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< Back A Warm, Fuzzy Feeling by Leo Bowyer They burn the flesh all over my mouth, and I crave the sting. I digest what’s deleterious I eat lemons the way I eat oranges By Caitlin Spinner I eat lemons the way I eat oranges when I hunger for acerbic tastes. I dig my long nail into the lemon skin: the color is luminous and fresh. My cuticles are paper-thin, Hyponychium—the flesh stings with impulse. I peel it like an orange, picking wet strings of pulp, tearing off individual slices, arranging them circular on a ceramic plate. I eat lemons the way I eat oranges. I survive by chance; I live in doubt. I chew the slices from the plate— They burn the flesh all over my mouth, and I crave the sting. I digest what is deleterious. A vile taste— head-clearing, fresh, fruitful: a bittersweet rapture. I eat lemons the way I eat oranges; I cut into myself the way I cut into citrus, convinced it’s what I need. Blood becomes a thick maroon juice. I love the bitterness as if it were sweet, I cry but it tastes like a smile, I run from sweetness as if it were poison, I hurt myself like I know what’s best for me. I eat lemons the way I eat oranges— I peel slices, pack them in a lunchbox, sealed in a Ziploc bag, perfect side for a tuna sandwich. Lemons have the same amount of vitamin C, and the same curvature shape. But yellow and agonizingly bitter— a quicker erosion of the tooth enamel. I eat lemons the way I eat oranges. Even though I don’t like lemons. About the Author... Caitlin Spinner is a junior in the Creative Writing Department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She is currently the Junior Prose Editor for Élan Literary Magazine. She has previously had her work published in the fourth and fifth editions of [Alternate Route]. She is a member of school clubs including the Literary Arts Honor Society, Spoken Word Club, and Creative Writing Black Art Club. She has also participated in her school's annual showcase Extravaganza in 2025. She believes that her passions—history, politics, and psychology—greatly influence her writing. About the Artist... Leo Bowyer is a 12th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. His favorite medium to work with is acrylic paint. Previous Next

1 The Photographer V2 by Mary Lefluer Before I was Mint by Abigail Griffin Persephone enters my world the way Lightning strikes dry Earth: Discordant, Unwelcoming, Jarring. Her eyes, honey poured over Daisy petals, find his Beneath dewdrop lashes in a Mimicry of coyness. She grew up in meadows Nurtured by flower nymphs and He is infatuated with the way she views the world As something beautiful, Still. We are not like that. We are not like her. He must understand this, because it is My bed he falls into when her Sloping edges prove too slippery for his Serrated fingertips, and he slips right off the side. I never turn My King away. He has a way of painting everything golden, if Only for an hour, and it is not my Right, regardless. I, a nymph born in River Cocytus . I, a nymph born in the River of Wailing. My silhouette is rough and staccato, so that I might fit all his saw-toothed pieces like A jigsaw made of flesh and bone. The closest I will ever get to springtime is His hands on my hips, and the way he Talks to me when the lights are off. It is warm. Persephone does not need his warmth, but She is a greedy creature and I am not a god. O how much easier Life would be if I was. Her honey-daisy eyes sparkle as she Swallows those six seeds down without chewing. I know without asking He will not be returning to my bed. It is a cold day in Hades when she Twists my bones into sinewy vines, my Lungs into pleated leaves, and my Heart into a cluster of dirty roots. I exit their world the way Souls exit fleshly bodies: Voiceless, Discarnate, Forlorn. Persephone plants my husk in her herb garden, beside berries. I never thought my burial would Smell of mint and lemon poppy seed. About the Writer... Abbey Griffin likes reading during thunderstorms and iced chai lattes. She prefers fantasy to realistic fiction. Her favorite author is Terry Pratchett, and when she isn't writing she can be found binging fashion reality shows. About the Artist... Mary Lefleur is a student at Savannah Arts Academy. She was self taught until freshman year, and has always enjoyed doing art. She hopes to one day combine her artistic talents with her passion for STEM.

