Search Results

Incandescent by Daysha Perez His Mother's Cries by Anai Harris On the 16th Street Church Bombing, 1963 Mama cried for her ; s he cried for the little brown girl that lived at end of our street who was no longer with us. But instead , buried underneath the ruins of the church . I felt my mother's cries. I could tell by the way her tears stained her cheeks : she was losing her faith. She had been there after the explosion. When the little girl's mother ran through the crowd and fell to her knees at the foot of the ruins. Where she found nothing but the sho e she had put on her daughter that morning. The girl's mother sat there asking God why. Soon after , my mother began to do the same. Every night , she would ask God why. Why he’d taken something so precious. Not long after , we stopped going to church. My mother claimed there was not a church to go to and my father was just happy to sleep in on Sundays. My mother cried , knowing that horrible things were always happening all around her. Mostly , she cried knowing that she could do nothing about it. Yet another tragedy m anufactured in the eyes of hate. Hate so strong that death was not a sacrifice b ut a relief. I cried for my mother. She cried for the world. Who cried for me? About the Writer... Anai Harris is a junior in Creative Writing at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. With five years of experience in writing plays, ballads, mysteries, and numerous poems, Anai has developed a diverse and impressive portfolio. She has participated in various contests with her original work, including the Tomorrow's Leaders Contest and the NaNoWriMo Contest. This year, Anai was honored with an award from the James Weldon Johnson Young Writers Contest. Anai is excited to bring her creative writing to new heights as she embarks on her next writing adventures. About the Artist... Daysha Perez is a 11th grader at Douglas Anderson school of the Arts. She is a visual arts major who has always had a passion for creative artistry, particularly painting. Most of the art she creates is acrylic paint on canvas. She fell in love with the medium in elementary school and works with it frequently.

Questions of Youth Erion P. Sanders Why do I have to remain silent Yet, I am the one who suffers Why do I have to continue to struggle Yet, it’s okay for you to strive Why do I have to endure the unrealistic Eurocentric beauty standards That degrade my every feature Yet, I can’t say or do things to uplift my brothers and my sisters Why am I often ostracized Yet, treated as if I’m the problem The real problem here Is that I still haven’t received my reparations “dear”. Every day I’m targeted Yet, when I use my voice, I’m ignored or beaten down Why do you love my culture Yet, you love nothing about me Why do I have to teach my child to be careful with where they go and how they speak I will teach them to fear this world, even as a baby I may be young I may not understand some things But I do know that people don’t care They don’t care about things that don’t affect them Even if means the suffering of others that they talk to and interact with everyday I am this nation’s youth, and this is what I had to say. Return to Piece Selection

Poemgranate Autumn Hill Brazen Hasina Lilley From the homemade kitchen My grandma hands me A ripe and gorgeous pomegranate Held in its napkin -- It is all I need I bite into its bitter red shell directly with my teeth And my fingers pick, exposing its white flesh and juicy red, With such ease in small, calloused hands I have always been a messy eater With pieces of food finding its way down a mountain To be eaten off the pasture But amongst pigs and chickens Ripping apart a pomegranate With my teeth seems like the most civilized thing to do Return to Table of Contents

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 Just a Little Laundry Small Title Ruby Wirth Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

