< Back Bonded by Krislyn Fraser Haibun for Mom and Gramps (1945-2025) By Carter Manalla A dysphoric dream takes you back to the wedding; this familiar scene of white everything seems to torture your closed eyes. There's a pair of statues: one is your husband dressed in his tuxedo and the other isn't you. You assume that the marble woman will be switched out before the Mass begins—a lie you know is told just to calm yourself down. Your hair hasn't been flat-ironed, your makeup has not been done, the florist has yet to arrange her bouquets, and your father should be on his way with the wedding dress. There are ten minutes before the ceremony starts. Everything appears to be running late. Rummaging through your contacts, "Dad" eludes the simple search. Guests begin to arrive; the rows of soon-to-be filled pews blot your soon-to-be veiled forehead with sweat. That all-too-familiar harrowing heat of panic surges through your skin. You don't recognize any of the guests, in fact, you now fail to recognize the venue at all. False relatives like little amber flames spread throughout the waxy benches, lambs melt from their stained-glass portraits, and the Virgin Mary cries—a fire so hot, yet you are glazed in an ice-cold sweat. A September wedding marks Persephone's return to her creed of grief. The weather turns, and so do you. Orange leaves begin to fall like a reminder of all the small things that escape your sturdy hand—tiny embers of violence scattered in the winds of hurricane season. These little things you fail to control, the things that drive you the maddest, they are alive, and that is enough for them to be torturous and to be beautiful. You can’t get ahold of your dad; as much as you try, it is like he has disappeared. You breathe in. Dad is out of reach. Your eyes rise to revise his obituary. About the Author... Carter Manalla is a sophomore at the Willow School in New Orleans, where he is currently a part of an intensive creative writing program. He focuses on socio-political topics, but nothing he writes is limited to being one thing. About the Artist... Born in Mississippi, yet raised just outside of New Orleans, Krislyn Fraser is an artist whose portfolio includes work specializing in pastel, dream-like atmospheres and imagery through 2D, 3D, digital, and photography mediums. 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 tracing Canis Major on a cloudy night A Girl's Universe James Helmick Small Title Autumn King Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

26 A Peek at Nature's Texture by Phuong Tran Je Ne Sais Pais by Ronen Manselle It is true that love is a powerful, wonderful emotion. But it brings so much hate. This is what Matis believed – no, knew. It was after the boy's mother died that he began taking in Germans. He’d stand there on the porch all day, waiting. Sometimes Matis would join him. There was something uncanny about the wait. It tugged at Matis, a horrible wrenching feeling. “A normal boy would smile,” he told his brother Antonie, the boy’s father. “Laugh, spend his time rolling over hills, breathe for heaven’s sake!” That was the last thing he’d ever told Antonie. “A normal boy,” the father said, coughing grievously on his bed, his face made wise by the lines and stretches that pulled even his brown hair to string, “does those things with his parents.” Matis forced himself to suppress the memory. “They beg us,” the boy said finally, still looking on the path. “’ S'il vous plaît,’ they say. ‘Pour la France.’ How can words like that not bring a man to tears? Do you know what that invokes, for each man?” “Would you help any man who begged you on the street?” Matis replied furiously. “Should any beggar cry ‘food, water!’ and invoke the name of France, must all men rush by his side? It is the man’s own fault he is poor. ‘They beg us!’” Matis imitated this dramatically, holding out his hands as if in a spout of passion. “‘Pour la France!’ How carelessly do these Germans invoke the spirit of France? They beg us unto death!” The boy looked sadder now, but still unwilling to look from the pebble path that led to their cottage. “The ugly maiden cries!” Matis stomped his foot. “Bleh! What, must we roll over dead?” “The Germans are not bad men,” the boy said quietly. “They are men.” “I have heard that. I have heard that they will give you a song, if you ask nicely. S'il vous plaît, sing me a pretty song!” Matis snorted. “I do not think I understand,” the boy told him. “Of course you don’t understand,” Matis told his nephew. “You speak in lyrics! Twisted tongue, lyrics, verse, but not French. Not everyone feels the same as you. The man coming today will probably forget about you the next month. Ditto for every other man who’s come here.” The boy shook his head. He crossed his arms stiffly, while a cool breeze rolled over the hills and through his loose hair. “But... that’s not what matters,” he said. “I help anyone who crosses this path. There are no exceptions. Only wanderers – and this war has made so many of those. You say they sing over the trenches. Of course they will sing! That is their magnum opus, insight into their final dreams crushed by the war – we are not so different, Matis.” Matis spat to his side. “You say you are waiting for an old man, with blue eyes?” Matis grumbled, his eyes wandering over the empty horizon. “Is he a Hun?” “The letter did not specify.” “Well, what was his surname? I can tell such things. Give me a name.” “I was not given a name.” “He is probably a Hun.” Matis said this assuredly, as his chair creaked, and the sun peaked around their little porch to discover his worn features. “Maybe.” The gentle breeze became the noise of the moment, and it swallowed their little conversation. Matis tried to rest in the quiet, tried to lay back in his rocking chair, tried to shut out all the world. But he could not. All that filled his mind was the Huns. He could never trust them. Everything they did was of hate. “You are nothing good, boy!” Matis cried. “You are bad news again and again. You and your nasty love, your nasty, evil love. You and your morals, and your pride!” Matis rose harshly, turning to glare at the boy, and he found the boy looking straight back at him. Matis could not hold the look for long. “I hate people like you. If only I were not your uncle... if only your father was here... you both have the same, nasty love.” “I am glad you are here.” “Well, I wish I were not!” Matis tried sitting back down, but grew awkward, and rose to stare deep into the boy’s eyes. They were blue – much like those of his mother. They were blue like the sky. Every emotion was in those eyes, so much so that Matis could not stand to look into them. “If only you were not so much like your mother. At least your father was French – but how could anyone love a German? They are not even human.” Matis burned with these bitter words, which ate him up from the inside out, his emotion growing distraught. “In every man,” the boy said with a cautious smile, “there is something that runs deep. It is some peculiar emotion, buried inside mankind. Some calling that churns around in our souls. It is impossible to name. Those who try merely end up grasping air – silky, white air, blown around with veins of sticks and leaves. It is inseparable from us. We all run from it... we all run... do you know what it is, Matis?” “Je ne pas,” Matis said hopelessly, barely keeping his voice from choking up. “I do not know... je ne pas, je ne sais pas! ... your father knew, and I do not. ” “That is where you are wrong,” the boy said stubbornly, nodding his head. “It is a choice. You do not have to hate the Germans. You do not have to hate this time. You may just wait... wait, and watch, and dream.” And to this Matis cried. It was a ferocious, coughing sob, one with tears still learning the way down his cheeks. It was so much more than the words the boy had said. Some harsh feeling had been sitting in Matis for a long, long time. It had been waiting in the very corners of his soul, deciding now to surface itself. For all of his life, he had been running, while staying in the same spot. He’d forgotten how little it mattered who came to their small cottage, and the buried joy he felt at the chance to welcome them. For a long time, the two men sat there, one in tears, the other standing, leaning, eyes fixed forever on the winding path, waiting. The boy was cursed – or perhaps more awake than any – to know the heart of man. He could not help but see the human in all suffering. The boy was cursed forever to wait, and Matis would stay with him, for he could not leave the boy alone, not for any reason, not all he had left. And when the sun would finally set, he would still keep watch over his little boy. About the Writer... Ronen Manselle is an avid writer who often spends his free time researching history, taking walks, or listening to music. He loves reading fantasy and historical novels. About the Artist... Phuong Tran is a visual art major and is currently a junior at an arts academy. He has an identical twin sister and three dogs.

