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17 < Back Lucky Money Lauren Underberg Lucky Money by Lauren Underberg "It’s as ordinary a place as you remembered—set in a sunburnt shopping center above an Asian market—although you hadn’t anticipated sitting up on the stage." It’s as ordinary a place as you remembered—set in a sunburnt shopping center above an Asian market—although you hadn’t anticipated sitting up on the stage. Usually, it was reserved for a big birthday or family reunion, and you suppose it was technically both, but you follow the waiter as he weaves his way to the very back of the room. From there, you can see the entire restaurant—circular tables curving outwards, waiters pushing carts piled high with meat buns and dumpling steamers, Mandarin and Cantonese and English and a little Spanish running together, until falling in a steady wave at the foot of the stage, then drawing back out. They arrived soon after you did, your Gung Gung helping your Poh Poh up the stairs as she waved off your mom, spotting you with a big smile. “ Luh-len! ” she said, like over the phone. “ Hao-ah-you? ” Next arrived Uncle Raymond, your mom’s favorite—when they’d lived in Hong Kong, he’d take her and her siblings to the park and tell them scary stories before they went to sleep. Aunt Becky (whose daughter is your mom’s cousin, or better known as the one with ten mil’, a spray tan, and enough plastic surgery to be an Asian Jennifer Lopez) was third. She brings you perfume and a brand-new watch. Last but not least was Crazy Uncle Alex—retired Wendy’s chain tycoon, now part-time Uber driver—striding in with a box of gourmet cookies, each one bigger than your hand. You set it across the empty chairs on the side, completing the circle. It’s not the usual round-up from your childhood—technically speaking, they’re either your great-uncle or aunt, but you’d only met Uncle Alex three years ago, and you hadn’t seen the other two since a baby or ever at all. Technically, you were supposed to see them with the rest of your family here in a week, on your Gung Gung’s seventy-fifth birthday. Technically, your mom and her sister are still Facebook friends, but only in the sense that she can’t see your mom’s posts drowning in her feed of the latest Coach bag or vacation selfie with Wannabe Jennifer Lopez. Technically, you’re officially unofficially estranged. In rapid succession, your mom reads off the order, confirming with your relatives before dictating to the waiter, who plucks your menus in a fanlike revolution and steps off the stage. They resume their conversation in Cantonese, bickering back and forth. Mainly, you just stare into space until your mom breaks the conversation for you to share or agree with something. She smiles, and you nod. Nod and nod. The first round of food arrives, and your Gung Gung places a rice noodle roll— ha cheung —on your plate, and then another one. “Oh— uhm-goi ,” you thank him, smile. Fiddle with chopsticks. “—and my dog,” Uncle Alex is saying, swiping through pictures of a fluffy bichon frisé on a chaise lounge. “Oh, your new apartment?” your mom says, and he hands over his colossal iPhone. “Private pool, all to myself.” He nods, sitting back. The ha cheung falls off your chopsticks. “Pool and puppy,” Uncle Raymond tuts, sipping from his tea. “ Ooh. ” Uncle Alex mutters something, launching on a tirade. Your mom glances between them, smiling, shaking her head. She whispers translations to you, including the curse words. “—like a fat buddha. He’s just sorry he doesn’t have a life!” Uncle Alex says, grinning. “I have a son and wife,” Uncle Raymond says, and Uncle Alex’s mouth folds back into a line as he stares at the pictures on his phone. “He’s still in Brooklyn?” your mom asks. You give up on the chopsticks. He nods. “Visited him last month—starting to travel again.” He taps on his phone to show two flights. “Oh, Seoul! She—” “And Auckland,” he says. “—loves BTS, don’t you?” She smiles, nudging you. You laugh a little loudly. He blinks. “You should speak to Uncle Raymond—I’ve been trying to teach her Cantonese this summer because she wanted to learn—you remember, tell him what your name is.” You stare at her, betrayed, but she nudges you again, so you piece together a smile that comes out more like a grimace. Uncle Raymond watches expectantly. “ Lei goh…mei —no. Uh.” You stare at the table. “ Mei goh…hai… ” You flail for something hollow. His expression returns blank. You sigh. “I don’t know.” Your mom laughs. “Ai-yah, it’s because I put her on the spot. My Cantonese is so bad anyway, kindergarten level, right, Ma? Ma.” “Hah?” Your Poh Poh looks up from the teapot. “Remember? You named her ‘Lok-yee.’ ” “Oh, yeh. ” She chuckles. “‘ Hahp-py-girl.’ ” Both of which you’re pretty convinced you’ve failed at . You smile. “ Lok-yee, Man-yee, ” Uncle Alex chants. Your mom’s name. “She said it sounds like ‘lucky money,’” she says, laughing, mostly to silence. Your Gung Gung grins, patting your shoulder. “You and yoh mohm ah very lucky, hah? ” Chuckling, he picks a meat bun with his hands to take a bite. You throw down your chopsticks and do the same. “When did you get in?” Aunt Becky asks. “Oh, just yesterday afternoon. We met up with them” —your mom gestures to your Poh Poh and Gung Gung, as rehearsed— “and my brother and his kids yesterday.” “Oh, but no Belinda?” Aunt Becky’s magnified eyes dart between the two of you carefully. Your mom sighs into her response. “ It’s …complicated. I just wanted to come up here once everything settled down, you know? I haven’t since—” “2019,” you say, and everyone glances at you momentarily. “Before we moved back,” your mom concludes. “Besides, we’re here for them.” Aunt Becky nods solemnly. Uncle Alex picks between his teeth. A server comes around once more, leaving yellow tarts on the Lazy Susan. Your mom’s face lights up. “You should try this—it’s like an egg tart that I used to eat as a kid. Oh, ma’am—could we get some spoons? Uhm-goi. ” Daan tat. It melts in your mouth. About the Writer... Lauren Underberg is a junior in the Creative Writing department at the Alabama School of Fine Arts. Their work appears in the department’s student-run literary magazine, Cadence. They have been referred to as a long-distance runner on multiple occasions, which basically means they'll never write a short short story in their life.

4 < Back My HAIRitage My HAIRitage by Nyriel Sarures About the Artist... My name is Nyriel Saures and I am a senior art major. I’ve been creating art ever since I was a little girl. Besides art I really like fashion too. I plan on continuing my artistic journey going into college and even after that.

Florida Girl by Hailey Edwards The Effects of Seasonal Changes on Floridian Coastal Wildlife By Scooter Wirth Prologue “When the tiny turtles are ready to hatch out, they do so virtually in unison, creating a scene in the sandy nest that is reminiscent of a pot of boiling water. In some areas, these events go by the colloquial term "turtle boils." Once hatched, the turtles find their way to the ocean via the downward slope of the beach and the reflections of the moon and stars on the water. Hatching and moving to the sea all at the same time help the little critters overwhelm waiting predators, which include sea birds, foxes, raccoons, and wild dogs. Those that make it through the gauntlet swim to offshore sargassum floats where they will spend their early years mostly hiding and growing.” — National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, February 9, 2024 * * * Before I was even conceived, my mother laid a strip of surfboard wallpaper all around my room, painted the walls like the beach, and placed a sign across from my bed reading: “Wiggle your toes in the sand.” The first place she took me was to the sand, and in it I became an elemental. I was more comfortable amongst dune, shore, fish, and bird than amongst kitchen, bedroom, man, and dog. The glare of the sun was similar to the hazy tint of a dream to me. The only air I could breathe was salt and brine. My hair, which fell in waves, was bleached platinum by sun. My eyes were a piercing turquoise-green-gray. They knew the true color of the ocean. If I didn’t have a bed to return to, I could’ve lived as an ocean sprite, an apostle of the waves. I felt like I was suffocating when the sky grew dark. I was unable to sleep some nights, feet always primed to run straight into the waves. My mother held me down to my bed like a soldier, and still I struggled against the chilling dark of night. I hated sleeping. I found myself in an alien world. Here, trees grew tall and dark; they sprouted needles instead of leaves. Here, the ground was caked with soggy snow. Here, the horizon rose in jagged peaks. What frightened me the most, though, was that here, I was entirely different. I didn’t care for the ocean, I skied on waves of snow, and I smiled at the bite of the cold through an open car door. On frozen ponds, I found my reflection. It seemed my hair had one day unexplainably curled, just like my father’s had. I was skinnier than I should’ve been, just like my father. The shoes I stood in were an old pair of Timberlands, not my usual sandals. I was the spitting image of my father. This is when the dream became a nightmare. I felt if I got too close to that ice, I might want to move away from the beach. I felt that this reflection might draw me in, might tempt me to become him. I ran before my reflection could speak a word. I felt like if I listened to him, I might begin to see the beauty in this place. I suppose that explains why my father’s skin was like ice. “Y’know, back in New Hampshire, we used to go