26d8ae08-f853-4650-862a-cc16b123ab93 Late by Jadalyn Gubat Firstborn by Satori McCormick I tried to tell my husband about my first son but every noble intent of the act failed. As we lay in bed months into our honeymoon, I attempted to sketch out the exact shade of his newborn skin (terracotta? rose? like the color of a brilliant desert sunset when it hits the sandstones just before nightfall?) and the deep black pools of his eyes when he opened them (he cried all the time and it was like he wailed, stopped, and opened his eyes just to fill them with sorrow all over again). But with each new sentence I paused, frowning, my hand outstretched in the middle of the air, and I could not remember if this was my baby I was talking about or the fantasy one I’d dreamed up in years since. My patient husband leaned over to kiss my forehead. He rolled over and turned off the light, leaving me in the dark wondering what color my son had been. But the tragedies topple over each other into peripheries. I was overjoyed to discover that someone wanted to marry me even after I was left destitute and childless and absolute societal wreckage. My husband was so sweet and shy I could hardly believe he was mine. He left every morning at seven to go to work in an office building and came home every night at five. He made his own coffee and poured a measured teaspoon of cream into it. He grew a beard and it tickled my mouth when he kissed me. He never asked me about my past. It was ancient history, a dark age, an aftertaste fading in my mouth. Our daughter was born on Christmas Day so we decided to name her Mary. She was pale and quiet like an angel. She never cried. In her crib, under a delicate canary yellow mobile of butterflies, she gazed up at me adoringly with caramel brown eyes. I took her everywhere with me. When she wanted to nap I cradled her in the crook of my elbow and watched TV, and when she was awake I took her on walks in the neighborhood in a pink stroller. My husband and I photographed her every minute development, whether it be an extra tuft of hair or a new dress or that the seasons had changed, but suddenly somehow autumn looked different than it always had once it enveloped our child. "Her fatherless child started crying on the other side of the room and I went to clean up his mess of spilled milk. I felt a sharp hatred towards him." At her third birthday party I invited one of my oldest friends and she approached me as I cut the cake for a group of eager toddlers. She started talking about how much I had changed, god, what a fucking miracle. I darted her a scornful frown and she laughed. She asked me how much my husband made at his job. Enough for us, I said. And this house? She glanced around at the white walls and contemporary furniture. She scoffed. You got yourself a real perfect life, she spat. Her fatherless child started crying on the other side of the room and I went to clean up his mess of spilled milk. I felt a sharp hatred towards him. What an ugly child. He looked at me with big black bug eyes encrusted with diamond lagoons and I had to look away. My husband was working late so I brought Mary to the mall. I bought her a light blue backpack to put all her things in. She stuffed in the most audaciously unnecessary things: a pack of crayons, her favorite stuffed animal, a bag of crackers, and a flower barrette, just in case the one I’d clipped in her hair that morning wasn’t adequate by the end of the day. I bought her ice cream in the food court. She savored it as we went in search of a toy store. I noticed a boy who must’ve been not older than eleven or so. He had shaggy black hair and deep golden skin and as he passed me he looked at me strangely. He joined a white couple that must’ve been his parents and they walked together through the wide glossy mall hallway. I tugged my daughter along faster and she whined in protest, her ice cream dripping onto the floor. In the hoards of people going the opposite way I lost track of the boy. Mary stumbled to keep up. I caught a glimpse of the family going up the escalator. I climbed in, pushing past strangers who shouted after me and at the top I saw them heading to the exit. I dropped Mary’s hand and followed swiftly. Just before I could reach the boy the mother whirled around and hissed, “What do you think you’re doing, following us?” Behind her I stared at the boy. He didn’t look like me. He wasn’t my son. I glanced at the woman, her face frightened and reddened, breathing heavily. Without saying anything, I turned back and made my way to Mary, who was beginning to cry in the midst of a thousand strangers. Return to Table of Contents

