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Language, Summer Carrier Go, forth, prosper, as if Kansas now means any place, we're not. Here's Johnny! Knock. Knock. Babble on about the need for speed. Keep moving and calling upon precedent: deja vu, and the ever bastardized call of the moon, mourning, and marriage. If one more claims cliche, I shall throw a fit. Fit, now a wonderfully common expression. Frankly, my dear, yesterday, my friend said she couldn't remember the name of her favorite cereal. But knew to follow her nose, language our luckiest charm- that milk was got. Apples jacked. Cola Coked. Jack Crackered. A wonderful and reckless refurbishing! Return to Table of Contents

Guardians Sarah Ermold In Theory Julienne Masopust a coyote guards my conscience, chasing rabbits across the soft tissue of my brain to protect the angel and the devil on my shoulders. the devil's perspective intrigues the rabbits. he has a way of gripping the truth twisting it into lies, the compulsion driving my body into overload exciting them. a hunter protects my emotions, hunting rabbits that come near the dam he's worked so hard to build. the gun held close to his chest his finger on the trigger, he keeps it loaded, ready for a stray rabbit to come close. the rabbits hop around my senses mixing them up to confuse the hunter and the coyote, they want the dam to break. to shake hands with the devil, to get back at the creatures guarding my inner-self, my alter-personality the world never sees. the rabbits consume me. the hundreds of them hopping around my mind they know me more than i know myself. my own little world guarded by the creatures of my mind i wouldn't want them to know what other creatures lurk in my brain, the ones they don't see the ones i keep concealed even from myself. i wouldn't want to be left to discover them myself. when the hunter shoots the rabbit. when the dam breaks and the coyote drowns, when the devil holds my brain in his hand, the pink soft tissue becoming grey as his soul seeps into my brain. Return to Table of Contents

Microaggressions Trinity Jones Inner Truth Trinity Cohen He approached me in the middle of the courtyard – an ocean of fair skin and straight hair – in shorts red as his arms, legs and neck, with the focal point a blue ‘X’ with evenly placed white stars and said you’re pretty for a black girl. I imagine he meant my lips weren’t nearly as “baboon-like” and my hair more kempt than the other monkeys he’s seen. Or perhaps my skin is light enough less “tar-like” to satisfy his Aryan standards. Ignoring the unnerved pang of my subconscious and the unraveling of my esteem, I gave a quick flash of my jigaboo smile paired with a simple thank you , hoping false gratitude was enough to satisfy, wincing as my thanks sang the revised tune of Ol’ Zip Coon (O zip a duden duden duden zip a duden day). He walked away proud of his charity, and I remained charcoal impersonating clean chalk, my hand trying desperately to tear the pigment off itself. Return to Table of Contents

We Still Have a Heart in Ourselves Indie Pascal The ground beneath my feet was grass. It was soft, fuzzy, and long. It scratched against my black boots. It was different ground then where I’d stood three years ago. Then, I was at my grandparents' house. There was construction at my house, so I wasn't home. That day, that night, I stood on different ground. And, again, tonight, three years later, I’m under a tent, singing and praying with my community. Remembering. Remembering that day. Three years ago. Three years seems like a long time, but I remember it like it was yesterday, and fear it like it will happen tomorrow. My grandparents were on a trip, in Vermont. We were staying temporarily at my dad’s parents, my grandparents’ house. They are fancy people, with fragile objects that shouldn’t be touched. I saw statues of Jesus and Mary, and red tapered candles on the dining room table. I am not like them. I am Jewish. I am used to the Mezuzah, bolted into the side of the door, and Hanukkah candles in the freezer. But, it is different at a Christian’s house. Every Friday, Jews would put on their tallit and kippah, and, if you are the religious type, you walk to synagogue. I am not the religious type, but my uncle and his family are. They go to shul every Friday, and pray to God, thanking him for creating the Earth. On that Saturday morning, they went too. Tree of Life is a small congregation. Even on a Saturday morning, the most crowded occasion, very few people attend. It wasn’t always like this. I remember the halls, packed with people. The hall was so noisy, voices echoing off the walls. Kids ran around in their Purim costumes, and tugged on their parents’ legs trying to gain their attention. People greeted us at the door and hugged us, handing us our sidurs. I’d run in and Rabbi Chuck would squeeze me tight, the strings of his tallit brushing along my face. We sat between the pillars in the main sanctuary and played LEGOS secretly, quietly in the aisles. We’d bring buckets of small knights and make them fight on top of a siddur. People stood in the hallways and chatted as Rabbi Chuck- and later, Rabbi Myers- chanted the prayers and hundreds of voices chimed in. When my mom recognized someone, she gave them a hug and laughed and talked. Sometimes, things change. You eat Cavatelli for a