13 < Back To Be Home Again Instead of On This Free Soil Sarah Gozar Tighten Up by Micayla Latson To Be Home Again Instead of On This Free Soil by Sarah Gozar Sometimes Moses Garcia still dreamed of his earliest memory. On his first day of school, he smiled and watched two flags rise to the heavens. First it was the American flag in its red, white, and blue glory, dancing in the wind with all its freedom. Last came the Philippine flag, proud to display its new bright shining yellow sun. The Philippines finally gained liberation after three hundred thirty-three years under Spanish rule. And they owned this long-dreamed freedom to their fair skin human saviors sent by God. Finally, the Filipinos wept after all those long agonizing centuries. Unfortunately, the wounds inflicted by the Spanish wouldn’t heal even with the country of freedom taking them under their wing. Moses’s family remained lower class even after surviving along the new generation endowed with American blessings: wealth, grooming, and education. Colleges were owned by America, and few lucky Filipinos could afford the privilege of attending there with their dirt brown skin alongside their well bathed pale saviors. Thankfully there was an alternative. Filipinos were given free American passports to go to their new homeland. The tall clean cut American leaders promised the guarantee of a stable job and the right for prolonged education. They called this “ the little brown brother dream. ” If America promises, they will provide, just how they promised them freedom and taught them English to give them real lives. Every Filipino formed this thought the first time they saw the two flags raised together and kept it since. When Moses was born, his parents didn’t think he’d survive till walking age. Thankfully, he did. His mother and father never wasted their spare time not devoting themselves to prayer ever since. Now it was his turn to pay back his debt on them. If the Philippines couldn’t provide—why wouldn’t the promised land? America was their unexpected anchor when they fell lowest. But for the past two years, Moses Garcia had only seen one flag planted on the ground next to his new home. It was the America flag on American soil—a sight he once could only dream. But nothing new came to the dream. Every day, he tanned his already dark dirty skin to cake it with even darker soil until he looked no different from mud. He took to harvesting golden wheat and placing it on an old rectangular wagon moved by an old horse some American would drop at his place every time the one before it died. None of these horses lasted very long. But he never went without one for too long so there was no need for complaining. "When the heat became too much, he’d pull out the only coin he has. It was from his homeland." When the heat became too much, he’d pull out the only coin he has. It was from his homeland. On the upside was the head of a sharp-nosed American president, and on the tails was the woman of the Philippines. He’d swallow his need for water and continue working. From the distance he heard a horse whining very much alive and untamed. Two minutes later an angry cursing white man marched past him carrying a thin envelope, this month’s pay. Moses didn’t need to open it up to know how much of it went where. Most of it went to pay off this month’s farmland rent. Little brown brothers could never gain American citizenship. Meaning, he had no chance of finally owning the land. He’d have to continue paying it off by rent, which turned out to be more expensive than the price in full next year. A few sacrifices meant nothing for repaying his debt as a son. He’d have to continue providing for the selfless couple who gave everything to him. Someday, when the clean white men noticed his hard work, they’d reward him with just enough money so he could finally return home and save the remainder for his parents. Then he’d become an adult, get a beautiful wife with fair skin so that their child would have a better chance appealing to the American standard, a better future. But every time he saw how the currency here never included anything about the Philippines compared to the money back home where America was on everything, he felt his “ little brown brother ” American Dream crumble bit by bit. Something blunt repeatedly poked his back. He turned around sweating and saw the man who’d give him his wage for this month. The white man’s right arm, still pointing a tree branch at him waved it back and forth in some sort of defense. Moses stood still. Then the white man smiled. “Money at home.” The red face American said, doing a poor imitation