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Oblivion Greta Reis The fear Athazagoraphobia: The fear of the presence of nothing The fear of the absence of everything The fear of what between something and nothing The fear that someday no one will remember anyone or anything; because someday there won’t be a someday The fear of the presence of nothing: Being scared that no one will ever exist Knowing that there isn’t anything to replace the presence of nothing Seeing that there isn’t anyone that ever existed Existing without a reason to exist The fear of the absence of anything: Being scared that everything and everyone is missing Knowing that everything is gone and you can’t replace it Seeing that only you exist Existing without a reason to exist Can’t it be both? The fear of Oblivion 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

25 Davis's Voice by Esmé DeVries “I’m waiting for Davis.” He says this, in his quiet, perceptive voice, so slowly and with such deliberation. Davis told me it’s because he’s from up north, where they have all the good colleges. “Why?” I ask irritably, studying the cracks in the railing and picking at the flaking paint. The sun burns the back of my neck. “He’s my friend.” On these words, Danny’s voice tilts up a little bit, almost like a question or an uneasy defense. “He’s mean,” I grumble, still poking at the wood. Davis always made me feel worthless, the way his eyes always glanced over me like I wasn’t there, leaving a cold trace of not belonging behind. “He’s your brother,” Danny points out. He waits a moment before saying quietly, “He loves you.” The words float from his lips, not accusatory in the way they could be, but still poking at a flaw, a chink in my armor. They try to tell me I don’t know what I’m saying. “No, he doesn’t.” “Yes, he does. Ask him yourself.” I look back out over the marsh. The tide is very nearly at its highest. I can’t see the oyster beds freckling the bottom of the mushy sand through the murky water. The water looks cool, better than having the hot sun pounding down on my neck. I look over at Danny, who is still looking up at the morbid little house, his brow furrowed against the sun. "Let’s go swimming,” I declare decisively, successfully dragging his attention away from Davis. “What?” He turns to look at me quickly, suddenly seeming very alarmed. “Sure.” I shimmy a little bit off the railing, preparing to lunge into the water. “We can’t go swimming,” Danny protests, as if I’m the ridiculous one here. “Why not?” “You’re in your clothes and I’m waiting for Davis! Get back over here!” Danny grabs the back of my shirt like he’s worried I’m gonna shoot off into space. “Do you even know how to swim?” His low, soft voice has become higher and more afraid, though I don’t know why. “Yes!” I insist, irritated that he’s being so unreasonable. I thrash in his grip, trying to shake free of his grasp. Wriggling violently, I let go of the railing and plunge unexpectedly into the marsh. The water is as nice as I thought it would be: refreshing, cool, and welcoming. I can taste the salt as I sink deeper and deeper. I kick at the water, pushing for the surface. But I can’t find it. The water, once seeming so gentle and encouraging, is taking me hostage. I stay still, feeling the suddenly aggressive tide pull me farther out into open waters, then push me back under the dock. And a quiet little voice in my mind, a whisper, a peaceful murmur, not unlike the soft rushing of Danny’s voice, informs me that I may die. I’ve seen Davis swim plenty of times. I’ve watched the Summer Olympics. I didn’t expect swimming to be this hard. I can’t see and I don’t know which way is up, but I feel oddly at peace. Danny is on shore. He’ll save me. My feet brush the oyster bed. I hear a disturbance in the water, a muffled splash, then something grabs hold of my shirt, not unlike Danny did back on the dock. I’m being pulled, slowly, through the water. Surely, this is where it ends. Something, some monstrous fish of some sort has grabbed me and is dragging me to a watery grave. I go limp and let it happen, not having the skills to fight and not knowing which way to run. And then the sun is on my face again. My eyes are squeezed tight, but I can feel I’m in the air. Weird. A bird must’ve taken me. But then I feel the heat of the dark wood of the dock and open my eyes. I’m laying down, gazing into the clear blue sky. Danny is standing over me, looking down with a strange look in his eyes. Part of it concern, the other part something I can’t quite identify. Fear or nausea maybe, though that doesn’t make sense. Then there’s a sloshing sound and a grunting noise and for some reason I can’t be bothered to turn my head and find the source of these noises. The cause is soon revealed however when Danny’s face is obscured by Davis’s. His hair hangs wet over his eyes, which are wild. “Ross, what were you thinking?” Davis asks