After thirty-five years, Élan has persisted in its unique literary and artistic precision. As we finish off this year, we invite you to explore the multi-faceted truths of this issue: identity, coming-of-age, nature, loss, beauty, and more. Each piece illustrates the uniqueness of our contributors and the artistry they have used to tell their history and narratives. We thank our submitters and readers for their participation and interest in Élan and involving themselves in creating and evolving the legacy of this literary magazine. Presenting the Fall/Winter 2021 issue, we welcome you and anticipate your connections to these works. As the year ends, we are pleased to announce and share these truths and hope you are, too. -Editors-in-Chief Blair Bowers and Brendan Nurczyk

Animals and Social Trash Kevin Kraft Clawing at My Dread Joshua Luke Rogers Cars are racing down a highway. On the median, an exhausted man, not quite old but certainly not young either, holds a ripped cardboard sign with nearly unintelligible writing scrawled across its surface. Earlier in the day he had been waving and smiling at passing cars, foolishly believing yet again that someone would stop and help him. But it’s been hours since then, and now he sits defeated with his chin resting upon a loose, shaking fist. In the early hours of the morning, when the sun had just started to peek over the horizon, he had trudged out to the highway from the nearby park where he had taken up residence. There were a few other people like him who slept there, some with bedrolls and other with cheap tents, all avoiding eye contact and jealously hoarding their few possessions, and dodging the cops whenever they decided to go and clear out the park. That was when the man saw a Range Rover come flying down the road before quickly coming to a stop. The man was ecstatic, thinking someone had finally stopped to help him! The man walked over to the car and a teenager climbed out. The teenager opened his trunk and removed a shovel, and he shooed the old man away, shouting and waving the shovel in the air like a spear. The man ran back to the median, and the teenager threw his shovel to the ground and removed a big, bulky black trash bag from the trunk. — “...get out of here! I don’t want you scaring away my customers.” — The man, panting and suddenly lightheaded, immediately ran to a nearby convenience store that was just opening. The owner was searching for his keys in his pocket when he saw the man running up. “Hey,” the owner shouted, “get out of here! I don’t want you scaring away my customers.” “No, wait, there’s a guy over there,” the man said, pointing. “He just chased me around with a shovel, and I think I saw him take a body out of his car! I think we need to call the police or something.” The owner looked over at where the man was pointing. He eyed the teenager and squinted, but then he saw the Range Rover. “Come on, there’s just a kid over there. He’s not hurting anybody. Now get out of here.” The owner unlocked the store and went inside. The man sighed and trudged back out to the highway median. The teenager slammed the trunk shut and dragged the large trash bag over to a nearby shrub, where a black cat suddenly emerged with a bird clenched in its jaws, freshly killed. The cat stared at the teenager, folding its ears, arching its back, spitting and hissing. The teenager swung the shovel at the cat, who dropped its kill and sprinted away. "Goddamn animal,” the teenager muttered. The teenager gripped his shovel and thrust it into the earth. He started to dig, whispering expletives and references to divinities as he did. Quickly he became hunched over as the dig seemed to sap his energy, but he continued to stab at the earth with every ounce of resolve he had. Before the hole was any more than a foot or two deep, long shadows began to form on the ground. The teenager quickened his pace, shoveling dirt into the steadily growing pile next to the hole as quickly as he could. Sweat began rolling down his face and onto his shirt in thick, steady beads as he growled and panted at the ground. The man watched all of this and couldn’t help but wonder where all the police were. They had always been hidden just out of sight years ago when he was speeding. When he was running low on cash and decided to help his dealer friend to make some extra cash, the first guy he tried to sell to turned out to be a cop. They