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< Back Cradled by Beauty by Angelina Gao I stuff my torso with history, curl my body into fetal position to withstand the impact of centuries. Umbilical By Vanessa Chen NaiNai lays out her patchwork 旗袍, 1 each seam a mouth stitched shut with the protests of 1989. she tells me about how her lotus blushed amidst the destruction, but all I can think of are her regrets —she must be so sorry for letting Ma see fighter jets cut across the night & believe they were shooting stars. at NaiNai’s funeral, Ma kept looking out the window to make sure the migrating geese hadn’t lost their formation —this vigilance is intergenerational: NaiNai counted losses she couldn’t undo, & Ma prepared for ones that never came, & I crawled out of her, clinging to my lungs for fear they’d slip out & forget breathing. I stuff my torso with history, curl my body into fetal position to withstand the impact of centuries. this 旗袍 holds a girl holds a lineage holds all that could go wrong. I will leave this world holding onto what I entered it with: lungs, white foam at the mouth, an umbilical still tethered to the dark it first knew. 1 qipao: a traditional Chinese dress About the Author... Vanessa Chen is a high school senior from Vancouver, Canada. Her work has been recognized by The New York Times, the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers, and the League of Canadian Poets, among others. An alumna of the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio, Vanessa also edits for Polyphony Lit—and she’s a devoted cheese lover. About the Artist... Angelina Gao is a Senior at Western Albemarle High School in Virginia whose love for visual arts began in early childhood. Her favorite mediums are acrylic and graphite. In her artwork, she seeks not only to express her own emotions, but to gently remind viewers of the silent dialogue between humanity, the natural world, and the vast universe we share. Previous Next

Fading Marlo Herndon You, you came back with your fiery eyes and burning touch Trying to light me up again The smell of smoke filled the air as you trudged closer Making its way into my lungs ‘I miss you’ poured from your lips like tar But all I heard was the crackling fire behind you Your fingertips traced from my jaw line to my ear Tucking my hair behind it You leaned close Hesitation chilled my spine My mind drifted back to the last time I saw you I pulled back My chest felt like it was burning Silver droplets fell from the icicles on my fingertips This is what you do Make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside Then you watch as the ice melts away Leaving me to condensate You came back with your fiery eyes and burning touch Trying to light me up again But it`s time for you to go I`d rather be cold than let you burn me Return to Piece Selection

10 < Table of Contents The Hands That Create by Andie Crawford Ars Poetica by Bella Zaccaro " But it is an echo, waiting for me / to connect its formless gray / into the true image I saw." By the time I awaken from the stupor of lightning-strike, burning-fire inspiration, scrambling for a pen and page, the vision has already scattered and I am left grasping at embers and sparks. Still hot, they burn in tiny spots against my fingers and my palms, and I press them flat against paper to watch them carve a smokey shape. But it is an echo, waiting for me to connect its formless gray into the true image I saw. I make a wish for the glow and flawless feathers of the phoenix's fiery return. I make a wish for anything to burn as brightly as my dream. Shape it as I please or as I should, marked with patterned lowering of keys. It remains as curling wisps, either lost or extinguished, hissing for a quiet death. I step back and smell its sting, how it clings to the atmosphere and page, and test if letting cool air seep into its flickering form might solve its stubbornness. Time alone does nothing but age it. The drive to invoke my waking dream smolders in still-living cinders, reaches out from the smokescreen and pulls me back with its last warmth I long to bridge mind and reality. Look at the divination on the page and see not something unfinished, or else nothing at all — but what it could be, if cut into pieces and burned again, until pencilmark words curl up into black; until charred and softened to soil, to grow again. With ink-dipped knife I cut each word into its own, see the ideas flitting within paper-pulp, change and reshape the expanse of before; and I raise manmade lighter to the page. The paper does not burn easy against its meek flame mimic of better circumstances. Sparks fall tentative, sickly, hesitant in their blinking birth and faint from the moment they are lit. But in the dark they light the word in tiny whispers of space around them, dancing beyond lines on the page. In the dark it is all you can see. Precise, I pierce their descent and flatten them into words, patterns of inkblot and ash layering one over the last. Only as letters burn into themselves, reincarnated into black-blazed paper, does the fire against my palms look like a faint vestige of the vision that first struck me down. About the Writer... Bella Zaccaro is a senior creative writer at Douglas Anderson. She enjoys developing fantasy and sci-fi concepts, and focuses on metaphor-based storytelling in her works as a way of discussing complex themes or experiences. About the Artist... Andie Crawford is a Senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in drawing and painting.