Read here about guidelines to submit to Élan's annual Middle School Writing Contest. Middle School Art and Writing Contest 2026 submissions are closed. Élan celebrates the writing of students between 6th and 8th grades in our annual Middle School Art Writing Contest. The winner of the contest is awarded a certificate and publication of their work on the Élan website. Students can submit their writing in any form, including poetry (of any length and style), fiction (of up to 3,000 words), and nonfiction (essays up to 3,000 words). Each student can submit up to three individual pieces. Email Submission Guidelines: Writing (Required) The subject of the email should be the writer’s full name and then “Middle School Art and Writing Contest Writing Submission.” (For example: Sara Rodgers Middle School Art and Writing Contest Writing Submission) In the body of the email, please include the writer's name, age, primary email, school, city, and home address, followed by the titles and the genre (ie, poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, etc.) of each piece being submitted. If applicable, include a sponsoring teacher’s name and email address. Include a professional biography (150 words maximum, in 3rd person). Example: Sara Rodgers is a 7th grade student at LaVilla School of the Arts. They love writing poetry, and riding horses in their free time. Each piece must be attached as a separate WORD DOCUMENT and the file MUST be named the title of the piece. The contest only accepts editable WORD DOCUMENTS at this time. The contest only accepts original work, and fanfictions will not be considered for publication. Do not include your name in the body of the document, as all submissions go through a blind reading process by our staff. Make sure your piece title is included at the top of the document. If you want to submit work to the Middle School Art and Writing Contest that was not published when you submitted it to a previous issue this work must first go through major revision or else it will not be selected for publication. You may not submit more than three pieces in a single submission period. If a teacher is submitting on behalf of multiple students, please attach student submissions labeled and clearly indicate the work of each individual student in the document(s). Email Submission Guidelines: Art (Required) The subject of the email should be the artist’s full name and then “Art Submission.” (For example: Sara Rodgers Art Submission) In the body of the email, please include the artist’s name, age, primary email, school, city, and home address, followed by the titles and the medium (ie, oil on canvas, charcoal, photograph, print, etc.) of each piece being submitted. If applicable, include a sponsoring teacher’s name and email address. Include a professional biography (150 words maximum, in 3rd person). Example: Sara Rodgers is a 7th grade student at LaVilla School of the Arts. Their favorite medium to use is acrylic paint, though their watercolor paintings have also won awards. Name each art file “Piece Title (Full Name)”—example, “Water (Sara Rodgers).” The art pieces must be a jpeg or png file. Submit the highest resolution quality format that can be sent as an attachment – 300 dpi or higher, and at least 2 MB. If your art does not meet the dpi requirement, there is no guarantee your art can be considered. Ensure that the photo of your art is clear and taken from a straight angle so that all aspects of the piece are visible with minimal glare. The contest only accepts original work, and fan art will not be considered for publication. If you want to submit work to the contest that was not published when you submitted it to a previous issue this work must first go through major revision or else it will not be selected for publication. You may not submit more than three pieces in a single submission period. All submissions should be sent to elanlitmagazine@gmail.com . All submitters may only send three pieces. Check Out Past Winners Last Years Winners Past Winners

