radiant forms
On high
Only to settle back down again
From dust
To dust they shall return
There’s a blue ribbon
That yesterday She clawed
Her fingers tearing at its silhouette
So She would no longer have to see its
Tattered and blue exterior
Its contour now laughing at Her
Sallow face, and sinking features
And with a pile of papers
She shoves this latest offender
Into a drawer
Along with all those merits
Varied pennants of Her grace:
All those that she
Cannot remember:
Forgetting
What she did them for

72. 71
Abandoned
by Rachel Hargrave

73. 72
Rose Garden
by Genna Holtz

74. 73
Self-Taught Lessons
by Inessa Chandra
Nothing. I sit here, trying to conjure a lesson I
taught myself this year. Perseverance? Life is
worth living? Pre-Calculus? Origami? No. No.
No. Nothing. Maybe I would have written about
how I taught myself any of these things once upon
a time, but now it doesn’t feel right. I’ve always
had something or someone to teach me. When I
didn’t understand my teacher, I had a textbook and
parents. When I wanted to learn something like
origami, Google taught me.
Likewise, I didn’t actively teach myself to
persevere. Life tossed me into a new city and lonely
school. My mom kept pestering me to keep going,
to give this new place another chance. To give
life another chance. I wanted to die. But I didn’t
teach myself to live, not at first; I was simply too
cowardly to die. Then, my friend confessed her
attempted suicide. We sat there, staring at each other
with teary eyes. That was when I recognized the
void in my life if she had succeeded. That was when
I recognized the void in her life if I had succeeded.
We needed each other, and we had unknowingly
gone along with life, never realizing how close we
had come to losing something so precious. I had
walked so many times to my new classes, forlorn
walks isolated in an invisible bubble. But how many
times did she also feel alone? There we were, when
all along we always had each other and all those
other people we selfishly forgot when convenient
for our moods. This is what taught me that I should
live.
My grandpa’s death taught me to live. When
I felt the sharp pain in my heart, the implosion of
my chest, I knew I couldn’t do that to my mom,
dad, sisters, and friends. I couldn’t leave them with
holes in their chest and wishes in their eyes. Not
yet. When I went to his funeral and saw how many
lives he touched, I knew that I hadn’t done nearly
enough. There were so many more people to meet
and touch. I couldn’t leave them. Not yet. He taught
me to live. When we went over Aeneas’s words,
“Dabit deus his quoque finem,” in Latin class,
“God will give an end to these things also,” they
rang true; I just had to “Durate,” endure. All of this
taught me perseverance.
I didn’t teach myself anything. I don’t think
I’ve ever really taught myself anything, and I don’t
know if it’s even possible. I am taught by the world,
the people around me, Google and Wikipedia, the
books I read and the songs I sing. The situations in
which I find myself impress lessons on me, and I
can choose to accept or deny them. I cannot give
myself credit for teaching myself a lesson. I can,
however, give myself credit for learning one. You
cannot always control what you are taught, but you
can control what you learn. v

75. 74
Less Than It’s Worth
by Riley SingerI am sick
of headlights and fast-food signs
blaring their toxic triumph
and branding my veins
Of losing myself
in sidewalk cracks
every summer,
with a thorn in my cheek
from picking roses
Of counting change
for the mannequin malls
desperate to paint myself using any leisure
with a price tag,
and the receipt dangling from my pocket
has never looked so smug
Of choosing sides
and cutting out my tongue
whenever my hand slips
and stains the ground
Of friends with charm-bracelet hearts
teasing my expectations
with no strings attached
for a night of worn-out shoes and
a temporary canvas
of rapture.
They are just as deadly as a cigarette
slow to conquer,
but nobody warns you
about the poisons that
you do not inject
you do not inhale
you do not swallow
We trade our souls for saviors
that sell us out
for less than we’re worth.

76. 75
Desolation
by Harrison Bell

77. 76
Out of the Darkness and Into the Light
by Bridget Fish

78. 77
Dumb Luckby Hunter Willis
These paper castles we lived in were not meant to stay
They were weaker than the strength that it takes for me to walk
away
In due time I know everything falls
Every brick in each one of your walls
I beg you to say something worthy of making me stay
And the world seems against this
Just trying to make us an us
We played the old game but it’s over now
I’ll take my loss
And it’s just dumb luck
That I stayed here long enough
To fall for you all over again
And I tried to run
Told myself is found someone
But you’re always there when I look up
We run on dumb luck
The story I wrote for us went much better than this
At least when it’s over there’ll be so much less of you to miss
Better to have lost then to love you at all
At least when this has ended there’ll be shorter to fall
But willingly I would be broken apart for you
The things that love will make you do
And it’s just dumb luck
That I stayed here long enough
To fall for you all over again
And I tried to run
Told myself is found someone
But you’re always there when I look up
We run on dumb luck.
I’m heels over head and there’s nothing else I can do but
Stare straight ahead and pretend not to notice you
You’re inches from me and I can’t think of words to say
But admit that we run on dumb luck.