outside in shorts on summer mornings when it was this exact same temperature,” he would say to me as I stacked layer upon layer over my shoulders and struggled to grab my backpack from beside me as the seatbelt tangled with my buckle. When I finally pulled myself from the car into the biting wind of January, I looked back at him with resentment I knew I had no reason for. It was how different we were, or perhaps how distant he felt, that drove me to roll my eyes at comments like that. When I looked into the rearview mirror and saw a slice of his face, only his eyes, I thought the mirror was pointing at me. I wondered how somebody with his alpine inclination could give birth to somebody like me; I wondered if he was really my father. I ran from my reflection before he could speak a word. I felt like if I listened to him, I might begin to see the beauty in him. Then, he took me to the only hill in Jacksonville: a small uprising in the city that seemed a lifetime away, a foreign land of alien wonder and blinding, scorching, metropolitan lights. From there, I was able to see the sun sink beneath the horizon for the first time, not just the ribbons of purple-orange lightning that called in wary surfers from their heaven. The full sunset was tender, red, fiery, and the sky was dark, empty, twinkling with stars. Even on the hottest, muggiest Florida nights, I found myself shivering. Here, though, against the lights of the city, the night felt warm. About the Writer... Scooter Wirth is a 12th grade student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. He is the winner of a 2022 scholastic gold medal for fiction and a 2024 Extravaganza featured artist. He frequents gothic genres and writes pieces that often revolve around the comparison of humanity and the natural world. He also enjoys songwriting and intends to pursue both forms of art in the future. About the Artist... Hailey Edwards is a 12th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She enjoys storytelling through her art, and her favorite mediums include digital, painting, and oil pastels.

Angelic Reflection by Krislyn Fraser Two Beautiful Things, Entangled at the Joints By Cherry Cheesman The longest and thickest bunch of wisteria I had ever seen grew off of two trees in a West Florida bay. The wisteria was a little under half a mile from the bay’s boardwalk and had grown over half of the tree’s mass before it began to branch off, not attached to anything at all except itself. The trees grew almost out of the sand, roots hollowing around and into the beach. It was amazing, something I felt I didn't have the right to see. I had no sense of logic for how it existed at all. In the strong breeze, the wisteria crossed the thin line between grass and beach, until the flowers swung above the ocean, and the small groupings of the plant thrashed around harshly, begging to touch the water. There was a sense that maybe it could. My best friend and I had noticed the trees when the boardwalk’s Ferris wheel stopped with us at the top, and there was suddenly very little to think about besides the fact that we had spent all of our money for the day by eleven in the morning. The trees were almost as tall as the peak of the wheel, and it was nice to have a distraction from the first drippings of regret. After, we pressed our faces against a wooden table to seek relief from the sweat-infused air. We faced the ocean, drawing upon the good graces of the wind. Despite the wind, the thinness of the sand, the beach was still packed—with sunbathing wives whose ocean-washed children held down the edges of the family’s towels, fishermen in various shades of bright swim shorts, iridescent fishing line to match. The sun had drawn up every bit of color in the ocean to its surface, like bubbles of carbonation. It looked the part too—a fictional neon that colored blue raspberry soda. Most people stayed away from the wisteria, the flail of flowers. People turned their heads to watch, but did not move. Parents beckoned the little ones back if they moved too close. As though the wisteria was an unpleasantness no one wanted to be struck by. “Call your mom, or I’m making you pay for my aloe vera gel,” my best friend said. Her arms and thighs left an imprint of sweat on the well-bleached table, viscous and fragrant with the residue of her sunscreen. Her white tank top and its tightness revealed her lungs, heavy at work. There were pen doodles on her arm. She had once drawn everyday, and done it well, but now she had little time alone to work on her sketchbook. I think art used to make her more observant. “Call your mom. Mine drove us here; she’s not using her lunch break to come get us.” The smell of fried fish coming from a vendor made me miss the cash that I’d blown on the claw machine. The hair closest to my scalp had started to stick to