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23 We Still Wait in the Water by Babafemi Fatoki About the Artist... Babafemi Fatoki is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At DASOTA, Babafemi is a visual arts major. The medium of their piece is paint.

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

14 NO WAR by Elizaveta Kalacheva Universes with you by Reese Mitchell I remember when I first came into that classroom. I had been bruised, buried, and bled dry. I used all of my love on her like coin-slots at a casino, burning away what I had for the promise of more. There was never more. And when the haze faded I realized I was left broke. I don’t want to say you're different. I don’t want to brand you with the promise of infinity, and have you mark me like a scrape on hard concrete. I know that feeling all too well. I just want to say that when you look at me, leaned against the chair, your liquid caramel eyes dig into my soul. You teeter, not trespass. When we talk I do not garble, stumble, or trip like my legs do. You feel like walking never could. But here’s the catch: I imagine so many universes with you. There is a universe, somewhere, in some time, where you like me. We go on dates, I take your arm, you hold the door. Your caramel eyes well when you call me beautiful. They well again when you see my scars, I put my shirt on again, our backs lay on the mattress, we say nothing. There is a universe where I hear you play, the sweet vibrato sound. There is a universe where you see me write. I love you’s could be thrown, catched, and broken. Slipping out of your hands once you realize what I’m really like. There are so many universes where you hate me. Hate my skin, My clothes, How you have to remind me that pain isn’t supposed to be chased, and ask me why I keep running. So, yes, universes. How much mess could we make? So, I’ll sit here for another Tuesday, look at those liquid eyes, and wonder if somewhere, in some time, we could love each other. But they’re just universes. What a fickle thing. About the Writer Reese Mitchell attends Duke Ellington School of the Arts in Washington, D.C. which specializes in training young students in the performing arts and preparing them for the art world. About the Artist Elizaveta Kalacheva is Russian and her and her family immigrated to the United States. The field pictured was inspired by Van Gogh's last painting, where he did not know what path to take in life; stuck at a crossroads, and in her version, that depicts the directions the war in Ukraine can take in. Слава Україні, Героям слава!

My Tears are the Ocean and the Weight of them drags me Down by Dashea Reed Sea of Stars by Sam Howell I look up to the sky and no one stares back. Only harsh stars glaring, burning like fluorescent lights. It’s the confidence of millennia backing up those arrogant smiles. We have so little time to glow, to be seen from galaxies away. No time to stand out among endless seas of rolling purple. So, what to do with this century? How to burn like the Sun? How to make this moment matter before imploding to leave no trace? To blink is to become dust, to wink out of existence. The stars won’t dull with the weight of their grief when I disappear. They just carry on with the assurance of tomorrow, for it is a given to those timeless beings who know they have centuries left to burn. All I have is the hope that someone may carry my flame. But my torch will burn out until all that is left is charred memory: Ashes of yesterday, embers for tomorrow. But even embers can be stamped out. The stars won’t end. Some explode, others fade into obscurity. Yet they all leave something behind. When I am gone, only my shadow will remain.

< Table of Contents Felicity by England Townsend About the Artist... England Townsend is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in drawing and painting, but enjoys other forms of art such as printmaking and photography. With each creation, Townsend strives to push her boundaries and explore different ways of producing art. She is excited to keep creating to learn and share her progress with the world.

Synesthesia Anoushka Dugar The little girl couldn’t see. The Sun had shut her eyelids, So she couldn’t look at the stars The Sun was a vain creature. The little girl wanted to see color So she walked across the cobblestone streets Hissed at the fiery star in the sky As breaths dribbled out of her mouth trickling down her chin Why have you closed my eyes? (The Sun was too busy talking to the Moon.) She waited, to silence. The little girl glided across shattered glass of lost voices Paused to look into a small pond There was a fish with one eye who smiled You want to see color I heard, The little girl nodded Orange, hold orange in your hand And let its warmth travel into your veins Until your whole body is filled with this light Hear it. Strum like a guitar Slicing through your breath. The little girl ran across a grassy knoll. Return to Piece Selection