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

Untitled John Walker Red sunset. Blue waves. Beautiful life. Two people. Two colors. One race. Eight dogs, Chose none, through windows. One assignment, Thirty-one words, 100 percent. Return to Piece Selection

< Table of Contents Morph by Ryan Griffin Vignettes of Childhood in the House at the Edge of the World By Jada Walker The Taste of Dragon He pokes at the dragon with his fork. Because of its difficulty to come by, dragon meat is considered a rare delicacy. He thinks it tastes like chicken, but packed with more iron than it ought to have. He stares down at his plate, which holds an untouched slab of dragon drowning in a dark, sticky sauce. Even without bending to it, its tangy metallicity burns in his nose. He makes a face. “Eat your dinner,” his mother says to him. He lifts his glass and takes a sip of the pale liquid circling in the cup. When he sets it down the drink keeps moving, and it looks like he has a miniature whirlpool trapped in his cup. He imagines a tiny Charybdis lurking at the bottom of the glass, sucking up liquid and belching it out to create the swirling motion. His mother looks at him and tells him to eat the food on his plate. He looks at the dragon, then rubs off a forkful of its sauce and puts the fork to his tongue. It’s earthy and sweet. He tastes another rub of it and decides that it's a good sauce. He takes a pinch of dragon and pulls it through the sauce pooled on his plate, then closes his eyes and puts it in his mouth. He chews once, twice, and then swallows it whole. Nothing can make dragon taste good. Shadows Dancing Diamonds twinkle overhead. Dying light shines through translucent curtains. A ghost teaches her shadow to dance, as he taught her siblings’ before. Two slippered feet and two weightless ones, joined in a long-forgotten waltz. The Monster under the Bed On her first night in her new room, she hears something moving under her. She lies still for a moment, listening to the quiet jumble coming from below, and then she gets off her bed and pulls back the trailing comforter. It’s dark. She can see only a shadowy heap, adjusting its position under her bed. “Who are you?” she asks. It pauses, then rolls so the front of its body faces her. Two circles of light shine through the darkness. “Get out from there, so I can see you in the light.” The creature obliges and she moves from the bed to give it space. “What are you?” she asks, once it’s out. Even in the light, it looks to her like a mass of shadows, pressed into the vague shape of a man. Its eyes are radiant and white and sit too low on its face. “In this language, the closest word to what I am,” it says, “is monster.” “Do you have a name?” she asks it. It replies, “Not for your tongue.” She's uneasy. She’s been taught the importance of names when dealing with unknown creatures. “What brings you to my room?” she asks the monster. “I’m here to watch over you,” the monster says, “and to warn those who would want to do you harm.” “If you are here to watch over me,” she says, “why did you not before? When I lived in the nursery?” “There are other children in the nursery,” it replies, “and that ancient nursemaid of yours that’s been protecting children since the dawn times. No, anything that would like to get you while you sleep would not enter a room such as that. But now, you are in a room of your own and now, you need me. So, here I am.” She thinks of the songs the nursemaid would sing in the dark of night, when everyone was sleeping, (or supposed to be sleeping, in her case), songs in a language she'd never before heard but sounded to have born in the ages when dragons outnumbered humans. They were strange, lilting melodies. But now, the room is quiet, and if she stills herself and listens carefully, she can hear an ominous absence pulling at the air. It frightens her, the idea of it, and the kinds of things that could hide in it. “And you’re always going to be under my bed?” she asks the monster. “No,” it says. “Sometimes, I will hide in your closet. Sometimes, I will fold myself into your dresser, and sometimes, I will stand watch in the corner of your room. But yes, most nights, I will be under your bed, waiting for something impure to enter your room, so I can prove my worth.” She doesn’t know what to say to that, and she mutters a quiet, “Well, then, thank you,” to the monster. The monster nods. It crawls back under her bed and melts into the darkness. She climbs into her bed and stares at the ceiling. Some time later, as she’s drifting off to sleep, she hears a low growl from under her bed. She doesn’t feel scared, but she doesn’t dare open her eyes. * Lakeshore “They see Death for the first time at the lakeshore. She kneels at the edge of the water, cradling a baby bird with a hanging head.” They see Death for the first time at the lakeshore. She kneels at the edge of the water, cradling a baby bird with a hanging head. Waves lap at Her skirt as She caresses the bird’s featherless neck. When She leaves, She carries with Her something of the bird’s. “She took its soul,” they say to each other, watching as She slowly submerges Herself in the lake. But they can’t know for certain. Her hands are closed around whatever She took. They hold a funeral for the bird. They make a tiny coffin from braided grass and scoop out a place for it in the sand. They tell stories of birds and sing songs of birds and, when it’s all over, close up the hole and carefully pat it even. “It was just a baby,” the youngest sniffles. “That’s all the time it gets,” her sister says. The burial site is marked with a sharp, white-gray shell. * Dream She is practicing the waltz on the first floor of the Museum when she sees it. She is intrigued by the strange sheet draped over its tall, thin figure, by the sound the sheet makes pulling against the stonelike floor, the tender swish of a forgotten era. She calls to it and it turns around, then back around and continues its walk. Slowly. Stately. A crown of candles rests on its shapeless head, their yellow flames shivering in the wind. Tassels of braided grass hang from its fingers. She follows it. Through the rows of bronzed armor, strapped to the wall with thick chains. Through the glass cases that hold faded writings and discarded artifacts. Across a floor covered in ash and dust that collects on the edges of its sheet, and stains the white material gray. Still, it walks. And, running, she can’t catch up to it. * Sunset There’s a cliff at the far end of their property, right at the edge of the world. They sit on its margins and let their legs dangle over a river of time. A chilly wind blows in from the west. As the sun fades from the sky, they huddle together to share their warmth and listen silently to the rush of seconds below. About the Writer... Jada Walker is a junior at Interlochen Arts Academy. About the Artist... Ryan Griffin is a Senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Griffin has won high accolades in local to national art competitions like The Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. She frequently volunteers and aids within her school community by being an active member of multiple clubs/honor societies and advocating for the student body by serving on the senior student council. Ryan looks for beauty in effort and experimentation and their inherent connection with process and science to guide her work not only as an artist, but also as a student.