my skin in hard sheets, ones that would crunch when I worked water through them in the shower. The underside of my thick, brown wrist watch trapped salt that rubbed against my skin. The sweat that dripped down to my nose felt thick, like it could be seeping out the lavender in my hair that matched my best friend’s. Of course, my hair was not as vibrant as hers—I had only dyed it because she had bought a tub of hair dye, and still had some when she was done with her own hair—leftovers she had no use for. “Mine can’t leave work for no reason.” “Well, I just think mine is sick of having to do it all the time.” We were old enough to have licenses ourselves, to get jobs that could pay for used cars. We were old enough that it was embarrassing we had neither of these things. But we had promised to get our licenses at the same time, and we hadn’t been able to find matching dates for the DMV, and then all we had were expired permits that we had no particular interest in renewing. Our mothers became accustomed to the fact that we had the ambition of stagnant water, and had long given up hope of us getting jobs. The longer we stayed like this, it felt like the stagnancy crept into more than just my will— like, with each passing week, it would be my raw ability that kept me from doing anything, not my lack of desire to do it. “There’s no way that’s real. That has to be, like, magical. Or a dream. Or something.” I realized she was talking about the wisteria. I didn’t like that she’d noticed it too. It cheapened the wonder of seeing something and thinking it was incredible. “It looks like it’s going into the water. I didn’t think plants could do that.” I didn’t want her to keep talking. I wanted to keep my thoughts to myself, and enjoy them without the burden of her own. On weekends, after five concurrent weeknight evenings of each other’s company, we would go to parties together — dressed in clothing that was thin and tight. It twisted around us, was woven into patterns that clustered around what they needed to cover and gaped in the areas that we wanted to expose. We would crawl between houses, cringing away from too-harsh light, sucking spiked punch and any other nourishment from wherever we could find, bodies entangled in each other. We could never dance together well, the thorny bits of our bones cutting against the other’s soft flesh. But the other people at the parties would do little more than accept that we were there, understand that we could not be rid of. They did not get too close, and moved away when we approached them. So, we stayed around each other, as our dry skin cracked, snapped where our joints met. And then we’d go to one of our houses, always forgetting to change out of the clothes that stuck to us, like they’d set roots into our skin. Washing myself after a night out was always an immense effort; most days, there was already a gross sense of unease I had to scrub off of myself like thick sap. My hungover hands did not help. “I’m not going to sit here until five,” she protested again. “Then you’d better start walking.” Her house was a mile away from the boardwalk. Mine was a mile and a half. “You get up first. I’ll follow you.” I looked back towards the beach, the wind that was my only protection from the ravaging sun. The longer I had observed the wisteria, the sadder I had become. It was clear that the large mass of the flower had originally been two different plants, each section coming off of a different tree. But, at some point, as they grew away from where they began, instead of growing straight out and forward, they had grown into each other. For a while, they had been able to keep growing, had even been helped by having something to grow around. But then, they covered every square inch of the other. Their involvement with one another turned into constriction. I thought of me and my best friend on this boardwalk, close to entanglement despite the heat, the same pattern of thoughts no matter what we tried to think, with the knowledge we would be somewhere with each other at the same time next week, month, and for the foreseeable future after that. Now that the flowers were one, there was no telling where to make the first cut without the entire mass falling apart, how to tell where one started and one ended. No matter how hard they tried, they would never reach the ocean, because they could not move forward when they were so close together. About the Writer... Cherry Cheesman is a senior at South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities, where she studies creative writing. She is a fiction writer and poet who loves mixing the fantastical with the literary. She also loves crochet, indie horror games, indie music, and anything else new, creative, and beautiful. 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 photographic mediums.