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 Saltwater Escape Nico De Guzman Small Title Elizaveta Kalacheva Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

Élan is a literary magazine publishing the best writing and art from high school students around the world. Archives Publishing since 1986. Online Print Online Issues 1/2 SWITCH VIEW See as a gallery Online Print Issues 1/1 SWITCH VIEW See as a gallery Print

15 Evergreen by Babafemi Fatoki Tidewater by Grace Thomas “You have to write goodbye ,” he said. “So the ghosts know not to stick around.” I rolled my eyes, but wrote it anyway. He was drunk enough that the Virginia had bled out into his oral posture, vowels bent out of shape with the memory of his father’s tidewater raising. I sound so backwoods, he'd say, laughing with his hand over his mouth as though trying to keep the sound of it trapped inside. When I thought about kissing him, I sometimes wondered whether he’d taste like dogwood and creek beds and sweetgrass baking in the sun, teeth dripping with his childhood home. He bent his head low, squinting at the board to make sure that everything was in check, spots of soft darkness appearing on the paper where the rainwater dripped from his hair. Outside the window, thunder cracked so loud I could feel it in my teeth, and he smiled at the sound of it. “Perfect weather for this, huh?” I shrugged my agreement. He struck a match, lit a candle then his cigarette, hands pale like a drowned boy’s. I flipped off the light. Sometimes, when the nights are dark enough, I find myself thinking through all of the cruelest things I could say to him. I lie on my back and stare up at my shadowed bedroom ceiling, watching the fan carve its slow rotation. My heart beats faster as I picture his hand in mine, picture his face as I say I hate you, I hate you, I’ve always hated you . I don’t mean it, of course. I’d never tell it to him, anyway. But I think that’s why the thought of it grips me so damn hard. Like tossing your phone onto the metro tracks. It’s forbidden, and therefore it calls to me. Tonight, I picture pulling the planchette over and over back to goodbye, hands moving in subtle deceit. He’d get excited at first, try to frame it as a reluctant spirit disturbed from its slumber by our homemade ouija board, our dollar store taper candles. But slowly the disillusionment would set in, and he’d look at me with those sharp-edged, knowing eyes. “Cut it out, will you? This isn’t a joke?”“Then what is it?” I’d reply. He would furrow his brow. I wouldn’t. “Honestly? You can quit all of this ghost hunting bullshit,” I would say. “If you want to see your father again, just keep drinking like him.” The only thing that makes me shiver more than picturing him crying is picturing how his face would feel pressed against my shoulder as I apologized and he forgave me. But I would never say these things to him, of course. Never let him show me the moth-wing shudder of his breath as he sobs. It’s late; I’m alone. The rain beats against my bedroom window like a thousand fists, conjured souls that hadn’t been properly sealed away. I imagine it filling up the gutters and the drainage ditch, then seeping onto the sidewalk like a pot boiling over. It would lift up every broken bottle and glinting puddle of leaked oil and the dead rabbit rotting by my bus stop with its legs splayed out and its eyes glazed and unseeing. All of it coursing down the avenue like the river Styx swollen with memory, washing everything clean. I close my eyes. Tidewater raising. About the Writer... Grace Thomas is a senior at Montgomery Blair High School. She writes poems and short stories, which have been recognized in local publications and competitions. She is the head literary editor of Blair’s literary magazine, SilverQuill. She lives in Maryland, where she enjoys spending time with her friends and her cat. About the Artist... Babafemi Fatoki is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At DASOTA, Babafemi is a visual arts major. The medium of their piece is paint.