< Table of Contents Daffodils by Dare Macchione Sullen Memories of a Bereaved Adult By Astrid Henry In January, I made a trip out to Long Island to visit his mom, my “paternal grandmother." I wanted to tell her about my plans to sell the house. My father grew up in a poor, small boating town where the rain never stops. I stayed in his childhood bedroom, in the upstairs of his parents’ old house. His dad died while he was still in high school. He had to drop out to support his family. He always told me how important it was that I stayed in school so I could turn out smart and get a real job, one that pays nice and keeps the lights bright. His room is painted navy blue and baseball memorabilia lines the walls like a museum. It feels like I’m in a shrine to his young mind, all the things my father held dear as a child. Old comic books are hidden in the closet, where his brothers couldn’t steal them. I come down for dinner and his mom. Again, my grandmother has cooked what looks like a full 7-course meal. I’m not hungry. I try to shove down as much as I can, but the meat is tough, and the potatoes look like melting snow—the kind that’s been pissed on. It’s way too much food for just the two of us, but I’m not going to say that to her. I only stay for a week, the entirety of which I’m stuffed full of her cooking. She sends me home with enough leftovers to last me until spring. I never ended up telling her about the house. “Someone told me dust is made up of skin cells, and God knows that fan has never been cleaned.” I’m back in the city. Back in the tiny, emptying house I was raised in. I’m back to cleaning and now all I can notice every time I try to take something down or clean an area out is how my father is all around me, from the pictures in frames to the dust on the fan. Someone told me dust is made up of dead skin cells, and God knows that fan has never been cleaned. If I ran DNA tests on the dust up there, they’d probably find Mom’s skin cells too, not just his. She walked out when I was only five to be with another man. Things didn’t work out between the two of them, but still, she didn’t come back. My father was heartbroken, he really had believed it was him and her forever. I think that might have been the start of his death, when he started to put his faith in the bottle. I could never understand why he did that sort of thing—why he poisoned himself with cigarettes plastered in warnings and spent his evenings swimming in the bottle. The top of our kitchen cabinets were—and still are—covered in bottles, empty and full. That really confused me. It was like he kept it there, in plain sight, to shame himself. Because, really, when you stand in the middle of the kitchen, it feels like one of those church paintings where the angels are looking down on some poor, sacrificial lamb. I think a part of him did it to remind himself of his mistakes, and to remind himself of the easy way out every night. I haven’t taken them down yet. They’ve always been there—it just feels wrong. Taking them down would feel like I’m kicking a part of my father out of his own home. I feel guilty, like if maybe I had gotten him to quit smoking, this wouldn’t have happened. But I know that kind of feat would be impossible, inconceivable, really. Life was a lot different after he got sick, but his vices were the one thing that never changed—not without an act of God. I remember how they couldn’t stop him smoking until two days before he died, and that was only because he had gone into a coma. I try to keep the nicest pieces I can find of him to maintain the best image I can in my mind—the best version of my father. In the hallway bookshelf, there’s only about three books that were his. The King James Bible, a copy of Slaughterhouse Five he could never finish, and a book so old the covers have been torn off and it’s just yellow stained pages glued together. He must’ve really liked that one. I wish he had more possessions left, more things I could collect, more things I could use to get inside his mind. But here I am, left with only a few crummy books and a gaping reminder of all his worst habits. All his other belongings were really just Mom’s stuff, a few pieces of jewelry and a yellowed, dried-up perfume she left behind. It smells like kitty litter. Cleaning out the house is making me decently miserable. I’ve made arrangements to move once it’s off my hands, probably out to somewhere with a bit more sun. The house is, apparently, a prime piece of real estate, something I really couldn’t imagine affording on my salary. The listing description is pretty crap. It reads, “Nestled in the heart of Queens, this cozy, two-story abode, built in 1928, features three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an unforgettable charm.” I finally finished cleaning the house, just in time for the photos. I even took down the shrine of liquor bottles in the kitchen. There were some hidden water stains that had to be repaired, which cost me a lot more than I would like to admit. I feel really empty walking out of the house for the last time, leaving it all clean and empty. The bedroom I’ve slept in my entire life staged as a guest room, my father’s room suddenly bright and well decorated. To my surprise, the house is sold within two days of the listing being posted. The realtor tells me that’s not uncommon, som e crap about desirable real estate. She keeps trying to make me look at the other houses she’s listing. She obviously wants me to buy another place, but I just feel sick. I’m staying with one of my old friends from college until I can secure a place worth moving to. I left most of the stuff I kept from the house in a little storage unit. All the things I don’t have a use for but still want to hold onto. My suitcase is stuffed full, but it’s more convenient than carrying two. I have nothing truly tying me down anymore, and it makes me feel strange. I was told that feeling would be freedom, but it’s something else entirely. I got half a million dollars to never step foot in my home again—the home where I learned to walk and first experienced the offers of life. I am forever rid of the home where my father's spirit breathes in the walls and his presence slips around the corners as you try and catch it. Never again will mold fill my lungs as I try to remember the smell of his cologne. About the Writer... Astrid Henry is a young writer from Florida. Currently, she is a Creative Writing sophomore at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. About the Artist... Dare Macchione is a freshman at New Orleans Conservatory for Creative Arts (NOCCA) a nd dual enrolls at Delgado Community College (DCC). Previously she spent summers attending The Art Academy (St Paul, MN). Her medium of choice is acrylic paint. She also has created art in watercolor, graphite and ceramic.