week, and one day, you decide to eat Gnocchi. Things are different now. It isn’t about Gnocchi or Cavatelli. It’s about life or death. Words aren’t processed as fast as you receive them. I remember my mom’s face, changing from a neutral skin tone, to a pale white. She shut the phone. Fear rushed through me. “There is an active shooter at Tree of Life,” she said. I received the words into my brain, but the processing took a minute. As soon as it was processed, fear, then questions. That is one thing I remember very well. Questions. At Tree of Life? Are you sure? My mother tried to call her brother, to find out where he was. If he was safe. She tried at 9:50. And, again. And again. Who was it? How many killed? Are Uncle Sam and Max, and Auntie Andy, and Simon okay? I didn’t know whether they were alive, or not. My mother went to my father, and they talked rapidly, using words I didn’t know. I was so confused. “Turn on the T.V. Quick. Please,” my mother said. We all rushed into the room with a television, and turned it on. We changed the channel to CNN, but, really, it would probably be on any channel. At least three deaths. Exchanging Gunfire. Shelter in Place. On the T.V., we read the most dreadful words. My mother walked frantically around the room. She kept calling Uncle Sam. Finally, he answered. My uncle was always late to things, and for once, it saved his life. Time passed. They said that more died. In the end, eleven were dead. This is what we remembered. The day we lost eleven. The day our synagogue was taken from us. Where we prayed and laughed together. As a congregation. As a community. As a family. Now, three years later. Fear is still with me. The shooting changed me. I will always have fear in me, and worry about the very next day, hour, minute, second. I never want to lose what I lost again. People make sure of it, like the police. They guard every service we have, and make sure we are safe. It is kind, but why do they need to do it? Why is our world so much like it is, that Jewish people, Black, and Muslim people need to have police watching their backs? (Or, need people to watch the police?) I don’t want someone protecting me from the bad. I don’t want there to be bad. But the world is still like this. I still stand, the grass beneath my boots. I still stand, in the house of my grandparents. I still stand, the tragedy on the T.V. screen. I still stand with my community, holding their hands. We keep the memory of the people we lost. We keep our community. We keep our hearts in our bodies, in ourselves. They may have taken my community, my synagogue, and some of my courage. But they will not take away my heart. Return to Piece Selection

15 < Back Temporal Displacement Liang Jingyi Puzzle Man by Nishchay Jain Temporal Dispalcement by Liang Jingyi Prologue With the tip of my pen poised a few millimeters above a dog-eared notebook page and my room drenched in the distilled sound of gaudy reality shows from the cramped living room of my Spanish neighbor, I listen as the cacophonous summer night outside returns to a semblance of quiet. A stream of thoughts slowly washes away the restlessness of my heart. Holding onto each abstract thought, I begin to fathom the elusive shape of a repressed desire. A desire to write about our experience of time. Not in the sense of the ticking clock behind me, but the perceived temporal existence, the work of our minds, which, unlike our bodies, are not confined to the present. Every morning, I wake up to two realities – the physical, immediate reality teeming with sights and smells, and the parallel, imagined reality unfolding in my consciousness. In this constructed reality, the mind’s unique mechanism of memory and imagination transcends all artificial boundaries of seconds, hours, and years. Our minds roam despite our rooted bodies. On the drift of remembrance The crowd has a queer, submerging charm not unlike that of the ocean. Dodging one umbrella after another upheld newspaper while the enveloping street scenes reinvent themselves, I feel like a swimmer in the sea. I’ve always loved a light drizzle like this, invigorating especially in the somnolent afternoon hours. Taking a turn into the children’s park down a forest path, I am immediately enfolded in a rain-washed earthiness, which I inhale with an almost unquenchable thirst. I relish in a few moments of rare solitude until a woman appears at the end of the trail, hurrying as if late for an important appointment. As she passes, the lingering traces of her floral perfume cast a spell over me. A subtle blend of woodiness, sakura, and morning dew. I can’t quite discern what my consciousness is trying to salvage from the dormant sea of memory, but I remain in a motionless trance, afraid to disturb this incomprehensible process. A few seconds later, the frail partitions of my mind finally give way, and the tides of vivid remembrance come rushing into my consciousness. My last morning walk in Tokyo 3 years ago. A slight drizzle. Spring blossoms. Metropolitan speed. I now inhabit my past self who tirelessly fixed her gaze on every house she passed. The glimpse into the privacy of the Other offered tremendous solace, as if HER Tokyo resided in the domesticity of empty living rooms. She saw chairs left askew on the balcony where plants were starting to wither. She caught a glimpse of the Impressionist art on the wall, clashing somewhat with the inviting wooden dining table. She saw five Christmas nutcrackers arranged horizontally on a windowsill. She then conjured up a life – relatable in its humanity, rejuvenating for its exotic charm. 