Bino by Tatiana Arroyave Translated and Transferred by Natalie Cappelletti We pass valleys between our lips, Scour coastlines between our syllables, and As we go, we charter a map of dialects Plotting the geography of a language, Tracing the roots of our words up mountain ranges and down to coastlines. The intimate curvatures of suffixes traverse over glaciers and cliffsides, As the pasts and presents of our land become affixed to each character. Translation stifled our miscommunication, but Transference allowed our words to have new meanings entirely. The shape of our letters divide land from sea, Punctuating boundaries with each word formed, Our sentences construct cities and capitals, and The intent of our paragraphs draw countries and continents. The translation still baffled us, but the transfer was familiar, As if it never was foreign before. About the Writer... Natalie Cappelletti is a junior at Fairview High School in Boulder, Colorado. For the future, she hopes to continue to polish and produce powerful works of writing. Natalie intends to major in Linguistics at the collegiate level, and hopes that her education will contribute to her exploration of writing and language. Natalie has had her work featured in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards for three consecutive years in the mediums of poetry and fiction. Natalie has earned gold, silver, and honorable mention disciplines of the competition. In her free time, Natalie enjoys reading, completing puzzles, and knitting. About the Artist... Tatiana Arroyave is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy. Her favorite mediums are heavy charcoal and watercolor.

Fall/Winter 2021 Cover Art: Ephemeral by Jayci Bryant Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button An Open Door The Minkin Kitchen Lila Hartley Small Title Hana Minkin Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

18 < Back Beloved Omen Emerson Flanagan Narcissus by Liza Kalacheva Beloved Omen by Emerson Flanagan Josephine sat perched on her balcony, porcelain teacup cupped in her hands, her nails tapping the sides. She watched the bustling streets of Paris, young people coming and going early in the morning. Below the apartments across the street, a café full of older couples enjoyed the winter breeze. Her eyes darted from jewelry pieces to expensive wrist watches, envying their glamour. Standing, she went back into her apartment. The walls fashioned knickknacks from cuckoo clocks to displayed vampire hunting kits, her ever-growing collection. She walked with her cup, pushing her small bifocals up on the bridge of her nose and eyeing Van Gogh’s Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette painting hung in an aged, golden antique frame along the hall’s wallpaper. Setting the tea down, she flipped through her wall of clothes that spilled from the closet and into the room. Grabbing a small pile of clothes, she slipped behind the folding screen to change. Upon leaving and seeing herself in the mirror, something felt different. She puffed her chest out a bit but felt an emptiness. A lack of presence. She shuffled through the top drawer of her vanity and pulled out her cravat, tucking and flattening out her Edwardian-style blouse, a fashion trend she’s always been fond of. The corset dug into her ribs, poking and prodding with each movement but she didn’t mind. It made her chest and shoulders seem wider, more threatening. Puffier, yes that was the word. Josephine pinned her brooch that bore the portrait of a beautiful lady on her left side of the blouse. She didn’t wear this brooch often, but today she believed today was important. The woman who had this before her had been wearing this on her special day, so it only seemed fitting. She picked the shiniest earrings she could find before standing in the mirror again. She pushed her chest out again and felt a bit better. She spun around and danced for a moment, watching her cage crinoline sway rhythmically. Pleased, Josephine made her way to the door, stopping by a cluttered bookshelf and opening a small box. Inside were her most prized objects. Engagement rings, lockets with photos, and pocket watches of all sorts, taken from passersby. She didn’t like to steal, but something drew her to it. An overwhelming feeling of greed gnawing at her from the inside out. She liked the exhilaration of it. And, if it went well, she had a new, glistening object to look at. Shifting through the box she removed a necklace. A simple, gold chain with a charm on it. Not just a flat, gold charm, no, this necklace was special. The centerpiece was a black diamond surrounded by small ruby gemstones. Josephine hesitated to take it with her in fears that maybe he would not