79. 78
Four Years
by Kelly Thomsen
I didn’t want to scare you but
All those miles are turning out to be
A lot longer than any of us thought
It’s not the end
But we’re nearing the autumn
Of the beginning
I only know because I can it in the pit of my
stomach
That smoky air when things start to
End
In fact, I can hardly even see
Where the road curved
Around the final bend and deposited us
Where we are
I’m not sure how we got here but
I just thought I should warn you
That time is falling faster
Than spring rains ever did
And I must confess that I’m afraid
That I’ll forget the way you look against the
sun
Because it keeps changing, and
Maybe we can hold onto it
But maybe I’ll forget the way you move
Sometime in the days to come
When I haven’t walked past you
Since the trees were full
And winter was long, but
Spring is melting sooner than
Any of us
Ever
Predicted
So I guess we should hang on
To the feeling of
Footsteps early in the morning
And the way the light seeps down on campus
Before we’re all fully awake
And cheering louder than
Is probably necessary
Under artificial lights that blot out the night
Every Friday
And I know you love the trees when they
Bloom, so don’t forget to
Remember that
And I’ll try to savor the feeling of
Knowing a place so well
Because once we’re on the other side,
All we’ll have is moments
Clutched like jewels in our fists
Or jangling around in
The pockets of our gowns
When we step out into the green-leafed
Summer sun
So if you could try, with me, to memorize each
other’s faces
I think that would be best
To prepare for the remembering
To see each other through
So time can slip out of the glass
And we can start
To fill it again

80. 79
Autumn - A Film
by Emily Padgett
For more work by Emily Padgett,
scan the QR code below with your mobile device

81. 80
Serendipity
by Mattison Shreero
Ientered through the font door to be greeted by
the sounds and smells I associated with home.
It was a sort of musky smell mixed with something
I could only describe as crisp. Occasionally candles
were burned, offering up their sweet, pungent
scents to diffuse in the air around us, and below
all was the subtle hint of growing mold. It was
raining, so the smell was magnified to be worse than
usual, but I promptly ignored it and shook out my
drenched hair. Quieting my ragged breathing and
taking in my surroundings, I heard my two younger
sisters playing some rowdy game upstairs. While
my mother and I were working to move nearly
everything out of the house, they were simply
playing some game, not a care in the world. It was
so odd, seeing everything like this, all empty and
blank. It was comparable to an end, a death so
graceful it was almost as if I was not taking part
in the killing. I ran my hand along the wall feeling
each dip and crevice. Stepping away, I inspected
each of my fingertips that were now covered in
a fine layer of dust. My skin crawled with the
realization that it was most likely not dust coating
these walls like a new layer of paint, but rather
mold, or a combination of both. We had only come
to quickly pack up a few things that we needed, but
as usual, found an abundance of other things ruined
by the ever growing and persisting mold.
Popping light switches into their upright
position unveiled to us yet another problem waiting
to be solved. My mother’s bedroom held, not one,
but two immense bookshelves, filled to the brim
with novels of every genre, and now the army of
mold invading our home was attacking every single
one. Books have always held a soft spot in my
heart, and I the ever-valiant knight, came to their
rescue. Pulling them off the shelves, two by two, I
was nearly sickened by the sight. Inching its way
up and up the mold grasped to any sort of moisture
to be found and refused to release its grip. This is
going to take a while, my brain needlessly informed
me, only to receive a blunt No kidding from my
sarcastic ego. My weapons of choice included such
items as a roll of paper towels, an old sponge, and
some strong cleaning solution. Then the process
of removing books, scrubbing them clean, and
neatly stacking them into cardboard boxes began.
Releasing all the particles into the air was a poor
idea, but it was inevitable. The room filled with
a repulsing scent, and a look above me revealed
specks of dust and mold creating a melancholy yet
scenic dance through the air. The whole act was
visibly lit by the setting sun darting its way through
the half-moon window above the curtains, the one
my mom always hated because its light woke her
up in the morning. As I looked on, they would
bring their dance to a close and touch down to the
carpeted floor with a graceful bow, or so it seemed.
But, little did I know, the dance was never-ending,
and I was the one training the dancers to become an
army, an army that would eventually rival me and
attempt to bring about my ultimate downfall.
I was the commander in this battle, hopelessly
surrounded on all sides. The adversary begged
for my surrender because they could not kill me,
even in the absence of all my troops. Swatting
away the loyal knights of the enemy led me back
to my work. Hardbacks always seemed to need a
good scrub as their covers effortlessly collected
blotches of mold that only revoked their presence
after the application of a damp paper towel and
some elbow grease. Paperbacks, on the other hand,
were sufficiently wiped clean with just one swipe
across the front and back. Even old pictures and
bookends had managed to succumb to the drowning
presence of the invader. Frames were discarded
as I desperately tried to salvage the old, fading
memories the photographs possessed. Akin to a
Trojan horse, my troubles that I believed to be over
snuck closer and hid themselves in the heart of my
camp, reappearing at a time of weakness.
Then my mother appeared in the doorway