9am breakfasts with freshly brewed coffee, private conversations on the dinner table, living room drenched in a serene, diaphanous light on Saturday afternoons… She relished the feeling, much like when an author delves into the conflicted thoughts of the character and you, in the space of a few pages, become their immediate confidante. Wading along the forest path through the waters of remembrance, I relive vignettes of the past, as fresh and palpable as the canopy above me. On togetherness and solitude "I often think about the way we connect with one another – how the duet of language builds towards a cathartic crescendo where we both know, almost telepathically, that a connection is forged." I often think about the way we connect with one another – how the duet of language builds towards a cathartic crescendo where we both know, almost telepathically, that a connection is forged. I yearn to be seen, to feel the gaze of affection caressing my sensitive skin. But my body sighs, betraying my unbounded comfort in the shades, the corners, and the tunnels where my selfhood, liberated now from the grasp of public scrutiny, stretches into expansive shapes. I still remember that night with George and Anna many years ago. We were an inseparable trio in college. George and I were still together then. With them, I can be whoever I am at the moment. I stay afloat in the fluidity of my emotions. No politeness. No expectations. No pressing social obligations. In a small, tenebrous Turkish diner, we talked while sipping hot Apple tea from ornamental cups. Anna, who is a Buddhist, was talking about how the next generation of Dalai Lama is chosen in Tibet. As our conversation progressed from the innate call to awakening to karmic affinities, I felt entranced in a mythic atmosphere much like my first impression of Lhasa several years ago. Unmooring my mind from the dock of the present, I sailed to the Potala Palace, where the tangy incense-laden air permeated the sunset hour. I lingered there for a while, in my renewed memory of Tibet, while in the present Anna and George busied themselves with their perennial debate over the historicization of science. Later on, we went to a dessert bar where pop songs from recent years were blasting over the speakers. An attractive bohemian man in his twenties kept singing to his girlfriend whenever one of his favorite hits came up. We watched in amusement. I thought of how I might have enjoyed the company of someone like him – energetic, wild, unorthodox. George is the opposite – rational, gentle, thoughtful. Watching him search for the etymological origin of the word ‘sugar,’ which we brought up a while ago, I felt an ephemeral instant of suffocation. George would never take me on his motorbike for a midnight ride, wake me up at 3am to go dancing on the street, or hitchhike across the country without a thorough plan. I was suddenly reminded of an image in a novel I read a long time ago, where lovers are depicted as trees growing in the shade of each other. I thought of how the sanctuary of intimacy, nurturing as it is, may also prevent us from growing in other directions where we might flourish in a different way. Perhaps part of me still longed for the smothering heat of zest, the magnetic pull of a reckless soul. I carefully shelved this thought, closed the drawer in my mind, and asked George whether the word first came from Latin or Persian with full, genuine interest. Somewhere along my journey of absorbed recollection, my neighbor turned off the monotonous documentary. This sudden descent into quiet inundates my heart with a wistful longing for those convivial moments with George and Anna, now painted over by the brushstrokes of memory. On the temporal ambiguity of daydreaming On most days, I dream. It’s like being in a self-directed theater where past memories and imagined future happenings are enacted as if they were the pulsing heartbeat of the present. In the realm of daydreams, all artificial temporal boundaries are lifted. Time becomes fluid, liberating the self that has been gasping for air. In this temporal ambiguity, I feel a state of lightness, where all existential weights are lifted, where I am engrossed in the imagined Now. Ultimately, we invent time to impose order upon chaos, to salvage an illusion of stability from what is otherwise a cavernous hole where all that ever happens to us is an eternal fall. So, what if we fall? About the Writer... Jingyi is a lover of stream-of-consciousness narratives. She can often be found dreaming of a parallel reality, caught in minor existential crises, or wondering what movie to watch on Friday night. She currently studies at St. Joseph’s Institution. About the Artist... I am Nishchay Jain on ASD and I generally use Acrylic medium for my art work. Initially I started with watercolors but gradually I shifted to acrylic. I love painting my own imagination artwork Art makes me calm and it’s therapeutic for me. I was born in India and started making drawing at the age of 10. My art teacher taught me different skills and taught me to visualize the light and distance.

