Search Results

< 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

Fall/Winter 2024 Cover art: "Just a Little Laundry" by Ruby Wirth Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Editors' Note 󠀠 View Avery Grossman, Jaslyn Dickerson, Jamie Lohse & Jupiter Hayes Small Title 󠀠 Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Dedication 󠀠 View Élan Staff Small Title 󠀠 Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Two Beautiful Things, Entangled at the Joints Angelic Reflection View Cherry Cheesman Small Title Krislyn Fraser Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button I'm Refolding Foreboding View Gustave Rish Small Title Kierra Reese Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Effects of Seasonal Changes on Floridian Coastal Wildlife Florida Girl View Scooter Wirth Small Title Hailey Edwards Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button 󠀠 Just a Little Laundry View 󠀠 Small Title Ruby Wirth Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Translated and Transferred Bino View Natalie Cappelletti Small Title Tatiana Arroyave Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button An Open Door The Minkin Kitchen View Lila Hartley Small Title Hana Minkin Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button New Orleans Nights Bright Adventures Ahead View Zoë Forstall Small Title Abigail Cashwell Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button tracing Canis Major on a cloudy night A Girl's Universe View James Helmick Small Title Autumn King Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Papa On The Way Home View Olivia Sheftall Small Title Zoe Wagner Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button As I Go to the Sea For Glory! View Hanzhen Teng Small Title Raiti Namiranian Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Worship/War Inocencia View Su Thar Nyein Small Title Ian Castro Soto Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button His Mother's Cries Incandescent View Anai Harris Small Title Daysha Perez Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Saltwater Escape View Nico De Guzman Small Title Elizaveta Kalacheva Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button We Desire Anything but Peace Don't Let This Darkness Fool You View Chao Small Title Jenna Williams Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button crepuscular, a portrait of matrilineal scoliosis 󠀠 View Ariel Wu Small Title 󠀠 Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button 󠀠 Unprepared View 󠀠 Small Title Shanwill Wang Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button A Lesson on Teenage Girlhood Hurt Mother View Oona Keleher Small Title Colson Gomez Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button November's Cardinal Granny Girl View Emerson Flanagan Small Title Ji'niyah Alexander Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST"

Élan's Spring/Summer 2021 Issue is up and ready to read. Featuring talented teenage artists and writers from all over the world. Spring/Summer 2021 Cover Art: Entrapment by Jillian Atwood TABLE OF CONTENTS Table of Contents Table of Contents Writing Visual Art Editor's Note Button Editor's Note Zoe Lathey & Blair Bowers Connect to "TOC Title" Zoe Lathey & Blair Bowers Read Language, Button Language, Summer Carrier Connect to "TOC Title" Summer Carrier Read Salmon Contortionist Button Salmon Contortionist Sophia Rose Smith Rowan Blankemeyer Connect to "TOC Title" Sophia Rose Smith Rowan Blankemeyer Read My Mother's Spirits Mother and Child Button My Mother's Spirits Mother and Child Tuesday Locklear Emily Nguyen Connect to "TOC Title" Tuesday Locklear Emily Nguyen Read Braids Abyss of Gold Button Braids Abyss of Gold Mackenzie Shaner Joshua Hein Connect to "TOC Title" Mackenzie Shaner Joshua Hein Read Poemgranate Brazen Button Poemgranate Brazen Autumn Hill Hasina Lilley Connect to "TOC Title" Autumn Hill Hasina Lilley Read Truth in Bitterness... Twirler/Biter/Picker Triptych Button Truth in Bitterness... Twirler/Biter/Picker Triptych Josselyn Ortiz Rachel Brown Connect to "TOC Title" Josselyn Ortiz Rachel Brown Read Nomos (The Law) Button Nomos (The Law) Ninah Gibson Connect to "TOC Title" Ninah Gibson Read Animals and Social Trash Clawing at My Dread Button Animals and Social Trash Clawing at My Dread Kevin Kraft Joshua Luke Rogers Connect to "TOC Title" Kevin Kraft Joshua Luke Rogers Read Toxic Lover Boy Button Toxic Lover Boy Emily Khym Isaac Riley Connect to "TOC Title" Emily Khym Isaac Riley Read Microaggressions Inner Truth Button Microaggressions Inner Truth Trinity Jones Trinity Cohen Connect to "TOC Title" Trinity Jones Trinity Cohen Read Depth to my Body Sorrowful Reflection Button Depth to my Body Sorrowful Reflection Mia Parola Hasina Lilley Connect to "TOC Title" Mia Parola Hasina Lilley Read Jesus in a Tie Dye Shirt Word Vomit Button Jesus in a Tie Dye Shirt Word Vomit Skye O'Toole Isabela Mendez Connect to "TOC Title" Skye O'Toole Isabela Mendez Read We Stopped for Daily's Mirage and Menagerie Button We Stopped for Daily's Mirage and Menagerie Blair Bowers Rowan Blankemeyer Connect to "TOC Title" Blair Bowers Rowan Blankemeyer Read Handcrafting a Predictable... The Peace of Pre-Quarantine Button Handcrafting a Predictable... The Peace of Pre-Quarantine Anthony Bernando Kyra Lai Connect to "TOC Title" Anthony Bernando Kyra Lai Read Hilltop Timekeeper Trip to Nowhere Button Hilltop Timekeeper Trip to Nowhere Toko Hata Zhanna Marzan Connect to "TOC Title" Toko Hata Zhanna Marzan Read The Shepherd Button The Shepherd Rachel Brown Connect to "TOC Title" Rachel Brown Read Guardians In Theory Button Guardians In Theory Sarah Ermold Julienne Masopust Connect to "TOC Title" Sarah Ermold Julienne Masopust Read Black Walnut Dead to the World Button Black Walnut Dead to the World Eli Mears Jillian Atwood Connect to "TOC Title" Eli Mears Jillian Atwood Read Pray Imitation Smile Button Pray Imitation Smile Christine Xu Hasina Lilley Connect to "TOC Title" Christine Xu Hasina Lilley Read The Fish False Prophet Button The Fish False Prophet Kaysyn Jones Vera Caldwell Connect to "TOC Title" Kaysyn Jones Vera Caldwell Read Spring/Summer 2021 Staff Zoe Lathey Blair Bowers Hannah Bardhi Sheldon White Blake Molenaar Parker Sheppard La'Mirakle Price Nayra McMahan Sage Whitecotton Arry Pender Editor-in-Chief Junior Editor-in-Chief Poetry Editor Prose Editor Art Director Junior Art Director Managing Editor Junior Managing Editor Social Media Editor Associate Editor