like it. Would it be too much? Too forward? Too feminine? She thought again and put it in her coin purse, certain he would like it. She grabbed a pocket watch that matched her theme for the day. Running her thumb over the lid she pondered the emblem of the crow. "People must be intimidated, she thought. Intimidated by Death’s whetted scythe. All but him." Josephine left without hesitation for the shop. Her heels clicked against the paved and cracked streets of Paris, echoing across the concrete buildings and ringing in the ears of those around. Some ignored her while others stopped to gossip. They’d call her things like the reaper or “an omen of death.” Perhaps it was the way she dressed? The way she held herself when she walked? Well, that’s what she thought, at least. Though, the thought never remained long as she shooed it from her mind. Death is dominant over life. People must be intimidated, she thought. Intimidated by Death’s whetted scythe. All but him. She pushed open the door to the coffee shop and stepped in. The aroma of the morning roast was so captivating one could sit there for hours. As usual, the same few old people sat at the tables outdoors while young businessmen sat inside, reading. Josephine went to approach the counter, but at the same time, he rounded the corner. A tall, olive-skinned man with a flashy smile. He had freckles across his nose and cheeks that laid out like constellations. Stars she could reach out and touch. Stars she could keep for herself. “Josephine!” he said, tying the apron behind his waist as he approached the counter. His nametag read “Albion.” Josephine nodded at him with a smile and looked at the menu. “You’re early today,” he continued, “got something important to attend to?” he concluded, leaning over the counter towards her. She looked up and smiled again. “Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s important. Something I’ve been meaning to do.” She spoke. His expression changed to intrigue. “Oh? Can I know?” “Certainly,” she said, taking out her coin purse, "open your hand.” He hesitated but obliged. Josephine plopped the necklace into his hand and looked at him eagerly. She puffed up her chest again, standing up straight. “A necklace?” Albion asked wearily, looking at her confused. She nodded. “Ah... Well, this looks rather expensive, I don’t want to take this from you.” “Please, it is a gift.” She said, pushing his hand closer towards him. “Do you not like gifts?” Albion shook his head. It wasn’t disgust or displeasure on his face, no, it was worry. Did he know the person who she had taken it from? “Take it, Josephine. Maybe I can accept it some other time. I fear I may lose it.” he laughed it off, handing the necklace to Josephine again. She frowned, retracting her chest, and softening her stature. It was okay, she thought, he’ll take it later. She thanked him for his time and left the shop. Lost in thought, she bumped into a man on the sidewalk. “Watch it, freak!” He shouted at her. Freak? Was he speaking to me, she thought, or someone else? She felt herself return to that dusty old classroom again. Sitting on the creaky, chipped wood floor surrounded by hundreds of laughing faces, waving fingers and a wall of people. She wanted nothing more than to run, flee, anything. Fly. To leave all judgement in her dust and fly away to a place where she could see a bright smile and the stars in one place. A place she could have all to herself. But for now, that place is but a distant dream. Not that it mattered much. She perched on her balcony once more, this time, clutching the new addition to her collection: a twenty-four-carat engraved pocket watch signed, “my Emily.” Her wings drooped behind her, dusting the concrete floor with sleek feathers as the breeze blew past. She twirled the necklace between her nails, now loosely resembling talons, with her free hand, lost in thought. Would Albion ever say something like that? “My Josephine” or something of the like? She’d like that. For him to look at her with that warm smile and say it. Just once, that would be enough. About the Writer... Emerson Flanagan is an active sophomore writer in the creative writing department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She enjoys writing fiction, fantasy, and poetry. She prides herself in her use of description with setting and characters. About the Artist... An artist looks at ordinary things, things that wouldn't interest other people, people who have no time to waste, and it's like being hit by lightning. The feeling is so erratic and fleeting; an artist has to paint it to life before it is lost. I find myself in that very cycle, I live, then I paint it.

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.

