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Blue Marble Review

Literary Journal for Young Writers

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September 2023

Quick! Destiny! It’s closing in!

By D'Antonio Ballesteros

I know I can’t afford it right now but damnit, here in the quiet of Italy, under the infinite possibilities of my future paths, having grown paranoid and ever-ponderant of these paths after a renewed reading of the Borges—Oh how deeply I feel this liberating instability and desire to live from a car, an SUV (that beautiful, mythic beast whose secrets are known to all suburban mothers), or dare I say Max Tennyson’s Rus Bucket, which one day I could use to drive my many nieces and nephews around the world, speaking all the languages, eating all the food, playing all the games—Oh how magnificent that seems to me even now, still a teenager trying to decide where I’ll be living come two months’ time and yearning for home but yearning for life, for the world, for the stories I’ll tell my descendants when I no longer have the strength left to live them; how I yearn, how I yearn—so young! so old! so much time! not a minute! (time to get the shit together up and together before I grow up enough to realize it’ll never be together)—Oh how confusing it is to sense the world’s size from the tiny town of Mondovì, and how deep the desire to own bookshelves!

 

 

 

D’Antonio Ballesteros (@danteanantonio) is a musician, writer, and actor based in Brooklyn, NY. He writes plays and poetry, fiction and non-, and is spending quite a bit of time these days researching for a novel. He’s also exploring the worlds of microtonal and electronic music. You can find his work in Progenitor Art and Literary Journal, Blue Marble Review, and New Note Poetry, among others.

Pizza Night

By Anna Straka

It is a late fall afternoon. The kind where one can feel winter’s shoulder butting in.

Disrupting the beautifully sunny scene with its crisp winds and tiny flurries of snow. I sit by the fireplace and the covered bowl of dough: simultaneously warming my feet and eagerly watching the dough rise, waiting for it to balloon up enough so that I can punch it down and see as it deflates back into the confinements of its glass bowl. But a watched pot never boils so I give up on the dough to busy myself elsewhere.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Fire! Fire! An automated voice warns us. I jumped up. But not because of the potential danger. No. I know that this alarm does not mark a tragedy but rather: a meal. As suddenly as the alarm did, it hit me. All the tell tale signs of an active kitchen. I stand at the top of the stairs where I have found all the scents carry to the best. The smell of warm dough and basil trace the air. The soft sound of distant voices and clattering utensils. The sight of all of it as I make my way down the stairs.

My dad bustles around the kitchen sporting a fleece and beaten down Birkenstocks from his college years with the corner of a tea towel stuck in the side of his pants acting as his only form of an apron. He sees me enter the room and smiles. Never mind that we drove home in silence earlier that day because I had a bad race. Or that he most likely had to listen to my oldest brother curse him out and storm off just an hour prior, and will probably again tomorrow. “Hey Annie-Belle,” his nickname for me that I still don’t quite understand. “Here, grab a towel and start pinching the crust.” I don’t need to respond. I searched the towel drawer for the most aesthetically pleasing one and tucked the corner of it into my pants, just as he did: letting it hang on my side down to my knee. We pinch the crust of the pizza dough which rests on a wooden pizza board propped up over the sink. With the newly formed wall we just made around the edges he swirls the olive oil onto the dough and allows me to spread it out. With a perfectly imperfect ratio of sauce and cheese and peppers and a much too large pinch of parsley: we declare it a masterpiece. A masterpiece which is ready for the oven. We start the next pizza. Tossing flour generously onto the bare counter to roll out the pizza dough just enough to allow us to throw it in the air a few times to finish the job.

An array of pizzas build up on the counters around the oven, waiting for all of them to be finished so the family can eat together, which is a rarity these days. But we are the chefs. We sneak a bite of the most cooled pizza, savoring the blend of flavors. “Mama Mia! That’s a

good-a-pizza!” He exclaims, quoting a line from a childhood book called Pizza Pat. It was one of our favorites.

The clock strikes 5 and He tells me to go fetch my siblings and tell them that dinner is ready. Never mind the fact that it was not. It never is ready when he says it will be. Soon a stampede rolls down the stairs, myself at the front of it: simply trying to keep my feet underneath me so I don’t get trampled. I pour soda into glasses for my sister and I. Perfecting the art of only making it look even, but I got more.

The food is perfect. Or is it the company that makes me think so? It does not matter to me. In these moments around the table we talk instead of argue. We share pizza instead of fighting over whose items belong to whom. All I can do is sit. Collecting the laughs and loud talking. My heart is full.