A Thriving Abyss by Catye Evoniuk your favorite song like a song, this night is melodic and mellowing we cruise through roads in the hand-me-down car I got from my uncle, A broken stereo screen and two dents in the passenger door, hand on my leg other steering us home, so dark out all we can see is the pavement ahead of us. you look so silly driving my little orange car, your head nearly hits the ceiling at every turn, your hands too big for the steering wheel. you drive my Honda like it's your Mustang what felt like 60 was only 40 and when we reach your house; I can’t stop myself from giggling-- no shoes. criss cross in the passenger seat. my laugh echoes through echoes high pitched chuckling circles our ears. later, you play guitar in your room lying at the edge of your bed, I watch you play the hook from The Man Who Sold the World. my hair greasy, heavy black eye makeup smudged, but I couldn’t be more at ease the way you play this song like Bowie himself, all I can think about is how much I love it when your hair falls in front of your face as you play, pick hanging from your mouth I catch you looking at me through clumps of fluffy brown hair you shake your head, hair falling back in place you know I love it when you play me your latest favorite song. it's all I listen to for weeks. on my way home, my Honda clanks through roads my hands too small for the steering wheel, I play your latest favorite song, add it to all my playlists and learn the lyrics, so next time I see you I, too can sing along

< Back Curing Lights by Sophia Waller I bathe in plumes of thermal water laced with salt and ethane, and it burns my breasts and I secretly crave the decay. Mission log 1001- POST BURIAL REPORT By Meheru Alaspure Mission log 1001: POST BURIAL REPORT Subject: Burial attempt 01 Coordinates: 68.4 ° N, 225 °W ( Baghdad Sulcus ) Can you see the stars and the way they ballet against the black pool of the sky? I told them about you. I dug a graveyard of your name on Enceladus. The ice cracked under my pounding blood fist. Crimson. Gore against the taupe of the airless sky. Necrosis infiltrated my nails, liquefactive, and I thought the frostbite looked like an ascaris tapeworm. I knew it was ammonia. I knew it was you. The pungency was malodorous. I loved it; the way it stung my nasal mucous membranes and reminded me of your breath. I think I am insane and I think I don't care. I bathe in plumes of thermal water laced with salt and ethane, and it burns my breasts and I secretly crave the decay. I am Pandora, that adorns Saturn's ring. I think they will find you, a molecule in a frost plume, in a spectrograph, a biosignature of life. But you will be dead, won't you? And no one will remember the two kissing teenagers who drink starlight. I will search for your scent in cryovolcanoes, in carbon, in E-rings. I will engrave our names on Cassini, a proof of life. Or rot. Saturn is the god who forgets how many children he killed. I left love in a liquid ocean, 102 kilometers beneath a crust of irradiated ice. I left a cassette of us singing in Greek against the luminescent rings on Saturnalia. From Scheherazade I spun stories from the stars Lest I became one [SIGNAL LOST] About the Author... Meheru Alaspure is a junior studying in Pune, India. Her passions include astrobiology, neurochemistry, capsicum pizzas and Russian songs. Her work has appeared in Daphne Review, Incandescent Review, Scribere, Stirling Review, Alcott Youth Review, and more. She has also been commended by the John Locke Institute and has received an honourable mention in the Bowseat Ocean Awareness Competition. She serves as a researcher at the Astrastem Journal and runs an astronomy newsletter called Via Lacteum. About the Artist... Sophia Waller is a 12th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her ideal mediums are painting, printmaking, and drawing (either with charcoal or colored pencil). Previous Next

3 < Back Her name Chloe Park A past memory by Maria Bezverkh Her Name by Chloe Park It began ages before I was born, before my father was born, before my grandmother was born. It began in the middle of another ongoing story about the world – the world being the young, small, helpless country of Korea because it was all the people knew. I don’t know how she lived. What her childhood was like and what her motherhood was like is all a mystery to me still. I have never spoken to her, even in her presence. I know nothing about her except the fact that a piece of her is sifting through my veins at this moment. I know nothing except the fact that all I did was sit and cry when I saw her for the first and last time. I watched the crooked trees drift away into the distance as my father carried me like a potted plant into the paper house. The pinewood floors were lifted above the silt ground as if to shelter the meager ferns growing beneath them, and the roofs were ashy curled stones, ominously stacked as if to resemble the scales of fish. I clutched his collar and felt the anticipation in his words as he called out to her. And there she sat: a small mass of white cloth, cross-legged at the center of the floor. "A year or two after that, she faded into the waters of her hometown." Aigo! Is this your daughter? Her hoarse, aged voice cut into my ears as she craned her neck to better see me. I was a flea under the looking glass of her sagging eyes. I