were never seemed to be far away when he was sleeping in the park. Now this horror was unfolding in front of his eyes and it seemed there wasn’t a cop for miles. A car raced down the highway, and the teenager threw his shovel aside and began to dig with his bare hands, throwing the dirt aside, burrowing into the earth. He was like a mole, blind and afraid of what the light might bring, knowing only that the meaning of existence is to dig, dig as fast as you can, eat the dirt if you have to, you goddamn animal. The man suddenly, involuntarily, reached for his right pocket, where he used to keep his phone, but only ended up patting his leg. A second car raced down the highway and the teenager suddenly decided that the hole was deep enough. It grabbed the black bag and threw it into the hole, using its hands to pile dirt on top of it. It patted down the earth with its blackened, filthy paws and then scrambled back to the car and fled, leaving the shovel behind as it went. Cars are still racing down the highway. It’s been many hours since the teenager and the man were the highway’s sole occupants. The man thinks back and realizes it’s been a sad day. Nobody has stopped to give him food or money, or even talked to him, and he’s afraid he’ll have to go another day without eating. A police cruiser drives down the highway with its lights flashing and stops in front of the man. The police officer climbs out of her cruiser and says, “We’ve gotten some reports of panhandling here. I need you to leave.” “Leave?” the man asks. “Leave where? Where am I gonna go? I’m not hurting anyone.” “We’ve actually been told by some of the stores around here that you’re scaring away customers,” the officer replies. “I don’t really care where you go, but you can’t stay here.” The old man sighs and struggles to his feet, making sure to take his cardboard sign with him so the officer can’t yell at him for littering too. As he walks away, the officer stops him and asks: “By the way, there’s a silver alert out right now. A woman disappeared from her retirement home last night, less than a mile from here. Have you seen anything?” The old man stops and stares over her shoulder, looking at the grass on the side of the highway, with the dirt disturbed and the shovel still lying where the teenager had left it hours earlier. He feels his heartbeat starts to race as he forms a connection only he can make. He looks back at the officer. “Nope. Just two cats fighting or something.” Return to Table of Contents

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 An Open Door The Minkin Kitchen Lila Hartley Small Title Hana Minkin Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

12 < Table of Contents On The Phone by Rohan Jones Jewelry Lost in My Sleep (and Undersweetened Tea) by Elise Russell Is it possible to remember the foggy mornings locked somewhere in the humid chambers of my psyche… Can you tell me, please, where are those pieces of myself, lost in the night? There isn’t much to pull from the dull minutes following that evening, just an image of that old friend, hairs slowly growing back where a razor had shaved their white eyebrows clean off. Their mother’s coffee shop, a sticky wooden table. How the rest of us sat around it, wordless, drinking iced hibiscus tea and yearning for sugar, gazing into the eternal void that was a plate of poppy-seed bagels. Unbearably loud music covered us in a mist of exhaustion when I noticed this separation we had from each other, removal from reality at a level that I haven’t had the displeasure of experiencing since. It’s interesting, I think, to understand the limited capacity we have for adventure, to experience a youthful bliss at night just for the blur of it all to become meaningless upon waking up, its only imprint being revealed when you discover one of your earrings has fallen out. The only thing to observe was the loss , the toll, the absence of beauty that I thought must’ve been just six hours earlier. The aftermath of those exciting exploits left me empty as I sat with my friends, just another group of teenagers with dissociative disorders, trying to digest our own emotions and a fourth of a bagel with cream cheese. Maybe the fun we had outweighed the sore eyes, the smudged eyeliner and sensitivity to human contact that followed, but it’s too late to judge now. Lightly lingering flashes of memory show our little group of five sitting in a