< Back Alexander 103 by Qilin Pote Rosalind the Unsinkable By Kala West Charlie Forrester was in a hurry. Such a hurry, in fact, that he failed to notice the tuba case lurking in the middle of the narrow corridor and promptly tripped over it. The big man bit back a howl as he fell to the ground, clutching his shin, people swarming around—no— over him and up the stairs to the ship’s main deck. Dazed, he stared at the object he’d stumbled on. It did not take long for him to be trampled to death by the other passengers. The first thing Charlie noticed when he awoke was that he was not dead. However, he did not have long to rejoice in that fact before he noticed the next few things. He was alone in the hall, the lights had gone out, and he had one hell of a headache. "The first thing Charlie noticed when he awoke was that he was not dead. However, he did not have long to rejoice in that fact before he noticed the next few things. He was alone in the hall, the lights had gone out, and he had one hell of a headache." He stormed up the stairwell, puffing his way toward the shouts still ringing above. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the pounding to the head he’d received, but as he emerged, he could have sworn the deck seemed to be at an angle. Moments later, that was confirmed when a crate slid over and hit him directly on his hurt shin. “Bloody, stinking thing !” He kicked it and proceeded to hop around, holding his foot and scowling as he took in the grim sight before him. The long row of lifeboats previously fixed to the rail was no longer there; the waves were crawling with the lifeboats. But there, just visible over the side of the ship, one more was being lowered into the water. Charlie limped towards it, scanning for a vacancy. He blinked as he beheld the little rowboat’s contents. Then, he rubbed his eyes. At that point, Charlie decided he must still be dreaming and spun in a circle three times. As he turned the third circle, smiling confidently, for he knew his hallucinations would resolve themselves, he thought to himself how very clever he had been to recognize his muddled brain’s tricks as fiction. But, when he came to a standstill, the spectacle remained. His grin fell, turning into a gawk at the very real tuba occupying the very last seat. He shut his mouth and waved to the thin man worriedly twiddling his thumbs beside the instrument. “Oy, you there!” The fellow did not seem to notice as Charlie gestured to him. “You, with the tuba!” The fellow looked up at last, surprised. “Oh. Hello. Have you come with her case?” the man asked. “Who—what?” “Her case. Rosalind’s case.” He motioned toward the tuba. For a moment, Charlie stood, stunned. "No. No, I haven’t got your tuba’s bloody case!” The man’s mouth thinned into a distressed line. “Oh, well. I was practicing with Rosalind, you see, and I was in such a rush to get her to safety that I seem to have dropped her case somewhere along the way while I was trying to put her back in—” “You call your tuba Rosalin—wait a damn second!” Charlie gaped. “You! Why, it was your case I tripped over! You’re the whole flaming reason I’m late in the first place!” The man’s face brightened, his hands fluttering excitedly as he spoke. “Oh, you’ve seen her case? Thank the heavens, you’ve found it! Would you mind fetching it for—” “Would I mind? Would I mind? Now, listen here, what I mind is that this is the last goddamn lifeboat, and that great big thing is taking up the last goddamn spot!” Charlie could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. The man cringed and turned his attention toward his instrument, brushing off some imaginary speck of dust from its surface. “Oh, what ever can I do?” His voice was almost featherlike, seeming to skitter from one word to the next like some small animal. “Her case, her lovely home, it’s gone! Oh, dear, dear Rosalind. Forgive me.” The curiously curled moustache perched upon his upper lip quivered as he paused solemnly. Charlie glared at his reflection in the brightly polished tuba, painfully aware of the rapidly increasing distance between him and the lifeboat as it was lowered into the waves. “That’s all right and good, fella, but—” The man turned hastily to Charlie, collecting himself. “My sincerest apologies, sir, I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. My name i s Nelson. William Nelson." “Alright, Will, I’m Charlie, but this—” William continued, an absent smile forming on his lips, seeming not to have heard Charlie. “And this is Rosalind, my tuba. I should have introduced her first, of course.” Charlie could no longer contain himself. “Just throw the thing overboard, you bloody