of Moses’s native accent. Even though it was a requirement to speak fluent English to earn his right to stand on this land. Moses probably knew more about their history than he did. “I know, thank you.” His accent improved every interaction. Amused, the white man merely raised an eyebrow and chuckled as he threw the tree branch onto Moses’s wagon carrying a tall wheat pile. Golden straws high flew for a second before falling to the ground without grace. The white man scoffed. “No worry,” he still spoke in that fake accent of his. “Dirt touched it, it on dirt now. I no eat.” When Moses showed no reaction the American rolled his eyes and calmly strode away. His expression remained the same even after, this wasn’t the first or last time this would happen. Back in his school days, history books referred to Filipinos as dirty savages that desperately needed someone to save them. It said the Americans knew that the moment they set foot on their soil and knew they still needed far to go, guiding them even after winning them freedom. If their pale clean American saviors viewed them as dirty savages, then a dirty savage home to the Philippines he is. Moses went right back to work until he couldn’t endure his thirst anymore. As he was drinking water, he saw this month’s payment atop the wooden table he’d made himself. Moses was still thirsty, but he held himself from refilling his cup. With shaky hands he opened the envelope and found his nightmare to be right, his already tiny wage was cut down even more. Several calculations ran through his mind. It was down by a third now compared to last year. Now he needed to avoid water more than ever just to pay off the rent and deliver the same amount of money to his parents. Their only son was gone, and he could not show any signs of struggle. He hated sorrow more than anything, sorrow was what they felt raising him and he did not want them to have more. He automatically pulled out the Filipino coin he brought with him. Home seemed farther than ever, not enough money to go back, not enough money to see the American dream, and not enough money to prevent him from becoming even browner and making himself more inferior. With this realization Moses went out for harvest again and tossed his coin onto the rich soil from his poor filthy hands. It shined brightly in the Southern sun, burning hellfire in this heavenly country. In the afternoon a young Filipino went looking for him. He noticed the most efficient worker in these crops wasn’t harvesting his area clean. The younger brother never knew how Moses did it. He never once saw him sitting atop a wagon without a sign of the day’s labor proudly threatening to overflow. He never saw him with a blank stare in his eyes trying to remind himself of his purpose for being here. The junior both envied and admired his senior for his unwavering little brown brother dream. When he found him, the young one was surrounded by the comforting familiarity of an ideally clean harvest within the never-ending fields. He released a jokingly frustrated sigh and smiled, then stopped. The man behind it laid face flat on the ground. Beside him, their homeland’s empty coin with the shiny top side facing up with the damaged bottom buried and hidden in dirt. Here was the last sleeping place for the man who reminded him of how much of a boy he was for jumping on a path he never fully believed in. For a moment the boy stood still. What was his older brother doing? He was covering the soil which would serve as the spot for the seedlings next year. He sputtered in disbelief, giving up was not in his nature, it went against his name and role as older brother—that’s when the boy realized that his brown comrade would not stand up again. The young one sat down beside him and held his matching dirt covered dark hand before reciting a prayer to God to deliver his hard-working senior brown brother home, and finally to heaven. About the Writer... Sarah Gozar is a tenth grade student at Douglas Anderson majoring in Creative Writing. Her goal in writing to is to capture human moments as honest as she can. Her favorite animal is the penguin. About the Artist... Micayla Latson is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy. At the Arts Academy Micayla is a Visual Arts major, who has been dedicated to art her entire life. Currently during her time at Savannah Arts she has produced many pieces, some helping to spread awareness to various issues in society. Although not pursuing art in college she still hopes to be making art in the future and wishes to spread impactful and powerful messages within her community using her artwork.