immediately, panting as though he’s just had a long run. “What?” I say, baffled. The sun and the swim have both made me very tired, so following Davis’s logic is very difficult. “Swimming! You can’t swim!” “Everybody can swim!” I counter. “Why are you so wet?” Davis sighs and sits back on his heels. He runs a hand through his soaked hair, then starts laughing. It’s an evil laugh, the one you hear in cartoons. I look to Danny, who has reappeared behind Davis. Danny looks about as frightened as I feel. “I had to jump in to save you!” Davis yells at last. I don’t understand. I thought Danny would save me at the very least. Never Davis. I sit up and curl my arms around my knees. Suddenly, even with the sun shining and drying me off, I feel very cold. Something from the deadness of the water has soaked my bones and is sticking in there. One look at Danny tells me he feels the same way. But Davis has a warm light in his eyes and is gazing at me intentionally, really seeing me. His stare thaws my chill and I feel an unexpected fondness. Davis stands up with a grunt worthy of an old man. “Alright, c’mon kid.” He lifts me up like I’m nothing and I fit snuggly into his chest. He smells like salt and sulfur, proof of his rescue mission. I shut my eyes, happy to sleep. “I’ll have to see you tomorrow, Danny,” Davis calls over his shoulder. “Sure,” Danny says from the dock as Davis and I approach the house. Danny’s voice doesn’t sound to me like it did before. It sounds younger, a little more like mine, not as wise as I once thought it to be. Davis, when we enter the house, says, “Let’s get you into some dry clothes.” These words ride on his voice like a cowboy rides a horse, wild and free, yet loving and deliberate. It occurs to me to ask Davis if he loves me like Danny said he did. I don’t ask. I don’t need to. About the Writer... Esmé DeVries is a sophomore in Creative Writing at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She has been previously published in Élan.

9 Happy Birthday by Daysha Perez Prom King by Isabelle Kim-Sherman INT. RORY’S BEDROOM - AFTERNOON Rory hits his head on his bookshelf. INT. LIVING ROOM - AFTERNOON Rory’s MOM, a weary middle-aged woman, sits across the coffee table from OLIVIA, in a nice prom dress. Muffled crashing and banging can be heard coming from upstairs. OLIVIA Is…everything okay up there? MOM I’m sure he’ll just be a moment. Would you like some juice? INT. LIMINAL SPACE - DARKNESS SATAN You cannot run from your destiny, my boy. RORY Shut up! Just shut up! He claps his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut. SATAN It is your duty to join me. A pause. RORY (infuriated) Well, what about your duty? SATAN What? RORY You never showed up! You were never around! It’s just been me and mom my whole life! You never even visit except to come and bother me about going to Hell with you. Why should I do anything for you when you haven’t even let me see you? SATAN Don’t speak to me that way, young man! Silence. Satan sighs. SATAN (cont’d., gentler) I know that I have failed you as a father, Rory. My duties in Hell have kept me from visiting your world, and you have suffered as a result. For that, I am sincerely sorry. RORY Yeah, whatever. SATAN You are getting older, and your responsibilities and your relationships will keep you tethered to your mortal life. It will become more difficult for you to join me. Another pause. Rory still looks skeptical. RORY What about Mom? What about my friends? What about Ollie? I can’t just leave them so soon. Satan sighs. SATAN I was just like you once, my boy. I loved my life on earth, and I wanted to put off my destiny for as long as I could. And when I met your mother, I fell in love with her. I knew I had to leave, but it always felt like the wrong moment. Then she had you. I stayed as long as I could, but I couldn’t escape my destiny. Nobody can. Your mother has raised you alone not because I left so soon, but because I left too late. INT. LIVING ROOM - AFTERNOON Olivia and Rory’s mom are seated at the coffee table in silence. Olivia holds a glass of juice. Rory’s mom hesitates before speaking. MOM You know, Rory might be moving away soon. OLIVIA Moving where? MOM To live with his dad. OLIVIA Doesn’t his dad work in England or somewhere? MOM Something like that. OLIVIA Oh. He didn’t tell me about that. INT. LIMINAL SPACE - DARKNESS Rory nods, deep in thought. RORY Ollie and I have been talking about living together next year. We’re going to the same school. I figured I’d go and join you after we graduated college. But I don’t…know if I’d be able to do that to her. He sighs. RORY Yeah. I’ll join you now. At the last moment, he hesitates. RORY (cont’d.) Just…could you let me have this one evening first? INT. LIVING ROOM - AFTERNOON Rory comes downstairs, fully dressed. RORY Sorry about that. It was hell getting this tie on. Olivia stands up. OLIVIA Hi, Rory. RORY Hi. You look nice. His