Blue MirrorSpring 2016

Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes.

Art is knowing which ones to keep.

-Scott Adams

-Scott Adams

Table of Contents

Struck Fania Kozareva 4Race is More than a Checked Box Godgive Umozurike 5An Allegory Christa Parrish 6Rosa’s Corinne Greenblatt 7is the buzz in my head or my hand Arianne Marcellin-Little 8Yeti Emma Railey 9can you see me now? Nishma Vias 9“tire”d Robert Fisher 10One Smelling Perfume Joe Wiswell 11Movie Review Haiku: Carol (2015) Max Nobel 12Movie Review Haiku: Only Yesterday (1991) Max Nobel 12Untitled Chung Lam Lau 13Playa Najayo Karly Andreassen 14luminescent Vibha Puri 16Purple Rabbit Max Nobel 17Blue Ruin Max Nobel 17Fool’s Gold Arianne Marcellin-Little 18Tilted Tint/Tinted Tilt Sophia Chizhikova 19 Aesthetic #4 Sophia Chizhikova 19Winter Wolf Chloe Deets 20The Reckoning Sabrina Sholomon 21The Climb Robert Fisher 23Golden Portal Vibha Puri 24death of (friendship) Madison Zehmer 25Unrequited Love Kelly Williams 26Flowers for my brain Jordan Greenert 27Interrupted Sky Karly Andreassen 28Untitled Louise Batta 29on her deathbed Vibha Puri 30Still Life in White Claire Liu 31Touch Vibha Puri 32An Excerpt From: Stained Hands Jordyn Jones 33A Short Film

Cover: Washed Away by Alicia Wang -- digital

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Fania Kozareva -- pencilSTRUCK

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Race is more than a checked boxA means of identificationA tool to divide a nationAs color talks

When women clutch their pursesOnly seeing the cursesFearing the gentleman that walks

When Emmett Till goes by a new nameTrayvon Martin, Michael Brown, all the sameBoys lying too early beneath the rocks

When in America, the land of opportunity and the freePrevents the inclusion of theeThose waiting to reach our docks

When holding the same exact qualificationsEmily is chosen over Lakisha in corporationsNames determining our value like stock

When things like big lips and timberlandsLarge booties and darker complexionsAre now deemed as trends by those who once mocked

When blonde is chosen over blackStraight over kinky curly to the maxNatural hair deemed beneath even that of socks

When certain foods and being athleticAre expected to be within our geneticsIndividuality preyed upon by the stereotypical hawk

When trying to succeedIs attributed to the white breedA youth’s ambition cut off

When we continue to fight In the struggle to survive amongst the blinding, white lightOur rights continue to knock

Yes, Race is more than a checked boxWhen our diversity disconnected usLeading our thoughts to disgustAcknowledged through separated small blocks

Fania Kozareva -- pencil

Race is More Than a Checked Box by Godgive Umozurike

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i like coffee because it is hot

i can have it everyday,

healthy for me or not.

i like coffee because it smells good.

sometimes it makes me jittery,

but gives you warm feelings when you

thought nothing

ever

would

i like you for the same reasons i like coffee

and if i’m lucky,

you’ll keep me up all night, too.

Corinne Greenblatt -- photography

An Allegoryby christa Parrish

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Rosa sCorinne Greenblatt -- photography ‘,

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fingers glide across the screenwith practiced imprecisionwords slippinglike the drops of sweatoff my warm skintumbling into sentencesthe pages of a storythat no one will readwhere happily ever afterends in a read receipt

is the buzz in my head or my hand

by Arianne Marcellin-Little

YetiEmma Railey

can you see me now?Nishma Vias

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tire d,,,, Robert Fisher -- Photography

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It’s those lonely Friday afternoons around 5:30, riding the subway home from work. For a mo-ment the train violates tentative sacredness of dark underground and emerges into light. Yes, it’s somewhere in between the squeaking of wheels and slanting light- light, interrupted, somehow, caught in its motion (calling up memories of dust floating on eddies of air)- it. Always it, and never she, her, or their. A wrinkle, an eddie, a cut in the air

An ear- it/ but also they- a mouth.

Whispering!____________________________________________________________________

Though it is ruleledly unexpected, it is never surprising- nor alarming- though terrifying This, because, it seems, I hear it

It is not speaking to me, rather, I am the function “human watching” -i.e. I would find that it is mine, except that I can never mind

I wonder what it whispers?