circle, shivering, passing around a bottle. Each took their turn in revealing slightly more about their lack of home life than anyone was comfortable with—I can still feel that dry burn in my throat, swallowing the amber silence of someone’s cracking voice, something pressing against our eyes, up our nostrils. Teen angst has its own kind of intoxication. Another flash — the full moon and my skull against the rocky concrete road, the coolness of asphalt on my skin, pebbles digging into my elbows, waves of music hitting my ears as we gathered, laying in shivering parallel lines. Two were closer than others, woven together in giggles of want that were later brushed away with shame. It was off-putting, how that giddy tension the rest of us observed dissolved before our eyes. Our wondering ceased soon enough, the mysterious wreckage of their situation wasn’t meant to be investigated. No one spoke of what they saw in those two, but there was always this tension, this understanding, unspoken acknowledgment emerging. Disrupting the peace our gaggle of fools basked in wouldn’t do any good. It was a bubbling, brewing chaos of shared truth that lingered in the air, in that heavenly absence of our own noise as we looked up at the sky, its saucer of light, penny sharp and bright against its star-stained background. That music humming from weak iPhone 7 speakers, warm against the January air, was so far removed from what we heard the morning that followed. The music that blasted in that cafe was just more mindless noise knocking against the shells of us. Nothing could shake us to life again. Doomed to live without purpose, drowning in a maroon pool of empty, empty, empty, bleeding out. "M y nostalgia, its acid pulling up through my stomach, into my throat, dissolves the logic that kept me safe that winter, and now I’m living in loops." Those glimpses of recognition that pop in and out of my peripheral show me this fatigue of wasted effort, longing to be grounded in some hint of experience . My friend’s coffee shop made me sick with a desire to uncover pure, uncorrupted existence. But hindsight is something strange. My nostalgia, its acid pulling up through my stomach, into my throat, dissolves the logic that kept me safe that winter, and now I’m living in loops. Wishing back and forth between these versions of myself, separated only by a few hours of sleep, the chase never stops. There was a reason we always would try to escape, we only wanted to feel , to know , unaware we already had what we were searching for. About the Writer... Elise is a Junior at the Willow School in New Orleans, and a member of Willow’s Certificate of Artistry (CA) Creative Writing Program there. They have lived most of their life in New Orleans, apart from two years near Washington D.C. With a passion for stories since they could read, Elise loves to learn and explore life through language. Besides writing, they also enjoy music, cooking, crocheting, and traveling. Their creative writing teacher, Dr. Allison Campbell, supports their work—you can find her at allisoncampbell@willowschoolnola.org . About the Artist... Rohan Jones is a 17-year-old high school senior at the Episcopal School of Jacksonville. He relishes capturing moments on the street that would otherwise be unnoticed. For him, film photography began as an experiment but quickly grew to be a passion and the preferred medium to portray his work. Rohan is currently developing his AP Photography Portfolio, where he will be including a variety of film prints and digital images.

< 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.

Eye Can See by Adrian Gibson allegory deferred by Lynn Kong Elderly white thread, teeth and strands of soul: Grandmother’s hands are crumpled like youth’s pink silk dress, like the roof of my mouth when I was born as a lump of clay, virgin to bruise and doubt’s edge— gums bared to verity. She ties a slender noose— milky and knitted with exile— and drapes it around my tooth, where frailty clasps earth and rustles somewhat. How is it that I wish so much to be unscathed? I clutch at violation, sucking rue and the dross of parched mirrors. But I cannot give it up, that tooth. I am still so infantile. Someday, when bubonic fragility melds with grace unmired, there will be a wonder akin to that graveyard odyssey wherein all false selves are discarded like the teeth of one’s childhood. Tongue prods void and rests.