mom stands, wielding a camera. Rory goes to his mom, gives her a tight hug. RORY’S MOM Oh! Thank you, sweetie. He lets go of her awkwardly and goes to Olivia. He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a rumpled corsage. OLIVIA Thanks. It’s really pretty. RORY Thanks. RORY’S MOM Let’s get some pictures. Rory groans, but acquiesces. He and Olivia stand by the stairs. He puts his hands around her waist and they pose stiffly. RORY’S MOM Smile! They smile. Rory’s mom takes a picture. In the flash of the camera Rory’s eyes glow red. About the Writer... Isabelle Kim-Sherman is a writer from Santa Barbara, California. Her work has been published in Tablet Magazine, by the Jane Austen Society of North America, as well as in two California Poets in the Schools Statewide Anthologies. She has attended the California State Summer School for the Arts with a focus on creative writing and the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio with a focus on TV writing. She enjoys filmmaking as well as playing the violin and the piano. About the Artist... Daysha Perez is a 9th grader at Douglas Anderson school of the arts. She is a visual arts major who has always had a passion for creative artistry, particularly painting. Most of the art she creates is acrylic paint on canvas considering she has been painting with acrylic since elementary school. She fell in love with the medium ever since and works with it frequently.

Blank Page Cecelia Richardson I want to think, I want to rhyme, I want to get it in on time, But I can’t. Today I want to write the best words They have ever seen. I want them to look at my work And do nothing but beam. I want to prove I can be one of the greats. Be one of the absolute best Among Plath, Poe, and Yeats. I want to soar with my words Like the birds outside my window That I get inspiration from every day. I want to piece phrases, metaphors, and idioms together Like a big poetic puzzle You can quote and add to your wall. I want to prove that I have the gall To be better than them all. But I’m stuck And don’t know where to go. My puzzle pieces don’t fit And my words don’t flow. How can I soar with the birds high up in the sky When I’m a worm just trying to get by? How can I be among the poetic giants With Wilde, Dunbar, and Frost When left alone with my words, I’m lost. How can I create a picture puzzle When my pieces don’t fit? How can I have the gall To be better than them all While stuck in this pit? I guess I can try tomorrow With a fresh blank slate. Tomorrow I can prove that I’m good enough To be great. I can look at new birds flying by And get a new puzzle to try. I can try again tomorrow And let my pen soar. Return to Piece Selection

< Table of Contents Avarice Grin by Max Watt About the Artist... Max is a high school senior at Savannah Arts Academy planning on attending Georgia Southern University. He enjoys working with a variety of mediums but specializes in acrylic paint and chalk pastels.

19 Bridge by CamilleFaustino Red Packet by Xin (Cindy) Nie Blue Moon (Lunar New Year’s Eve) The pendulum swings one way and then another as her eyes follow the rhythmic pattern. Each swing is closer to twelve. Until, at precisely the hour, her phone screen flashes. Staring for a moment, she realized who it was from and let out a sigh. As her phone screen faded, the gleaming red reflected into her pupils. On New Year’s Day, it was customary for adults to prepare red packets, a sum of money folded in tiny red pockets, for the junior members of the family. This one was a digital transaction from Mr. Lee, the title which she addressed her dad. Moments later, her family rose from their resting position in the living room and let out a thunderous “Gong Hei Fat Choy.” In the background, the sound of crackling fireworks shooting up into the sky before fragmenting into colored sparks. And then, “ Click ,” a New Year’s memory that would be framed on the living room wall. Mr. Lee was not in the frame. He had withered from this frame since she was a child. As a plant withers day by day, the leaves lose their luster, the stems begin to droop, and eventually the feeble remains vanish into the dirt. His approach to compensating for his disappearance was the customary parental gesture. In his eyes, it paid for lost time and neglected fatherhood obligations. To her, it was an act of fraud that fueled her resentment. Was she a charity project? Was she so unremarkable that this was the only day she was worth acknowledging? She bit her lip and scratched the sides of her fingers; perhaps she was too harsh. Mr. Lee remembered his daughter, so is that not enough? Be grateful. That’s what a good daughter does. She kept all her thoughts buried and managed to type, “Thanks.” The chat would be vacant for the rest of the year, and this brief exchange would repeat the next New Year’s Day. The vacancy was filled with ignorance and hurt. A decade had passed