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.

Spring/Summer 2024 Cover art: Covered by Sophia Waller Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Editor's Note 0 Niveah Glover, Emma Klopfer, Jaslyn Dickerson, Avery Grossman Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Texas Children Second Place Team 1 Isobel Stevenson Small Title Stella McCoy Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button the disease called home. Lurking 2 Anayelli Andrews-Nieves Small Title Sophia Gapuz Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button My.BaptistChart.com A Mother's Love 3 Abbey Griffin Small Title Emilia Hickman Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Switchboard Operators 4 Allison Clausen Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button "You can almost chart income inequality over the years by measuring the height of New York's ceilings." Star II 5 Angelina Avelino Small Title England Townsend Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Avarice Grin 6 Small Title Max Watt Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Vignettes of Childhood in the House at the Edge of the World Morph 7 Jada Walker Small Title Ryan Griffin Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button I confess to the sea Broken Limbs 8 Jacob Jing Small Title Abigail Cashwell Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Myth Still Holding On 9 Hannah Rouse Small Title Andie Crawford Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Boathouse Summer Job 10 Georgia Witt Small Title Lillian Cosby Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Felicity 11 Small Title England Townsend Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Son, Your Mother is Praying for You Sa Aking Mga Kamay 12 Amaya Thoene Small Title Sophia Gapuz Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Wax-Feathered Heart Gilded Embrace 13 Izzy Falgas Small Title Isabella Woods Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Sullen Memories of a Bereaved Adult Daffodils 15 Astrid Henry Small Title Dare Macchione Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button to my mother, who never cried in room 207 Welcome to the Family 16 Aarushi Gupta Small Title Amrita Ketireddy Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button To Breathe Underwater 17 Joyce Ma Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button jesus seen once in Ohio Religious Passing 18 Alahna Vallone Small Title Mai Tran Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Memories Plucked From the Vine Phalaenopsis Orchid 14 Cove Johnson Rabidoux Small Title Eavin Carney Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST"