My Mother's Spirits Tuesday Locklear Mother and Child Emily Nguyen At that moment in time, everything was warm. The image of his father and his sisters faded away. All that he saw was his mother pouring syrup. He traced his fingers along the mildly singed counters, collecting ash on his fingertips. He wiped the ash onto his trousers and kept going. The dining room held the worst memories. Every night, the family would sit together. Nicholas, his Mother, his Father, Becky, Rose. Eventually, Nicholas’ mother held both of them back, leaving his father and sisters to talk. Sometimes, Nicholas would sit in the living room, just out of sight, and listen. He never heard anything pleasant. “I don’t feel safe with her.” “She’s crazy—she says there’s ghosts in the home. Old beings.” “I caught her opening all the cabinets and closing them again, to scare the spirits away. Breaking grandma’s plates.” Nicholas did not understand what was wrong with his mother. He still doesn’t understand how those things could be bad. His bedroom was right at the end of the hallway. He remembered his melted mirror, his burnt blue blankets. When he was twelve, he came down with a nasty cold. His mother rocked him in her arms. Nicholas had nearly nodded off to bed, when he saw a white flash, and an ethereal booming clap echoed throughout the room. Nicholas’ mother bound up and slammed the window shut. Nicholas began crying. He hated lightning. His mother sat down at the end of his bed, and hushed him. “That wasn’t lightning, love. Those were spirits.” Nicholas sobbed harder. She crawled next to him. “No, no, no. Don’t be afraid of them. They’re kind, they just spook you sometimes.” She smiled. “I hear them talk to me.” Nicholas spent most of his hours with his mother, listening intently to her. She told him all kinds of stories and taught him about the world. She told him about the spirits. She loved those spirits. — “Stay with me and I’ll tell you all about it, you’ll feel like you’re out there.” — “The outside is too dangerous, Nicholas.” she said to him, “Stay with me and I’ll tell you all about it, you’ll feel like you’re out there.” And when he asked, “What about when I grow up?” She hushed him and told him he would never have to leave. He never wanted to leave. He loved this house; he loved his mother. His soul belonged here, with his soulmate. In his home he was free. His mother’s bedroom took most of the damage. The room was destroyed. Nothing was recognizable. Windows were shattered, wood was burnt beyond repair. He reached out to touch a beam of wood and heard the structure of the room shiver under his gentle touch. He had so many great memories with his mother. She taught him so much. She taught him about how awful his father and sisters are. How Becky loved three men. How Rose vowed to never love anyone, or have any children, dishonoring the entire family. How his father (may he rot in hell,) thought his mother was crazy. He remembered how, on his last day of school (around his 6th year?), she had walked to the school. She looked exhausted from the walk, but when she picked up Nicholas, she was smiling. She told him that he’d never have to go to school again. She pulled him out, so he could stay with her. She took his hand and walked him the 10 miles home. They arrived home around nightfall. His mother almost fainted at the door, and he had to carry her to her bed. She did that often. She would walk for hours with Nicholas, and return home late, forcing him to care for her. She would stay up for days, and pass out in the bathtub. Nicholas was always there to put her to bed. He looked around the room. His last memory of her was her holding him to her chest. He was seventeen. She hugged Nicholas, and said, “You’re old enough, now. You don’t need me.” Nicholas said, “I’ll always need you, mom.” “My job was to raise you, love,” she whispered, “Now, my job is done. You are raised. Your job was to grow up, and my job was to watch. Now we are both done. At first, I thought I could delay the inevitable, I could hold onto our relationship until we both die of age, but now that I think about it, that isn’t possible.” “But I can still stay here with you?” Nicholas asked. “As long as we’re together, we’ll live in this house.” She picked up a candlestick, which was illuminating the dark room. The light was flickering out. She held it up to her face. Nicholas remembered how his heart pounded out of his chest when she did this. The light illuminated her face in just the right way, making her serene expression look dastardly. His heart is pounding now, reliving the scene. For a second, young Nicholas thought she would drop the candle. But she didn’t. The candle almost slipped out of her hands, but she caught it. Nicholas could see the flames spreading down the blanket, up the curtains. He could almost see his mother’s face engulfed in them. But that did not happen. She caught the candle. It didn’t happen that way. Nicholas sat down in the ashy room. A cloud of dust flew up into the air, surrounding him. He pulled a matchbook out from his jacket pocket. He lit a match. He watched as the fire slowly crept its way down the matchstick. After that talk with his mother, Nicholas was worried for her—she told him to leave the room. He went to his room, and the fire started to engulf the home. The spirits knocked over the candlestick. It was the spirits. Return to Table of Contents