found myself paying attention to the lisp seething from her sunken teeth, how her lips had molded around them in a permanently distasteful expression. The skin of her cheeks hung from the sides of her face, reminding me of the jowls of the hoary nextdoor dog. She was unknown to me; her features did not fit my childish definition of “woman”. This strange uncertainty frightened me so that tears naïvely spilled from my eyes. Upon my father’s apologies, she simply laughed – shouted – that It’s all right, she’s little, I know she’s crying because I’m scary and ripe with age. A year or two after that, she faded into the waters of her hometown. I only vaguely remember all of this. For a while, I assured myself that it had all been a surreal figment of my imagination. I was convinced that it had all been dreamed somehow, maybe because I wanted to forget. My fantasy was shattered when we found old cameras in the depths of our expired drawers, one of which contained a photo of my small, crying face with her white bundled form in the distance. I knew I hadn’t said a single word in the last chance I had, and instead wailed and wailed like a shallow fool. Whenever I was reminded of this moment, I always felt a twinge of guilt in the pit of my stomach. Why had I been so afraid? Why had she been so accepting of my obvious fear of her? Why did I want to forget? These were the questions that occupied my mind during long car rides and sleepless nights. Though to be honest, I did know why. *** For a summer, I traveled back to Korea: a chance to let myself go from my own grasp, to bleach my hair in the sun. After weeks of swimming in the neon hustle and bustle of the city, our return to America began to loom foggily over our heads. On one of our final days, we piled into the muggy car and drove through what seemed like an endless number of tunnels and bridges, and again, the questions seeped into my mind. As I watched each cloud drowsily merging into the other, I thought of how my own self was so closely fused with her’s, even though our separate lives were not. Though I did not know her, I would not have been watching those skies overlap had she not breathed. Something about her was essential to my being. Music had been weeping through the radio, but when the trees slowly molded into vast fields, I turned it off. Listening to nothing but the whirring of the engine, we took a winding path into an overgrown hill. At the very top, between the crooked trees, a simply dressed woman was peeking out behind a temple. She waved and disappeared into the flowered mist. As soon as we stepped into the structure, it was as if a midnight veil had fallen over our eyes. The inside was cut off from the real world; time had stopped. It was not a big room, yet at the same time, what was hidden by the shadows was infinitely spacious. Though no one else was there, the secretive atmosphere enchanted us into the occasional whisper, and every step of our socked feet and every swish of our clothes seemed to rustle in a way that was full of repressed life. A new kind of thrill stirred in my body as I watched the enigmatically omniscient expression of a golden Buddha, twinkling against the wall. Thousands of low-lit candles flickered by its sides, each with names carefully engraved at their bases. I instinctively knew that the little pinpricks of fire never went out once they had been kindled. Even if it wasn’t naturally possible anywhere else, it was possible here. One of the candles was pointed to without a word. I watched as they crouched down and lowered their heads and hands to the floor. Without understanding why, I did the same. I copied each of their movements as they stood up, raised their hands, lowered them. As I lay with my forehead and palms to the pinewood floors, I wondered what I should be thinking. Should I pray? Should I let my thoughts go and tell her all I have felt? I was ashamed of needing to wonder at all. Instead, I listened to the hushed exhales of those crouched next to me. Even though we had never spoken, she always seemed to be a recurring face in my life. For someone I did not know, she was always somewhere in the corners of my thoughts. The way she understood my fear as natural and fully reasonable, the way she seemed to expect it…. she was so foreign, she was so much older and so much wiser that I felt awed we had once breathed the same air. It was through her that I had understood my first unforgettable notion of true guilt and regret. Someone whispered, Thank you for blessing us with life. Thank you for blessing us with life. *** Stepping out of the temple, I realized I had lost all notion of time. It felt like many nights had passed, but it also felt like our leaving was an interruption, a disruption to my thoughts of her. Without stopping to look at the scatter of dainty herbs and shallow ponds, we drove off. I don’t even know her name. About the Writer... Chloe Park is a junior at Canterbury High School in Fort Wayne, Indiana. She leads the school’s writing club. Her writing has previously been published in the Journal Gazette. In her free time, she studies classical piano. About the Artist... Maria Bezverkh is a visual art student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She is specifically a photography major. Maria has spent this school year experimenting with different types of photography, such as film.