 

 

 

Anne Straka is a junior at Arrowhead Union High School. She is involved in cross country, track, and cross country skiing. In her free time Anne likes to visit coffee shops, hike, read, or hang out with friends and family.

The Cruel Prince, by Holly Black

By Gabriella Montez

Before anything else, I promise, this isn’t a story about a weirdly beautiful “evil” prince whose heart suddenly aches and then everyone realizes he’s actually just misunderstood. At first glance, The Cruel Prince is easily presumed to be an amateur story of young fairies, mortals, and typical YA fantasy fiction. Nonetheless, it becomes a triumph of political court, backstabbing, and sensational betrayal. The Cruel Prince is just the kind of book you pick up, read a couple chapters of, and put down, though only so you can immediately search online to see if there’s a sequel. In a phenomenal manner, Holly Black creates a complex mythical world which only glues a reader’s hands to the binding.

The Cruel Prince follows seventeen year old Jude Duarte, who witnessed her parents’ murder as a child. Taken by their killer to an opposite world, mortal Jude and her sisters enter Elfhame, a High Court of Faeries and mythical creatures. Jude, raised among fey, is desperate to prove herself in a society despising humans. The youngest prince of the court, Cardan, is determined to make Jude’s life a living hell, —though Jude becomes wrapped in much deeper than the surface. Between deceptions, scandals, and bloodshed, Jude slowly becomes a phenomenon in the High Court of Faerie, and is tasked with a life-threatening alliance to save not only her sisters, but the High Court.

For starters, Holly Black’s creation of the beautiful world of Elfhame is absolutely magnificent. Where magic hides the horrors inside, Black’s very own Elfhame is jam packed with intricate details, various structures, creatures, and rules. With so much to unpack, Black manages to give just enough to the reader without being too heavy with exposition. It’s extraordinary. Not to mention, the aerial writing and realistic dialogue make for the most entertaining action sequences. There is never a dull moment in the entire novel; even in the smallest moments, Black’s prose is flowy and spectacular, constantly bringing vivacity to the darkness in the story itself.

The epic plot of The Cruel Prince is simply undeniable. Halfway through the novel, it’s impossible to trust any character. With constant twists, if you think you know something is going to happen, I promise you, it’s not (though something even crazier will). Between betrayal and surprises, The Cruel Prince keeps your nails short and your palms sweaty. There truly is not a single scheme you can predict, or say you saw coming.

With beautiful writing and an epic plot, the characters really put the cherry on top of The Cruel Prince. Jude is a striking character to have as a protagonist. With her incentives constantly battling between good and selfish, it’s nearly impossible not to like Jude. In one of her best quotes she declares, “If I cannot be better than them, I will become so much worse.” (Black 210) She absolutely empowers her mortal self and never lets her guard down.

Jude’s family dynamic is intriguing, particularly with her father figure,—otherwise the man who killed her biological parents. His role is fascinating, and easy to learn to love. Nonetheless, it becomes inevitable to not adore the young prince, Cardan. With a devious and cruel attitude, Cardan’s character development and backstory is majestically unfolded throughout the novel.

The Cruel Prince will leave you admiring cunning and heinous characters that you swore you’d never even think of liking.

In short, a marvelous fantasy fiction crafted with both intrigue and deception, The Cruel Prince conveys the terrible faults of magic, while yet still making you wish for it. Unpacking a dark fantasy can be heavy, but Holly Black makes it feel effortless.

 

 

 

Gabriella is a rising writer who loves all things written, from fantasy fiction to poetry. When she’s not writing or reading, Gabriella spends her spare time drawing, running and playing soccer. She’s a part of her high school’s independent newspaper, The Spectrum. With passion for all literary involvement, Gabriella’s work is eye-catching for all young readers.

Mentally I Am Above Twenty Years Because My Mother Calls me Her Husband

By Hassan Usman

the rescuer
is what my siblings
think of me now
it doesn’t matter
what my body
communicates
or how I have
designed my life
I am without a father
twenty-nothing
jobless
self-schooling
but I know that
whenever
mother calls me
ọkọ mi
which means
the family is starving
I must
go out by the butchery
buy meat
and then pepper
and two kongos of garri
even if
I must starve
or steal
or snatch from a
lifeless thing
I want to ask
is this how it also happens
in every home
without a head—
the first son
coming of age
watching himself run over
hurdles 10 inches
taller than him?