A Girl's Universe by Autumn King tracing Canis Major on a cloudy night by James Helmick I have heard little praise of that feeling of silk in the folds of fingers, glass as dreams. Sunlight devouring the sky in its jaws. Little praise of my drowning my face in your pitch pupil. At midnight all the black looks the same. Praise my finger for how it glows bluer than skin between the choker & nape of the neck, praise the ice burn of the buckle & warm hairs that tug & tug & tug, spilling in the sauna of your maw when I press a thumb onto your knife-edged fang & open up, wild vanilla lush on your lithe & sandy tongue my blood drops a stunning shade of purple. Recurring dreams of wind rushing through my fur? The song sounded like a perversion of music in the rabid writhing of the instrumental, the noise eroding the palate of the human ear. From afar, I heard it purring as lights pulsed color from basement concerts. I curled up on the concrete, prickly tail jostling with the circadian rhythm. My memories clearer than ever. Sometimes as a teen I would get on my bike & ride until I started crying. I have heard little praise of those who bark. Your lyrics scribbled, pens snapped & ink flecks splattered on your flesh, speckling the coat a star-map, each sparkle a promise, wishes waiting on the tip of your lithe tongue purple in this lighting, orange in the next. When I was young I slept in the backyard among the silky weeds & under the light-pollution. I must have known the stars were only invisible. Pack-animal recordings in my earbuds, I held a human hand to moonlight & cast a dog’s shadow. About the Writer... James Helmick (they/she/he) is a young artist in Jacksonville, Florida. Their speculative sci-fi short story has earned a Scholastic Gold Key, and they are passionate about writing poetry. James enjoys open mics and spoken word activities. About the Artist... Autumn King is a 10th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her preferred mediums are digital art, watercolor, and painting, but she also likes to explore new mediums she's never tried before.

Wishful Thinking by Rose Knudsen To the dock of the Black River by Alicia Vinson Today, I run The black essence that connects my feet To that painted on the concrete Diligently admiring these stains Of blue vandalized soul Kids restricted by the streetlight Whose mamas only trust them with the other brown folk Rusted plaque regulations in white Our neighborhood speaks love Yet the city speaks Wildfire and bruises Anyone who’s smart would awaken For safety is our killer Anyone whose timeline is smeared in white-out Would lead prayer We ask, what will this city be painted in? The murals of our youth, Or the tears blooming the flowers of our ancestors? We know the answer As the backbone of this city, we must go The tears Make up this ocean Holding the planks up with such prosper Which I run towards, For the sanctuary of my grandma’s cradling For the flowers that rub my veins in hymn While I wait my turn On this dock; this grave My friend I get your fear, I do For our dock is not painted a chalk gold glaze It is raw wooden brown The water leaking our blood at their palms Sister and brother I believe we will continue this revolution For our roots will elongate to and from the fractured heart To the children so criminal For the black boys Limited in toys And girls whose hair not cherished in the eyes of the sea But masked in the bitter plucks of bleach and chlorine From hands to dock we clamp Dock to droplets we kiss Not a taste of the discolored boat on our lips The time on our watch reads2000 And I understand the strong fingers that Pull me towards your revolt Eyes blank with fear “Will we simply float past time In the tombs of our blood? To be passed down from generation To generation we Will carry us, only us?” Crooked smile in confidence My feet dive into our waters A bridge of your love To the promised land Until our sea is so black Floods the city of our rhythm That they can’t run, that they can’t wait