< Back Moses never swam By Marcus Holley yet you know the ocean better than yourself. You predict the tides, instinctually knowing how to swim against rip currents, never straying too far from your precious post of a bathroom towel & flip-flops. Absorbing the shock of choppy waves when a thunderstorm is impending— that’s when you stay. Going against better judgement of the rain, for the possibility of being washed away like the breadcrumbs of your sins, already overflowing at nine years old— that you would throw into a body bigger than your own on the day of atonement. Yom Kippur— praying for cleanliness in complete consumption. Do you still feel bad for the fish who have unknowingly choked on carbohydrates soaked with your internal carnage? A piece of you dissolving in the salty stomach acid of a guppy— too small to digest the suffering that it’s been fed. Gills restricted with the expansion of leavened bread that your ancestors walked forty years to make rise with scorching desert sand-embedded soles- only for you to return, falling into the soft grain of the beach. You can’t part the sea with the cloud’s tearful torment & generationally blistering, God-willing pain… so you hope he & the fish alike can forgive your attempt at swimming towards your soul’s salvation— drowning in redemption you failed to find. About the Author... M arcus Holley is a senior poet in Douglas Anderson School of the Arts’ creative writing department. 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 word has manifested in hosting, organizing literary events, and bringing poetry to the stage. Previous Next