since she lived with Mr. Lee. Waiting for a conversation to strike up between two strangers was like forcing a spark between two burnt-out tips of wood. They shared nothing more than the last name Lee, the cold truth to her. Furthermore, she didn’t want to engage in knowing him again. She rehearsed this scenario in her head a million times. What if he came back and apologized? She would stare into his eyes with her fists clenched tightly and tell him it was too late. Then, she would slam the door shut. This time she would turn her back on him before he could. However, the scenario was like an infestation intruding deeper inside her mind because he never returned. She was eighteen in a few months. Then, this new year’s transaction would end. To her, it was a relief to cut ties, the long-awaited closing chapter. — New Moon (The Following Morning) The piercing buzzing sound of the front doorbell woke her. Rubbing her eyes, she stepped into her slippers and walked to the front door. She gripped the doorknob and twisted it to the left. An empty silence and no delivery at the door. She scoffed and pushed the door shut before a hand slammed against it and a voice uttered, “Wait.” Opening her eyes, she stared at a man with wisps of grey in his hair but a pair of glasses she would never forget. The frames of her eyes became heavy, and she blinked, trying to hold back the flood of tears. All the rehearsals inside her head did not prepare her for this moment. She knew what she wanted to do but she couldn’t bear to stare him in the eye and slam the door. She opened her mouth slightly, only making out the words, “Mr...” About the Writer... Cindy Nie is a 17-year-old aspiring student writer. She writes fiction which is inspired by her cultural background and she hopes to share her stories with a broader audience. She is currently published in Teen Ink and Ice Lolly Review. She is attending Shanghai American School in Shanghai, China. About the Artist... Camille Faustino is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At DASOTA, Camille is a visual arts major.

11 < Table of Contents Bare Bones by Yiming Low Men's Jeans by Yeshaya Rawat Engineer I walk through fluorescent strobing lights to the “Men’s” section And bravely pull off the rack, jeans. Jeans, blue. Jeans, ripped to be cool — distressed, they call it. Jeans, classic. Jeans, new. Men’s Jeans . New clothes must be saved for a special occasion. I will wear this out when I have something important to do; Something worthy, worthy of my new men’s jeans. Bowling, perhaps; Or the movies with a girl. A girl with soft hands, so unlike mine. A girl with a kinder voice, but sharper words than mine. A girl who would never wear Men’s Jeans . " I’ll sit back straight. Straighter, so her head can rest on my shoulder and I will do what I have so / desperately wanted to; / I will be a man." We will split a single tub of styrofoamy corn; over priced but I’ll offer to pay. Hands will delve into pockets so deep they may drown; a leather square, the catch of the day. Grab a drink or two. And just like I’ve learned; Studied, for years. I’ll sit back straight. Straighter, so her head can rest on my shoulder and I will do what I have so desperately wanted to; I will be a man. In Men’s Jeans And when I breathe air scented by her perfume, and popcorn, and Pepsi, and perfectly picked out seats; It will burrow in my bloodstream and flow down to my thighs. My thighs wrapped in jeans. Men’s Jeans . But as new dishes in the Mikveh Or a child in holy water, The new must be cleansed to come home. To be a part of the tribe; Of the group And such is also true of my clothes. Of my Men’s Jeans . My thighs wrapped in my men’s jeans wage silent warnings of the imminent. I ignore them, I am a man. I ignore them, I am a man. I ignore them, I am a man . I ignore them, the credits roll, I throw my jacket over her shoulders, I walk her home, I walk alone, I am a man. I unlock my door, I am a man. I walk to my room, I am a man. I go to pull down my blue, ripped to be cool — distressed they call it, classic, new, Men's Jeans . They are part of the tribe, Of the group. Baptised by blood, By fire. Christened red, my blue, ripped to be cool — distressed they call it, classic, once new, men’s jeans remind me, I bleed, am I a man? About the Writer... Yeshaya Rawat Engineer is a young trans man from Pune, India; currently studying at UWC Mostar in Bosnia and Herzegovina. He has called Frankfurt, Germany home since 2019. His interests include playing music, learning random new things, and writing poetry. He studies Visual Arts, Global Politics, and Environmental Science and is extremely passionate about climate studies and ecology. About the Artist... Yiming Low is a visual arts major at the Savannah Arts Academy in Savannah, Georgia. Along with traditional styles of realism, she enjoys experimenting with graphic design, photography, and printmaking.