11 < Table of Contents Bare Bones by Yiming Low Men's Jeans by Yeshaya Rawat Engineer I walk through fluorescent strobing lights to the “Men’s” section And bravely pull off the rack, jeans. Jeans, blue. Jeans, ripped to be cool — distressed, they call it. Jeans, classic. Jeans, new. Men’s Jeans . New clothes must be saved for a special occasion. I will wear this out when I have something important to do; Something worthy, worthy of my new men’s jeans. Bowling, perhaps; Or the movies with a girl. A girl with soft hands, so unlike mine. A girl with a kinder voice, but sharper words than mine. A girl who would never wear Men’s Jeans . " I’ll sit back straight. Straighter, so her head can rest on my shoulder and I will do what I have so / desperately wanted to; / I will be a man." We will split a single tub of styrofoamy corn; over priced but I’ll offer to pay. Hands will delve into pockets so deep they may drown; a leather square, the catch of the day. Grab a drink or two. And just like I’ve learned; Studied, for years. I’ll sit back straight. Straighter, so her head can rest on my shoulder and I will do what I have so desperately wanted to; I will be a man. In Men’s Jeans And when I breathe air scented by her perfume, and popcorn, and Pepsi, and perfectly picked out seats; It will burrow in my bloodstream and flow down to my thighs. My thighs wrapped in jeans. Men’s Jeans . But as new dishes in the Mikveh Or a child in holy water, The new must be cleansed to come home. To be a part of the tribe; Of the group And such is also true of my clothes. Of my Men’s Jeans . My thighs wrapped in my men’s jeans wage silent warnings of the imminent. I ignore them, I am a man. I ignore them, I am a man. I ignore them, I am a man . I ignore them, the credits roll, I throw my jacket over her shoulders, I walk her home, I walk alone, I am a man. I unlock my door, I am a man. I walk to my room, I am a man. I go to pull down my blue, ripped to be cool — distressed they call it, classic, new, Men's Jeans . They are part of the tribe, Of the group. Baptised by blood, By fire. Christened red, my blue, ripped to be cool — distressed they call it, classic, once new, men’s jeans remind me, I bleed, am I a man? About the Writer... Yeshaya Rawat Engineer is a young trans man from Pune, India; currently studying at UWC Mostar in Bosnia and Herzegovina. He has called Frankfurt, Germany home since 2019. His interests include playing music, learning random new things, and writing poetry. He studies Visual Arts, Global Politics, and Environmental Science and is extremely passionate about climate studies and ecology. About the Artist... Yiming Low is a visual arts major at the Savannah Arts Academy in Savannah, Georgia. Along with traditional styles of realism, she enjoys experimenting with graphic design, photography, and printmaking.

The Blue and Yellow Lila Hartley We wait for the day that peace comes, hope lingers in the hearts of many. We wait for everyone to have homes, and for the rights of the zany. While bombs destroy homes and lives, We watch from afar. The wives, Mothers, Children, Fathers, Friends, And people Killed and hurt, We read in our car. The memories of our friends Come flooding back. Hearts broken, lives broken, They can never mend But against all the odds Hope remains, Freedom and bravery nods. We get out from behind the windowpane, To preserve the blue and yellow. We help our fellows on this day, Something we could have done for more. So we keep the hope, That one day the children may play, That one day peace will come. In the blue and yellow, Everywhere. Return to Piece Selection