82. 81
questioning my battle strategies, which was nothing
out of the usual. Though she and I were allied
countries, we did differ at times. I dove into the
battle once more, this time joined by my closest
comrade. All the while the element of time slowly,
but surely, ran its gears, favoring the invader rather
than us, the defenders. Though we may not last this
battle, time will. No matter the outcome, time will
persist, providing stability for all those in touch with
its serenity. The human lifespan is so short that we
should all be in a considerable state of panic every
waking minute, but we are not. Time is enjoyed,
it thrives, and it feeds imagination and adventure.
And then it is gone. History. Everything I have
previously known is now lost to time, including my
home.
The battle in its entirety seemed hopeless
because it was not merely the books and their
shelves that must be won. No, that was only one
fight. The war itself purged the territory of my
homeland and threatened to throw us all out.
Although the “us” is in this situation is in fact only
four people, and had no impact on the surrounding
world, I was determined to continue fighting for my
life. I had decided long ago that I would not cede in
disgrace. All of the words and thoughts gathered in
my mind eventually brought me here, to this page
so that maybe this will not be forgotten. Maybe
there is a chance that our simple stories will live on,
but only the future knows these truths.
It was over now.
After struggling though the last bunch, the shelves
were empty of books, yet filled with something else
entirely. The lonely absence of the books drifted up
and shoved a dagger into my heart. This was really
the end. Filled with a regret and sentient sadness,
but determined that neither the books nor the
shelves would be ruined I proceeded with my work.
Using the rough side of the sponge, the shelves
were burnished time after time until the cleanliness
I desired resurfaced from the depths of their past. At
last I lay down my weapons and silently withdrew
my presence from the battlegrounds. Now that
Shakespeare, Rowling, Conroy, Brown, Green,
and all the others were safe and in their temporary
homes and my job seemed to be complete, but not
yet over. I inhaled deeply for a count of seven. My
overwhelmed mind slowed its gears and retracted
me from the sensory world. The mold’s smell was
so strong that most could taste its foul, grainy
presence from miles away, but standing there in
the middle of it I could feel nothing, taste nothing,
smell nothing. v
Light Outshines the Darkness
by James McLelland

83. 82
Scatter
by Caroline Ficca

84. 83
The Nightgownby Jack Wrigley
Where my vision brims at the surface
of the yellowing quilt, stretched tight and thin
I can’t help but witness the imperceptible
waveform of her breath.
I breathe her name into the feathers;
thin dry fingers
close around mine
only for a second.
“When’s the appointment?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Did he say when I’d be able…”.
The feathers muffle, weaken, her voice pale
as it was through weeks of other gowns, green paper,
clear plastic bags, blank eyes and white masks.
She coughs.
All I can do is shift my body in the down,
a wordless gesture, neither negative nor affirmative
only a reminder of its own
possibility.