9c381bf7-b3d4-41b8-892c-5c1b521c65f3 A Mother's Love by Chloe Robertson Oliver by Esmé DeVries At the first house I lived in, the backyard expanded into a lush forest. We had a freezing, trapezoidal pool and often found critters from the woods swimming or, more often, drowning in the icy blue. Because of this, my father taught my brother, Oliver, how to decapitate a rattlesnake far too young in his life, sparking our eagerness to explore the great outdoors. Oliver and I quickly got into the thrilling habit of exploring the woods behind our house, feeling that our youthfulness protected us from harm. During summer and on weekends, the two of us, intrepid explorers, would hike into the trees, following the thin, winding creek down the hill, where it fed into a lake. He would walk in front of me, being older and braver, leading the way into the dangerous unknown, past brambles and hedges that threatened to bar our path. Sometimes, we would bring fishing poles down, though it was more common for us to be found frolicking in the black ooze produced by the lake. We used to run across the banks when the water level was low, sinking deep into the sludge and quickly fighting to unstick ourselves. He ran first and he ran faster, but his feet got stuck in the mud more often than mine. Once, abandoning our rods and reels, we took to the mud again. Oliver, of course, tested the waters. About halfway across, his toes caught, and he fell face first into the soggy bed. I was too young to find this properly funny, especially when he stood up, coughing and sputtering, sporting only one shoe. He blew dirt out of his mouth and fell back to his hands and knees, digging for his other shoe, a pair of Reeboks he had had forever. I rushed to his aid and we both dug holes that refilled every other second, plunging our arms into the closing cavities, coating our skin up to our shoulders in mahogany slop. When the sky darkened and we waved the white flag, Oliver and I walked back to the bank, squelching and sticking, so that he could ceremoniously throw his remaining shoe into the lake. I remember taking off my own shoes as we headed back up to the house, whether out of solidarity or just so that I could run my dirt-caked socks through the cool creek water, it didn’t matter. It was all the same to us. Back at the house, Mom let us hear it. She wasn’t mad about the shoes, just about our late arrival home. Oliver didn’t speak to me much for the rest of the evening, though I couldn’t work out why. I reasoned that he was upset about the shoes or getting chewed out by Mom. Still, I wasn’t quite ready to forget our day. "I would burrow under my blankets and read princess books under the dim light of a flashlight. In that regard, not much has changed." Not long after this experience, Oliver began private school and by the time I had gained acceptance to the same institution, he had gathered a collection of like-minded friends. I had never had as many friends as him growing up. I still don’t, but back then it was more difficult for me to grasp that my older brother, who I looked up to, was able to branch out to people other than me. Once upon a time, I could slip into his room late at night to play with our stuffed animals. Then, he started having people spend the night or he himself would leave. I would burrow under my blankets and read princess books under the dim light of a flashlight. In that regard, not much has changed. He even got so bold as to bring his friends down to the lake, into our watery sanctuary. I, thinking they had just forgotten to invite me, would follow him down. We would circle the lake, clinging tight to trees and slipping on loose dirt, not daring to run through the mud as Oliver and I once had. These friends stuck with Oliver all throughout his formative years and as a result, he and I spent less and less time together. When he entered sixth grade and I entered third, we were blocked to share a recess period at school. It was the first time this had happened, and my friends and I were eager to play with the big kids and share a space with people we looked up to. But even then, we avoided each other. Perhaps it was a mutual effort. Over the years I had fallen in with a good crowd of girls and we spent the days playing a rather inventive version of manhunt, darting through the trees and under the slides. Oliver played as many contact sports as he could come up with. Most often he was found playing basketball, but once, the two of us had taken to hovering around the chalky red four-square courts. I was perched on the adjacent hill, giggling foolish. Presumably to get rid of me, Oliver called to get my attention and as I turned, he catapulted a maroon football into my eye. I thought for sure he had blacked my eye, and fled the scene in a hurry, rushing back into the school and to the bathroom that was farthest from the playground. This was back when school bathrooms had doors, so I was able to hide my shame in a secluded environment. I don’t remember returning to recess, though I must’ve at some point. I imagine that I spitefully