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

3 < Table of Contents metathesio by Jenna Williams Lost in Translation by Rina Olsen For my mother i. The only religion in a multicultural family Is the hiss of a stir-fry pan filling in the silence As one searches for the [correct word] but even So i feel prayers wither and shrivel in my mouth For each night i fall asleep before remembering to clasp My hands. they catch flame in my lungs, blackening at The edges and crinkling like the wrappers of those sesame seed balls We ate together to the ticks of the kitchen clock. they burn up Into ether, lulling me into the arms of a hot summer’s evening Before i throw them up like i do my pasta & soda & other inconsistencies From my dyspeptic organs. after the hurling it is always you that stays at My bedside, kneading my stomach, giving me sips of whatever came From that shrine of a medicine cabinet. and the Prayers whisper, mea culpa. Forgive me, Father, For I have sinned . 엄마, 미안해. 1 ii. When i was born it was you that was gutted like a Fish even though it was i that flopped onto the deck. water and gills Slipped from my body. lungs bloomed in their place. tell Me, have you traced the evolution of my squalls in the bassinet To my stifled whimpers in the school bathroom stall? walls as red as Between my legs except for the part to my left where someone Scratched in A**HOLE , branding the stall Just as the red brands me—brands me as a woman, though i am only A tadpole trying to view a delicate lotus in its entirety. i swim In my sweat & tears as i clutch my abdomen in bed at 4:08 AM And you join me in the pond, clutching my hand amidst the pastel cobalt Of dawn. you help me tread, put your hand under my chin to tilt my head "you try / To translate this for me but all i can understand is that i am a pupa crushed in / A glittering chrysalis, my wings folded a million times over like origami stars." Up out of the water. this is how one becomes a fish for someone else. you try To translate this for me but all i can understand is that i am a pupa crushed in A glittering chrysalis, my wings folded a million times over like origami stars. iii. It is said that daedalus once managed to thread a Seashell by tying twine to an ant, putting a dollop of Honey to one end and sending the ant in through the Other. i am not daedalus but daedalus’s ant, cocooned In ariadne’s thread, crawling through the walls of a seashell Towards a smell that never grows stronger. it’s what assures Me that i am still loved, loved like that book someone spilled A budweiser on. pages warped, liked the wavelengths of our voices Intertwined in late-night halogen conversation. these walls of Gravitas are what allow me to believe that The tennis definition of love is nonexistent [here]. when i reach The honey, i pray i’ll remember to cough up a prayer And unfold it to read before i drown in indulgences. i clasp my hands As if to hang onto the safety of that shell, as fragile as all things born Of water, yet so strong with its sweet, sweet honeysuckle embrace. The ocean does not echo Inside this shell. still, i try to translate all of the moon-ordained tides into a hymn we can both understand. 1. Mom, I’m sorry. About the Writer... Rina Olsen, a rising high school junior from Guam, is the author of Third Moon Passing (Atmosphere Press, June 2023). She is an editor for the teen literary magazines Cathartic Youth Literary Magazine, Polyphony Lit, and Blue Flame Review, and she was invited to be an instructor for Polyphony Lit’s Summer 2023 writing workshop Around the World of Poetry in 80 Days. Her writing has been awarded by Guam History Day, the Sejong Cultural Society, and the Walt Whitman Birthplace Association, and she has been published in Jellyfish Review, Okay Donkey, Lumiere Review, and elsewhere. Visit her at her website: https://rinaolsen.com . About the Artist... Jenna Williams is a junior in high school and at the moment has an interest in drawing people in her life.

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

Jamie Lohse Jamie Lohse is a young artist in her senior year at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts’ Creative Writing Department. She explores many genres, mediums, and styles in her work but specializes in sequential art, fiction, and free verse poetry. She serves as Community Engagement Director for Élan International Student Literary Magazine and is president of her school’s Spoken Word Club.