Black Walnut Eli Mears Dead to the World Jillian Atwood The black walnut is a silent void, an altar bloodied and pulled into the spirit that chopped gaps, long wrinkled hardened bark, yanking you in by the fingers into the nutcracker designed for divine fruit. Alone on a rural Maryland hill where people once prayed to immortals like the black walnut and died under the shredding of their chestnuts who rotted from their uncaring vows the black walnut too fickle to die, and echoing into you. They told you it was bitter, strong, epochs twisted into a dendro, a nut, a God you sensed the moment you laid eyes on it like a child rubs her hands in old dust and senses the ground you felt your size. Fruit advances and some say it never ages long enough to enjoy like grandparents who could not face the blackness of an empty life, who faded into flickering ghosts, as they gazed upon the black walnut in the silent glory of drifting grass. Return to Table of Contents

< Table of Contents The Switchboard Operators By Allison Clausen It seemed like every time Helen returned to the telecommunications office, there were fewer women working and more calls to connect. The office was only slightly brighter than the dusk outside, illuminated by a few flickering lights that hummed above the rows of consoles. Each console had hundreds upon hundreds of jacks that made Helen’s head swim when she looked at them, and multicolored wires she tried desperately not to tangle. “The only person who ever looked at her was Rose O’Neal, another woman at the office, whose smile brightened the room more than the large industrial lights.” She had started developing a callus on her thumb and index finger from the strain reliefs dragging across her fingers as she connected call after call, though she told herself she didn’t mind. It wasn’t like anyone was looking at her hands. The only person who ever looked at her was Rose O’Neal, another woman at the office, whose smile brightened the room more than the large industrial lights. The two of them had become something close to friends over the past few months. They had always known each other—they lived in the same area, ran into each other in shops or restaurants—but had only started talking when they started working. Not during work, as Rose connected international calls, and Helen was in a different room with domestic ones, but afterwards. When Helen arrived at the office, Rose beamed at her from the position at the first console, causing their supervisor to snap, “That’s four more hours, Ms. O’Neal,” though Rose accumulated four hours each shift, so it was hardly worth saying. Helen never smiled in response, keeping her gaze steeled forward. If she offered anything in return, she was bound to receive extra hours as well, and her shift wouldn’t end at the same time as Rose’s. Rose was only doing what she could to ensure the two of them didn’t have to walk the darkened streets of Providence alone, and though she had never said so, Helen appreciated it. The supervisor’s eyes raked heavily across Helen’s face, but she refused to glorify him with so much as a glance. She moved to the next room, head raised, back straight, and set her purse down on a chair before the console, hanging her hat on the back. There was no use sitting down—there weren’t enough of them working the night shift, and Helen had to stay standing to sprint back and forth between each jack. There was only one other woman with her at the moment. But under their supervisor’s harsh glare, they weren’t allowed to speak. There was hardly time to talk, anyway, not with the constant ringing and connecting, over and over and over. As usual, Rose and Helen left the office together that morning and stepped down the sidewalk in unison. “That building gets so stuffy,” Rose complained, making a big show of taking a deep breath in through her nose. Helen took a breath too and walked lightly in her heels. “It is,” she agreed. “Especially after being on your feet all day.” “And never talking. Ugh!” Rose exclaimed. “You know, when we all started getting jobs I thought, ‘This is it. We’re finally going to be treated like men.’ But we still aren’t, are we?” “I don’t want to be treated like a man ,” Helen said with a scoff. “But I wouldn’t mind some decency.” “They could at least let us talk,” Rose said, crossing her arms and tilting her head back. “Or smile, even. You remember Betty? “Sure.” “Word is she hasn’t been around because they fired her for laughing. Can you believe that? Laughing!” Helen shook her head in vexation. “I heard they’ll fire you if you get married.” “Mm, I heard that too,” Rose said, “and that’s a real shame because I’ve had an eye on someone for a while now.” “You have?” Helen turned her head to look at her. Rose was focused on something in the distance, something Helen couldn’t see. “Since when?” Rose didn’t look back at her, fiddling with the bag around her shoulder. “Since we started this job, that’s when. Part of me got it to impress him.” “Well, who is it? What’s his name?” Rose shook her head. “I’m not telling until I know he and I are serious.” “Oh, please,” Helen said. “There’s not a man at all, is there?” The two of them fell silent, accompanied only by the noise of their heels on the pavement. The sun was just barely making its way past the horizon, a dim green peeking in between the buildings behind them. Helen’s