Crepuscular, a portrait of matrilineal scoliosis By Ariel Wu grandmother, who is from the north & has scoliosis, totters from the car like a bad tooth, the black, acidic sugar of dusk eating into her spine. in the bone-damp lampshade, her body swells like the skeleton of chinese lanterns in spring, bulging with pus-colored light. mama helps her out of the car, her hand on the crutch reverent like an empty ambulance. against the sunset, i strive & fail at tracing the straight lines in her shadows, a well-weeded garden. couldn’t you be more enthusiastic? father asks. grandmother says she feels neglected. in the crescent of our chinese bones, sympathy melts into bullets, dripping from our surfaces in heartfuls of ash. at night i dream of her figurine tucked into an embroidered shoe box, the stream of her flesh out flapped and brimming like butter. the chinese daughter i am, obsessed with steam irons & corks & labyrinths: how comely & beautiful it would be to straighten & disentangle a time-arched body. for dinner, grandmother nai makes pork dumplings with chinese chives, her hands snow-choked & soil-veined like grandfather’s tombstone in her birthplace, dough rising from the crevices of her hand like hemlock. the cuffs of the dumplings like rags. at dinnertime i hide in my room and tell mama the chives smell like dead rabbits and mama says she agrees. grandmother calls her a shen jing bing. good & chinese, grandmother lets poison flow in ivory rivulets in her body but sees everything as omens: my refusal to eat chives, shrapnel of the broken plate mama scraped her palms on, mama’s confessions to her faceless, bloodless heathen god. the day she and father fought mama for the fish bones mama forgot to dump in the trash, i stand behind my door, hearing grandmother’s wails billowing through her enclosed, sea-sealed body like a window, the glass unraveling her curvature like the gliding doors at the hilton. on the way to the airport, the car lights of father’s benz, deer-eyed and bloodshot under a fracturing sun, nai nai tells me to hold home on the tip of my tongue & that gratitude is a prayer to our ancestors. in our household, scoliosis is matrilineal, a legacy of arrow-backed heathens, the summer moon clipped between our knees. father’s benz ebbs into the distance like a hearse, the bony sky weighing on it’s back. About the Writer... Ariel Wu (she/her) is a high school senior from Shanghai, China. Her poems have been recognized by Chinchilla Lit, Nowhere Girl Collective, and PVLSE. She is an alumna of the Iowa Young Writers Studio and Juniper Young Writers. When she is not writing about the quandaries of girlhood and over-analyzing literature, she can be found at various K-pop concerts. Check out her published work on Instagram at @ariel_by_sylvia_plath.

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 Crepuscular, a portrait of matrilineal scoliosis Ariel Wu Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

2 < Back Elegy for Big Talbot State Park Brendan Nurczyk Capture Memory by Kaleigh Simmons Elegy for Big Talbot State Park by Brendan Nurczyk "I’ll write on the stark singular// page at midnight, bright and limited// as a coast, I was here" We’ll get there in time to watch the heron empty its beak of fish into the Nassau Sound, flurry of silver bodies etching blue knives, these wasted afternoons becoming lessons in learning to love every part of the branch the Spanish moss snags, our soft dislodging of eyes and the stubbornness of sand, and brine, the way the hot air cuts into the cold. Waist deep in the water and dancing hard on my sprained ankle, I’ll point at a white abandoned shirt hanging from a branch on the shoreline, dark yellowed-in armpits, a calcified once-body, and remark, It could be anyone’s, even ours. And you’ll nod silently as the water swells now at our shoulders and moves us farther and our skin now more salt than human. And when we’re back on the shore we’ll write our secrets in the sand and then quickly bury then. Let them die in the mouth, let us swim for hours, idiot fish. And I’ll think of this place, bruised into a childhood I measure by hurricane seasons, by the perspiration that builds on the windows of the house. The messages I scrawl into the glass that warp and evaporate, and there’s no proof I was ever here besides this single moment eaten apart by mosquitos and low sun like the oranges we emptied of any flesh with our sticky hesitant mouths. I’ll tell you on the other side of the shore, between here and Amelia Island, in the pruned topography of my hands. I’ll write to you on the gullies of eroded dunes, on every inch of available skin on the body I bury under layers of clothes and inside summers I waste with nothing but the pumping of my lungs to the rhythm of the wind adrift cycads. I’ll write on the stark singular page at midnight, bright and limited as a coast, I was here, you don’t have to believe me, but I was. About the Writer... Brendan Nurczyk is a poet and essayist from Jacksonville, FL. He is an alum of the Iowa Young Writers Workshop and reads for the Farside Review. About the Artist... Kaleigh Simmons is a student at Savannah Arts Academy. The mediums of their piece are Alcohol Marker and Color Pencils.

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