< Back Bonded by Krislyn Fraser Haibun for Mom and Gramps (1945-2025) By Carter Manalla A dysphoric dream takes you back to the wedding; this familiar scene of white everything seems to torture your closed eyes. There's a pair of statues: one is your husband dressed in his tuxedo and the other isn't you. You assume that the marble woman will be switched out before the Mass begins—a lie you know is told just to calm yourself down. Your hair hasn't been flat-ironed, your makeup has not been done, the florist has yet to arrange her bouquets, and your father should be on his way with the wedding dress. There are ten minutes before the ceremony starts. Everything appears to be running late. Rummaging through your contacts, "Dad" eludes the simple search. Guests begin to arrive; the rows of soon-to-be filled pews blot your soon-to-be veiled forehead with sweat. That all-too-familiar harrowing heat of panic surges through your skin. You don't recognize any of the guests, in fact, you now fail to recognize the venue at all. False relatives like little amber flames spread throughout the waxy benches, lambs melt from their stained-glass portraits, and the Virgin Mary cries—a fire so hot, yet you are glazed in an ice-cold sweat. A September wedding marks Persephone's return to her creed of grief. The weather turns, and so do you. Orange leaves begin to fall like a reminder of all the small things that escape your sturdy hand—tiny embers of violence scattered in the winds of hurricane season. These little things you fail to control, the things that drive you the maddest, they are alive, and that is enough for them to be torturous and to be beautiful. You can’t get ahold of your dad; as much as you try, it is like he has disappeared. You breathe in. Dad is out of reach. Your eyes rise to revise his obituary. About the Author... Carter Manalla is a sophomore at the Willow School in New Orleans, where he is currently a part of an intensive creative writing program. He focuses on socio-political topics, but nothing he writes is limited to being one thing. 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 photography mediums. Previous Next

16 < Back Night Painting William Du Journey Towards Self-Discovery by Kenzie Kurdys Night Painting by William Du Night never sleeps, but it can hide. Long have I dreamt of you in shades of olivine, deep in a grave, your face bound in vague question. Leave it to the daylight outside, A single thread of sacred light encircling the world, shedding a luminous rain on the heart of a colt charging through the soundless woods like they were never there. A shadow passes over the moon, All that remains is the lantern’s spit, and I imagine you in a patch of trees, burning down bright branches of cherries and elderberries, chopping a rabbit’s heart into dust. "You will be empty of giants, lovers,// And I will follow the way those exotic birds tread..." You will be empty of giants, lovers, And I will follow the way those exotic birds tread, the way a caged canary sings for the red sky and a moon as if lit from the inside. Warm, resonant and ink-tuned— now the spirit water sweeps me, I leave you my clothes, the redbud, the dogwood, that water strung the griddle. Will you turn and make a circle? Or will my song bark you up, in a way that even now I cannot describe: all I know is that one day, I will be found there in the red & black unmetered time of my body, my arms will float in the hot water, my hair fanning as I descend grains of clay heavy enough to drag my eyes out of the blue-grey, ocean-breath, towards heaven. About the Writer... William Du is a current junior at Delbarton School. His intention with his writing is to bring light and beauty into the lives of those who consume it and provide comfort in difficult times. His works have appeared in the Eunoia Review, the Weight Journal, and Teen Ink Magazine. In addition to writing, William enjoys reading classic literature, playing piano, and writing satire. About the Artist... Kenzie Kurdys is a senior in high school currently pursuing the development of her own artistic style.

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

12 < Back now, with a son Sam Kats Mother by Ronni Ochoa now, with a son by Sam Kats 1. Mama lays in a white hospital bed. A crowded room of relatives push against one another, waiting for baby girl’s head to move. Ogling at her soft skin and pink lips, caressing her feminine cheeks. Grandma turns on the DSLR and snaps a photo to remember. It sits tucked into the pocket of a pale pink baby book. The bindings are worn in and the plastic inside is covered in smudge marks. 2. She races across a narrow hallway, the blue tulle in her dress scrunched in shaking fists. Soppy tears stain her dirty cheeks and she wipes them off in between hard exhales. She doesn’t mention how the dress prickles against her legs or that long hair weighs down her head. She just cuts big chunks of it off behind the couch a few months later. It turns into jagged lines and her dresses mend into dirty jeans. 3. Mama shakes in his arms. He whispers, “Mama, it’s okay, I’m here,” as she lays on his flat chest. He knows it’s because of him, because of whom he has become, but he is not sorry. "Five years of grief looks like it could heal,// but there’s no amount of time that// will replace a daughter." Five years of grief looks like it could heal, but there’s no amount of time that will replace a daughter. Still, life must go on, now, with a son. About the Writer... Sam Kats is a 17-year-old writer from Jacksonville, Florida. He is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts and enjoys realistic fiction. About the Artist... Ronni Ochoa is an art major at Savannah Arts Academy. They enjoy working with charcoal as well as digital painting.