a71e2ac3-ba9c-4381-b1af-709d0f891e09 7:30 A.M. by England Townsend The creased polaroid photo my grandmother keeps in her wallet by Kota Locklear “Let me pay,” my Grandmother whispered, flipping open her wallet Inside the pocket was a weathered photo of me and my sister sitting in Her garden Dripping with childhood and bitter with truth My father’s home had always been far from me, impossible charred mistake of a building The dwelling had consequences: a school bag crawling with roaches, a hungry stomach and an infested pantry. A broken promise. Walls painted with black ash and adorned with smothered beer cans condemned years ago but never Truly killed blocked off from the children who should have been raised there looking back, I realize, My father wouldn't let me see his mistakes. and so, my sister and I were raised by my grandmother. On the day I was born my grandmother planted A poem in the ground that grew and sprouted lemons and at seven I would spit the seeds into the sink where my grandfather skinned fish and at nine I would take a fistfull of it’s bushy green leaves and mix them into hosewater, to make soup for my dolls And at eleven I would pet the shaggy old dog that laid in the tree’s sweet lemony shade And at fourteen I cried as my father clawed at the dirt and pulled up the roots and split the trunk of the sour dying tree infested with tiny green bugs And so, I wonder what I truly lost behind those cracking locked doors? Younger, on a starless Night in my grandmother’s garden I sit for a while with my sister with the terrace of sweet jasmine above a swinging bench Waiting for my dad to visit Through the rosy shadows, my sister’s face is illuminated by White Flashing Blinding Light. Smile, my grandfather demanded, Snap, Childhood in a photograph cemented in time was the moment Where roaches writhe behind locked doors and boxed wine rotted as the wind blows White blossoms into our hair 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 Unprepared Small Title Shanwill Wang Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

75fbf722-74e2-4369-a394-331442371c4a Wasting Time by Elizaveta Kalacheva Recursions by Nolan Lee I couldn’t cope with the stone in my brain when Sir left. Things vomited words like pills from a pink gullet. Water swimming by like a fish. Sound’s sound. Visions of my dog having caught his own tail turning red turning into a snake, turning. I could not see red but the color of red, not myself but the one acting as myself, etc. Hereness, thereness, sameness: The mannequin in the department store’s Men’s section, a good clean knife, crossing out your annotations on Pygmalion. Here there Sir you’d written nonsense dictionaries filled them with invectives segueing to non-sequiturs made me understand them. You’d said a stone is made for throwing. You’d see the lean dogs hung on their own bones and tell me throw the stone. I didn’t question yourself. Flew as cruel as its own silence. You’d said stop staring at your eyelids. The bird was leaving with a stone in its beak. I say to Sylvie, your brag couldn’t last thirty years: “I am, I am, I am,” but Morning alone is just a dish of ash. I’ve seen the sun careen and crash like a man without children. It is okay, I say. I am my own child. Return to Table of Contents

f4128fcd-2636-4bfa-ab1a-6b55a04bac9b Lucky Numbers by Christopher Thomas Iridescence for the Soul by Hallie Xu I didn’t know this at the time, but that afternoon was the beginning of our planting. My class had just finished our Red Scarf ceremony, and I found myself a little woozy. As a first-grader, I stood under a blazing sun for hours, reciting rehearsed chants until my throat parched and my temples tinged with sweat. As ceremonies go, this one didn’t deviate much from the others, laden with repeated Red traditions and symbolism that dulled once the novelty wore off. I looked down, observing how the collar of my white and blue uniform clashed conspicuously with the scarlet cloth laid over my shoulders and across my heart, bonding me to the Five-Starred Flag and to China itself. I shall henceforth not only be physically identical with our country but also share its past hardships, present endeavors, and future aspirations. At least that was what Teacher Liang hoped we’d understand. Her eyes were narrow and focused, reverential toward the ceremonies. She quickly punished any giggling or distraction. I was only six, but she drilled her eyes through me and the other kids, commanding our every move as if we were pieces of machinery. A part of me knew, by rote, that I was supposed to march forward and follow whatever Teacher Liang said, but I couldn’t help but steal glances at a purple flower we passed, aching to