fool!” William’s large eyes widened; he had the audacity to look wounded as Charlie seethed. “This ship is nearly done for, I’m about to go down with it, and your tuba is the only thing keeping me from jumping into that boat and saving my own backside! I’ll tell you, when we get to shore, I’ll pay for the whole damned instrument. By the lord, I’ll pay for thirty if you want, you numbskull!” The lifeboat was out of reach now, or Charlie would’ve pitched the tuba over the side himself. He could barely hear William’s reply over the cacophony of bending metal far below. “I’m terribly sorry, Charles, I do apologize, but Rosalind does not know how to swim. Unfortunately, I cannot expose her to the ocean, lest she may…” As the din drowned out the remainder of his sentence, a distant expression crept over the man’s face, and he seemed to forget Charlie was there as he puttered on. “Put it on your lap, dammit.” Charlie was fuming. Nelson appeared vaguely distressed to see that Charlie was continuing to address him. “What? Oh, no, I would never deny Rosalind the basic dignity of having her own seat. No , it simply would not do.” William’s gaze began to wander back to his tuba, and Charlie knew the conversation was approaching a dead end. Think, you idiot, think! “This is absurd! This is madness! This is—” Charlie took a breath. Then another. “The tu— Rosalind looks cold.” Panic filled William’s eyes and he began taking off his jacket to put around the instrument. Before he could do so, Charlie said, “No, no, you must cradle her. In your lap.” He cursed the stupidity of his words but forged onward, knowing this was his final chance at survival. “It is the only thing to do, really. A lady mustn’t be kept at arm’s distance, or she may feel… underappreciated.” “Oh.” At that moment, William Nelson looked so miserable that Charlie almost wished he could take the words back; they seemed to have struck too close to home. As the reedy man scrambled to do exactly as advised, he moaned “Forgive me, Rosalind, for I have been a cruel friend indeed! How can I ever make my neglect up to you, allowing you to feel so lowly and uncared for…” Charlie stared in wonderment as the seat was cleared and Nelson’s soft cooing began to emerge from beneath the tuba’s great mass. The ship let out a deafening groan as the lifeboat neared the water. Without any further hesitation, Charlie flung himself over the rail, and down he sailed into that final seat. Of the seven hundred and six survivors of the sinking of the R.M.S. Titanic , the tuba was one. About the Author... Kala West is a junior at Evanston Township High School. She enjoys writing poetry and fiction, playing the violin, and spending time with her dogs. About the Artist... Qilin Pote is a Draw and Paint major in 12th grade at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. They specialize in paintings and mixed media works that show a slice of life from the stories of things around them. Previous Next

Elan welcomes you to explore our 39th year Fall/Winter issue. These curated pieces venture across time periods, journey through personal depths, and traverse cultural foundations. Each piece present within this issue was crafted, selected, and edited by teenagers on the cusp of adulthood. Our mission has always been to highlight these voices, and as we move into our 39th year, we will continue to do so. We encourage you to open yourself up to the possibilities of the impossible. Take the time to crack the spine and immerse yourself in the voices of young artists. Signed, Avery Grossman, Jaslyn Dickerson, Jamie Lohse & Jeneva Hayes

Editor’s Note As our 36th year comes to an end, Elan is starting to unearth a new environment and quality of work in all aspects of our publication. We near our 37th year of publishing with our eyes and spirit wide open to new promises and challenges. In this issue you will encounter work that speaks to both the beauty and anguish of change. In lieu of breaking new ground and treading unchartered waters, Elan’s Fall/Winter 2022 embraces self-discovery through writing, art, and the voyage of expansion. We want you to see this issue as a passage, a mirror requiring both examination of the self and the world around us. We ask that you traverse this new landscape of words and art with us and come out on the other side with new perspectives. Editors-in-chief Brendan Nurczyk, Niveah Glover, and Emma Klopfer

Scott Parmelee Scott Parmelee is a senior creative writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts, and serves as Élan’s layout and design editor. He enjoys writing poetry and short stories.

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.