7 < Table of Contents Light of my Life by Olivia Henry At the Foot of My Grandmother's Bed by Hadley Volner At the foot of my grandmother’s bed A silk bench stood alone Its legs nearly crumbled Under the weight of death’s exhale Propped on its silk pillow A large, pristine, gloss-glassed picture faced the dresser The golden frame traced with a fresh wreath of carnations The outline of her husband smiled through the glass I used to curl up at the foot of my grandmother’s bed But the cushion was crammed with his frame He remained out of sight, a wishful footnote She could not bear his glazed features next to hers Though she spoke as if he were lying next to her " His deserted pillow gathered dust / Only blown away by her yearning sighs / As his frame now occupied my pillow / I took my place at his" His deserted pillow gathered dust Only blown away by her yearning sighs As his frame now occupied my pillow I took my place at his As she whispered her weekly troubles The window’s glint illuminated my nods But though I slept beside her Only her words filled the sheets My ears caved Heavy with stories of distant friends and a distant God She felt each second of silence bring down a crashing pressure For a moment her words brought back his presence I don’t sleep at the foot of my grandmother’s bed I lie next to her as she contorts my features I have a white comb-over and milky cataracts And when she holds me I’m him About the Writer... Hadley Kasia Volner is a freshman at The Willow School in New Orleans, LA, enrolled in the Certificate of Artistry Program. A multi-sport athlete, Hadley ranked in state for the one-mile run in spring 2023, and has been involved in the competitive soccer club, The New Orleans Jesters, for seven years. About the Artist... Olivia Henry is a Visual Artist in 11th grade majoring in Photography. While she does like painting as well, photography peaked her interest as she likes to experiment with new mediums. She tends to make pieces involving everyday life, trying to create a sense of living in the moment.

< Table of Contents Religious Passing by Mai Tran jesus seen once in Ohio By Alahna Vallone “he is said to burn bright, sweat-slicked and smiling.” there, ablaze in the midwestern sun he is said to burn bright, sweat-slicked and smiling. and he will take mothers from daughters and sons. she will be saved. a girl said to her mother that jesus was seen on a screen in Ohio. where? where? tall in the corn fields. show me. show me. she cannot see through the glass, he came for Ohio, in all its vast nothingness. what greater being does not yearn for late night department store trips with only coins, rattling in your pockets? he wanders earth like we peruse the dollar section, the aisles cold, white and clean, like hospitals. the store will be closing in 10 minutes. please make your way to the front. my mother shakes me. please bow down to him, though your knees are not made to bend. please don’t leave me alone with your father. the one in heaven. the one at a home of her dreams. i cracked open her leather-bound bible to cite my sources mla style. dust expands like smoke. i cough all the same. put it on my bedside table when you're done. i leave it on the cold tile outside her door because i hear her muffled sobs. because i do not know jesus and i’ve never been to Ohio, but sorrow i have seen. sorrow. i have seen sorrow in the mirror, in my mother’s eyes, in losing faith in all fathers, in the eyes of a little girl who found out about saint nicholas under an empty tree, who has fallen to her knees so many times, for so many brothers and fathers, mouth agape. always, she has risen starving for a miracle. jesus is just another fantasy. no man is coming back to save us. About the Writer... Alahna Vallone is an artist in her senior year of Creative Writing at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts in Jacksonville, Florida. She focuses on writing confessional poetry and lyrical fiction. She’s an alumnus of Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference and is the current Managing Editor of Élan Literary Magazine. Her work often discusses womanhood, regret, and identity. She has been recognized by Scholastic Art and Writing and First Coast Young Voices. About the Artist... Mai Tran is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy majoring in visual arts. She has three dogs and a twin sister. Their favorite medium is working on scratch board.