Spring/Summer 2022 Cover Art by: Vera Baffour Table of Contents Writing Art Editor's Note 0 Blair Bowers and Brendan Nurczyk The creased polaroid my grandmother keeps in her wallet 7:30AM 1 Kota Locklear England Townsend I Left my Heart in the Knot of a Weeping Willow Tree Off 2 Peyton Pitts Jadalyn Gubat The Willful Pisgah 3 Nayra McMahan Audrey Lendvay my childhood friends 4 Raymond Chen For Medusa El Tiburón 5 Mia Parola Natalie Holden motherland My Inner Brewing Conflicts 6 Evangelina Ariana Thornton Alana Guifarro Mountaintop Soho 7 Itay Frenkel Ivory Funari My mother's letters to my father. Dreamscape Randos 8 Chloe Pancho Vera Baffour Innocent Until Educated 9 England Townsend Deep in Georgia Blackout 10 Autumn Hill Micayla Latson Doll Dancer 11 Zarria Belizaire Reagan Hoogesteger Recursions Wasting Time 12 Nolan Lee Elizaveta Kalacheva The Last Rite LORD BABA (GOLDEN PRIDE) 13 Giovani Jacques Taylor Ekern Anthem Silhouette 14 Brendan Nurczyk Lan Turner Iridescence for the Soul Lucky Numbers 15 Hallie Xu Christopher Thomas My Body, the Sea/Mi Cuerpo, el Mar The Gain and Loss in Transformation 16 Raquel Silberman Alyssa Giraud icarus & her lover A Challenge Approaches 17 Eva Chen Alyssa Giraud Midnight Skin Ave Maria 18 Alexander Sayette Vera Baffour Oliver A Mother's Love 19 Esmé DeVries Chloe Robertson An Evening to Remember 20 Audrey Lendvay Aschnakä 21 Niveah Glover A Tribute to Mitski’s “Class of 2013” Tangled in Transformation 22 Hollis Ackiss Camille Faustino the girl in the pool has all her clothes on I Sea Trash 23 Ali Ximines Christian Silva The Orange Tree Across the Street Groceries 24 Sarah Ermold Camille Faustino The Bird dovetail 25 Blair Bowers Sachiko Rivamoute Between the Eyes Commensalism 26 Maeve Coughlin Arabella Riefler Firstborn Late 27 Satori McCormick Jadalyn Gubat Who's Point of View 28 Solara Cotton to she who fights the snow Afternoon Painting 29 Sarah Sun Zoe Turner Rose-Colored Glasses Blooming Petals 30 Mackenzie Rud Bria Mcclary the summer you learned to bike Marine Karma 31 Eva Chen Grace Kim Spring/Summer 2022 Staff Blair Bowers Brendan Nurczyk Zarria Belizaire Nia Moneyhun Parker Sheppard Lanina Herndon Anna Smith Nayra McMahan Bonny Bruzos Sage Whitecotton Kaysyn Jones Leila Warner Editor-in-Chief Junior Editor-in-Chief Poetry Editor Prose Editor Art Director Junior Art Director Associate Art Director Managing Editor Junior Managing Editor Social Marketing Editor Associate Marketing Editor Associate Marketing Editor