56740b90-b449-4ffc-b3a7-c83e5768dc2e Soho by Ivory Funari Mountaintop by Itay Frenkel A plane flew by outside, filling my room with a dull whistling noise, like wind blowing at the peak of a mountain. I turned over in bed and pulled the blanket right up to my chin. Cold slithered around me like a snake, prodding at my feet, stroking my hair, running down my back. I curled into a ball under the covers and closed my eyes, but it did no good. The snake was inside me now, and I was shivering. Dammnit, if I wanted to sleep in a cave I would go and do it, why does he insist on keeping it so cold in here? I have slept in a cave once, on a class trip, but it wasn’t cold at all. It was so hot the boy next to me had sweat seeping through his sleeping bag. It formed big black stains. I can’t remember anything from that trip except the stains on the boy’s sleeping bag and the suffocating heat. I turned over in bed, wanting to wrap myself around my husband, maybe then I’d be warm. If not, maybe some of my cold would slither into him. It would serve him right for turning the thermostat so low. I turned over to the side and stretched out my arms, ready to squeeze his slim figure and burrow myself into his back. My arms slid through the air. I poked my head out of the blanket, but I couldn’t see anything in the darkness. I felt around his side of the bed. It was as cold as the rest of the room. I tried not to assume the worst. He probably got out of bed because he was having trouble sleeping. He could be on the couch reading a book. Maybe he headed out to buy some snacks. I reached over for my phone on the nightstand but stopped myself. I should check the apartment before I call. If anything, he was still in here somewhere. I forced myself to take a long breath before climbing out of bed. The warm carpet felt good under my bare feet. I stretched from side to side, exhaled a loud yawn, then shuffled through the small corridor that led to the living room. A green couch, a small white coffee table, and a thin tv that sat on the floor. The tv was turned off. Around ten books lay on the coffee table, some piled on top of each other, most with a bookmark stuck between them. His habit of reading so many books at once had always surprised me, I preferred to take it one imaginary world at a time, any more and I’d start mixing up the different books. Hell, if I tried reading as many as him at once, I’d start mixing up fiction and reality. I walked over to the kitchen, where a large, greasy pan still sat on the stovetop. It contained the remnants of pasta, which I made while he sliced and pickled cabbage, claiming it would add a tangy flavor. I didn’t see much reason to spice up our normal dinner, I hated cooking, and I was happy with my bland noodles. The cabbage was too sour, I tried my best to hide my distaste but he saw right through me and offered to eat my portion. He shouldn’t be hungry, then again, he wasn’t the type to feel full for long. I opened the fridge, as I did every time I was in the kitchen, instinctively. He wasn't in there. I surveyed the kitchen for a note and turned up empty-handed. He was gone, and his trail, like everything else around me tonight, was cold. We didn’t own a car. The first three weeks of our married life were spent making decisions; he would sleep on the left side of the bed and me on the right; the beer would go in the fridge, not the pantry, he liked it chilled; my kindle slept next to me on my nightstand, his books called our coffee table home, unless important guests came over, in which case we’d tuck them into a shelf we got from before we were married. With all these decisions springing upon us, like invisible raindrops pouring from the sky, neither of us had even thought of buying a car. I liked walking, anyway, and he had a bike. Decisions at the beginning of marriage should be natural. I knew I belonged on the right side of the bed like a pilot knows exactly how to land their plane. He knew he wanted his books scattered on the coffee table. It all made sense, we were building up our life piece by piece, together. A car just wasn’t natural, it didn’t fit just yet. I called him, and my phone rang for a long time. The sound bounced around the room like a bullet before being swallowed up by the walls, which seemed to shiver for a moment. I called again, no answer. Where could he be? I turned off my phone and stared at my reflection on the dark screen; bed-hair, dark bags under my eyes. Was that oil on my face or just light reflecting off the screen? I felt tired, so tired, but I didn’t want to sleep until I knew where he was. I left him a text: Hey, please call me back as soon as you can. Then, after a few deep breaths that failed to calm me down, I left him another one: If you don’t answer in an hour I’ll start pulling bookmarks out of your books. It wasn’t a very serious threat, and it wasn’t a very funny joke, but it was the best my tired brain could think to write. I walked back into the living room and looked out the window, but I couldn’t see anything, it was dark as a pupil. I should have gone back to sleep, it was late. But still, the darkness felt warm and inviting, like an old friend. It reminded me of the nights I spent in the library, poring over books I should have read earlier but didn’t because I was busy going to the beach with friends. Or nights before I married my husband when we would drive out to get food and catch a movie. I didn’t sleep much back then. My head always hurt, my stomach growled, but it didn’t matter because I belonged to both night and day. I was living two lives, and I treasured each. I pressed my nose against the dark window, it felt like ice. I exhaled a warm breath and watched a circle of fog appear on the window. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I left it alone and kept making circles. I made a mental note to wash the window tomorrow after work. How was I forming these circles indoors? Could it be that cold? I decided to do one more survey of the apartment before going back to sleep. I made sure the front door and all the windows were locked, then I dragged myself back into bed and curled under the covers. My eyes snapped shut. I lay on my side and waited for sleep to take me away. My lips trembled, but why? I tried to think of something, anything, just to help ease my mind into sleep. Nothing came. My head was as empty as the darkness around me. All I could feel was a faint throbbing headache, more of a sound than a feeling. It was as if my heart had traveled up my throat and slid into my head, where it was beating, pressing against my skull like a baby chick trying to hatch. My ears felt clogged, my nose was stuffy, my lips were too cold to part. It was like my body was closing itself off, trying to keep something out. Trying to keep the darkness out. It didn’t want to sleep, not alone. It hated being alone more than anything. But the darkness was too much, and soon it found a little hole in my otherwise impeccable defense, a tiny opening in my left ear, and it struck, pouring into me and shrouding my brain. I fell into a heavy sleep. I dreamed that I was standing on the beach, surrounded by people I used to know, and others I couldn’t recognize but somehow felt like I would get to know soon. There was an air mattress on the water, a green one, swaying to and fro over the gentle waves. A little boy was sitting on it. He was the only one in the water. The sky was grey and low; it looked heavy, like it might fall and crush everyone on the beach. A dense fog settled over everything so that I couldn’t see the waves grow big and deadly, but I could hear them. Nobody moved. The kid on the air mattress screamed for help. I looked around, but still, nobody moved. I was on the swim team, back in high school. Not that it would help me swim through a ten-foot wave built like a brick wall, but I felt I had to try. I ran towards the water. Suddenly the sand swallowed my left foot. I tripped and heard a loud snap. Lying face down in the sand, which was now pulling me into its grainy shifting skin by the left leg like I was a noodle it was trying to slurp down, I wondered if I would be crushed by a wave or swallowed by the ground. My ears were ringing. I closed my eyes and held my breath. The ringing grew louder and louder. I waited for death to come, feeling a mixture of dread and relief. At least now I wouldn’t have to go to work tomorrow, it was my first day. I still wasn’t even sure that I wanted the job. Besides, dying in your sleep was a good way to go, even if it was in a nightmare. The ringing grew louder, and soon it drowned out the sound of the waves. I opened my eyes and stared at my dark ceiling. My phone was ringing. I felt vomit in my throat. My lips were covered in drool. I rolled over in bed and picked up my phone with a cold, sweaty palm. “Sorry I didn’t answer before,” my husband said. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah.” His calm voice, raspy and airy like a quiet trumpet, made me angry. I wasn’t sure why. “I was so worried, why’d you make me worried like that? I really will take the bookmarks out of all your damn books.” “Sorry.” There was a long silence on the phone. I could hear his heavy breathing on the line, it was uneven. I considered yelling at him more, but I was too tired, and I wanted to see him again. I wasn’t used to sleeping without him. We’d often go on long walks together after dinner, come back, and fall into bed. I missed it when he could stay up all night with me whenever I asked. I tried waking him up sometimes, but he insisted that he needed to sleep to function at work, so I would go and read on the couch alone until I was ready to call it a night. I didn’t like being alone at night. “Buy me dinner,” I said, “as much as I want and we’ll call it even.” “Aren’t you starting at that place tomorrow morning?” “Yeah, we’ve still got a couple of hours.” He considered it for a moment before answering. “Alright, I’ll come home and pick you up, I’m ten minutes away.” “Hurry.” I hung up the phone and rolled out of bed for the second time that night. I took off the plain white tee and grey sweatpants I slept in, changing into a pair of jeans and a white knitted sweater, then I went to the couch to wait. I didn’t feel tired, just empty, as if I was nothing but a balloon, ready to float away. A chilly breeze had burrowed itself into the house to remind us that summer was over. It ran along the walls and whispered in our ears that it was time to get a job, a car, maybe even a kid. I spread out on the couch and closed my eyes. I had just enough time to exhale a long