concluded that my eye was fine, maybe a little bloodshot, and gathered my courage to return to my anxiously awaiting friends. It was likely that by the time Oliver and I shared a car ride home, we had both completely forgotten the incident. But I still wonder if he meant to do it. At the end of my third-grade year, my father announced that we would be moving to Florida. Oliver, from what I could tell, was very understanding about the whole thing. Our parents probably explained more of their reasoning to him than they did to me, providing him an opportunity to roll with the punches. I, however, had reached peak stubbornness in my ninth year of life and dug my heels in as much as was possible. Fortunately, I had no control over my own life and therefore could not do any lasting damage. We moved in June of that year and because of our different viewpoints, the stake that had been poking its way between Oliver and I plunged much further. My negative attitude coupled with his unfortunate seventh grade desire to fit in bore no healthy fruits. He made fun of me and I, deeply immersed in my sensitive stage of life, couldn’t brush it off until I too realized that bickering was the teenage trend. In our new house, Oliver’s room was upstairs and mine down, in complete opposite corners of the house. We had only ever been separated by a few feet of hallway, but now, there seemed to be a million miles between us. Half the time, I don’t even know when he’s home. Even such a small change forced us further apart. There’s never been a need for me to go to Oliver’s room and I haven’t exactly wanted to. The only time he ever comes to mine is to borrow my stapler or tell me dinner’s ready. We just don’t see each other much anymore. He’ll be going off to college soon and is making the most of his senior year with his buddies and his girlfriend. I hardly ever leave my room. To me, we’re on opposite sides of the hedge of protection that childhood offered. Oliver had already crossed it and stood proudly on the other side, waving at me mockingly through the leaves. I wondered if I would ever cross. When we had once been so close, so similar, now he stood acres away. Since moving to Florida and since Oliver began high school, the two of us have taken a pair of safety scissors to the hedge, clipping away at its leaves and branches slowly but surely. Occasionally, one of us will start watering the hedge, erasing our progress. It’s slow work and we may never get back to what we once were. It’s okay. I don’t expect us to. Return to Table of Contents

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11 Effete by Kylie Tanner For Naomi by Jessica Bakar The first time I lied about my writing, the line between truth and lie was a two-letter word. In a tense conversation with a friend, I found the fracture between my comfort and her curiosity irreconcilable. This essay she’d found had been recently republished in a regional magazine— a publication that, despite being known in my community, I assumed was rarely read. She dropped the bomb in a text. “Did you write ‘Legacy Ends Here’?” A text bubble accusation—a violation. My hands shook as I stared down at the screen in disbelief. She’d found, read, chewed, swallowed, and regurgitated something unintended for her eyes. Stunned by this impossibility, I barely found the strength to turn off my phone—to deny her question for another moment. My writing itself is denial. It’s pen names and anonymity in emails to editors, it’s changing my hometown in author bios. It’s staying in the closet. It’s telling nobody but my notebook about an eating disorder, the page watching me recover. It’s witnessing my life exposed on the computer screen, reserved for anonymous eyes throughout America. It’s assuming nobody in my personal life would ever read my work. ⁕ When my friend asked if I wrote that essay, I lied. “No.” I replied, then powered off my phone. ⁕ My writing isn’t Jessica Bakar. My writing is Naomi Carr. It’s 33+ Linkedin profiles, none of which are my Naomi. It’s the safety in knowing myriad Naomis exist, none of which are my Naomi. It’s the secure seat behind a pen name, the thought that my pen name can hide behind a number of real people who exist. It’s the sound assumption that nobody would ever draw a line connecting Naomi back to me. ⁕ I met Naomi the first time I was published. Molly Hill, Blue Marble ’s EIC, strongly suggested I employ a pen name for security. Even with her advice, the decision was unbearable--- hypocritical, even. I couldn’t separate myself from my work, from the experiences and pain that stained the page. That piece, like the rest of my writing, was a morsel of my life. It was me. To change the name attached to it, to would distance myself from my work, my writing, my life. I couldn’t reconcile how truth could become so untrue. It tasted like a lie, betrayal, sick denial. Amid my indecision, I texted my that friend— the one who would find this piece months later in another publication. I told her nothing. She did not know the name of my piece, the genre, the content, the publication— nothing. I