Scoliosis Orthosis by Harper Golden barbeque ribs by Ziyi Yan count your ribs, fingering the clinging meat rack by rack, selecting a prime cut for picnic lunch, still raw, bouncing with fleshy aliveness of a pig. dry in the ebony heat until you shrivel, plum seeping tart juices– purple bloodstains on the kitchen floor, until the bones are smooth as a science-class skeleton bleached to untarnished porcelain– water is the first taste of remorse. sink into the rhythm of throbbing, dull knife sawing through ruby-red flesh– there’s a visceral glory in moving one muscle to make another tremble, sinewy fibers tortured into marbled pasture-raised grease. cook until every muscle withers, chalky sinew gurgling misty-eyed refractions before burning to bitter coals. cut into your unrendered porcelain, scaly creases cracking like a china bowl, pick up the shards that your blue-green veins might bloom to painted cobalt flowers, knives on the checkered floor– red and white, bloodstains and lard stained bowl, baby-backs still jiggling. eat rack by rack, stretching the stomach until ribs burst to slimy entrails, emaciated arm cranking the ropes splintering like tendons snapping like rubber bands with every bite, tears moist against ant-infested wood, pleas fat with senseless simile, your law cares nothing for mercy. clean up the bone-white shards and shrug a sweater over that flowery dress– your guests will be waiting and it’s a nice hot day– so pull out that textbook smile and feast under a sun of melted butter.