calming breath before hearing the sounds of keys jingling, shaking like they had stage fright. Then the lock turned, and my husband stepped in. A tall, thin man with large round glasses, perpetual bed hair, and dull brown eyes. He shuffled into the living room, looked at his books on the coffee table, and smiled when he saw all the bookmarks were still in place. He lay down on the edge of the couch, holding onto me to stay on. I bit him on the nose, he recoiled and almost fell off the couch. Now we were even. “What was that for?” He asked. “It woke you up, didn’t it?” I said. “I guess, why are you still up?” “Can’t sleep.” “Yeah, me neither.” “At least we’re on the same page.” “I’d rather be asleep than on the same page right now.” I laughed. He leaned in, not that he had to, and kissed me on the cheek. His lips were warm, alive. I could feel his heartbeat through them, like a reassuring pat on the back. He moved his head away slowly so as not to roll off the couch. His breath carried the faint smell of pasta. “Do you still wanna eat?” He asked. “Yeah.” “Where are we going?” “Breakfast place, something like Denny’s.” “In the mood for pancakes?” I nodded. We lay on the couch in silence. I looked at my reflection in his eyes, shooting myself a reassuring smile. He smiled back; a tired, strained smile that made his nose look small and his eyes extra big. I wanted to have kids, and a car, and, if I had to, a job. It was the logical next step, and I felt good taking it with him by my side. He nodded as if he were reading my thoughts. “There’s a place ten minutes away with good pancakes, shall we?” He asked. “Lead the way,” I said. He yawned, and before he had stopped I rested a hand on his shoulder and pushed him off the couch. He landed gently on our brown carpeted floor, looking up at me with a bewildered smile and a slight tilt of the head, like a parent whose child just did something unexpected but impressive. “You’re on a bit of a mean streak tonight,” he said. I got off the couch and extended my hand to him. He grabbed it, then let go like it was on fire. “You’re freezing,” he said. “I know.” “But like seriously, I don’t even want to touch you, and that’s never the case.” “Aww, thanks.” He got to his feet and took hold of my hands. His slender, bony fingers intertwined through mine. “Thanks,” I whispered. "The cold breeze that whispered rude reminders and unsolicited advice was pushed away. " He nodded. After a moment of gripping my hands, he smiled, appearing satisfied, and let go. We walked to the door, got our shoes on, and headed out. It was warm outside, with a gentle wind that did its best not to upset anyone it bumped into. The cold breeze that whispered rude reminders and unsolicited advice was pushed away. The sky was dark and filled with silver stars, like polished marble embroidered with silver gemstones. I buried my hands into the thin pockets of my jeans. “You’d be better off holding one of my hands, they’re pretty warm, I’ve been sitting by a fire all night.” I gave him my right hand, and we continued walking down the cracked pavement. We turned into a street with low buildings on either side, it was too dark to see the end. Return to Table of Contents

2a2ede67-55e5-44fe-a97c-c29a61b8b011 Blackout by Micayla Latson Deep in Georgia by Autumn Hill 1. Deep in Georgia’s heart, off to the left In the season of the bare dogwood Feeble and blessed, I, aged six or seven had stood Heavy enough to hear The creaks in the floorboards That guffed their scalded scent. On Sundays the church bell rang Leaden and hefty, drawing the crowd Into the haven, across from the cotton field. My grandmother held open the books of hymns. I sat into her, underlining the thread of gospels Between the bands of the piano’s written word. Her eyes closed, voice croaky but softened--  harmony like a crowd of Alaga. They sang so deep like the musk of tobacco, its haze seizing my breath, mumbling underneath their roars. They praised till the walls peeled like a blade to bark. Stomping till they wore the bleeding carpet Open. Dancing till they weren’t here no more  2. In the cloak of night they come for the church.  The wood collapses into heaps of hot ash white capes like picket fences ignited their rugged crosses, high in the sky, a message sent  crackling and churning with sin.  The Lord’s passages roar through the fire, flames take seat in the pews, clutching hymns, melting praise into its bodies. Afar, brown eyes glow, with no tears to extinguish anything.  Again, a building rises, again, our songs sung, squalls curling against the walls, shaking the deal doors. Sun rays casting aglow the pulpit through empty windows. Sisters and brother rise, slamming calloused hands against the pew.  Shaking and convulsing, chorus of wails purer than the light cleansing like fire.  High as the days where the sun swelters our skin sweat the sweet scent of ash. 3.  The piano dwindles in its wailing lament.  The now somber steps of keys dousing these familiar folk, whose wrinkles I revere, more so, as they exhale a blackened breath. Grandma, whose arms I am tucked under once again slightly tremble with ache, creaking bones, scorched under flesh still. Like a pillow of Sunday best, my head onto rests, till the cooling moon waxes, summoning benediction. Return to Table of Contents