“An art which we do not yet know” “I am the voice of a future” “You are the voice of possibility” “Art and rupture” “Rupture and art” “ ” (into the gaps)

one smelling perfumeby Joe Wiswell

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Movie Review Haiku: Only Yesterday (1991)

by Max Nobel

by Max Nobel

Movie Review Haiku: Carol (2015)

A chance encounter. Its budding ardor captured In muted color.

In time whose skin will It grace, this crimson flower. Find your wings once more.

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Untitled Chung Lam Lau -- photography

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Karly Andreassen -- photography

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Playa Najayo

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Luminescent

Vibha Puri -- photography

Search your feelings you

Know it to be true. Why hide

Behind a mirror?

Blue Ruin by Max Nobel

4 AM and I’m

Sober. Furtive glances etched

On relapsed canvas.

Purple Rabbit by Max Nobel

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to touch the rose-colored satinis to grasp gold with desperate fingersbut just as heavydragged across the weathered floorflung carelessly toward the ceilingin their dizzying dance for weary feetblocks of wood so thinly veiledby blind ambitionand bruised toenails

Fool s Gold

by A

riann

e M

arce

llin-L

ittle

,

Tilted Tint/Tinted Tilt & Aesthetic #4

19

Soph

ia C

hizhik

ova

-- p

hoto

grap

hy

Winter W

olfChloe Deets -- Pencil

21

You watch the sunrise from the roof.The sun is staining the rainclouds above your neighborhood a pale orange. You can alreadysmell the rain coming, feel the fog rolling in. Death sits beside you, waiting patiently for your reply. No, you finally respond, tugging at the sleeves of your hoodie. You don’t have any last words.He asks if you’re sure about that. He warns that you’re passing up on a once-in- lifetime oppor-tunity and smirks at his own joke. You shrug. You die.—The world is ending.—Your brother is shouting for you. You close your eyes and slump deeper into the couch.—The beginning of your end came with a rainy sunrise. If you were religious, which you were not, you might have taken this as a sign. TheRapture, your dad had called it, before he got the calls late at night saying that his

mother, father, older sister, brothers were gone. But then he was gone too, and you weretoo busy digging your nails into your palms to call it much of anything.Your brother, the godless heathen, the cynic, the spiritual failure of a family of faith,called it the Reckoning, and he had reckoned, after your dad had been taken, that there wasno meaning to anything whatsoever. He locked himself in his room and refused to come out,and maybe he was onto something there. But then his time came, and you heard him shoutingfrom the couch and were too numb to do much of anything.And you?You closed your eyes and curled up as small as you could and fell asleep.—You are being shaken awake by Death. He’s muttering things about The Man Upstairs getting upset. You wonder how well Death andGod are acquainted and come to the conclusion that “very” is an accurate answer. There issomething profound there that you lack the religious wherewithal to process. You wonder how badly you can screw up dying.—

The Reckoningby Sabrina Sholomon

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He looks familiar. He tells you that Death has no physical form and that he looks however you think he should.You were expecting skulls and dark cloaks and scythes and every other Halloween stereotype.Death prefers skinny jeans.You file your disbelief away for later.—You show Death around the house.He admires your dad’s photographs and your brother’s sports trophies and doesn’t mentionyour mother.He admires your flowers.—(He’s not the worst company you’ve had.)— The world is ending. You show Death the glow-in- the-dark stars in your room. He approves. You play with the sleeves of your hoodie and smile.— You hear the phone ringing. It’s Ethan.Death looks at you expectantly. You know that, if you pick up now, you’ll hear Ethan on theother end of the line, warm and welcoming and reminiscent of summertime and scraped knees. You listen very carefully to the voicemail, trying desperately to hold on to every word. You force yourself to unclench your fists.— (There was something in the look he gave you that makes you think he understands and youstop making eye contact after that.)—Your brother’s polaroid is laying on your desk, collecting dust. He’d given it to you tospite your dad, who thought that a stronger father-son bond could save your brother’s soul.He’d wanted to destroy it. You’d begged him not to.You hadn’t used it in years. You forgotten how nice sunrises looked on old film.— You watch the sunrise from the roof.