 

Hassan A. Usman, NGP II, is a Black Poet and a lover of cats. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Folksway Press, World Voices Magazine, Isele Magazine, Riverstone, Blue Route Journal, Blue Marble Review, Welter Journal, Invisible Lit, The Madrigal Press, Paper Lanterns, Trampset, Icefloe Press, Olumo Review, Lunaris Review, Afrocritik, Poetrycolumn-NND, and elsewhere. He’s an alumnus of the SprinNG Writing Fellowship 2022. Hassan enjoys cooking, listening to Nigerian street music, and juggles writing with modelling. Say hi to him on Twitter or Instagram @Billio_Speaks

Flowers for Algernon: A Cruel Metaphor

By Boyun Liu

 “Had I not seen the Sun, I could have borne the shade; but light a newer wilderness, my wilderness has made.”

–Emily Dickinson

 Have you ever thought about the question “Which is worse: not knowing who you are and being happy, or becoming the person who you always wanted to be and feeling alone?” If you’re hesitant to make a decision and want to find an answer, “Flowers for Algernon” might be the book that can give you some inspiration.

Flowers for Algernon is a science fiction written by Daniel Keyes in 1966. It differs from many other science fictions in that it doesn’t have heavily featured elements of technology. The book is written from a first-person perspective. In the beginning, two researchers, Dr. Strauss and professor Nemur, perform an operation on a mouse named Algernon to make it smart. They want to test the procedure on human, and the protagonist, a mentally disabled man named Charlie, wants to become smart so much that he agrees to undergo the risky operation and records the his progress in reports, which documents how the operation initially makes him smart, but ultimately results in his regression to his previous state of mental disbility.

The way the author shows the change in Charlie’s intelligence is novel and surprising, through word spelling. Before Progress Report 8, Charlie made spelling mistakes in almost all the words he wrote, but after the operation, he gradually learned to read and write. As a result, the spelling mistakes began to decrease, and eventually, he could write like a normal person. Unfortunately, in the end, Charlie realized that his memory was fading, and he began to lose the ability to read and write. When I saw him return to a state where he misspelled almost all the words and didn’t know about punctuation, I could feel the desperation and pain he felt. This reminds me of a short poem written by Emily Dickinson: “Had I not seen the Sun, I could have borne the shade; but light a newer wilderness, my wilderness has made.” If Charlie hadn’t had the chance to become intelligent, he could have endured his disability. But when he tasted the ability to read and write like a normal person, and even surpass them, he became afraid of being a stupid person again. The strong emotional impact results from the special way the author displays the change in Charlie’s IQ. The story is simple yet intriguing and thought-provoking. It is a cruel metaphor that reveals the sad and grief-stricken parts of our lives.

Charlie always wanted to be smart because he wanted to have friends and to be liked by others, and he hoped his mother would be proud. But the reality was just the opposite. Although he became a genius as he had always wanted, people began to distance themselves from him. Sometimes it is just hard to have things both ways.

The old Charlie always smiled and remained positive all the time. Everyone at the bakery liked him because he didn’t understand what teasing was. He laughed along with others and never got angry, just like a naive and innocent child. However, after he became intelligent, he started to realize that the people he used to consider good friends were making fun of him all the time. They liked to keep him around just to tease him. He became angry every time they teased him and started to talk down to others and make them feel dumb sometimes. His emotions became more and more unstable, and he shouted to vent his anger more frequently. He was struggling and angry with himself. He thought that it was he who made the people at the bakery hate him, feel like idiots, and caused himself to be fired.

The operation not only made Charlie smart but also allowed him to experience emotions he had never felt before. He learned the feeling of love and fell in love with his teacher, Alice. However, every time he tried to approach love, memories of his disastrous childhood would come flooding back, clearer than ever before. He remembered how his mother hated him and always wanted him away, how his sister didn’t want others to know he was her brother, and how other children made fun of him. These recollections were like nightmares that overwhelmed Charlie, making him suffer from the pain. But as Charlie’s intelligence surpassed that of most people, Alice began to feel duller every day compared to him. It was hard for them to find common ground to discuss, so she decided to leave, and Charlie became alone again.

However, just when everyone believed that the operation was a success and Charlie would be a genius forever, something went wrong. One day, Dr. Strauss discovered that Algernon’s intelligence had begun to fade, and the mouse was acting strangely. Algernon couldn’t bear the thought of losing his intelligence and refused to live as he had before. He stopped eating and waited for death to come. When Charlie saw Algernon die in his hands, it was like seeing his own fate. Although Algernon was just a mouse in others’ eyes, Charlie felt a deep connection with him, a feeling of sympathy, since he wasn’t different in essence from Algernon. He, too, was an experimental subject, a sacrifice of the experiment.

At first, Charlie exerted all his efforts in trying to figure out why it was happening and how to stop it. But he eventually realized that the old Charlie Gordon loved people with all his heart, whereas now his heart was overwhelmed with his intellect. So he decided to be the old Charlie Gordon again, warm-hearted, kind, and positive, but dull and simple. Maybe that was his best destiny. Sometimes, only people with a heart full of love can have the key to happiness, not those with high intelligence.

Charlie is the epitome of all human beings. He went through the entire life of a normal person in just several months. The old Charlie represents the time when we are still naive children, without worries and understanding of the world around us. The smart Charlie represents the time when we grow into teenagers and adults, absorb knowledge, have more things to worry about, and begin to struggle with our feelings. The cruel metaphor is that we are all going to go through the process of growing up, facing emotional struggles, and feeling lonely.

 

 

Boyun(Iris) Liu,  is an eleventh grader who is a passionate reader and reviewer. She hopes that her reviews can ignite people’s curiosity towards those books. She invites you to join in the literature adventure — and hopes you can have a great time!

 

Snow Stories

By Deborah G.

“I’m afraid we’re snowed in.”

Miss Roseborn’s words made a loud echo in the schoolhouse. Ten students stared at their teacher blankly. Surely she was wrong.

These children were the oldest in school—all ranging from ages fourteen to sixteen. They were studying for a final exam today, so they were at school earlier than usual. All the other children of Maple Creek were at home.

“Will we be here until evening?” Jayne asked finally.

Miss Roseborn nodded. “You might be able to get home this evening. But definitely not at eleven in the morning, like we had planned.”

Everyone looked worried.

“Well, what will we do at eleven, when we’re done studying?” Kate wondered.

There was a general commotion as everyone volunteered their ideas. Miss Roseborn watched them. She wondered how on earth she’d manage to live a day alone with ten teenagers in this room. But she knew she was the only adult present, and she ought to bring some order.

“Silence, please,” she said loudly. The commotion slowly stopped.

“We must think practically first,” she said. “Do all of you have your lunches?” Ten nods. “Alright. So we’ll have enough food for the day, since you’ll probably be able to get home by six or so and eat dinner.” She looked at the corner of the room where the fireplace was. “The fire is kindled. Do you all have water?” Ten more nods. “Well, I’d advise you to not drink very much today, because there’s three feet of snow outside and I don’t know how you’ll go to the outhouse in THAT.” She sighed. “Well, you’re all too hyper to work. So it seems that we’ll have to amuse ourselves a bit before we study. Does anyone have suggestions on what to do?”

Lily suggested that they just talk, a skill that she was very good at. Reluctantly, Miss Roseborn agreed. “But only for a half hour.”

Everyone dispersed into groups, but each group eventually merged together and sat on the floor. Somehow, the wailing storm outside had forced the teens closer together. Some of them expressed worry about the storm. Others were less worried. Maple Creek was a snowy town, and this storm didn’t seem particularly severe.

“I have an idea,” Miss Roseborn said after the half hour had passed. “Since you all seem to have a need to talk, we’re going to tell stories.”

“Stories?” Simon said. “We’re not five.”

Miss Roseborn gave him a look that made him shrink back into his seat. “Not stories like that. I want each of you to tell the class a true story about something interesting that happened to you. It should be appropriate, and not too…” She paused. “Well, I was going to tell you not to make it too long. But seeing as we’re stuck here all day….make it as long as you want.”

“Can it be really short?” Peter asked.

“No. Who wants to go first?”

Everyone except Simon and Peter raised their hands. So, with the help of a few students, Miss Roseborn wrote everyone’s name on strips of paper and placed the paper into a box. She closed her eyes, mixed the strips around, and pulled one out.

“Jayne Marble.”

“Goodies!” Jayne said. “I already know what I’m going to talk about.”

Simon and Peter shut their eyes and prepared for a good nap. Ignoring them, Jayne continued.

“It was a dark, cold, chilly night,” she said dramatically. “The moon hung over the Marble family’s home in Maple Creek. A lantern sat in their window, and an eager face was next to it.”