85. 84
You Know Nothing
by Tatiana Krzesicki
Not the shattering of bones
Or the way these pieces bend
Then break
And shatter
Human shrapnel fragments
That pierce the heart
And let bleed
His last breath
Red and raw and certain
Garden roses pressed between his lips
Petals spilling out onto his tongue:
The last of an era
For the fragrance of
Spring and Summer and Fall
Is at an end
You know nothing
Winter hastens
Atoms turn to ice
And a word can be suspended
Snow-covered in the breathless air
It crawls in crystals first on
Then under the fur of your
Raven’s cloak
And presses its fingers with cold calcula-
tion
To your skin,
Snow

86. 85
Cerca Rancho Alegre
by Emily Padgett

87. 86
Truthiness: The American Essense
by Robert Fuller
In the wake of the last episode of The Colbert
Report, the American public needs a reminder
of the truthiness that guided such a patriotic
institution. Truthiness is the quality of seeming
true, often in complete contradiction of facts, logic,
or thought. Prior to 2005, the word could not be
found in a dictionary. Try to imagine a world
without the all-encompassing concept of truthiness,
which describes the fundamental truths that we
understand without the nuisance of facts. Yes, it
scares me too, but just try to picture it. Obviously,
politicians would have continued to make
completely contrafactual claims, but they would
have been wrong. Similarly, Oreo’s might have
maintained their 14 grams of sugar per cookie, but
they would have been unhealthy. Colbert’s word
vindicated the abused public servants who have
long received criticism from the media, just because
they have the moral courage to stand up to reality,
which, to quote Colbert himself, “has a well-known
liberal bias” (Legum).
Although the virtue of truthiness has existed
from the beginning of time in the hearts, but not
minds, of the brave, the word for it only arose in
2005. Stephen Colbert, well-respected news anchor
and former totalitarian dictator of Malawi, coined
the term, affirming the inherent truthiness that
real Americans already felt. Institutions such as
Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary and the American
Dialect Society immediately proclaimed it ‘Word of
the Year’, no doubt due to its empowering nature.
Words fail to describe the essence of
truthiness. Solid, hardworking Americans know it
as the blazing hot fire of Americana bubbling within
them upon hearing some nonsensical new study
about how excessive military expenditures waste
tax dollars, or perhaps the glowing warmth you
feel when the name “Ronald Reagan” is uttered,
Peace Be Upon Him. Maybe you recognize it as the
protection of your father’s beliefs, or the soft grasp
of your mother’s worldview. An objective, one size
fits all description violates truthiness in the same
way that mathematics does.
Consider Congressman Steve King’s eloquent
rebuttal to the 2013 DREAM immigration reform
bill. He noted the truthy statistic, concerning Latino
youth, that, “For every one who’s a valedictorian,
there’s another 100 out there who weigh 130 pounds
and they’ve got calves the size of cantaloupes
because they’re hauling 75 pounds of marijuana
across the desert” (Bashir). While his research
could have been a bit flawed, or completely
nonexistent, King echoed a sentiment that all of
us feel. Nevertheless, the left wing media tried to
depict him as some sort of racist or xenophobe,
just because he asserted wildly fictitious, hateful
comments about minorities.
In the doctrine of truthiness, emotion matters, not
reality. As patriots, we must fight against the anti-
American horde that endangers our livelihood by
thinking with their brains, not hearts. As readers
innately know, programs such as ObamaCare pose
a threat because…because of the ‘Obama’ part,
smack dab in the middle there. Using truthiness,
real American legislators manage to ignore both
the economic and social benefits of universalized
medicine to this day and continue to try to repeal
the Affordable Care Act. The fact that 54 previous
attempts to free the nation of this horrible safety
net have failed only counts as another obstacle that
truthiness has removed.
Truthiness empowers the everyday American too,
not just the political elite. Average Joe simply
lacks the time to keep himself informed on major
issues. Priorities are priorities, so when the
question of reading up on a candidate’s background
and stances arises during a Jersey Shore rerun, we
can remain blissfully unaware of everything that
matters in an election and focus on finishing all of
our M&M’s instead. Luckily for us, truthiness and
a two-party system mean that as the responsible
individuals who comprise American society, we can

