Élan is a literary magazine publishing the best writing and art from high school students around the world. Read about our history and staff. Élan is an international student literary magazine published by the Creative Writing department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts in Jacksonville, Florida. Originally created as a grassroots publication of the English Department in 1986, Élan found its permanent home upon the creation of the Douglas Anderson Creative Writing Department in 1990, overseen by Jacquelin Jones. Now, Élan sees work from students globally, including Japan, Korea, India, and France. Publishing three times a year, a staff of passionate high school juniors and seniors continues Élan’s legacy of creating a world-class literary publication and opening opportunities for the diverse and talented young writers of the world. Élan has won the Highest Honor for Recognizing Excellence in Art and Literary Magazines (REALM) contest three years in a row. The REALM program publicly recognizes excellent literary magazines produced by students with the support of their teachers. REALM is designed to encourage all schools to develop literary magazines that celebrate the art and craft of writing. Mission & History Staff Staff Jeneva Hayes Editor-in-Chief Scott Parmelee Senior Layout & Design Editor Charlotte Parks Junior Art Director Jamie Lohse Community Engagement Director Colson Gomez Associate Director of Art and Marketing Deidra Curtis Junior Editor-in-Chief Jay Lechwar Junior Layout & Design Editor Hannes Duncan Senior Genre Editor Lila Hartley Community Engagement Director Astrid Henry Senior Managing Editor Olivia Sheftall Junior Layout & Design Editor Caitlin Spinner Junior Genre Editor Tatyana Jones Senior Marketing Editor Collette Carlee Junior Managing Editor Marcus Holley Senior Art Director Cameron Pickering Junior Genre Editor Giana Bradshaw Associate Director of Community Engagement and Marketing

Toby Georgia Witt Tiffany grasped the wheel and sat up straight and stiff. Her gaze bounced about the playground quickly. She looked at a group of little kids zooming around a plastic playset, zipping down slides and swinging on monkey bars. She looked at a group of older boys chasing each other in the dirt, shouting and grinning, and she looked at kids on the swings pushing each other and pumping their scuffed-up legs. Tiffany wondered if Toby ever hung out with any of these kids, she wondered whether he liked the swings, the monkey bars or the slide, she wondered all these things and so much more, but her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp, tap tap tapping, on the windshield. “Ma’am,” a women's voice hollered. Tiffany’s head snapped away from the playground and into the eyes of the tired old woman before her. Her skin was tan with a reddish tint, matching her greasy hair thrown into a messy bun. She looked like she had been mushed up like playdoh with all her wrinkles. She tapped her finger nails on the windshield again, she had cheetah print acrylics. “Ma’am your son is here,” a little boy clutching the arms of his racecar backpack was standing outside of the car with a blank face. “Oh!” Tiffany said loudly, her face burning with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she said to the wrinkled woman. “That’s all right ma’am,” the woman said with a sigh. “Toby come in the car,” Tiffany said, grabbing the wheel again. Toby swung open the car door, still wearing a blank expression, and hopped his little pale body inside. “How was your day at school honey?” Tiffany asked, focusing on the road and pulling out of the school parking lot. Toby crossed his arms and scrunched up his face. “Mmmph!” He grunted, blowing his bangs out of his face. Tiffany furrowed her thick brows, concerned. “Well what is that supposed to mean honey?” She asked. “I don’t want to tell you!” Toby screeched unraveling his arms and balling his hands into fists, “Because you’re not my Mom!” Toby wailed. Tiffany closed her eyes and sighed, “You know I don’t like it when you say those things Tobes,” she said looking at Toby’s tear streaked face in the rearview mirror. He sniffed and wiped away his tears, preparing to let out another scream, “I DON’T CARE!” Toby shouted at the top of his lungs, and then he burst into a miniscule ball of rage, kicking and punching everything in sight. Tiffany sighed and let him have a temper tantrum, he just got like that sometimes. Toby had calmed down by the time Tiffany was pulling her beat up van into the driveway, his face was still puffy and red. “Yay!” Toby shouted throwing the car door open and running to the front door, his little blue backpack thump, thump thumping against his back. Tiffany smiled and got out of the car, right behind him. The scratched front door opened revealing a grinning face, tattooed arms reaching out. “Toby!” Miranda said, “Miranda!” Toby yelled, jumping into her arms. Miranda grinned and looked up at Tiffany. She stood up, Toby still in her arms and pulled Tiffany closer to her and gave her a kiss on the lips. Tiffany smirked, “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Miranda gave Tiffany that charming grin and said, “I guess I can’t,” and she set Toby down on the floor. The rest of the afternoon was peaceful. Miranda whipped up chicken and cheese quesadillas while Tiffany helped Toby do his homework at the dining table. Toby talked for the entirety of dinner, jamming quesadillas into his mouth and going on and on about his new 1st grade teacher Ms. Crabtree and how he played kickball with the second graders at recess. Eventually he winded down after desert, (hot fudge sundaes,) and Tiffany and Miranda tucked him into his flowery quilts. “Can I get a racecar bed?” He asked eyes closed, “Like the one I used to have, like the one you saw...” Tiffany and Miranda exchanged glances not knowing what to say, eventually Miranda spoke, “We’ll think about it Tobes,” she said and then Tiffany pecked him on the cheek. After that Tiffany and Miranda went to their bedroom, Miranda slipping into the sheets and cracking open a dusty book that she had been reading. Tiffany sat next to her. “Miranda,” Tiffany said glancing in her direction, “Toby had another tantrum today. Miranda set down her book, “Oh no Tiff, I’m sorry, when was it?” “As soon as he got in the car,” Tiffany said. “Did he say you weren’t his Mom?” Miranda asked. “Yes.” Miranda ran her warm, callused hand over Tiffany’s arm. “I’m so sorry,” Tiffany smiled, “It’s ok. Do you ever think...” she started, contemplating if she should say this or not, “do you ever think about giving him back to his parents?” Miranda shot up angrily, “Tiffany!” She hissed, “we made a promise when we took Toby and we are going to keep that promise no matter what!” Tiffany sighed, she hated it when Miranda got upset. “I know I know it’s just I feel like he has the right to be with them...” Miranda shook her head, “You can’t get soft about that kind of thing Tiff,” she said laying back down, her back facing Tiffany. Miranda, click, turned off the lamp and pulled the covers closer. “Good night.” Tiffany said. “Good night.” Miranda said stiffly. The next morning Miranda woke up first, she hastily took a shower and then threw her ratty pink bathrobe on and ran outside to check the mail. She shivered in the cold as she pulled out stacks of bills and then: a letter. As quickly as she could she tore it open and snatched out the loose-leaf piece of paper inside. It read: Tiffany and Miranda, we have agreed to pay the ransom for our son Toby. Please have him back to our house by 6. Return to Piece Selection

1841830b-e835-4756-b712-b37651d49a80 I Sea Trash by Christian Silva the girl in the pool has all her clothes on by Ali Ximines I often think of the summers I spent with the lavender-haired girl by the side of the community pool - too afraid of what the town would think of me if I jumped in, but too mesmerized by her blue-green eyes to go home. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, really, for an innocent swim was hardly cause for a scandal. But the truth of the matter was, the lavender-haired girl in the pool…well, she had all her clothes on. "It was invigorating, she declared - and because of my cowardice, I had to take her word for it." You see, she always jumped in that way…fully dressed, sneakers and all. Said it felt better when the water made your clothes cling, air-tight, to your skin. It was invigorating, she declared - and because of my cowardice, I had to take her word for it. Because while the experience was ever-so-tempting, it just wasn’t done. And so I returned, day after sweltering summer day, denying myself the luxury of a sunlight swim with her, all in the name of maintaining appearances. I could have slapped myself. As a result, the only opportunity I had to let go of the boundaries that persistently reared in my head every day was during the cover of night. We’d sneak into the pool almost every evening and swim together: two trespassing fish with cotton scales. And when her hands traced a path down to my waist on one particularly humid evening, I could pretend that the shiver traveling down my spine was caused by my damp clothing - not the sight of the moonlight reflecting in her blue-green eyes. It’s quite funny, really, the way I couldn’t remember what I ate for dinner last night if you pressed a pistol to my temple, but I can recall every second I spent with her in vivid detail, simply by closing my eyes. There will always be the ghost of her lips on mine, a tentative exploration that we could only undergo in the dark, echoes of her whispers in my ears, full of words that made me shiver even when we were dry. Those very words filled my ears every afternoon, when a subtle shake of my head was all I could answer to the unspoken but persistent invitation those eyes offered me from the pool - never demanding for me to join her, but making it clear that the choice was mine. This afternoon, hands that don’t feel like my own tug at the hem of my shirt, begging me to tear my gaze away from her, to stop admiring how perfectly that lavender hair compliments the bright blue of the pool, to escape to the locker room and change into a swimsuit, to remain ordinary for one more day. She’s floating on her back now, an otter in denim overalls and a Hayley Kiyoko t-shirt. I stand up from the pool chair, forcing myself to finally leave, but aquamarine eyes meet mine, and my legs betray me, refusing to take another step away from her. We stare at each other for a moment, her steady gaze never wavering, asking a question that I’m afraid to answer…it’s much too long, really, considering the vantage point the pastor’s daughter has from the top of the diving board - but that one look is enough to crumble my defenses. I don’t want to say no to myself anymore. And I know what the pastor himself thinks about the shade of her hair, the clothes she wears, the opinions she freely shares, the way her parents are prone to leaving her by herself for days at a time, the unconventionality that makes her so magnetic. But the pastor doesn’t know the girl in the pool. I do. The pastor hasn’t spent any time with the girl in the pool. I have. The pastor hasn’t heard the gentle tingle of her laugh, hasn’t seen the tender way she feeds the birds in the park, hasn’t spent hours watching her sing while braiding that hair. I know the girl in the pool has all her clothes on. And I love her all the same. I don’t go to the locker room. I don’t change into my pale-peach swimsuit. I stand, walk a few paces back, and do a running jump into the water. There’s a colossal splash before I sink to the bottom of the pool, knowing very well that the whole town saw me, and hoping that they did. There I sit, one leg over the other, picture-perfect blonde hair hovering above my head. My heart pounds twice before I open my eyes, and…there she is. She giggles, and although I can’t hear her under the water, the sight of it puts a warm glow in my chest. We lean forward until our foreheads touch, and my eyelids flutter closed in contentment. The summer is almost over, but we’ve only just begun. Return to Table of Contents

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

Editor's Note Zoe Lathey & Blair Bowers We present this issue to you through a new lens. As the world is changing, we are changing, ever growing and learning. Within this new platform we want to share with you the changes Elan has undertaken, after 35 years of creating a space for artists to share their voices and express their ideas, we have launched a cleaner, newer, better online space. On a continuous journey of self-exploration, we want to share with you the journey of these unique individuals who share their stories through art. We bring you the Spring 2021 Issue; as you travel through this issue we encourage you to also think of the new year and the new beginnings for yourself, as Elan has and as these artists have. This issue contains a world of possibility and exploration, let it guide you and speak to you. We thank you for taking the time to explore with us and with these artists. Sincerely, Zoe Lathey and Blair Bowers Return to Table of Contents

9 < Back Ars Artis Emma Klopfer Lover of Chess by Elizaveta Kalacheva Ars Artis by Emma Klopfer “He died only days after completing this painting.” Our tour guide is a young woman with a crisp English accent identical to everyone surrounding us. Locals. “It was found sitting on his easel, untouched,” she continues, leading her pack of uninterested day-trippers. Babies clutching iPads. Adults answering emails. Grandfathers blinking heavily, pinched on the arm by wives desperate to get out of this grand home of artifacts and get a glass of wine. That’s how I knew they were locals. Nobody who’d never been to this museum would be so eager for the tour to conclude. “Oil on panel...” she prattles on, telling the story of how the museum got it. She is so distracted by her own blabbering that she doesn’t notice me linger at the edges of her vision, stopping at the bench in front of the paintings. Twins, Kate and Grace Hoare by John Everett Millais. On the Brink by Alfred Elmore. And on the parallel wall hangs Joan of Arc by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, framed in red velvet curtains. The brushstrokes of these paintings are what captures me. An animal’s tail was snipped. Someone’s hand held the resulting brush. They sketched an outline. They dipped it into linseed oil and pigment. My mind again returns to the delicate hand that, with a leaping eye, drew the lines, thecurves, the patches of color. The painting of the Twins is directly in front of the bench, and I sit. The tour has moved out of the room, anyway. What lovely faces they have. What realism. The one of the right’s face is long, a rectangle, her twin a bit softer. Their loyal hound sits besidethem, eyes red with alertness, head tilted downward. They are not recreations of women fromcenturies before, – they were real girls before Millais made them more real. The anxiety on her face is tangible – On the Brink of... what? Gambling goes on behind her, rambunctious, the smell of smoke wafts off the painting. I can feel the thick, bated breath of the man leaning over her – my – shoulder. The party is loud behind me. A lady flicks her fan, cryptography I am too young to comprehend. Victorian gentlemen behind me mutter about the dangers of gambling. Pale moon on pale skin, red and gold gaudiness behind me. I am her, all my money went on cards, unable to guard my expressions. All of these observations, all of this awe – none of it is my own. And then there is Joan. The half-sketched canvas on my lap looks pitiful in comparison. The guidelines for Mr. Ross’s assignment – to recreate one of these paintings – blur in my mind. I hadn’t been paying attention again. Littles does he know that there is oil paint in my room still drying from attempted recreations years ago. Red splotch for hair, eyes upward. That much, I can do. The one thing I can never capture is the eyes. Hers, in Rossetti’s painting, they hold something. Whereas my Joan’s eyes are empty, his Joan has eyes like wicker baskets full of – there, see? I cannot grasp what it is. Hunger? Prayer? Desire? I stare. I squint. I shift on my bench like a fidgety child. Adjust the angle. Tilt my head. I cannot decipher what lies in those eyes. And I must. I must. “Lovely painting, you think?” I uncrane my neck to find Mr. Ross with his blanched beard and woolen cap, dark eyes laden with sleepiness. “Yes, of course.” “How are you enjoying the trip, Jane?” “Very much, sir. I definitely think the school needed something out of the ordinary to keep us going.” Mr. Ross grunts out a laugh. “Admin didn’t seem to see things that way – though I’m glad you think so.” He pauses, and the warm air steeps with comfortable silence. “I’ve always been fascinated by Joan of Arc myself.” “Have you tried to paint her?” “Of course. What kind of art teacher would I be if I hadn’t? But I’ve also tried to capture her through poetry, sketches, essays,” the old man replies. “Too little is known about her. That’s why I love this painting.” “I was just trying to decipher it, actually,” I say, surprised. Mr. Ross and I are rarely on the same page. Usually, he’s too focused on his own pages – pages of a sketchbook, that is – to heed others’ thoughts. “To get into the art university I want to attend, my portfolio has to include a recreation. I want to do her, but I just can’t.” “May I?” Before I can agree, he sits beside me and sighs fleetingly, a sound that reminds me of my grandfather reclining in his favorite red rocking chair. “I’ve never been successful in my own attempts to replicate her. Always struggled with translating her eyes. She looks so emotionless, but so conflicted.” “I was just thinking the same. But how am I to translate that into oil?” I drag a hand down my face, and Mom and Dad’s faces blink through my vision. Mom’s got her hair twisted up witha paintbrush, as always, and Dad stares at a blank canvas. Unlike mine, his doesn’t stay blank forlong. “I think it might be exhaustion,” Mr. Ross says suddenly. “What might be?” “In her eyes. I think it might be exhaustion. See the color gray? How it’s the only cool color in the whole painting? It’s emptiness. It’s exhaustion. At least, I think that’s what Rossetti would’ve said.” I look down at the glimmerings of the pencil on my canvas. Still, I can’t shake the feeling of my aunt and uncle standing behind me. She holds a saxophone, he sits at his typewriter. My cousins, each clad in expensive ballet shoes, twist and tumble near me, graceful as swans. If you were to get into this university , Mom says as we stand in the center of the campus, tour long over, fountain pulsating water. It would enhance our family name. Your name. My name. Dad’s name. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want your Wikipedia page someday to say that you graduated from here? Oh, the pride you would feel! Slowly, the single oval of Joan’s eye falls into place beneath my swift fingers. Mr. Ross watches from over my shoulder, his pedagogical gaze mirroring that of my grandfather. One of Italy’s most famous theatre actors. “You – oh, you captured it this time!” And it is true. The unripe sketch of Joan stares upward, her eyes both drooping and enriched. She looks like she’s got the weight of the world on her shoulders; which, historically, I suppose is true. Her face is similar to that of mine in my Art’s Academy ID photo. Mr. Ross wags his finger at me. “Maybe I’ve given away too much.” “How so?” “Rosetti meant for her to be an enigma ! Just as she was in real life. We’ve solved her puzzle, it would seem.” “It would seem so,” I repeat, still staring at my sketch. I know that it is futile to attempt to progress the piece any further. My wrist has been reshaped to be good at this. No, not good, superior. But the moment I add color, everything gets lost and muddled. “We have not solved your puzzle yet, Jane,” Mr. Ross says. “What do you mean, sir?” “Well, you’re a senior. And it’s February. Do you know where you’d like to further your education?” “You mean what college I want to go to.” Mr. Ross shrugs. “Many would call it that, yes.” “Yes. That’s what this portfolio is for.” “An art college, then.” “Univeristy,” I correct him. They’re the words of my mother. “Not somewhere to further your love of rock climbing? What about politics? Your essay on the legal system was astoundingly well-written.” “No, I’m going to an arts university.” “Hm.” Then he was gone, leaving his familiar smell of crushed velvet and linseed oil. I felt as though I had failed him, somehow. He wished me good luck with the rest of my painting and turned away. Then he was gone, leaving his familiar smell of crushed velvet and linseed oil. I felt as though I had failed him, somehow. And in my failure, a tiny seed of doubt had been planted. About the Writer... Emma Klopfer has been writing for as long as she can remember and writes primarily long-form novels. She attends Douglas Anderson School of the Arts and is 17 years old. Her work primarily discusses her connection to nature and the transition from girlhood to womanhood. 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.