< Table of Contents Sa Aking Mga Kamay by Sophia Gapuz Son, Your Mother is Praying for You. By Amaya Thoene 22. And I pray for her too, in the lone hours of Monday mornings. I pour myself mugs of Brazilian coffee and toast brown bread, hoping to draw her spirit from the memories under my floorboards. I light incense as Damini, the girl I hope to marry, wakes. Elizeth Cardoso sounds through my bedroom wall, connected to hers, from a record player we found at the Saturday flea market. Two minutes later, she is knocking on my door, grabbing my hand in hers. This is the first contact we’ve had in four days. Time melts around us, slipping from my aching hands, so I restrict our proximity as best I can. Her smile tempts me to allow myself the pleasure of her company, but this morning is dedicated to my mother, so I settle for smiling back. Conversation is not one of my gifts, but I’m the kind of person one can be around without speaking. Damini has never told me this much, but she is not one who can conceal her thoughts. I pull her into my living room, placing her cup of Peruvian tea on the stained coffee table. Rain whispers for her from the window, charmed by her in the way everyone is. She is sought after by everything beautiful in this world, but nothing quite so much as rain. It succumbs to her every touch, jealousy ever-present in its loyal following. I kneel on the rug next to her, our elbows pressed together. Here, my prayer begins. I am pressed into the pages of distant memory. *** 9. I lie on the porch of my brother's house in Caetés, Pernambuco, sweat crowding like my grandmother’s teeth. My mother died the Monday before, bestowing this house upon my brother. He is nineteen and married to a quiet girl from Rio de Janeiro. Their daughter is silent as the dead, which she will soon be. Sickness has stolen the words from her throat. My sister-in-law begged me to sleep in the house, to take the bed by the window, but I refused the offer. I told her I would not watch another girl in my family die, and besides, that bed was my mother’s. She nodded solemnly at this and kissed my head, whispering a prayer against my matted hair. “I have begun to fear the sight of her: all her baby fat gone, replaced by shadows and the outline of delicate bones.” The porch is rotting, giving way to the poverty in the air, the humidity. I press a finger against the softened railing. Quiet footsteps sound behind me and I squeeze my eyes shut, afraid my niece will try to wake me. I have begun to fear the sight of her: all her baby fat gone, replaced by shadows and the outline of delicate bones. A foot nudges my shoulder, compelling me to open my eyes. If it is my niece, so be it. I will lead her back to bed and place a cool, wet cloth on her head, as she is always warmer than the temperature permits. My niece is not the girl I see. Instead, this girl is the age of my sister-in-law, but the two share no other similarities. She sings Elizeth Cardoso from her throat, strong arms carrying wet laundry from the house to the clothesline. She is barefoot and tall enough that she must stoop to avoid the doorframe. Her foot nudges my arm again and I groan, catching her attention. This girl is my mother, years ago, youth present in her features. She smiles at me, a braid tucked behind each shoulder. “Benício, what are you doing on the porch? It’s hot out today.” She speaks softly, her lilted Portuguese bringing tears to my eyes. Portuguese has sounded wrong since her death—felt different between my teeth—but it is so natural coming from her, even with her thick Peruvian accent and hints of Spanish, her first language. She leans down beside me, worry creasing her forehead at the sight of my tears. Warm knuckles wipe them from my face and she presses a kiss to my cheek. “ Mijo , there is no need for tears. Al mal tiempo, una buena cara. *” Conversation does not find us, but I relish in her company. I fall steadfast into sleep, calmer than I’ve known in weeks, and when I wake, hours have passed with rain falling on my foot. My sock is soaked through, as are the clothes hanging above my head. I look for my mother, hoping for assistance in wringing out the water from my brother’s work shirts, but she is gone, having departed into the early hours of Monday morning. In her place is my niece, feet dangling over the porch, rain cupping softly in her extended hand. Grief is heavy on her features, an emotion I’ve never seen on a child so young. I turn towards the house, unable to bear the sight, and beckon her in after me. She follows willingly. The only sound is her hollow breathing. Inside, I make us toast and pour her a glass of milk, almost doing the same for myself but stopping, instead stealing cold coffee, leftover from my brother. It is bitter, which is surprising, considering his affinity for sugar. I prefer it this way. Final words are not attempted by my niece, who will die in two days, her lungs giving out in the heat of the summer night. Instead, she leaves her toast untouched, coming to join me as I sit in the doorframe. She holds my hand in her small fist, sticky from the milk she spilled on herself. Here, we begin to pray. It is silent and she is shaking with sobs when I reopen my eyes. I find that I, too, am falling apart. This will be our final moment together, the two of us as selfish as children among the dead can be. I wrap the memory in newspaper and bury it beneath my bed. *** 22. Mondays draw dust into the air as I am returned to my prayer. My mother’s name, the same as my niece’s, repeats painfully in my mind. Rain greets me, harmonizing with the music in Damini’s bedroom, caught in the middle of “Luciana”. She turns to face me, resting her forehead on mine. My mother’s voice finds me again, folded between raindrops, drowning under Cardoso’s heavy words. “Death is imminent, Benício. It will not steady if you resist happiness; it will always persist.” In times like these, I remember my mother in such a raw form. She is young, before children, whispering to me with the knowledge of her older self, slipping between Portuguese and Spanish, attempting comfort with words of both our country and our ancestors. These moments are the most painful, because they are everything I have never been. But in this instant, I accept her advice and compress every thought I bear into Damini’s lips. *** 25. And when Sunday evenings call out, Son, your mother is praying for you, I respond. We are praying for you, too, in this American apartment, where we toast brown bread and drink overpriced coffee, our daughter giggling at the rain outside her bedroom window. She carries with her two things tainted by fortune: a Monday morning prayer and your name, carved into her tongue. *In bad weather, a good face. About the Writer... Amaya Thoene is a junior in the Creative Writing department at Harrison School for the Arts. She has been involved in eight public readings since her freshman year and has been published in the Polk County Poetry Anthology. She is a varsity cheerleader and spends most of her free time sleeping out by her pool. About the Artist... Sophia Gapuz is a visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts in Jacksonville, Florida. She majors in drawing and painting, and explores the world in an emotionally abstract lens, continually searching to create something new.