How Lucky we Are Meredith Anglin How lucky we are to be alive. How lucky we are to exist, and to comprehend, and to feel love and sorrow and hatred and peace, and to experience. How lucky to walk the earth and feel the grass under our feet and to hear the sweet music of life surrounding us. And how beautiful it is to cry. How beautiful for us to feel so much emotion that we simply cannot contain it within our bodies. For us to instead place a bit of that emotion within a droplet of water and release it from ourselves. How powerful that is, that we can feel so deeply and so fully that we simply overflow. That we cannot hold it in any longer. How beautiful it is to live. And how rare. How impossible it is that we are in a seemingly infinite universe and that we just happen to be on the one planet we know of that can host life. Have you ever thought of that? We are on the one planet that has art on it. We are on the one planet where people can dance. The one planet that holds nature and food and children and joy and dreams. And how lucky we are. How lucky. That we may have hearts among us that fill with love for every other heart, that hurt and bleed and burn and go beyond the point that you would expect to empty them of any feeling at all, yet still love tremendously and blindly. Hearts that can see a beautiful picture or read a beautiful line of poetry and be filled with love and sorrow and yearning and care, deep genuine care for everything that breathes, oh, how lucky we are indeed! Return to Piece Selection

< Back zlatá hvězda by Sabrina Inga The World is Burning. Look Back. By Chloe Backes “But Lot’s wife looked back, and she became a pillar of salt.” Genesis 19:26 I have seen what those men do to the angels. How they surround like vultures, look down at us as we search for the stars— block out with big black wings spread like fingers, outstretched, reaching hungrily for life. We live like paranoid animals. Rabbits that run through day and dark, we tend to see nothing but fear as the bird swoops down, we bow cheeks on chilled sand, our palms young and raw, sticky with the salt of purity. Angel, you must look back at the world—the life within it: isopods hidden in the damp crunched pockets of dirt slopped and sun-worn plastic bags. The autumn air brushing past it all, into the trees as leaves scatter in our sun, it is a daytime disco as confetti from the crape myrtle tree, pink and plentiful, land on what is now rose-petaled sidewalks littered with crunches of bright orange, splashed acorns from the water oak trees that the squirrels run through, careless of the abundance they drop. An acorn lands on a pedestrian's head as they look up simply to giggle to themselves, and later to their friends, about the funny thing that happened to them at the park today. My God, I know more than what you and your servicemen assume. You said this city was below salvation, but did you even look for its humanity? Beautiful people, full of flaw and unorganized color, canvases who could have been more but were burnt, unable to see anything except for sin—they were more to this world than sin: "You said this city was below salvation, but / did you even look for its humanity?" They were young ladies with their tongues stuck out, windows down, they scream knowledge in the form of hip-hop music. Their skin tastes like salt, fresh from the sea. They live unafraid of the sun. Old men in worn, nearly antique flannel shirts, take one determined step forward and one hopeful step back in the kitchen they’ve had since they were the naive age of nineteen. Still naive, I see them silently look down to cry as they hold onto their partner in the butterscotch candlelight, praying to at least save their love. Little children, voices so light, they know not to lower their strength as the world says goodnight. Fighting the tide their yawns are wide as they measure their height, I wished for them a longer life. My God, our God, your angels looked at us and said: We are going to destroy this place. The park I used to dance at, where the disco would sparkle as I spun, and the lizards would bathe in the sun. They told us they would kill this land, set the fire and leave us as roadkill. They said: The outcry to the LORD against its people is too great that he has sent us to destroy it. And as my husband cried, all I could do was question you. You, who floods and sets aflame all the world with your handgun named judgement. I looked back at my home. We were worth fighting for. About the Author... Chloe Backes is the Marketing Liaison of the Elan literary magazine staff. A visual artist and creative writer, she often speaks on the beauty of life, the complexities of relationships, and the cyclical nature of it all. About the Artist... Sabrina Inga is a junior at Savannah Arts Academy in Savannah, Georgia, where she majors in visual arts. Her favorite mediums to use are acrylic paint and graphite, however, she likes to experiment with different techniques. She is currently taking an AP 2D art class, where her main focus is exploring fairy tales and myths from different cultures. Previous Next