< Table of Contents Welcome to the Family by Amrita Ketireddy to my mother, who never cried in room 207 After Ocean Vuong By Aarushi Gupta “i dread the red of your eyes like a / twenty-nine-year-old dreads his birthday.” under a painting of indra (1) scorned, you make your mandir (2) in the familiar dip of the mattress. soon, the view will be replaced by the smiling portrait of your mother, who lays in bed behind. the mattress will turn white, for the only south indian snowstorm is the whirl of dupattas (3) at funerals, icicles melting under the weight of unshed tears. i dread the red of your eyes like a a twenty-nine-year-old dreads his birthday. not black remembering, but the pink of your unpolished nail forgetting itself, pressing crescents into my arm. red, commutative as death itself. if time is a mother, why does it freeze in hospital rooms, where the umbilical cord is forged again and again? locked in this furnace, withstanding the heat of being ganesha (4) for once, you think of the last time you prayed to god in this room. go on, mother, pick up the phone and call. morph into parvati, remember the time they churned my stomach, a samudra manthana (5) . painkiller amrut, splattered on the floor outside our house. floating in that puddle, i saw an eyelash, its shortness a gift you gave freely. yours or mine? perhaps, neither. it belonged to nani (6) first, but so did you. i wish i was there with you, wish i could feel the cosmic pulling of draupadi’s saree (7) pause. i wish i could tear a hole in it, sew an extra yard of cotton into the dupatta of time. but if there’s one thing i learnt the day you first walked into room 207, it’s that no one can hide from a mother’s wrath. (1) indra is the hindu god of rain, storms, thunder and lightning. (2) mandir is hindi for temple. (3) dupatta is an indian garment, similar to a shawl. (4) ganesha is the son of goddess parvati in hindu mythology. (5) samudra manthana refers to a myth wherein the gods churned the ocean to obtain the holy nectar called amrut. (6) nani is hindi for grandmother. (7) draupadi’s saree refers to a tale from the mahabharata wherein there was an attempt to humiliate draupadi by pulling off her saree. however, lord krishna intervened, making the saree infinitely long and preserving draupadi’s dignity. About the Writer... Aarushi Gupta (she/her) is a high school senior from Bangalore, India. You can find more of her work at www.aarushiwrites.com . About the Artist... Amrita Ketireddy is a junior at Creekside High School. She has done fine arts for nearly ten years alongside tennis. She is a member of numerous honor societies and clubs, though is an officer of her school's Creative Writing Club, Film Production Club, and FBLA. In the future, she hopes to study Software Engineering along with Fine Arts and follow her passion for creating things from the ground up.

14 < Table of Contents Blue Record by Jiranan Lowchaiwakul Eighteen and Up by Nadine Shanks There are gray giant double doors to enter the Emergency Department. So simple to push open and enter, one swing enough to say goodbye. Instead I hold my year-old cousin on my lap in a small-doored room adjacent. Minutes pass by, baby bouncing bubbles on my lap, fussing for his mother. My parents and aunt are inside, gone to see my grandfather for what only I know will be the final time. Holding his cries to my chest, I stand pacing in the waiting room, thirteen and unsure how to comfort his growing wails. As we walk the stark hallways he begins to quiet. The windows are clear- not one streak and the small garden outside them is a vibrant green. So silent, I can hear only the ringing in my ears, the AC pounding the walls. This is where I watch Death walk. She is a simple visitor. Quiet in her approach: a chaste licorice kiss brought along to answer final calls. Frankenstein’s Monster. "She is both messenger and deliverer. / Veiled beauty in onyx black, / Malice does not know her name." She is both messenger and deliverer. Veiled beauty in onyx black, Malice does not know her name. Her hands are a delicate framework of warm bone, she caresses every face as she walks by. Yet, not one pair of swollen eyes ever lands on her resting smile. Death: ethereal. A step away, she smells of spiderlily and winter water breeze. When her hands reach my face, my fingers flex once into tender baby flesh and release as a breath pushes past trachea. From my eyes, to my cheeks, to my lips, to my chin. Her fingers are smooth as a banister, her smile as sincere as the richest of sonnets, her eyes as honest as the dying man. She trails my cousin’s face with the outside of her index finger, And for the briefest of moments I meet her eyes. And again she began her procession, Moving person by person to the giant double doors at the end of the hall. In a swing, she is gone, and we are left alone with the garden. About the Writer... Nadine Shanks is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts with a focus on Creative Writing. She has published a minor collection of poetry in Scholastic Art and Writing. Centered around ideas of identity and childhood, she predominantly writes in memoir and poetry. About the Artist... Jiranan Lowchaiwakul is an 11th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson who majors in printmaking. She enjoys doing block printing, painting, and photography.

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