Charlotte Parks Charlotte Anna Parks is a sixteen-year-old girl in eleventh grade from Jacksonville, Florida. She goes to school at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts; she is entering her third year at Douglas Anderson studying Creative Writing. She has recently joined the Elan Literary Magazine staff, becoming the Junior Art Director, following her creative interests pairing artistry with writing for Élan Literary Magazine.

Lily Pond by Kadynce Singer Excerpted from St John by Kathryn Moore The pickup was stalled under a palm tree. It was summer, the beginning of summer, so the palm had these little fruitish clusters. Now and then, one would thupk down on the hood. The antenna wagged in time with the palm fronds. Some sort of staticky reggae-kumbaya played through the old stereo for a few seconds before coming back to the news. --oday, we remember a hero, brother, an--…d father. Known in the Ocea…--y area as “John the Baptist,” Brother John--…omas was the former nav--…and pastor of St Francis souther--…ptist church located on--…thside Rd--…. He was known fo--…r his traditional baptisms in the St…--ns River. He passed on…--s day--…rs ago-- I turned off the radio. I cranked the window back up, then pulled back the door handle, once then twice, jerking it. The air was like sand and brack, smelled like the wet marsh. A small sedge of sandhill cranes prodded at the sand in the middle of the parking lot, a plague of boat-tailed grackles picking at their legs. I leaned into the backseats of the truck and got my toolbox. “I emerged from the marsh onto the beach. It was soft-sanded beach. Far on the horizon past the delta and ocean was a lonesome fleet of cargo ships like ghosts.” Out of the truck bed, I got my fishing pole and a change of clothes. I’m not really a fishing person; heard a story from my neighbor once about how a friend of theirs caught a hook in the back of their head, and it stuck: the back of my head pangs whenever I think about casting from behind. I more just stand in the water and toss it out in front of me, let the line move down current on its own. From here the marsh surrounded me on three sides, the parking lot and trees at my back. I shoved the butt of the rod deep into the waterbed. There was a row of shallowed indentations all along the mud from previous fishes. I laid out my change of clothes on the hood of the truck, slipped some tools and a handheld radio into my pockets, and then I waded north into the reeds, away from the pole and the truck. The grasses were about breast-high, tickling my arms. Sifting through the reeds I saw a few sparrows flutter around each other; I heard an egret croak. The grass made shift- and crackling sounds, like how I’d imagined corn stalks would do, and like sea oats at the beach. My foot slipped on a crabhole and a fiddler crunched under my big toe; more crabs pinched at my feet. As I waded northward the mud got caky and softer, the air felt saltier, stickier. I emerged from the marsh onto the beach. It was a soft-sanded beach. Far on the horizon, past the delta and ocean was a lonesome fleet of cargo ships, like ghosts. One of the ships’ navigation lights blipped in and out in the late sunrise. An egret stalked the wet bank with some semipalmated plovers, eyeing me. I kicked my shorts off my ankles and undid my fishing shirt. I emptied my pockets and then unzipped my shorts. The cargo ship with its navigation lights blinking let out a low pitch wail, startling the congregation into flight. The great white egret turned its eye to the ships and stood still. I turned on my handheld radio and sat it next to my clothes. --t’s a cool 75 degrees out there this m--…ou’ll want to have your umbrella with…--this afternoon--…. Scattered thunderstorms throughout NE FL, all--…up into SE GA this evening. Traffic on I95 is alm…stagnant down--…thside-- The water was between low and high tide by about halfway. Most of the beach was wet; my feet pressed neat indentations, and then waves smoothed them away. The egret turned its eye to me again and stalked out of my way. The water’s coolness spooked my skin into gooseflesh. I sifted the sand with my toes, sand fleas and coquina shells shifting around beneath. Small, fleeting fish came in with the waves to nip at the sand but avoided me. My steps were heavy and skimmed broken shells. I trudged another step and another, up to my neck, my chin, and then my toes dug into rock. I closed my eyes and ducked under. The river muffled the air, the wind, the reeds. It was murk and muddy water; it felt like bathing. The mud mixed with my hair and settled into my pores. My fingertips were raw and pruney and grit with sand; seaweed brushed against my wrists and algae slipped my hands against the