< Back At Once by Sol Cuneo Believe in the unseen, have faith By Kiyura Davis “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us today our daily bread...” We prayed in silence, Letting our lips hold in lies. We forced our tongues to push them back and felt our throats swallow them whole. We sang hymns and spirituals and believed in something: someone “real.” How can you abandon the faith of your father? Lie and scold the beliefs of your mother? Go ahead and believe in the unknown- Walk off the roof and trust that the angels will let you down softly. I sat in a chair For a 3-hour sermon; the cushion soaked with sweat as I tried to fold myself in. A preacher shouted in tongues while a member caught the Holy Ghost, Her eyes completely white, Her knees buckled and she collapsed, shouting, “Lord, hallelujah!” How do I tell my mother that I don’t believe in God, but believe we were created? That somehow, we were formed and enclosed in a casket--my ancestors return to dust. My bones churn upon each other until they are worn down to nothing. My rib was once his rib, but now it is my own. My limbs are now my own. My faith is now my own. If God is proud of his creation, why won’t he show his face? At church, I get homesick I watch the clock tick while the fabric of my dress weighs me down. When it strikes nine, I run from the ball. I leave a glass slipper, Promising my return. I am teaching myself trust--but my trust in you still falters. Religion doesn’t come easy to me. It’s rough and gritty, burning against my tongue. At nighttime, my mother waits until I bow my head. She bows her own and gives her glory to God. I sit there wondering if he shows pity for single parents Because her prayers are never answered; They never get close enough to Heaven’s ears. Sometimes I fear dying, because if God is real, will I be forgiven? “...forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one. Amen.” About the Author... Kiyura is a 10th grade Creative Writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in poetry but also enjoys writing personal essays. She was a spoken-word performer featured in Coffee House 2024 and Extravaganza 2025. About the Artist... Sol is a Junior at New World School of the Arts where they play violin. They have a passion for oil-based painting and writing, and they want to go to art school to major in Painting in the future. Previous Next

< Back Memphis, Egypt by Maya Wynn Home doesn’t cross minds. Here's safe enough. Corner Cycle by Tremaine Shears The old heavy doors of the store drag open. They slam shut— the bells ring— the smell of the mop and boiled peanuts hits me. In line, I stand behind a younger woman; cheap perfume lingering. In front of her is an older man coughing into his arm, scratching a stack of tickets. The clerk looks around still... Walking back outside, the air is sour. A Styrofoam cup tipped over, orange spilling onto the sidewalk— ants all over it already— beer caps and soda cans everywhere. People talk loudly over the traffic. Doors slam. Engines start. Two men argue over dice. A bike scrapes the curb. Children throw a ball back and forth. A crowd near the door, a white t-shirt ahead of everyone else, phone glowing against his cheek. His eyes scan every car passing by. He nods when he sees me. Young girls lean on an old silver-box-Chevy. Chip bags crinkle. Bottles clank together. One shouts, “Hold the door!” The bell chimes again, again, and again. The sun slips down, still beating on our melanin skin, yet jackets and coats are still worn. Same thing tomorrow, day after day, night after night. The moon shines now. No white shirts this time, but black ones. More cars this time. Home doesn’t cross minds. Here's safe enough. About the Author... Tremaine Shears is a creative writer from Jacksonville, Florida attending Douglas Anderson School of the Arts as an upcoming senior. In his free time, he enjoys writing poems and songwriting. He has published a poem through the Blue Marble Review titled “Blockhead.” In the future, he wishes to become a successful artist and television writer. About the Artist... Maya Wynne is a 12th grade Cinematic Arts student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her ideal mediums are videography, photography, and writing. Previous Next

Grief Janna Tannous I am the blood gushing out of my grandfather’s nose, that seeps into the cracks of the old wooden floor. I am the rough waves that hit the edge of the lighthouse, only to be met by cascading darkness. I am the many once-lit candles, that flicker with solitude, only to be blown out suddenly, with no explanation. I am the wide open fields, that seem to go on for miles, but only last a few. I am the hymns sung at the service, where the white snowflakes seem to contrast the color of my attire. I am the many stones of the named, yet only one seems to be clear, and it’s someone whom I know. Return to Piece Selection