Black Walnut Eli Mears Dead to the World Jillian Atwood The black walnut is a silent void, an altar bloodied and pulled into the spirit that chopped gaps, long wrinkled hardened bark, yanking you in by the fingers into the nutcracker designed for divine fruit. Alone on a rural Maryland hill where people once prayed to immortals like the black walnut and died under the shredding of their chestnuts who rotted from their uncaring vows the black walnut too fickle to die, and echoing into you. They told you it was bitter, strong, epochs twisted into a dendro, a nut, a God you sensed the moment you laid eyes on it like a child rubs her hands in old dust and senses the ground you felt your size. Fruit advances and some say it never ages long enough to enjoy like grandparents who could not face the blackness of an empty life, who faded into flickering ghosts, as they gazed upon the black walnut in the silent glory of drifting grass. Return to Table of Contents

Patient Flowers Khloe Klopfer The snow was dense and heavy on the snowdrop’s delicate stem, making her shiver and wail. When was the time to grow? Would it ever come? Or would she forever live in ugly torture? Would she forever live in darkness? Suddenly, the snowdrop’s wishful prayers had been answered by the beautiful force that holds this world in its fingertips. The snowdrop saw a sliver of light, a raindrop on a painfully humid day. She took it as a sign, her time would come soon, but she must be patient with herself, even if it hurt so horribly that she wished to scream in anger and frustration, she must wait. So she did. She waited, and waited, and waited. Until that one, singular raindrop, became a thundering storm. All the ice drifted away to a happier place, while the beautiful snowdrop stretched her wings as the clouds and the sun kissed her and warmed her until her pale smile brightened the earth much more than the sun ever could. The poppies may look at her in disgust, the roses may shun her beauty, but she was happy. She was proud of herself for holding onto that piece of thread that those cruel poppies and envious roses could never have held onto for so long. She had been patient, she had been kind, and her love would live on longer than the rusted petals of the roses and poppies could imagine in their dark, shadowed roots. Return to Piece Selection

< Table of Contents Phalaenopsis Orchid by Eavin Carney Memories Plucked from the Vine By Cove Johnson Rabidoux Memories fly like butterflies on bruised wings, limply floating up to death’s reach before falling into a net obscured by the curtain of time. Clocks tick with age and wonder. Moments shrivel into chalk like dusty wildflowers left in heavy rain, rotten like summer peaches, aureate and plump, sucked of life. Like sour syrup memories drip, drip, drip onto warm concrete, collapsing into an unknown fate, shaded with amnesia. The tiny wings sizzle and snap, bodies bent into shadows of darkness disappearing forever, like pink lips no longer breathing with life, chapped and shrunken, their glassy eyes devoid of consciousness. These memories dissolve and dissolve like fruits on the vine, plucked and savored, but now perished, weakened by the weight of the years. Moldy and forgotten, faded vibrant colors. Scattered and broken like shells on an ocean's shore, the once fragrant aroma of sweet moments, now still, slipping through the cracks of forgotte n time; the life within is lost to the ages. Miss their smell and taste, honey on warm golden skin. Try to catch them in loose fingers as they fly away on bruised wings, never to be felt again. About the Writer... Cove Johnson Rabidoux is an 11th-grade student at San Francisco University High School. Her work can be found on Teen Ink, The Teen Magazine, The Spearhead Magazine, Hot Pot Magazine, The Trailblazer Literary Magazine, Leaders Across the World, and her blog, Blue Pencil Writing. She serves as a Managing Editor for The Teen Magazine. She also edits for The Trailblazer Literary Magazine, Hot Pot Magazine, and Cathartic Youth Magazine. When she is not writing her novel, Cove enjoys reading, traveling, and baking. About the Artist... Eavin Carney is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy. She mainly prefers painting over drawing and enjoys incorporating natural materials in her art.

Hurt Mother by Colson Gomez A Lesson on Teenage Girlhood by Oona Keleher I tried shaving for the first time, hidden in my bathroom—the razor blade came up bloody. No longer sunflower best friend, I lay in piles of weeds that look like daisies—nine years old and still growing, hunched over the toilet in pain, staring at clumps of blood in the basin underneath bare bottom. Little free thing—genderless and naïve—hit with a shovel, buried alive and still learning. It’s August. There’s a mosquito trying to get in. The buzz against the window brews a headache in my brain. I can feel the blood drip out of me. Let me tell you a secret—we are all just trying to be a woman. To plug our wounds with tampons and pads and more bleeding technology developed by a man. To fit in with everyone else. I wish people told you about growing up before it happened. About the Writer... Oona Keleher is a young artist and poet from Florida. Currently, they work as the Senior Marketing & Social Media Editor for Élan International Literary Magazine. When they’re not off writing somewhere, you can find them writing their own comics. About the Artist... Colson Gomez is a visual arts student with a focus in drawing and painting. She's interested in experimenting with different mediums and exploring unorthodox art forms, currently making art focusing on natural materials and subject matter concerning the natural world. Besides nature, she is passionate about art history and anthropology, and she feels like that influences a lot of her own artistic ideas.