rock. Salt steeped through my eyelids, through my lips. I get nightmares of this moment: where a hook catches my scalp and tugs, where waves bash my skull open like a coquina mermaid’s bra, where something else touches my foot, my back. Where infection worms its way from my ear to my head and drains out everything good. Where I’m forever half-naked at the bottom of the Johns. Where the rock sinks me down with it and holds me for the rest of my breath. When the water had come into my lungs, the sand broke its hold with a suction I could feel. I gasped a mouthful of brackish water and choked; I brought the rock to my chest, heavy and rough like a bare-chested bearhug. Slogging out of the water with it was like the weight on my knees and shoulders, low and hefty, encumbering. I dropped it on my bundle of clothes. It made a thick whump I felt in my feet. I collapsed myself crisscross on the sand next to it: it was a concrete sort of cinderblock, gruff and gray, eroded from the water. I scrubbed at the concrete with a fraying brush, scraped between grooves and barnacles. The handle was slimy with the water from my palms, and so was my chisel--it slid out of place every time I cut in. I used a broken brick washed down from up shore as my hammer. It was grave, anniversary work. The graving read as it always did: In memory of a Great Man; may he rest peacefully with the LORD in this last baptism. A steady drizzling rain had started up, the ship with the navigation lights was blaring its foghorn; the great white egret had stalked back into the reeds. I decided I’d toss it back. My arms yelled at me. The splash was underwhelming, like that of an Olympic diver. I bagged my clothes and tools in my fishing shirt and washed out in the saltmarsh stream. Checked the pole: nothing but the blue crab that always tangled my line. My new clothes were warm and humid on my body. I tugged the pole out of the riverbed--another hole, another day--and tossed it back in the truck bed. I wouldn’t be coming back. The truck rattled to life. The radio spit out a hip-hop beat, then a woman’s bitten rasp continued talking: Ailing third-…--orld countries ar--…the globe, waiting…--for your k--…nd and generous donation.

aea772b4-14df-4481-a059-1f7fad110ea8 El Tiburón by Natalie Holden For Medusa by Mia Parola Women are billionaires Too now, grasp bank accounts so filled They should gushingly overflow But stay confined, expand to vail their insides Like the pockets of a man’s jeans: Made deceivingly deep, and so foreign We forget its owners have never overworked Their fingers into ten small hands Weighed down by their burdens. Suppose we call it feminism—all 336 Of them built from nothing to stand tall, Singlehandedly shatter wealth gaps For themselves. They’re “go-getters” like tsunamis Of a sea that will never feel large enough And crashes to drown simple yellow coasts, Strip its beaches into a tragedy, Damaged and grotesque as the dead land Around their own tarry oil mines. We’re taught to loom as tall as thick smoke That pollutes from factories controlled by a few, Encouraged to long for a height Far taller than our mothers longed As together they set foot in packed universities, The first of their family. Suppose we call it feminism. When Athena turned to poison The hair of a woman with her entrancing power, I imagine Poseidon nodding beside her, The hand of he and his brothers on her shoulder And the low-tide calmed as light waves Lap up sand at the shore, drag down dainty shells As his satisfaction sets. I don’t want the only seat At a man’s table, or to force my frame open To match a wide stance. I’d rather the serpents bite at my skull, Pick me clean and leave my skin in charred scabs Than carry a weapon as a reward, dazzling With our mothers’ exhausted, stolen eyes. Return to Table of Contents

< Table of Contents Broken Limbs by Abigail Cashwell I confess to the sea By Jacob Jing that I am exhausted. that I know there is no sky where a lover can fly without the destiny of descent, but I still find myself there, waiting to be hurled back down. in his fiery descent, Icarus was comforted by a tender wind, and returned to the water from the womb of his undoing. if the tragedy is that he recognized the fall too late, then where is the gentle nosedive for the one who predicted plummet from the start? where are the soft waves that will cradle that loveless execution? what I want is to be told that I am enough, that I have been good, that my descent will be more soft than lethal. if not that, then I want to be mourned with more softness than I was loved. to be told that my body once carried something kind inside it. I still need to forgive myself for burning in the name of safety you failed to offer. the scorched plumage: a casualty of my useless heart. before you tell me to swallow my tears, let me first become fluent in the shame “let me first feed these feathers to / the flame.” of wanting to be held. let me first feed these feathers to the flame. let me love the wounds you gave me before I take to the sky once more, chasing what the sun leaves behind. About the Writer... Jacob Jing is a young writer currently studying visual arts at the University of North Texas. He has been published in Spellbinder Magazine and is forthcoming in Eucalyptus Lit. In his free time, he enjoys photography, naps, and the $3 milkshakes from the student union. Find more of his work at https://linktr.ee/Jacob_Jing . About the Author... Abigail is an 11th grade student at Savannah Arts Academy. She enjoys using acrylic paint and experimenting with color. She also likes making art pieces using references from places she has traveled to. After high school she plans to go to college to become an art teacher at an elementary school.

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 I'm Refolding Foreboding Gustave Rish Small Title Kierra Reese Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

Spring/Summer 2025 Cover art: Narcissus and Echo by Ava Ritterskamp Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Editors' Note Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Editors' Note Avery Grossman, Jaslyn Dickerson, 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" African Winter Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button African Winter Crossstreets Mila Rose Bredenkamp Small Title Katherine Chen Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Little Things Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Little Things The Forgotten Art Form: Joy Eva Rami Small Title Moss Edwards Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" The Discovery of Fire Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Discovery of Fire In Another Universe Olivia Sheftall Small Title Ariana Formica Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Word Origins: Stetorous Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Word Origins: Stetorous Popop and Me Lila Hartley Small Title Isabella A. Buckhannon Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" You Told Me Not to Watch Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button You Told Me Not to Watch Meshes Conlan Heiser-Cerrato Small Title Sofia Lataczewski Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Refraction Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Refraction Heart of Sand Esmé DeVries Small Title Eva O'Donnell Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Narcissus and Echo Small Title Ava Ritterskamp Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Zest Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Zest Florida’s Gift: The Forbidden Fruit Reagan Lichtenwalter 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" Rotting Roots Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Rotting Roots That Time of Day Jamie/Alethea Lohse Small Title Valentina Zapata Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" The World Is Burning. Look Back Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The World Is Burning. Look Back zlatá hvězda Chloe Backes Small Title Sabrina Inga Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Rosalind the Unsinkable Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Rosalind the Unsinkable Alexander 103 Kala West Small Title Qilin Pote Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" The Second Law of Thermodynamics Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Second Law of Thermodynamics Crushing Pain Elizabeth Lindsey Small Title Shawn Ivonet Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" how to make oolong tea: Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button how to make oolong tea: Rebecca Yang Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Return it to where it persists Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Return it to where it persists For My Country Sarah Gozar Small Title Violeta Estrada Rios Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Orbit Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Orbit My Light Allison LaPoint 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" Fire Flower Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Fire Flower Unzipped Joycelyn Zhang Small Title Yujin Jeon Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Liquidation is the Prerequisite for Transformation Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Liquidation is the Prerequisite for Transformation Bloom Olivia Chao Small Title Hannah Botella Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST"