< Back that night at yiayiaâ's house by Jason Galub summer contemplations By Annie Yang “Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.” —Virginia Woolf &we were fourteen, time standing still on wobbly tiptoes/lavender summer stretching endless like asphalt roads desperate to meet horizon sun/tepid air unraveling into dazzling dimensions like counting 1234 and everything in between/like neon-eyed yo-yos, spinning/summer, and we say there must be something more, something/half-forgotten, aching softly in between–//like//between the tongue and the teeth the taste of damp july winds stolen off the shores of black and white sanya beaches in mama’s old photos/between the iris and the cornea the reflection of a thousand blooming fireworks born for most extravagant death/ between the dawn and the dream the fleeting silhouette of a childhood home sinking into amnesic atlantic saltwater&you asked where do we return to now?/between the lips and the lies the solemn syllables of a pinky promise, palpable eternity intertwined between fingers sticky with june sweat & strawberry ice cream/between the breath and the heartbeat a splendid silence falling in the bewildered whites of my eyes/between the reach and the touch the clandestineness of a boundless infinity we are destined to chase after forever, trapped in the narrowness between parentheses on old algebra worksheets&we told ourselves that someday/we would make it/to metamorphosis/and trade outstretched fingers for blossoming hearts//until//silence spills into words/and season collapses onto stirring time/and distance shrinks until it is just nothingness stretched to the brink of breaking/across a phone line/&now, i tell you there’s static on the call, blame it all on a nameless satellite stranded so lonely on the cusp of empty space/&pretend i can’t hear your sob, or is it just a sigh/ and you said, we are always just too old and too young. About the Author... Annie Yang is a high school junior who was born and raised in Shanghai; but currently attends Wellesley High School in Wellesley, Massachusetts. She loves reading and writing, and is currently a Senior Editor as well as Fundraising Commission Poet at Polyphony Lit. Besides literature, she also enjoys music and technical theatre. About the Artist... Jason Galub is an 11th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. They use bright colors and acrylic paint to create fluidity and dynamic looks. Previous Next

Toxic Emily Khym Lover Boy Isaac Riley Slithering slimeballs Green UFOs Scavenging algae The crisp air Swept over The drowsy ocean waves As ants marched in and out Of the tiled dock. Green balls of slime Danced to the tune Of the salty breeze, Bumping And pushing each other. Fish suffocated Under the oxygen-deficient waters And people Stared in Awe At their Reckless artwork. Return to Table of Contents

5 < Table of Contents Dandelions by Julia Dinzelbacher Hungry Throes by Ronen Manselle It is the year 1942. The soldier lifts his weapon. He does not look into the man’s eyes – though, should the man not have chosen to flee the battlefield, then the soldier might have been a good friend of his. Not a step back . And the man took a step back. It is that simple. Russians do not flee on the Eastern Front. They die. The soldier fiddles his trigger, and loosely, like pulling off a fingernail, it releases; the tug is so natural – The fleeing man in question was a certain Sergeant Fydor. He has never loved his life more than he does now. Which is ironic, considering he will not have it much longer. Something had awoken in him when he decided to run. Perhaps others would call it ignorance, or cowardice – Fydor certainly did not feel that way. It would be easier to describe if Fydor had any potent memories to latch on to, ones that could explain the awakened meaning in him. But all he had was dirt poor. Dirt poor, like his mother, whose skin was made of ash and rice. Or the girl he used to know, Nina, who for whatever reason would call him “Feo”, as if his name was made of air – which it most certainly was not. " There is a question, buried deep in Fydor, somewhere beneath his army vest and loose whiskers." There is a question, buried deep in Fydor, somewhere beneath his army vest and loose whiskers, somewhere in his red beating heart, his bruise-knuckle fists leaning against his father’s heavy chest as they both hold back their tears. But this is not how he likes to think of things. He prefers to say that he loved his childhood. Especially the sweet candies, which he could never get enough of, often spending nights drooling on his mattress, dreaming sweet Soviet boy dreams. He loved sweet things. Which is why he spent so much time around Nina, who called him “Feo” like he was made of air, who gave him two kisses and three days to decide the future of her little life. She had fallen into his life like an acorn from the sky, filling his existence with luxuries like yellow eggs and full moon skies. But that was never what he lingered on. Rather, it was always her manifesto that stuck with him; unforgettable words spoken under the hot, blistering hot summer sun: “Feo, I don’t wanna live like this anymore. Don’t you ever think that somehow, we’re missing out on something? Say, have you ever wondered what it’s like to be full ? Because I have. And I figure that it’s magical.” Fydor could not say why he ran, only that he was crying while he did. He did not think much about death. But there was something he was thinking about, and to Fydor, in the moment of mad glee and impulse, it was very important. For once in his life, Fydor would like to know what it is like to feel full. Just once. Just for a moment, so that he can know, for whatever it was worth, that it is indeed possible; not just another fantastical reverie that Nina’s big imagination construed, not just one more lie to add onto the growing tower of them, but instead real full, and overflowing with sweet, sweet, sweet Russian fullness – Boom . The soldier blinks once, as if something was caught in his eye. Pity, maybe. Somehow, to the soldier, and to everyone fighting – with their eardrums bursting to the sound of full ammo canisters emptying in a split moment – on a battlefield so full of screams, it had never been so silent; they had never realized how beautiful silence was. About the Writer... Ronen Manselle is a senior creative writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. He loves history and hopes to continue writing throughout his future. About the Artist... Julia Dinzelbacher is a Junior at Episcopal School of Jacksonville. She specializes in photography, especially nature and candid photography. She got her first camera for Christmas of 2020 and started taking the photography class at Episcopal the following year. Now in her third year taking the art, she is excited to keep pursuing photography throughout high school.

13 < Table of Contents Lament by Kierra Reese About the Artist... Kierra Reese is a junior at Douglas Anderson .At the school, Kierra is a draw/paint major who dedicates her life to her artistry. She creates art, generally in acrylic, because of the beautiful colors and contrast acrylic's make.

Colson Gomez Colson Gomez is a visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts who specifies in Drawing/Painting. Her work has been exhibited at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Jacksonville and has won several regional Gold and Silver Keys in the Scholastic Arts and Writing Contest.

< Back Spring is the start of new beginnings, and this year, it is also the start of a new decade for Élan. With hotter days to look forward to, we hope you enjoy the breeze of curated writing and art pieces from students different and alike. Élan is more than proud to continue showcasing the blossoming talents of young artists. Throughout this edition, you will witness how students transform the simplicities of life into fleshed out pieces of art. We encourage you to use a lens deeper than the eye to dissect how these young artists emulate the world through varying art forms. We cannot thank you enough for supporting not only Élan—but every voice it has uplifted, too. Previous Next

8 < Table of Contents Jack o’ Lantern by Mackenzie Shaner 1. I dream of the cutting board— I'll let you put me down, a secure hand keeping me from rolling right off the counter, your body casting long shadows over my round frame, " Slathering virgin olive oil / And a pinch of cinnamon / Onto every curve." Slathering virgin olive oil And a pinch of cinnamon Onto every curve. Licking sugar off deft fingers, The oven purring, heat rising In a plume of saccharine vapors. The fan kicked on so the smoke alarm Doesn't whine. Consume me. Slice me with the most decorative spatula, The one with the white handle, The curling grapevines— maybe It’s even shaped like a wide leaf, creating A schism between pie and slice— but 2. You find it is much easier to mutilate. To Take a spoon, your bare hands, shirtsleeves Rolled high, clawing out my seeds By the fists full. Slick Strings stuck under nailbeds As you flick them into the trash With a wet smack. Your hands smell like resistance, dyed Carotene orange while fibers lull Down the drain. Here, you take certain creative liberties, Carving out jagged eyes, Two triangles, so I may stare Vacantly at the back of my skull Or count tiles on the ceiling. A sprawling smile, perpetually open Should you feel the need To reach a slender fist Through my gaping maw. When you’re finished, You light a fire. Drip wax on my core So the red candle sticks. You set me on your porch. You let me die. About the Writer... Mackenzie Shaner, a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts, has been studying Creative Writing for seven years and hopes to one day teach the subject. She writes mostly poetry, which circles such ideas as identity, self-worth, and the relationship between mother and daughter.

9 < Table of Contents Metallic Amalgamation by Conner Pendry Midnight Oil by Teigan Edwards The lights cutting streaks into the pavement, the car humming when I pause at the start of the track, the gray bleachers the only thing protruding from the otherwise dismissive darkness. They ground me when my head aches under the oppressive weight of his voice in my ear. They center me when my eyes grasp for every detail of the track even days before race day. I feel like I can think. Like I can breathe here. " An hour on the track becomes a night, becomes a century." An hour on the track becomes a night, becomes a century. Time slows and jumps and fluctuates between sleeping and hyperventilating. Two minutes fill the space of a second, a decade. I lose myself and the voices and the burning, bleeding need to move in the hum of the engine, the lure of the void. And when it all settles down, when the car finally stops and my brain finds itself again, the slate is washed clean. A part of me wants to drive, to see if I could do it despite my fear. But Jessie is in the trunk, and I don’t want to be the karma that finally gets him killed. And, more selfishly, my head is too alive. To drive I need quiet, and right now I’m all noise – change the oil before the race on Sunday, go faster, faster, keep the first turn in mind but not so much that you’re in your head on the second . I want – need – to go so fast my world stands still, and Jessie is the only one who’ll drive like that on a whim in the middle of the night. Just so long as it’s on a nice, safe race track. I step out, not bothering to shut the door behind me, and pop the trunk. Jessie grins up at me in the bright light, arms up as if I’ll punch him. I might. Not because I’m impatient – though I am impatient, thrumming with the kind of dopamine only the sleepless ingest – but because he’s my brother, and he’d let me. His round glasses glint from their unstable perch too far down his nose. “Game time.” “Heck, yeah.” He rolls out and starts for the driver’s side, smirking back at me. I roll my eyes to make a point. But he just smiles wider. He has this way about him. The kind that says he does his math homework before he goes out street racing and brings the groceries in with one hand, his phone open in the other. The kind that gets into fights with everyone. Fights that everyone, himself included, knows he can’t win. But he squares up anyway, a smile on his face. I slide into the passenger’s seat. The leather isn’t worn the same way as in the driver’s. The smell is too much like my race engineer – hot coffee and motor oil – from when I gave him a ride home on the way to pick up Jessie. One of his hands is already molded onto the steering wheel. The other adjusts the phone connector and volume knobs. He whoops when his favorite techno track blares through the speakers. The car pulses with it. He switches to drive and floors the gas without a second in between for me to snatch at a breath. I make an involuntary, shapeless noise. The track runs under us, from us. Gray and black and blinding white. The speed is lovely, violent, seething. Outside the windows, a river of strobe lights rushes by. Clubs can’t compete. Dreams of it can’t live up to the real thing. It’s like being drugged and drunk and only half-disillusioned of a lucid dream. I can move, but moving feels wrong. Like shifting positions on one of those centripetal force rides at the fair. We’re spinning. We’re flying. We’re going as fast as I ever dare to go in broad daylight surrounded by my team. My gut burns but finally not in the way it does when I have to run the same turn a dozen times in one afternoon. I grab the armrest when I’m pressed further back into my seat. I’d close my eyes, but it’d be like closing them to monsters in the dark. I’m so still that I can feel my heart quaking in my chest, the only muscle that’s anything but taut. I’m a passenger on a reanimated train I can’t jump out of. I want to grab the parking brake, but I couldn’t hurt Jessie like that, and I can’t trust the car to stop just because it’s told. We need to slow down or we’ll miss a turn and spin out through the chain link fence and into the unseen woods. Every second is the last and yet every next second comes. My fingers twitch against my restraint. I clench my stomach to hold onto the way it churns, to push through it to the other, blissful side and keep gripping the door of this metal animal, its brain at my side, shouting over the music. He’ll stop if I ask him. The knowledge of my choice in it all is comforting. And I would ask. I would. If I didn’t have a race this week. If the rush, like a cold shower only without the sting, didn’t feel quite so good. If he didn’t have that look in his eyes – glued to his seat but smiling through the pain, smiling like he does in photos of us from high school. Like he does by the finish line when he wins a late-night race. Like he used to in the car on school nights. I almost died for that look, once. But I haven’t. Not yet. In high school, just before Jessie went off to state college, we’d take Cooper Highway north. It was dead except for us. Pine trees are stacked atop one another by the shoulders. No one used it late at night after the bigger interstate was built a few miles over. Beyond the windows, the world was leached of color, but we were brighter than we’d ever been. Jessie’s music and the headlights ate away at my brain’s insufferable conviction to stay awake. It wasn’t races that kept me up then. It was college and an early morning job and Friday afternoons helping the pit crew set up for race day. My budding fear of driving in the dark was fed by race track horror stories and hours of analyzing crash videos. But I needed to be awake, and to be awake I needed to sleep, and to sleep I needed to drown. About the Writer... Teigan Edwards is a senior creative writer at the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities. She has been enthralled by stories since she was a young girl and her mother sat her down every night to read. About the Artist... Conner Pendry is a sculpture major at Douglas Anderson with a focus in metalwork through processes such as welding, grinding and soldering. He is completing his sustained investigation for AP 3-D Art & Design based around exploring how metal can be unified into interesting compositions through a variety of techniques.

Marcus Holley Marcus Holley is a senior poet and performer in the creative writing department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. He is the senior Art Director for Élan Literary Magazine with a goal of expanding the combination of visual art and literature into the community. His adoration for writing and spoken words has manifested in hosting, organizing literary events, and bringing poetry to the stage.

< Back Compare & Contrast by Jandellyn Silvers-Lozano With Love, From Home / Mexico Si Me Perdonas By Meztli Hipolito Mile 1 When people ask me where I'm from, I say Mexico. I have only been there four times since I've been alive, but it seems simpler than to force someone into the hopscotch game that is attempting to reconcile the word “American” to how I look. I believe I am noble by taking them out of this contorted misery. I never liked Denver; I don't mean it rudely, I don't. I am sure that to some, the beauty of the Rocky Mountains or the snow down by Union Station warms into their heart with a familiar glow that speaks, “You’re home.” But it never happened to me. No. I grew resentful like the willow tree at Cheeseman Park’s veins grow to twist further into the ground every time I visit it. Immovable. Unimpressed. I wish I loved Denver; I feel as though life may be easier that way. That I spend my summers deeply rooted in baseball fields across Brighton. That the mountains heal me from some impenetrable emotional wounds like every hippie in Boulder proclaims happens when they go rock climbing. But I must admit to you now, without a doubt, that I don't like skiing, or hiking, or the Broncos, or the freezing cold, or the great plains or even the buffalo. Forgive me, for I am not a good Coloradoan. I never have been. I love my parents dearly, but when my mom asks me to stay for college, I feel stuck up admitting that I dream of more. I dream of far more. Mile 1,017 I tell people my hometown is L.A. Despite that being a lie. I wasn't born in Los Angeles, yet I know those highways, those tall Art Deco buildings, and rose gardens like they were my own. I tell them I grew up there, even though that's a lie too. I spent four years of my childhood in L.A., years I am too old to remember now, but every time I have a holiday from school I end up back there. Back on my Abuela’s front lawn, in a booth in a Little Tokyo restaurant, in the three-story bookstore at the Grove. I love L.A. because it holds the dream I haven't fulfilled yet. A life I could have lived, a life I still believe I can achieve. L.A. greets me with its bright pink-orange sunsets and plumeria trees. Manhattan Beach watches me run to its waves at least four times a year, never submerging myself fully, still tethered to the surface, but every time traversing further and further into the vast sea. I am sorry Denver, but I miss the beach. Mile 1,703 When I visit Mexico City, people ask me where I am from, and it fills me with shame to say Denver. I feel my shame grow when they call me American, when they tell me my Spanish is quite good despite being from the U.S., and I bite my tongue from admitting that I was not able to control where I was born. I never used to like Mexico. I feared being kidnapped by the cartel, despite my father's reassurance that I was not the target demographic they were looking for; “Meztli, you look poor,” he would say, which offended me at eight years old. When I first visited at fifteen, I felt a weight lift off my chest as I spoke in my native language for weeks on end, greeting strangers at restaurants, hugging family I had never met before. Porque en México se saluda con un beso y abrazo . I used to cry every time I left Los Angeles. Sobbing as the plane lifted off the airport ground. I cry on the taxi ride to the airport of Ciudad de México because I realize that this too could be home. I try to explain the ache in my heart during the weeks following my trip, but I realize others may never understand. No one might ever get the sheer amount of joy I collect when I watch TV shows in Spanish rather than English, when instead of asking me why my skin looks a certain way, people pass by me diciendo “buenas tarde.” I realize only then that I have never written fully in Spanish, at least nothing good enough to brag to my extended family about. That they may never come to understand my art or what I say in my writing. I realize I had grown to hate Mexico as others had made me grow to hate myself. And perhaps that had been the problem all along. México, si me perdonas, por mis pecados y errores, no estaba correcta pero te extraño mas que nada. México te pregunto si me aceptas si regreso algún día. Mile 1 People ask where I am from, and I am not sure what to reply sometimes. I am from so many places and so many things that it is hard to account for all of them at once. I do not know where home is yet. I know I feel it every time the wave of hot, humid air hits me getting off the plane at LAX, or when I see the first billboard in Spanish saying “Bienvenidos a México.” But I would tell you that home is in my mom’s embrace in the kitchen of my house while she cooks dinner, home in the chain with my name on it that hangs on my best friend's car’s rear-view mirror. Home in the dedication my dad leaves me in his published book, in my friends' Christmas parties and in car rides with my Nana to get food. So for now, home remains in the sureness of my heart. Which stretches far more than 2,000 miles across this world. With love, from home Con amor, de mi corazón Meztli Rosaherminia Hipolito About the Author... Meztli Hipolito is a junior at Denver School of the Arts. She is an award-winning poet and enjoys spending time with her family. About the Artist... Jandellyn Silvers-Lozano is a 12th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her ideal mediums are cardboard, fabric, and painting. Previous Next

17 < Table of Contents Growing Pains by Kayden Davis Homemade Blueberry Pie By Via Sheahin " our laughter / echoes like thunder / erupting from the night sky / & / washing away every / lasting drop of our innocence" we watched the sunrise every morning, observing as the sky curled and twisted into hundreds of different hues, i view our childhood through pink and orange tinted glass. every memory is splattered on slabs of concrete glittered by vibrant chalk. ice cream dripping down chins, catching raindrops on our tongues; our laughter echoes like thunder erupting from the night sky & washing away every lasting drop of our innocence; i sat alone and watched every sunrise slowly turn to gray. i still feel the sickly sweet taste of lemonade stands and homemade blueberry pie settling uneasily in my throat. you drank your freedom away to forget but i'm still drinking the rain. About the Writer... Via Sheahin is a 15 year old student from Chicago, Illinois. She enjoys poetry as an escape from life but also a look into it. She has been previously published in Cathartic Lit and Teen Ink, among others forthcoming. About the Artist... Kayden Davis is a visual arts senior student at Douglas Anderson. She enjoys painting and drawing as a medium but also enjoys a bit of photography as well.