touch its velvety petals. When Teacher Liang passed by my roll, my spine, on survival reflex, immediately straightened. This seemed to satisfy her, and I was spared to continue forward in an upright posture, powered by awkward tension. Eventually, Teacher Liang dismissed students one by one. When she called my name, I stepped out of the formation and took neat steps until I was out of eyesight. Only then did I allow my spine to relax. I’d been a wild horse penned-up, and now I was free to roam for a moment. "The supposedly sacred Red Scarf hung sloppily around her neck; she used it as a sweat handkerchief." I was about to run toward the flower when I saw Gwendolyn digging by the Bamboo Grove. She was easy to miss — a child kneeling in the dirt, her bent torso hidden behind the tall grass, prodding the soil with her hands. The supposedly sacred Red Scarf hung sloppily around her neck; she used it as a sweat handkerchief. The Bamboo Grove wasn’t really a grove at all — it was a messy potpourri of plants, which included several bamboo trees tall enough to cast an emerald shade. Gwendolyn situated herself in an area vulnerable to the sun, and the way she dug with her bare hands was peculiarly captivating — how she paid no regard to the bees circling her head, the mud under her nails, or the dirty fingerprints on her scarf. I stepped into the shade. “What are you doing?” I asked. Gwendolyn didn’t respond. She pulled out a bag of Rainbow Ropes and ripped open the package. She took out the candy, cradling it in her palm as if it was a rolled-up baby snake, before setting it at the bottom of the hole she had dug. “Saving that for lunch?” We didn’t always prioritize hygiene. I reached for the candy, but Gwendolyn pushed my hand away. “Nope. I’m planting.” She looked at me for the first time, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “Like what?” “A tree.” “You can’t.” I didn’t need a degree in botany to know that growing trees from Rainbow Ropes was absurd. “Yes, I can!” She turned towards me, her short ponytail flinging against her head in one quick flair. “I’m planting a special tree,” she told me, “You don’t understand.” Soon, she was immersed in her own world again. I tilted my head, trying to grasp any special qualities about the scene before me, but all I saw were sweat, soil, and a piece of dirty candy. I watched Gwendolyn cup soil in her palms and shower it over the candy, letting the dirt trickle through her fingers like raindrops until all traces of rainbow were tucked beneath the freshly churned soil. She was right: I couldn’t comprehend the planting at all, but I was captivated by her actions — by her. I felt something itch inside me, something like the first drop of melted snow rolling down from the high branches and crackling against leaves, echoing crisply throughout the forest. Gwendolyn’s unfathomable excitement convinced me that she possessed a different pair of eyes, one that allowed her to see a world that others couldn’t. I wondered what life would be like if I saw the same world she saw, one discovered through rose-colored prisms and adorned with layers of iridescent glow. Wouldn’t that be much more interesting than the monochromatic, everlasting red? Before I could allow myself to ponder these questions, the shrill of Teacher Liang’s whistle cut through the tranquil air. Startled and flustered, I stepped out of the emerald shade of bamboo and ran back to class. I made sure not to let my thoughts become too much of a distraction during the lecture on two-digit subtraction. I had met Gwendolyn for the first time at the new student orientation, two months before the planting. It was late August, a time still warm in Shenzhen. Teacher Liang greeted us from her lectern at the front of the classroom, elevated by one step. Formality hung in the air like incense in a temple; we sat up straight, our chins up, attentive. Teacher Liang smiled with satisfaction, concluding that “maturity indeed comes with growth.” I wouldn’t say it was natural growth that prompted maturity; weeks before school, my parents had instructed me to transform into a model student. According to them, elementary school signaled the beginning of my life-long competition with my peers, and the first victory was winning good impressions from teachers. They drilled orders into my brain, restricting my every move like a steel scaffold until I couldn’t tell what their intentions were and what were my own. The 48 students in my class lined up in a single file. I was Number 12. Teacher Liang’s projector ran out of power, and this hiccup allowed us to drop the professional persona and engage in small talk. Just as I resigned myself to an empty table, Number 11 turned around