88. 87
just check off all the boxes for our parents’ political
party and return to the LaZ Boy.
Casual observers frequently misinterpret truthiness
to mean ignorance. The distinction between
these two social phenomena requires serious
emphasis. While ignorance and truthiness both
imply a neglect of fact, truthiness is good, but
ignorance is bad. See the difference?
Yes, the tree-hugging, America-hating, fact-
checking know-it-alls argue that facts matter. They
simply do not shut up about how Obama is not
a terrorist and how carbon dioxide should not
dominate our atmosphere. The flaw in such
blatantly observable realities is that they violate
the Constitution. There, I said it. Americans
have the fundamental right to believe anything
that they want, and to question a belief is to attack
it. Scholarly readers will find the preceding
freedom explicitly written in the Constitution, right
after the Clause Banning Gay Marriage and just
before the Corporations are People Amendment
of 1794. Anyone seeking to disagree with my
perception of the Supreme Law of the Land can
pack their bags and move straight to Russia.
Truthiness makes America great. Without
it, we would be living in a repressive, analytical
society such as Sweden. It allows Congress to keep
our sacred nation pure by ensuring that nothing
ever gets done. Consider, for a moment, a dark,
fearful environment in which reason and facts
controlled our legislative process. Opposing sides
would debate arguments using logic and evidence,
and eventually come to a conclusion. Action
would follow, and America would change. Bearing
in heart my general assumption that America is
flawless, any alteration to the perfect status quo
would yield a tarnish on the country that we love,
leading to the inevitable conclusion that anyone
demanding the truth, rather than what feels like the
truth, hates America.
So rise up, nation. Rise against the fact
checkers and the Dictatorship of Reality. Tear
down the gates of knowledge and replace them with
walls of truthiness. Tie up the mind and let loose
the heart into the American political arena. As
long as the reign of facts continues to harass the
individual fancy, our nation faces destruction. The
intellectuals pound on the gratuitously fortified
walls of our shining nation, threatening to ruin
the American Way. Truthiness is more than a
privilege. It is your civic duty. v
Music of the Spheres
by Rachel Hargrave

89. 88
Huygens
by Jack Wrigley
The Huygens probe, a component of the Cassini-Huygens unmanned astronomy
mission, was launched in 1997 by NASA and the European Space Agency. In 2005,
it landed on Titan, Saturn’s largest moon, and sent back data that included color
photographs. It remains the only artificial craft to have ever soft-landed on a celes-
tial body beyond the asteroid belt.
You were no USS Enterprise–
no, your looks tended more towards
the fat manhole cover,
an unconcealable landmine
or an especially ugly pillow.
Just one and one-thirds meters across,
rivet-studded – how many tons
of seething flame did it take, how many
1600s, acceptance letters, American dreams
and drive and defying all odds–
how much fuel did we have to dredge
to fling your 319 kilos into the teeth of fiction?
Who witnessed its burning?
Poor, sad lump of metal. We cut
your mother’s throat. We did
it while you slept. We’re sorry.
But the hunger could not be denied
and the explosive vests, the firing squads –
self-starvation, shadows in silos
had little time for you. Forgive us–
we are addicts.
Through the dead batteries, the frozen parachute
that shrouds rocklike ice; if you can speak
then tell us. As the methane falls,
regular as Rome, as the timeless sands
shift around your cryogenicized steel–
to what rest have we condemned you
where we fear each and every datum, and more
terror exists than that of the unknown?

90. 89
Twistercoaster
by Ikenna Eruchalu
For more work by Ikenna Eruchalu,
scan the QR code below with your mobile device

91. 90
The staff of the Blue Review called for submissions of prose and poetry, which were evaluated based
originality of approach, clear and focused use of language, and use of imagery and details. Using these
criteria, the Blue Review staff rated pieces anonymously, and those rated highest were selected for
publication. Art was submitted and selected based on visual impact, overall composition, and freshness of
imagery or visual themes. Art pieces were then paired with writings that seemed complementary to one
another. Illustration graphics and the cover art were created by Rachel Hargrave.
The twenty-first volume of Blue Review was produced by the literary magazine staff at Charlotte Latin
School, Charlotte, North Carolina, and was printed by AlphaGraphics in Charlotte, North Carolina. The
account manager from AlphaGraphics was Gwen Scoville.
This volume is printed in full color. Text for the body of poems and prose is set in Times New Roman.
Titles of written works and titles of art works are set in Jellyka - le Grand Saut. Bylines are set in Deep.
Blue Review was created using Adobe InDesign CS6 and Adobe Photoshop CS5 on 11 iMac computers.
The staff of Blue Review would like to thank the faculty, staff, and administration of Charlotte Latin School
for their support and encouragement. In addition, the staff would like to thank the Art Department and the
English Department because it is their effort and work with students that provide such rich material. Lastly,
we would like to thank the Latin Arts Association for their ongoing efforts to support the artists at CLS.
Colophon
Staff
Rachel Hargrave
Emma Haseley
Genna Holtz
Jasmine Leahy
Grace Morris
Emily Padgett
Riley Singer
Ann Chandler Tune
Hunter Willis
Jack Wrigley
Advisors
Andy Tucker
Amanda Labrie