< Table of Contents Summer Job by Lillian Cosby The Boathouse By Georgia Witt “A fat, blooming heat, like a pink hydrangea bursting exhaustively in its hue.” The air outside was typical of a Florida July. A fat, blooming heat, like a pink hydrangea bursting exhaustively in its hue. We sat wilted by the boathouse, Ms. Margaret fanning herself wildly with a paper napkin, every now and then using it to dab at the sweat that glistened on her collarbones. I thought she was disgusting. A young girl of 23 and acting like she was a 5-year-old girl raised in a barn. Her white skirt fanned out like a peacock’s tail, but underneath you could see her legs were splayed out like a man’s. Her feet, small and sweltering in tiny black boots, were propped up on the empty chair across from her. I kept my lips pursed and tried to comment on something drab. “Those cicadas are really drumming up some noise, aren’t they?” I said, feeling sweat trickle between my lips and quickly dabbing it away with my handkerchief. “Sure are,” she said lousily, I despised her country bumpkin accent, “though I kind of like the sound. Reminds me of when I used to sit on the front porch with my daddy on summer nights back in Georgia. He would drink moonshine and I would drink orange juice, and we’d listen to those things hum all night.” “What a nice memory,” I allowed myself to say, my eyes buzzing the boathouse for my husband, who had a much larger tolerance for Ms. Margaret’s lazy, wild talk. “Have you told Henry about that? I’m sure he’d love to hear a story like that.” Ms. Margaret shuffled herself upright in her chair, the wicker whining as her weight shifted. “Naw, I haven’t really told him much. John and I have been so busy with this traveling; I haven’t had much time to really get to know y’all. But I’m so glad I’m able to now!” This last phrase choked awkwardly from her throat in a half-shout. A few beats of silence pulsed between us, with only the sound of the canopy whipping tightly in the wind that came off the green water. “Well, I, for one, am delighted that we have this time together now. It’s really such a pleasure.” The heat was becoming suffocating. It thrummed about us like thick smog, damp vapors and mosquitoes. Now, I was getting truly uncomfortable, my dress sticking to me like a second skin. I kept my back straight against the wicker lounge and watched as Ms. Margaret pressed her glass of ice water to her cheeks. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, and by her tone I could tell she actually hoped she hadn’t offended me. For a moment, I was almost touched. And then I watched as dribbles of water and sweat ran down her red cheeks, and my stomach twinged back to its usual distaste. “It’s just so hot ,” Margaret sighed. “God, it was so nice when John and I were up in Virginia. The air was cool as a spring breeze. You wouldn’t have believed it was June.” With these words my husband appeared, dressed smartly in a cream suit and boat hat. I felt all the tightness in my chest loosen a bit at the sight of Henry, like a stubborn knot of string being pulled at to unravel. His face melted into an easy smile, and he reached for Ms. Margaret’s damp hand. Ever since we had returned to Florida, I had noticed hints of the South trickling back into Henry’s voice and talk. Up North, you could have mistaken him for a proper gentleman born and raised. He had shocked me in his courting when he revealed that he was a self-made man from humble beginnings: a ma and pa down in Florida who ran a modest citrus farm flat in the middle of nowhere. Now, I saw his roots in nearly every move he made. The easy curve of his smile and how he took to every chair like he was sitting on his own front porch. Now, I was the odd duck. “Margaret May! How is it that you look daisy fresh in this July heat?” Henry said, beaming like a schoolboy at the sight of Ms. Margaret. The sight of her! To me, she looked like a pig in lady’s clothing, pink-faced and watery blue eyes gleaming eagerly up at my husband. If Margaret was daisy fresh, then I was Greta Garbo. “Aw, you’re too kind to me, Mr. Malloy. Really, I’m sweating like an animal in these clothes.” Every time Ms. Margaret revealed another personal flaw, I felt the gravity of my world being rocked. Despite the difference in climate, both down South and up North, proper ladies refused to reveal such afflictions. Even now, in this boathouse, you could spy several of us pinned up like colorful dolls, smiling through the strain and sweat. Ladies fanning themselves, poised like gentle, perspiring feathers. But here was Margaret, letting all of her discomfort roll off her chest like it was nothing. Not a worry in the world that it might offend me or my husband. Perhaps it was a sign of the times, of this so-called “liberated woman” that flaunted her sexuality and danced with her skin showing, but Ms. Margaret hardly seemed the flapper-type. I was beginning to think she was just unfortunately honest. “How many times do I have to tell you, Margaret?” my husband said, that familiar reassurance on his face that I loved so well. “Please, call me Henry. You’re married to my boy after all. We’re family.” At this, Margaret just smiled. A real smile, not the thin and aching one you put on to end a conversation. It was the kind of smile that broke into an almost downturn at the ends of her lips, where she had to bashfully avert her eyes from my husband down to her boots. Henry took his seat next to me and leaned into the wicker with ease. “Speaking of my boy, where is he? He’s holding off lunch and I’m ready to eat !” “I haven’t seen him since he went to speak with his cousins,” I said, scanning the boathouse for a sign of John. “Would you like me to go get him?” “No, don’t bother darling. We should be catching up with you anyway, Margaret. Tell us about the trip, how did you like it up North?” Margaret grew bashful again with the attention back on her. My son had taken her on a tour around the Northeast, starting at the top in Maine and going through New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, New York, and ending the trip in my home state of Pennsylvania. My heart sang for Pennsylvania. Every day spent in Florida, I ached for it more. Henry had consoled me about the move, told me there were beautiful places down South that I would love. I remember watching the country sink flatter on the train ride down, the green hills and purple mountains deflating into long stretches of nothing. I had closed my eyes and tried to focus on the scent of Henry’s pipe. Normally, I hated it when he smoked, but in the train car, it was a reminder of the ashen cold up North. When great swaths of trees burned in the distance and the entire winter was coated in the smell of hemlock and birch, smoldering. About the Writer... Georgia Witt is a seventeen-year-old writer based in Jacksonville, Florida. She enjoys writing poetry, southern gothic fiction, and creative nonfiction. She hopes to work for a literary or fashion magazine after college. About the Artist... Lillian Cosby is currently a senior attending NOCCA and Hammond high part time. She has come from a long line of artists ranging from writers and musicians to painters.