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< Back That Time of Day by Valentina Zapata Rotting Roots By Alethea/Jamie Lohse The very air in the South pants, muggy and oppressive, down her neck, like a monster’s breath. As she steps out of the car, Elaine can tell she’s home just by the taste of a humid breeze and the sting of mosquito bites on her arms. The Oakley family’s home is dingy, deserted, and small — not traditional. The paint outside is weathered and stained, a makeshift flowerbed has been overgrown by weeds. The double-wide trailer is hardly a home at all, but it's the closest thing to it that the Oakley family has ever had. Elaine hauls her only suitcase out from the trunk and slams the lid. It isn't as if there are any neighbors around to disturb. Her grandpa bought this land for cheap, way back when there was even less around than the godforsaken nothing here now. He plopped the trailer down, propped it up with some cinderblocks, and there it stayed. Out here, everything stays. This North Florida mud — stickier than honey but not half as sweet — clings to anything, if it’s unlucky enough. Elaine starts slowly toward the trailer’s rickety steps, dragging the dead body of her childhood behind her. She knows Pa left the trailer to her because he had nothing better to do with it. The old man could never sell this wretched thing. Still, Elaine feels that he liked the idea of her having it. That always was Pa’s special, sick form of pride. His children were extensions of himself, and maybe this was his final selfish act: a subtle way of keeping the little he owned, even in death. It wasn’t a charitable way of thinking. In Elaine’s experience, that meant it was the truth. "Elaine starts slowly toward the trailer’s rickety steps, dragging the dead body of her childhood behind her." The sun starts to set over the trees, casting golden light behind their towering silhouettes. Elaine picks up her pace, as if she can outrun the rising sound of crickets. She’s always hated being out here at night. It started a few weeks after Elaine had turned seven. On a random Saturday, Pa woke her and Camden up by kicking them out of the house with a simple, cruel: “because I said so!” Elaine started crying, but Camden, eleven at the time, knew better. Only Pa was allowed to throw tantrums in this house. Her big brother gave her a piggyback ride the mile-walk to their neighbor’s house, just to calm her down. The Carsons were kind folks, with some kids around their age. They always let her and Camden stay for dinner without asking any questions. Elaine couldn’t count how many meals she must owe them over the years. The day was alright, but the path home was different in the dark. In Elaine’s young mind, she swore the trees had changed shape, that the wind was whispering something ancient and terrifying through their branches. The crunching of leaves and strange sounds from the forest weren’t any regular critters, but a great beast stalking them through the night, something big and mean, with pitch black eyes and a wide, gaping mouth. Elaine remembers telling Camden, "These woods turn hungry when the sun goes down.” Usually, her brother would just laugh at her for saying something so stupid. That night, he’d stared at the star-filled sky for a moment with an expression like piano music in an empty chapel. Elaine finds herself thinking about that look on her brother’s face a lot more than she probably should. She hadn’t seen it again till Camden's fifteenth birthday, when Pa first goaded him into trying a drink. “Just a sip, son. C’mon, you’re a man now, aren’t ya?” If she had said something back then, maybe it would have made a difference. But she didn’t, and thinking about it would do nothing but kill her. That night, Elaine was small and afraid. She didn’t question it when Camden wordlessly grabbed her hand and pulled them into a run for the rest of the way home. Pa was passed out drunk on the couch when they came in. Elaine knows this place is empty now, but she still finds herself bracing for the smell of booze. After years of disuse, the trailer doorknob is a little rusty. Still, when she fishes a key out from under the ancient welcome mat, it opens just fine. As Elaine steps inside, the first thing she notices is that there’s far less mess than she was expecting. The place looks cleaner than she’s ever seen it. Pa ’s church had handled the funeral, so they probably cleaned up too, as a good deed. Elaine faintly remembers them calling her, offering condolences, and inviting her to speak at the memorial service. The woman on the phone didn’t bother hiding her shock when Elaine politely declined to attend at all. The quiet gasp from the other end of the line still lingers in Elaine’s ears, like an itch she can’t scratch. She knows they spent the reception wondering what “Poor Ol’ Tommy” did to deserve such a rotten daughter. Everyone said he found God, towards the end there. By Elaine’s count, that would have been the fifth time Pa had “found God” over the years. This time though, he never got the chance to relapse. Pa had died a good man. The trailer door shuts softly, leaving Elaine alone in the dark. She freezes, a sudden and irrational unease washes over her. She slowly turns, cautiously staring into the black void. She reaches for the light switch, but no illumination follows the click. The darkness seems to press heavier, and in the deafening silence, Elaine can only hear the faint sound of her own shallow breaths. Her chest tightens with a senseless panic, and the image of unseen hands reaching for her flashes behind her eyes. She stumbles, trying to run to the windows, and tripping over her suitcase in the process. When her hands finally find the blinds, she rips them open with a resounding ‘clack’ in the silence. Fading sunlight spills in, revealing nothing but her own shadow. As a girl, she’d been terrified of the dark. Never once before college did she sleep without a nightlight, despite Camden’s teasing. When she was in middle school, Elaine had been so determined to quit that she threw her nightlight into the retention pond. She wound up not sleeping for three days straight before she finally broke and begged Pa to buy her a new one. After that, she’d been resigned to the fact that it was impossible for her to rest in the dark. Every time Elaine closed her eyes, she swore she could feel something watching her. Creeping closer. Just waiting for the chance to strike. Eventually, the nagging dread always twisted into a gripping terror. She’d snap her eyes open, shaking and desperate, only to find an empty room. It was stupid. Elaine knew that, even as a kid. “Ain’t nothing to be scared of, girl. You keep on crying like that, and I’ll give you something to cry about!” About the Author... Alethea/Jamie Lohse is a young queer writer from Orange Park, Florida. They are currently a Junior in Douglas Anderson School of Art’s creative writing program. They love to draw outside of school, and hope to one day pursue the medium of sequential art. They've previously been published as a print exclusive in the Élan 2023 issue with their non-fiction work titled “Sparks in Rainstorms”, a personal essay on life and its end. In future endeavors, they're working on a multi-media urban fantasy horror story called “The Chaska Investigations”. About the Artist... Valentina Zapata is a sophomore at New World School of the Arts. She explores multiple mediums across different art forms, from ceramics to animation. The majority of her works are acrylic paintings. Zapata takes an interest in themes of identity, childhood, and family. Previous Next

Syrup Ty'ana Pope I could have killed him, that night in the woods. We were alone, no one around for miles, the silence between us filled with the crackling of the bonfire we had spent a near hour trying to figure out how to light safely. No one would have known what I did in those nights. I could have thrown him in the blazing fire, I could have impaled him like a finger brushing against old wood, I could have tied him up and left him under the dock at the lake for the leeches to feed on for all anyone would care. But I could not. I had done it so many times; I had chased people down for blocks on end, I had gutted people alive, and that is not even all of it, cause I had done so much more, and even better I had played my part to get away with it. I had been everyone’s worst nightmare. This should have been no issue for someone like me. But I just could not kill him, no matter how hard I tried, I could not. He was just too… something ? I do not think there is even a word to describe him. His voice played so soft and sweet, almost in a way that sticks with you like sap no matter how much you try to wash it off. His eyes never glowed, only empty, only ever filled with light hope and deep sorrow. His hair always seemed so unkept, but not in a bad way, but in a way that felt like he did not have it in him to maintain his daily appearance. He carried a familiar scent to him, almost like home, not the building, but the feeling of a long-distance family that have not been brought together for years, but are finally coming back with one another, at a funeral, not exchanging a word, the despair in the room saying enough and more than they ever could. Stupidly, I let the night play on, to give him a chance, to let his actions, thoughts, and words give an explanation to his demeanor, and with that the fire no longer popper over us, instead our voices echoed over and throughout our campsite. But soon the fire did not pop at all, and unexpected rain poured from the sky flooding the ground around, just missing us with the incline of where we rested our site. We spoke for hours in the tent, waiting for the rain to stop. Though rather uncomfortable, he made sure there was no space left for an awkward silence to refill the air, and instead he told me stories; ones from his past, ones he had never told another, ones that told me that he trusted me, ones that made me want to sob into the sky until the angels heard my cries to spare him. And I nearly did cry at one point, but he noticed me, stopped, and grabbed my hand; they were rough, yet soft. Nothing about him matched, I was sure of it then. Even his hands contrasted every other thing about him. He began to apologize profusely for saying too much and asked if I had anything to say, anything to change the direction of the conversation. I did not. So, the rain having stopped by then, we moved on. He brought me outside, the smell of petrichor filling the air, easing the atmosphere. And deciding to take advantage of the now clear weather, he started to teach me. He taught me how to fish, how to find poisonous plants and berries, how to avoid them, how to cure any illness with them, how to turn them into a bittersweet honey like syrup. That was my favorite part; mushing the berries and watching their rich nectar ooze out into the little bowls until it was nothing but, the skins of them being taken out to dry out by the fire for a snack later into the night. The syrup we made was put in these almost childlike cups, sippy cups maybe. It tasted like what I imagine Ambrosia from those Greek stories tasting like. By the third sip I felt my body glow down to its core; my veins felt electric, my eyes felt like they had opened a new color spectrum, my muscles could climb my way up to the top Olympus from the underworld with no assistance. But if this were a Greek story, I would be Paris; falling for a forbidden beauty unknown without thinking about the consequences, because syrup is still syrup in a sippy cup, and it is an even deeper cut when it is poisonous. I should have seen it; building trust with a sob story, it was such a typical move, one I had used many times myself, my own game used against me. I should have taken it as my chance to strike, I was stupid not to. But I just had to let the night happen, just I let him play his game. I should have gotten him first, remove this first story and I would still hold my title. I would not be dead right now. Return to Piece Selection

The Blue and Yellow Lila Hartley We wait for the day that peace comes, hope lingers in the hearts of many. We wait for everyone to have homes, and for the rights of the zany. While bombs destroy homes and lives, We watch from afar. The wives, Mothers, Children, Fathers, Friends, And people Killed and hurt, We read in our car. The memories of our friends Come flooding back. Hearts broken, lives broken, They can never mend But against all the odds Hope remains, Freedom and bravery nods. We get out from behind the windowpane, To preserve the blue and yellow. We help our fellows on this day, Something we could have done for more. So we keep the hope, That one day the children may play, That one day peace will come. In the blue and yellow, Everywhere. Return to Piece Selection

É lan’s 39th Print Edition Launch Party É lan has published a printed version of our magazine annually for the past 40 years. This year, we hosted the exciting launch of our 39th Print Edition! The event was held on September 26th from 7 P.M. to 9 P.M. at the Museum of Contemporary Art Jacksonville (MOCA) in Jacksonville, Florida. Staff came dressed in their classiest outfits to enjoy the celebration of all their hard work. Various staff members and contributors presented their work to the Jacksonville community. The community showed up, with around 70 guests there to listen to spoken word performances, see the artwork, interact with the incredible youth who run É lan, and, of course, take part in the free food and beverages. We are unbelievably excited to announce that, at the party, we sold out every copy we brought! We are so thankful to MOCA for hosting our launch party and supporting our journey as a youth-led literary magazine. We thank all the staff members and faculty who helped set everything up and organize the event. We especially thank everyone who showed up on behalf of É lan and purchased a copy. Getting to see so many people support our craft is what makes it all worth it. Lavilla School of the Arts Visit On November 5th, Élan staff members took a trip to LaVilla School of the Arts. While there, we led a presentation on what we do at Douglas Anderson and, more specifically, in the Creative Writing Department. Our goal was to get kids excited about creative writing and teach them about all the things they can do at DA that they wouldn’t be able to do at any other school. We mentioned events like Coffee House and Extravaganza, as well as clubs such as Black Art, Literary Arts Honor Society, and Spoken Word. We told them about specific creative writing classes and the various open mics we have around town. After the students asked their questions,we led them in blackout poetry and zine-making activities. Scott Parmelee, our Senior Layout and Design Editor, then led a spoken word activity that focused on writing and speaking towards different audiences. Overall, we saw so much talent in the creative writers at LaVilla and we can’t wait to see them take their skills to the next level at DA. We thank LaVilla School of the Arts for letting us come down there and talk with so many up-and-coming writers! For more information about our events, please check out our Instagram pages: @creativewritingda @elanlitmag @dacoffeehouse Signed, Jay Lechwar, Olivia Sheftall, Scott Parmelee

As art directors on the Élan staff, we work closely with all submissions, voting processes, and final selections of pieces for the Fall/Winter, Spring/Summer, and print editions. We are also closely involved with our school’s visual art department and our National Art Honor Society. These in-school organizations provide additional help with encouraging campus involvement during submission periods. Throughout the year, we like to keep a few things in mind when considering art for Élan.   During each submission period, we keep an eye out for pieces that take a creative approach to storytelling, as well as pieces which focus on the creative elements of production. As artists, we understand the fear or apprehension towards submitting work that could be misinterpreted or overlooked, but on the Élan staff, we adore work that steps outside the box and beyond comfort zones. We see an abundance of paintings and drawings that present these ideas, but we often receive a lack of photography and sculpture. While all pieces will be considered with the same mindset and approached with the same level of respect, we strongly encourage artists to submit their photography, sculpture, and printmaking pieces, as long as they conform with our submission guidelines.    Bino by Tatiana Arroyave As art directors, we understand that art is subjective, especially when it comes to visual art. We deeply value the story told through your art and we try our best to uphold its image as the staff approaches our voting period. We keep all possible approaches and meanings in mind as we reach our final selection process. We pair your art with writing that best supports its meaning.   That being said, don’t stress if your art is too specific or too broad! We are open to accepting all art, be it broad or specific. As we mov into our Spring/Summer submission period, we hope you will consider sharing the work you may not have thought about sharing before.      Signed,   Emerson Flanagan and Marcus Holley, Art Direction Team

Every spring, Élan Literary Magazine hosts a writing contest for middle schoolers in celebration of the National Poetry Month in April. This year, there’s a twist: we will also include art! For the first time in Élan history, our literary magazine will celebrate the art of students between 6th and 8th grade in our annual Middle School Writing and Art Contest.  The winners of this contest are awarded a certificate and publication of their work on the Élan website. Publication can offer professional creditability, academic recognition, a wider audience, and better opportunities for your writing and art.   Art can be submitted in any medium: painting, sculpture, photography, printmaking, photography, et cetera. Submissions must be sent to elanlitmagazine@gmail.com  with the name of the student in the subject line. Lurking by Sophia Gapuz Submission emails should include a clear picture of the artwork (in .jpeg or .png file format) and a professional 3rd person biography. We do not accept submissions containing inappropriate or unprofessional content. This includes depiction of any drugs or alcohol, gore, or fanart. Writing guidelines remain the same. If you need a refresher, refer to this link:  https://www.elanlitmag.com/middle-school-writing-submit   As members of the Élan staff, we believe that young writers and artists deserve recognition. We hope young artists of all disciplines understand they have a place in the world. We hope Élan will be your first publication and a defying step into your passion. We believe in you and will always take care and pride when working with your art. “Sometimes, I cling onto / life like death. / I meditate, hands poised on / my lap as tightropes, / floating like Buddha with / the world below me. / I am touching the sky. / Raindrops or bullets.” - Worship/War by Su Thar Nyein Please visit our website at https://www.elanlitmag.com/middle-school-writing-submit  for further information regarding guidelines and when to submit for Élan’s annual Middle School Art and Writing Contest.  Good luck! We look forward to seeing your work.     Signed,  Chloe Backes, Jamie Lohse, Layla Stalford