simply told her my work was accepted, and that I didn’t know if I should publish under a pen name. I told her the thought of a pen name felt superficial, but I considered Hill’s advice heavily. I told her I couldn’t relinquish comfort, when really I meant safety. She told me to be authentic. She told me to own my real name. I didn’t tell her daring to write that piece was owning my real name. I didn’t tell her that attaching my “real” name to that piece would put a target on my back, would make me prey to four different people I call predators. She told me to be authentic, but I didn’t tell her that piece— each word handpicked at an ungodly hour— was the most authentic act I’ve ever committed. I didn’t tell her that maybe my essay didn’t need my real name in order to be authentic, that the absence of my real name made it any less true. Hours of internal turmoil ended in a reply to Hill, thanking her, and ultimately taking her advice. Naomi Carr was born. ⁕ My writing is creative nonfiction. CNF is the highest commitment to the truth. It’s bleeding my life onto the screen, ripping my heart out, stripping naked before a blank page, dismembering my body with my own hands. CNF writers are not always authors, but we are always entirely human. We are explorers of the self, reverse engineers of emotion. We understand how moths know of loneliness, how masochism and homesickness are the same. We know ourselves through the quiet contemplation of clattering keyboards. We know others through transposing the real world onto the page. We know that, sometimes, the most vulnerable moments are not with others but with pen and paper. We know that success is embracing vulnerability, reality, discomfort, pain. CNF is a commitment to myself. My writing is entirely me. ⁕ Naomi is my mother’s middle name. Stowed away between her first and last, the beauty of its Japanese origin always fascinated me. Carr is extracted from the second syllable of my last name—a familial sound carried across bloodlines from India to Trinidad to Canada before landing in California. Naomi separates Jessica from my work, but Naomi is still part of me. She’s my creation. She’s my own. She’s more experimental than any lyric essay or prose poetry or trilingual abecedarian. She lives with my essays and memoirs—in me, between my memory and unwritten words. Naomi’s name is a patchwork appreciation of those I love. Perhaps she’s an act of self-love—the acknowledgment that my work’s vulnerability, and my humanity, deserve protection. She’s a prayer that one day, those closest to me may linger over my words— that one day, the distance between Naomi and me will be nonexistent. ⁕ A week ago, I told my friend the truth. On an overcrowded bus ride home from school, she posed her question again, after months of living with my lie. It was abrupt but nonchalant, as if a conversation about college apps easily lent itself to inquiries about my personal writing. “So, did you? Did you write that piece in the lit mag?” She hesitated in a hushed voice, seeming to feel the gravity of her question this time. I hesitated. She did not have to specify which piece or which lit mag, but I knew. Smiling in discomfort, I made a futile attempt to evade her question with broken eye contact. “You don’t have to say, if you don’t want,” she reassured, staring straight at the side of my head while I looked for the answer outside the window. I took a breathe, stared back at her, and found the words to connect my writing back to me. “No, I did. I did write it.” The truth was just simpler than a lie. About the Writer... Naomi Carr is a young writer from San Francisco, California. She is an alumna of the Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop and has found a home in creative nonfiction. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Blue Marble Review, Apprentice Writer, Aster Lit, Ice Lolly Review, and Pile Press, among others. When she isn’t writing, Naomi enjoys practicing photography and studying art. About the Artist... Kylie Tanner is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy, Kylie is an arts major who uses photography to capture unique moments and tell unique stories.

fb5c9d25-b632-4864-9652-d26f258376fb Ave Maria by Vera Baffour Midnight Skin by Alexander Sayette I was fourteen & there was no light I had not managed to burst in the attic. So Sunday was black & silent & early in spring. & I was fourteen when I found my parent’s love story, all bundled up in boxes, tucked in 90’s sweaters. Beautiful & laced with broken glass. All flashlight & smiling eyes, I played archeologist, teased a skeleton from their folded skins. So I was fourteen & heartsick, leafing through a romance written in denim & black wool. My mother’s shorts. My father’s red windbreaker. My mother’s turtleneck. I bet he loved that turtleneck. I bet she loved him, too, felt the pavement in falling for him. All peach flushed & frightful. & so at fourteen, I took a gift from each, two bodies falling into each other. When no one is looking, I open their skins & dance. Return to Table of Contents