Peter sat up a bit straighter in his chair now, with his eyes open. Simon was still sleeping.

“Do you have to talk about yourself in third person?” Rebecca asked.

“I never said she couldn’t,” Miss Roseborn said.

“It’s more fun that way,” Jayne said. “Anyways. Theresa Marble was at the train station, clutching the hand of her daughter next to her. They were very excited, for they were about to receive the most special surprise of their lives.”

“She’s talking about when her family adopted Teddy,” Lily whispered loudly.

“Class!” Miss Roseborn said. “There will be no more interruptions or I won’t let anyone tell a story.”

Everything was quiet after that.

“Before arriving at the train station,” Jayne continued, “Mom had told me that we would be adopting a baby. I had always wanted a younger sister. I told Mom everything that I wanted in my new sister—-how I wanted her to have curly brown hair like mine, and black eyes, and be playful and kind and easy to boss around. Mom, of course, told me that I shouldn’t be looking at the outside, but at the inside.

“The orphanage had sent Mom a letter in the mail with little boxes on it. The boxes listed traits, like ‘curly-haired’ or ‘green-eyed’, you know. Mom ripped the letter up and threw it away.

She mailed her own letter back to the orphanage and said she would take whatever baby needed a home the most, no matter what it looked like.

“I didn’t fully understand why she did that. I still wanted a brown-haired, black-eyed baby just like how I looked when I was born. And I just couldn’t bring myself to accept anything else.

In the weeks before the baby came, we prepared a nursery in the house. Mom and Dad were so excited. It was almost like Mom was having a real baby.

“Like I said, the night that we received the baby was very dark and cold. Mom and I went to the train station while Dad stayed back home. Dad kept looking out the window every five minutes, he was so excited.

“As we waited at the station, the train screeched to a halt in front of us. About a dozen people got out, including a woman carrying a baby. Since it was pretty dark, we couldn’t see the baby very well, but I knew immediately that she—-or should I say he—-was nothing like what I had wanted.

“I bit my lip and held everything in, all the way home, until I exploded in the dining room. I wept and wailed with all of my seven-year-old might. I told Mom how much I had wanted a girl not a boy. How everything with this boy was completely wrong. My mom was disgusted with me, but I kept wailing. Mrs. Thompson actually came running over because she thought we’d been robbed.”

Jayne took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t even talk to the baby at first, because I was so upset. It’s not that I thought he was ugly. He was a beautiful little baby. It was just that he was the absolute opposite of what I had pictured him to be.” She sighed. “It wasn’t easy for any of us in the house during those first few weeks. But eventually, I adapted to the situation, like all humans would. My little brother warmed up to me, and I warmed up to him. I realized how ugly my attitude had been. I learned a lot about what I thought was cliché—looking at the inside of people instead of the outside. And….” She smiled sheepishly. “That baby became Teddy Marble.”

The room was silent for a few seconds. Everyone knew how much Jayne loved and protected her little brother. They had their arguments, but they got along much better than most siblings did. It was beyond surprising to know that Jayne hadn’t wanted Teddy when she first saw him.

“Wow,” David said, breaking the silence.

Miss Roseborn was eager to extract a moral out of this story. “Have any of you ever wanted someone you were meeting to look a certain way? Or maybe you’ve judged people on how they look?”

Everyone looked uncomfortable.

“I’d really like it if a few of you could share,” she prodded. “Of course, you don’t have to. But you know what? I’ll share, to make everyone comfortable. I have always judged people based on looks.”

Ten shocked faces exchanged glances.

“I know,” Miss Roseborn said. “I’m trying to stop, though. I’ve met too many wonderful people who aren’t beautiful to believe that only beautiful people are smart, or friendly, or talented. There are beautiful people who have those qualities, and there are beautiful people who don’t.”

The classroom was silent for a moment more, reflecting on the story. It had touched each student in the room. Whether they wanted to admit it or not, each of them had judged someone else based on their looks, clothing, or weight. Jayne’s bravery, though, encouraged everyone in the room to share their own stories. James Muller, in particular, wanted to share a story that was similar to Jayne’s. He held his breath as he watched Miss Roseborn pick a name out of the hat. She read it out loud.

“James Muller.”

It was time for another story.

 

 

Deborah loves reading, art, and baking. She’s adored writing since she was little. As a child, she filled up journals with recollections of everyday events and stories about girls her age (who happened to like reading, art, and baking). “Snow Stories” is her first published work.

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