He sits beside you quietly, fingers grazing over the polaroid you’d given him. You tell himthat a picture is supposed to be worth a thousand words and you want your last ones to beclouds painted on a polaroid in pale orange.He’s quiet for a while. You watch the sunrise in companionable silence, tugging at thesleeves of your hoodie.You don’t catch all of the words, but you think that he tried to make a joke.

You appreciate the thought.You die.—The world is ending.—Your brother is shouting for you. You’re not sure if you can forgive him.—(And what can you say that hasn’t been said before?)—

The Climb Robert Fisher -- photography

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Golden Portal Vibha Puri Photography

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it happens like the passage from fall to winter

subtle, but constant,

turning the air cold and sharp.

things that begin quickly are bound to end that way too.

death of (friendship)by Madison Zehmer

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she is trouble.bewareher small frameand the way the lightbounces off her face

do not see the strengthshe carries within her:you will be drawn closerand fall into her grasp

careful.there’s a tear in your heartwhere her light may creep in and grow,a sunflower from barren soil.

Unrequited Loveby Kelly Williams

Flowersfor my Brain

By Jordan Greenert -- Ink

29

Our literature is becoming self aware,

Our literature is becoming self aware in the dissecting and prying of wandering eyes topick apart the reasons why the character is left handed and the and walls are bare,

Our literature is becoming self obsessive,

Our literature is becoming self obsessive when every novel is an autobiography and weread a book and think “oh that’s so me,”

What happened to the days of waking up early and staying up late to start that book andfinish that last page, where two-three- five series were not enough, and you found thebook just for you out of pure luck,

Our literature is losing it’s focus,

Our literature is losing it’s focus, we now care more about the clothes the character iswearing than what sword she’s choosing, less “I love you more”s and more “I love youless,”

Maybe the reason I can’t finish writing a book is because it doesn’t have a quirkyprotagonist and a catchy title hook,My work doesn’t have some deep, profound meaning, if it does then it’s up to the veryperson reading,

Because as much as we love art, we’re killing it too,And sometimes, my darling, the curtain is just blue.

Untitled by Louise Batta

Interrupted SkyKarly Andreassen photography

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it bends and glimmers, your lightfalls and falters. how longis your temper? how trueare your words?hold on to your mind;hold on to your soul.

autumns fed my soul.red leaves floated, sparkled in the lightlove flitted in and out but i didn’t mind.the season was not long—rushed by the pit pit pattering of wordslike rain, uncovering what was true.

my dear girl: tangible is truebut so is your rugged soul—just as real as the wordsthat glow under the lightof spring, summer, of your longsighs and festering mind.

winters held my mindin tight embrace, presented truechallenge and care. longwinded talk masked my soul.i wanted to lightup this world with stark words.

i have seen the beauty of your words,how they so clearly express your mind.pay no heed to the harsh light,insistences screaming true. butterflies fluttering, breath faltering, soulunwavering. a life is not long.

i have not longleft. my words

are all i have left to convey my souland faltering mind;

my love for you is true.in your darkness i see light.

here! my soul and mind are not words but true;

at long last, light

on her deathbed

by Vibha Puri

Still Life in WhiteClaire Liu -- Oil Painting

Touch Vibha Puri Photography

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JULIET (frustrated) And that makes me a coward? (tearing up but still yelling) The only monsters you ever knew lived under your bed, mine lived 19 seconds from where I slept. And I’m finally not afraid. I did what I had to do and it’s done. Life is just a single line of screw ups and I am set with mine. For the first time in forever, I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of anything! Can you say the same?

JOHN What you did was wrong.

JULIET On whose authority? In case you didn’t realize, sometimes there is no right option. Sometimes you don’t have a choice!

JOHN simply stares at JULIET. He grits his teeth.

JULIET (stoic) In order to kill the “monsters under the bed”, you have to be willing to get blood on your hands.

JOHN (after a pause) And thanks to you, all of our hands are stained.

Excerpt from:

Stained Hands: A Short Film

By Jordyn Jones

StaffPublication Editor

Kendall FutrellLiterary Editor

Vibha Puri Art Editor

Chung Lam Lau

Printing by Strawbridge Studios

Faculty Sponsor John Woodmansee

Arianne Marcellin-

Little

Laura Walker

AlexanderWade

Max Nobel

Madeline Hunt

FinneyTiffany Tang

Alicia Wang

YoungminShin

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Spring2016