and stared at me. She was slightly shorter, with tanned skin and wide-open eyes. She had talked to Numbers 10 and 9 before. My heart sped up, mind racing to evaluate my appearance as my hands straightened the edges of my shirt. “Hi?” I tried. She kept staring, but her gaze was nothing judgmental. The moment was just verging into awkwardness when she finally replied. “You’re beautiful.” Before I could say anything, she turned back and resumed her conversation. I was shocked, but the feeling was different from receiving an unexpected gift or being jump scared. It was more personal, as if something had just bloomed right beside my sternum, sending a wave of warmth throughout my body. I had never thought of myself as beautiful. My grandmother used “beautiful” to describe some of my friends or the girl next door, but never me. Could I be cute? Maybe. Pretty? Sure, when I wasn’t all sweaty from climbing trees. But beautiful? That adjective was too elegant for me to wear, and for the most part that was fine. I’d accepted that beauty wasn’t for me and didn’t yearn for it, but hearing the word roll off her tongue so effortlessly flabbergasted me. I felt like a kid who had stumbled upon the jewelry mine buried deep inside her mother’s closet, a kid who had always secretly adored the treasures it held. Number 11 hadn’t introduced herself, disregarding the pleasantries of social collisions so commonplace in our world. It was like she stood in the middle of a rapid current that rushed me towards maturity, her hand outreached to offer the assurance and sincerity I craved but never received from anyone. It was strangely comforting, but that would be one of the less-strange things I’d find out about Gwendolyn Lin. In an afternoon of our eighth week of school I watched her plant in the Bamboo Grove, and henceforth we formed something like a friendship. Return to Table of Contents

The Burning Light of the Clock Jamari Weaver Time, my old friend turned foe, Once a blank canvas I was free to paint my memories on, Now sand slipping through my fingers, When youth clouded my senses, The sprint towards the glowing light of an illuminated future started a fire, Flames burned me with ambition and passion, Leaving me with the scars of who I was, View clears with age, Lights become flashy advertisements hiding behind a unspoken cruel truth, Then comes the turn around, Bombarded with emotion in an unconscious moment of reflection, The realization the run has been in the wrong direction your whole life, Fire now ash, Memories become priceless, Forgotten thoughts a sudden haven for rapture, What was blurs, The truths I once knew become unclear, You may attempt back to the ignorant paradise of the past , But the burden of your knowledge replaces the once bliss of naivety, My essence withers with the exit of those play filled park days, The tune of my existence, Once a new classical piece of slow progression, Now an aged chaos of wrong notes and stressed keys, Reality drowns me as I attempt to reach the glimmering shine of a future of enjoyment not survival, I can feel the invisible war, The fantasy of youth, The opening of my eyes, The two sides of my soul sparring for what?, A final decision? A black and white feeling? An escape from the suffocation at the hands of society? Maybe to stop the generational repetition, “ Enjoy your youth while you can,” Pressure from the words, I am filled with rage for the ignorance exerted by a simple line, Of the audacity of those who forgot the war, But in the end it’s just time and me, The never-ending battle with my subconscious soldiers of emotion. Is time to be enjoyed? To be feared? To be angered by? To be reminisced? I know not the answer, I would rather bask in time’s incomprehension than fear the inevitable Return to Piece Selection

782edfde-bc01-404c-ae29-eb641aece495 An Evening to Remember by Audrey Lendvay Return to Table of Contents

The Curious Murder of Lilliane Baldwin Hannah G. Klenck Scene One Narrator: October 18th. The investigation begins. October 23rd. The autopsy is complete. October 29th. The investigation begins. The case of Lilliane Baldwin is an odd one, to say the least. In the beginning of the investigation, there were over 53 suspects, and after almost 5 months, the police, along with several private detectives, narrowed it down to three very much valid, and very much possible, murderers. (As the narrator says their names, the characters walk on stage.) Jason King, Madelyne King, and Eloise Morton. The lover, the lover’s wife, and the ex-friend with debt. (The narrator sighs.) And then, of course, there was Emilia Wells. Emilia wasn’t a suspect, no, just the opposite. She was the main investigator on her half-sister's