e7b13376-eb7e-40c0-acc7-16b17b18b548 Afternoon Painting by Zoe Turner to she who fights the snow by Sarah Sun it is winter, and i watch you leave each night from my vantage in the attic, furtive fear in the pinch of your mouth, my candles doused and your gait of footsteps burned into tenebrous eyelids; stark against moonlit snow. yet i do not care where you go because when you come back through these timber-framed hatches silhouetted against a watermelon sunrise whispering by this honeycomb, i can hear the soft exhale of your breath, velvet smile of lips murmuring liquid words of stories that still my quivering shoulders. i can smell mellow winters and brimming pantries, meadows of pruned petals; faith-welded nirvana. and when i see the twinkle in your motherly gaze, your placid fingers reaching out to rasp against my fists— tomorrow will be better than this chasm that was today— i imagine you leaving each night with bitter resolve, shaking your fiery fist when the frost bites, and stealing stars from merciless skies to braid through my hair and string across this rotten wood-beamed ceiling. i can almost ignore your scarred palms, plastered tattoos of war, battle etched into your veins, the evening crescents beneath baggy, vermilion windows. i can almost ignore the desperate holes dug among forests of rime, quavering refrains of clattering snow-soaked branches that wreath our paltry bale of firewood. it recoils further each time a tear lands intangible; blue lips and scraps of cloth. still i look and think, strong , like the evergreens. still i listen and think, dulcet , like the daylight. still i do not turn away when you reach with chapped hands and fraught breath to struggle and coax and beg a candlelight of comfort from this cold hearth, these fruitless trees. still i hope and i love and i wait. Return to Table of Contents

< Table of Contents Second Place Team by Stella McCoy Texas Children By Isobel Stevenson We are eight and nine and ten, sitting in the back of a truck, moving up and down, down and up with the rhythm of the rocks. The stars are out, so many they almost block the moon. We are lunar creatures, free as a breath of air, souls full of summer and sunburn. We are Texas children who bore heat rash before scars, who caught snakes and watched scorpions fight in lights. We are tough kids: Lord of the Flies unbound, barreling towards a farm to blister and pick grass. “I point out the Big Dipper to him, something I learned in science class, and he nods. I feel infinite.” Sonny takes my hand in the bed of the truck when I almost fall out. He’s one of the tough boys I want to be. He’s rogue and brave and I’m almost as tall as him. “You gotta hold on,” he says, always watching out for me. I nod, keep his hand close, and look up at the sky. I point out the Big Dipper to him, something I learned in science class and he nods. I feel infinite. In the back of the truck, we are infinite: Texas children turned lunar creatures, barreling through our memory. About the Writer... Isobel Stevenson is a high school student in Houston, Texas. She loves the summer more than the winter , and her favorite book is Catcher in the Rye. About the Artist... Stella McCoy is a current junior at Headwaters School in Austin, Texas. She particularly enjoys using 2D media within her work, such as oil and acrylic paint. Within her subject matter, she’s often inspired by other artistic disciplines beyond the visual arts, including ballet and classical guitar.

< Back Crossstreets by Katherine Chen African Winter By Mila Rose Bredenkamp Proud fever trees, lined like soldiers along the broken, cracked road. Sweet bile creeps elegantly down their languid forms as they observe and form a formidable barricade. The lady in the supermarket has a gold tooth; it winks as she smiles at us. She complains of the cold, scanning our jar of peanut butter, her beaded bracelet clinking happily. She says the electricity is out again. We say our water has been cut off. We all nod solemnly, smiling and shaking our heads, and there is a mutual exhausted humor that passes through us. It is with a loud smile and an orchestral laugh that she wishes us well. She means it. The fever trees turn their gazes from the supermarket window back to the street, where darkness has long since spread out. They observe hushed figures that scatter awkwardly and pull frantically at the veins of the streetlights, rip thorns out of the fever tree flesh to place onto the road, in search of flattening tires. "The fever trees turn their gazes from the supermarket window back to the street, / where darkness has long since spread out. " where darkness has long since spread out. Tomorrow night, there will be no light on this street; there may not even be light in the houses that line it. But the lady in the supermarket, in her singsong voice, wishing us all well, reverberates through the empty streets. And the pumping heart of Africa stays bloody, warm and red, an encasement of thorny fever tree roots preventing the frost from settling. About the Author... Mila Bredenkamp is 17 years old. She was born in South Africa and is currently living in Singapore studying at the German European School of Singapore. In her free time, she enjoys reading, baking, sketching, and writing poetry and short stories. Her favorite poet is Sylvia Plath, and she hopes to discover more about poetry and read the work of famous poets. After school, she hopes to go into a field surrounding writing or travel. About the Artist... Katherine Chen is a 17-year-old senior at Hamilton High School. Her favorite medium is oil and chalk pastels. However, she also frequently uses collage and various unconventional forms of medium to express her art. She has won several Gold Regional Keys in the Scholastic Art Awards. Hoping to continue her art journey, Katherine will be pursuing art for university. Previous Next

Fall/Winter 2021 Cover Art: Ephemeral by Jayci Bryant Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Translated and Transferred Bino Natalie Cappelletti Small Title Tatiana Arroyave Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View