house was only a block or two away, and Rose’s a little farther, but there was no way they were going to walk so long without saying anything, though what to say was troubling. Helen had a hard time imagining Rose in a life outside of their job, not that she couldn’t believe Rose wasn’t out and about flirting with men. No, the thought was entirely believable. But Helen never did anything like that. She went home to her parents, ate a small meal, woke up, ate again, and went to work. She hardly talked. She hardly laughed. She had no man to impress. Only twenty dollars a week, sore feet, and calluses. After mulling it over in a few short moments, Helen broke the tension and asked, “They let that new girl wear skates.” Rose’s hand on her bag fell still, and she glanced over at Helen, eyebrows raised curiously. “Who?” Helen shrugged. “Think her name is Louise.” Rose looked a little dubious. “What, she just skates around the place taking calls?” “Mhm.” “Could be fun, I guess.” “I never learned.” “It’s not too hard,” Rose responded, a smile starting to crinkle at the corners of her eyes. “I’d teach you if we ever had a second to ourselves. Heaven knows we need some fun around here.” The smile fell as quickly as it had appeared. “Did you hear about the girl in Boston?” “Do you know how many girls in Boston there are?” Helen asked instead of answering. “She worked switches, too,” Rose continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Killed herself last night. It was in the paper.” Helen let out a heavy exhale, murmuring, “Can’t really blame her.” Rose made a noise of agreement, then asked, “You wouldn’t though, would you?” “No,” Helen said. “I need the money. Besides, I’d miss this.” “Miss what ? Taking calls?” “No way,” Helen shook her head. “I’d miss talking to you.” She had spoken before she even realized she was thinking it, and the thought surprised her. Now that it had been said, and the words were lingering in the early morning air, Helen realized speaking with Rose may be the only thing she ever looked forward to. It was starting to stump her, but she didn’t dwell on it too long, Rose’s voice cutting through her thoughts: “I have considered leaving, but I wouldn’t go to any extremes or anything.” Rose was full of surprises tonight, sharing more than she usually did, so Helen asked another question. “Why haven’t you?” “Why haven’t I left?” “Mhm.” “I told you, to impress someone.” Helen raised an eyebrow. “Well, is it working?” Rose shrugged. “I’m not sure, yet.” “I doubt anybody’s worth working this job for.” Rose met Helen’s eyes for a brief moment. “Some people are,” she said. About the Writer... Allison Clausen is a senior Creative Writing student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Even outside of school, she spends most of her time writing, and has an appreciation for all genres. Her favorite genre to write is fiction.

7 < Table of Contents Light of my Life by Olivia Henry At the Foot of My Grandmother's Bed by Hadley Volner At the foot of my grandmother’s bed A silk bench stood alone Its legs nearly crumbled Under the weight of death’s exhale Propped on its silk pillow A large, pristine, gloss-glassed picture faced the dresser The golden frame traced with a fresh wreath of carnations The outline of her husband smiled through the glass I used to curl up at the foot of my grandmother’s bed But the cushion was crammed with his frame He remained out of sight, a wishful footnote She could not bear his glazed features next to hers Though she spoke as if he were lying next to her " His deserted pillow gathered dust / Only blown away by her yearning sighs / As his frame now occupied my pillow / I took my place at his" His deserted pillow gathered dust Only blown away by her yearning sighs As his frame now occupied my pillow I took my place at his As she whispered her weekly troubles The window’s glint illuminated my nods But though I slept beside her Only her words filled the sheets My ears caved Heavy with stories of distant friends and a distant God She felt each second of silence bring down a crashing pressure For a moment her words brought back his presence I don’t sleep at the foot of my grandmother’s bed I lie next to her as she contorts my features I have a white comb-over and milky cataracts And when she holds me I’m him About the Writer... Hadley Kasia Volner is a freshman at The Willow School in New Orleans, LA, enrolled in the Certificate of Artistry Program. A multi-sport athlete, Hadley ranked in state for the one-mile run in spring 2023, and has been involved in the competitive soccer club, The New Orleans Jesters, for seven years. About the Artist... Olivia Henry is a Visual Artist in 11th grade majoring in Photography. While she does like painting as well, photography peaked her interest as she likes to experiment with new mediums. She tends to make pieces involving everyday life, trying to create a sense of living in the moment.