Southern Heat by Madison Bradley Excerpt from Homes and Houses by Audrey Brant Restless spirits live here. But they are alive. They have bodies, but no souls. They inhabit this house, but they don’t truly live in it. Their home is not this structure. This building holds them, but it does not hug them. There is an absence of presence here. An absence of positive emotion. Wood and concrete and walls and a roof do not create a home. Only love can do that. Shingles and lumber and cement do not create love. Only warmth and light from people can do that. Money might make the world go around, but love makes it twirl; a mandatory rotation compared with the joy and freedom of a child’s pirouette.” And not the warmth that comes from a furnace, or the light that blooms from a bulb. The kind that comes from a heartbeat or a compassionate mind. Isolation and alienation make a home into a house. Irritation and annoyances spill over into hatred. Little things build up into big problems. A once-shared home becomes a house divided by stress and fading tolerance. Storms of silence brew between a family until it’s unbearable, and somebody leaves. They thought, for the longest time, that homelessness was being without a place to stay, or living on the streets. But when you’ve lost your family, when you’ve lost the people you love or their love for you, that’s when you are truly without a home. Money might make the world go around, but love makes it twirl; a mandatory rotation compared with the joy and freedom of a child’s pirouette. And somewhere along the line, a glimmer of hope appears, like shining stardust into a pool that sends golden ripples to the outskirts of its vessel. An unforeseen rosy light overcomes the house and blankets every room. This light is not from the fixtures in the ceilings or from the televisions omitting their unnatural glow; this light is from peace. The loneliness that came from the individual’s departure dissipates into serenity. The remaining inhabitant finds that their house is more of a home than it ever was.

on your name Cloris Shi there goes a saying: a name must flow like ivory, crisp like jade, full like a mouth of steam before it cascades like a tumbling ball of fire, but baba and i gave you an american name and the syllables bounce on my miso-coated tongue shape-shifts in rhythm, stone-skipping across tea-infused teeth i drag out your last letter like silk threads of lotus roots, your name ends too soon. they’ll pronounce your last name wrong lips puckered, too much air between their teeth they’ll say nameless face she, blind complying she you’ll never tell them to say “shi” tongue curled around back palate, you’ll never tell them to call you rock of security and stability womb of Monkey King tell them: travel forests of limestone shi ling catch the wave of your Antelope sandstone, sightseeing — they’ll see you eyes closed — they’ll hear you listen stone — don’t break their bones, ‘cause dragons — breathe fire through sequoia body, burn wildflower poppies exhale jasmine breeze in your roar, i’ll listen for ashes of paper money we lay on your grandpa’s grave every qingming and remember: keep pacific salt, atlantic wind between your cheeks (you’ll need to blow out the fire too) i saw our city’s name on the newspaper a man spat at an asian woman on her way to the market last morning before a group of mothers screamed for their kids to get away from her before a teacher told her daughter to set her goals as low as her mother’s paycheck. by preschool, chalk fingers will learn to draw out the corners of eyelids quicker by first grade, they’ll stick “made in china” labels on your shoulders by middle school, you’ll forget the symphony you hold between your two ears by high school, you’ll kowtow your golden head to your homeland’s landmines. Return to Piece Selection

< Table of Contents Star II by England Townsend "You can almost chart income inequality over the years by measuring the height of New York's ceilings." By Angelina Avelino I. the day we run out of bread striding through the market around the corner, hand in hand with Sammy. Lucia waits at home, perched amongst deteriorating skylines outlining the inequality of our jagged lives. gripping onto balcony rails, she leans far enough to catch glimpses of the philanthropic monuments of America. envisioning an epoch, Lucia will dispel misery as a skyscraper. “trudging past the frozen aisle, Sammy believes he’ll morph into a glacier.” hand in hand with Sammy, trudging past the frozen aisle, Sammy believes he’ll morph into a glacier. adjusting instead to an aerial craft across Alaska, he waits for me on the other end. i’m frigid in thought, unable to unravel anything other than the stinging silence of the apartment we share. II. i left the loaves of bread on a platter a slight creak, a single ray. the room reeks of glue and varnish when he comes home, a kiss on each of our foreheads. loaves of bread on a platter serve as centerpiece, while mother obliquely imparts breaking news. wrapping the bread into its pertaining bag, stuck in cyclical failed attempts of unemployment, she's perched amongst skylines, a state of inner turmoil that’ll never resurface. molding the insignificant into celestial lyrics meant for me and the pearl of the gods above, i’m just a prolific poet against our barren room wall. under tidal currents of auroral pages, placing poems in a cache, never finished. i’m cognizant of the life we seem to be irrevocably meshed into. tomorrow morning we’ll split the loaves of bread into fifths. About the Writer... Angelina Tang is a writer currently studying at Williamsville East High School. She is the self-published author of Birds Playing God, and her work has previously appeared in Cathartic Youth Lit and Polyphony Lit. She would like to learn how to design planners, and her favorite flower is the wisteria. About the Artist... England Townsend is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in drawing and painting, but enjoys other forms of art such as printmaking and photography. With each creation, Townsend strives to push her boundaries and explore different ways of producing art. She is excited to keep creating to learn and share her progress with the world.

Oblivion Greta Reis The fear Athazagoraphobia: The fear of the presence of nothing The fear of the absence of everything The fear of what between something and nothing The fear that someday no one will remember anyone or anything; because someday there won’t be a someday The fear of the presence of nothing: Being scared that no one will ever exist Knowing that there isn’t anything to replace the presence of nothing Seeing that there isn’t anyone that ever existed Existing without a reason to exist The fear of the absence of anything: Being scared that everything and everyone is missing Knowing that everything is gone and you can’t replace it Seeing that only you exist Existing without a reason to exist Can’t it be both? The fear of Oblivion Return to Piece Selection

< Back Life is a Circus by Yujin Jeon About the Artist... Yujin Jeon is an 18-year-old Junior at Hamilton High School. Her favorite medium is acrylic paint layered with colored pencils. Her motivation as an artist is to combine inspiration from the elements of her Korean heritage with her personal narratives. This challenges her to mark new narratives that explore perspectives of fresh characters and capture a bold color range, accentuated by small, layered details. Inspired by Korean children’s folklore and scenery, she depicts interpretations of herself in dream-like worlds where her appearance shifts into different transformations that model her curiosity, vulnerability, and confidence. Previous Next

< Table of Contents Still Holding On by Andie Crawford The Myth By Hannah Rouse Mermaids, much like humans, have fingers so they can thread through seaweed. The only differences are their shimmery, scaly tails and magical lungs or gills or whatever they use to breathe underwater. Maybe their skin is seafoam green, and their fins like stained glass with the texture of damp leaves. In my head, they look just like in the stories and the movies. They’re out there somewhere, singing ships to sleep. Perfect and perched on jagged rocks. Dancing in waves that collapse into nothing. They fall in love with sailors and revel in the wreckage of storms. They’re not afraid of sharks or the vast, aqua emptiness that is their home. *** I always wanted to be a mermaid. Even when I wouldn’t swim in the pool unless my parents checked it for spiders and frogs. I wore Disney Princess floaties on my arms, a small inflatable tube on my stomach, and green and blue goggles to protect my eyes from the sting of salt water. I wouldn’t put my head underwater until I was five or six years old, when an older girl asked to play mermaids with me. After that, I finally managed to dip my skull beneath the ripples. My long, brown hair, pulled lovingly into a braid by my mother, once dry, dripped with dreams of my legs merging together and growing gold or green scales. *** I used to reenact the giant rock scene from The Little Mermaid at the mini-golf course. I sang “Part of Your World” softly to myself. The rough surfaces scratched at my skin but all I could think about was swimming with Flounder, about having a dinglehopper. At seven years old, I still wanted a Snarfblatt more than anything in the world. My new room at my grandparents' beach house was decorated entirely by myths: dolls, ornaments, signs, and miniature statues. With my toes in the sand, I observed the whitecaps breaking in the distance, wondering when I’d see her for real. *** There is a painting hanging on my wall: a mermaid sits on a rock, arm outstretched toward a white unicorn—beach waves in her hair, a pale gray seashell bra, and a glittery green tail. The sky behind them swirls, pink and purple around a flaming sun. But their reflections show them as they are. A girl and a horse under a boring blue sky, fantasizing about a life where they could be something magical. *** “I pretended that my swimsuit was made from scallop shells.” Until I was thirteen, I wore a full-length pink mermaid tail in the pool. Exhilarated by the sensations of gliding, slicing through the thick water. I took my hair down and let it float behind me in the chlorine, a cloud of thin brown strands with a mind of their own. I pretended that my swimsuit was made from scallop shells. Imagined that I was fearless enough to swim, not in the confinement of a pool, but engulfed in the ocean’s cerulean darkness. *** “I’ll give you a dollar to stand by that shark,” Mimi said, pointing to Tommy, the giant fifty-foot statue of my worst fear, whose gaping mouth was the entrance to Jaws Resortwear. I didn’t look at him, but knew all too well what the store and Tommy looked like. Beady, black eyes. His sharp teeth pointed at any poor soul who wanted to enter. All the windows next to him were covered in towels with the terrifying creatures printed on the front. Other sharks, Tommy’s friends, I presumed, were posed to look like they rose through the concrete, their faces full of hunger. I shook my head. Just the thought of standing anywhere near the store made me sick. “Five dollars,” she smiled. I did not. “Ten dollars?” I wouldn’t have stood by the door of Jaws Resortwear for anything. She upped the offer to twenty, thirty, then finally, forty. I always refused. For the rest of the week-long vacation, Mimi tried to make that same deal each time we passed Tommy, the ominous entrance to the store. Not once did I budge. Not once did I even think about actually letting her take the picture of me standing in Tommy’s mouth. On the surface, this is why I cannot live in the ocean. *** For him, my bra was not made of seashells, but rather of wires and lace and polyester. I did not have a tail. My hair draped across the armrest as if again just released from its braid, free to float. I reveled in the way he looked at me. Perhaps he was just a shark, like Tommy, and I just never noticed his bloodthirsty mouth. Or maybe he was the ocean. Seaweed limbs wrapping around me. Hands all over, the stinging tentacles of a jellyfish searching for something shiny in a shipwreck. But he found nothing worth loving in the rotting planks of wood. Drowning in the stained leather of the couch, I began to see myself as the reflection in the painting. The reality. No magical lungs or gills or whatever the mermaids would use to breathe in the chaos of the ocean if they were real. Nothing more than a girl trying to touch something that looks mythic, magic, but is just as raw, as real as she is. *** Now, I don’t dare go in the ocean. Not a single painted toenail touches the seafoam. Even pools scare me when I can’t feel the floor below me. The concrete scraped holes in the thin fabric of the pretend mermaid tail I outgrew. But I still think if I stare at the ocean for long enough, I’ll see the sparkle of a mermaid's fin somewhere in the distance. So, I watch the waves closely, waiting for my girlhood to return. About the Writer... Hannah Rouse is a junior Literary Arts major at Appomattox Regional Governor’s School. She has been published in Asgard, Fledge, Under The Madness, Appelley, Free Spirit, and You Might Need to Hear This. She won runner-up in Georgia Southern University’s High School Writing Contest, as well as fiv e G old Keys, a Silver Key, and five Honorable Mentions from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. She received first prize nationally for the Sarah Mook Poetry Contest in 2023. Hannah is also a competitive dancer and enjoys spending time with her two cats. About the Artist... Andie Crawford is a 12th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her best mediums are drawing and painting.