case. She was out for vengeance, and perhaps that’s why she did what she did. She hosted... (Long dramatic pause) A dinner party. Set up for the sole purpose of solving the murder, Ms. Wells’ dinner had been planned since the police department narrowed it down to 12 defendants. It was a long time coming, to say the absolute least. So, on March 3rd , she invited Madelyne, Jason, and Eloise to her ginormous mansion left to her by Lilliane, and she solved her sister’s case. This is an exact recount of that night. (End Scene.) Scene 2 Narrator: No one knew about March 3rd prior to the party except for, of course, Emilia and those she was investigating that night. The suspects for the Lilliane Baldwin case were kept mostly in the dark about the case. Most didn’t even know the full scope of the case, or the total amount of people accused. So, on that faithful night, Eloise Morton didn’t know she was the first to arrive. (Eloise timidly enters from stage left, slightly hunched over. Emilia enters from stage right) Eloise: Hullo, Emilia. I-I came early as to not cause a bad impression, but now I see that I am the only one here. (This line is said choppily and awkwardly.) Emilia: Oh, Eloise, how silly. (Emilia smiles tightly. Eloise’s face lifts briefly.) Emilia: Nothing you can do can erase the permanent mark you’ve left on me. (Emilia stops smiling. Eloise’s face falls suddenly. She slowly slinks past Emilia and sits. Emilia is watching like a hawk the entire time. We miss a beat.) Narrator: Perhaps if Eloise was fully informed, she wouldn’t have been such a social disaster. Then again, being a suspect for your best friend’s death is stressful. (Jason King enters stage left. Jason walks loosely, smoking a cigar, acting very carefree.) Although, there is no explanation for Mr. King’s behavior. (Some say he was just rude, others blame it on the positively monstrous amounts of cocaine he did. It was a different time.) Though it isn’t very easily understood why he didn’t even cry when he heard Lilliane was dead. (Madelyne enters from stage left, head high, lips pursed, heels clicking.) Then there was his wife, Madelyne King, the movie star. In her prime, she was the picture of elegance and beauty. Such a shame that Jason couldn’t see what the rest of the world saw. We’ll never truly know how much his ignorance hurt her. And we don’t have time to figure it out. Emilia has a murder to solve. (Jason and Madelyne sit. Emilia smiles forcibly.) Emilia: Now that we are all present, we can finally begin. Sit. (This line starts out very sweet and calm, but becomes firm by the end. All sit except Emilia and Narrator.) All of you know why you are here, I trust no one needs this to be explained to them. (Emilia glares at Jason.) One of you is going to jail tonight. You know who you are, and you will be caught. (Madelyne glances around the room. Jason scoffs. Eloise looks down at her feet.) Dinner will be served in approximately thirty minutes. Feel free to chat among yourselves. (This is said sharply.) Narrator: Maybe Emilia hosted dinner instead of having individual investigation because she figured that with four conflicting personalities, someone was bound to confess something. If that was her intention, then she succeeded. (Jason, Eloise, and Madelyne murmur among themselves until Jason leans back to make sure Emilia’s out of earshot.) Jason: Thank god. Dragon Lady’s finally gone back to her lair. She’s so emotional. Wah, wah, wah. She needs to loosen up. (Eloise lifts her head. She’s clearly angry and a bit confused with Jason’s words.) Eloise: You do know her sister just died, right? (Jason scoffs then smirks.) Jason: That was over a month ago. She needs to chill out. Eloise: She’s solving her sister’s murder. Jason: Half-Sister. But still, women are just so melodramatic. (Eloise’s hands are in fists. She stares at her feet. She is clearly fuming with fury. Madelyne laughs nervously. Madelyne wraps a lock of her hair around her finger and plays with it. Eloise looks up.) Eloise: Jason, may I just say that you are the most- (This line is said increasingly angrier until Eloise is cut off by Emilia’s entrance from stage right. She’s holding a folder filled with paper and photographs. As she says the name of the item, she throws a picture of it onto the table.) Emilia: A bloody hammer, bootprints in the mud, a pearl necklace, and a threatening letter. All of these have one crucial thing in common. (Long dramatic pause.) These are all evidence to solve my sister’s murder. (Jason rolls his eyes once more.) One of you did it. And by the end of the night, I will figure out which one. And I will do whatever it takes to avenge her. (End Scene.) Return to Piece Selection