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Editor’s Note As our 36th year comes to an end, Elan is starting to unearth a new environment and quality of work in all aspects of our publication. We near our 37th year of publishing with our eyes and spirit wide open to new promises and challenges. In this issue you will encounter work that speaks to both the beauty and anguish of change. In lieu of breaking new ground and treading unchartered waters, Elan’s Fall/Winter 2022 embraces self-discovery through writing, art, and the voyage of expansion. We want you to see this issue as a passage, a mirror requiring both examination of the self and the world around us. We ask that you traverse this new landscape of words and art with us and come out on the other side with new perspectives. Editors-in-chief Brendan Nurczyk, Niveah Glover, and Emma Klopfer

Scott Parmelee Scott Parmelee is a senior creative writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts, and serves as Élan’s layout and design editor. He enjoys writing poetry and short stories.

18 < Back Beloved Omen Emerson Flanagan Narcissus by Liza Kalacheva Beloved Omen by Emerson Flanagan Josephine sat perched on her balcony, porcelain teacup cupped in her hands, her nails tapping the sides. She watched the bustling streets of Paris, young people coming and going early in the morning. Below the apartments across the street, a café full of older couples enjoyed the winter breeze. Her eyes darted from jewelry pieces to expensive wrist watches, envying their glamour. Standing, she went back into her apartment. The walls fashioned knickknacks from cuckoo clocks to displayed vampire hunting kits, her ever-growing collection. She walked with her cup, pushing her small bifocals up on the bridge of her nose and eyeing Van Gogh’s Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette painting hung in an aged, golden antique frame along the hall’s wallpaper. Setting the tea down, she flipped through her wall of clothes that spilled from the closet and into the room. Grabbing a small pile of clothes, she slipped behind the folding screen to change. Upon leaving and seeing herself in the mirror, something felt different. She puffed her chest out a bit but felt an emptiness. A lack of presence. She shuffled through the top drawer of her vanity and pulled out her cravat, tucking and flattening out her Edwardian-style blouse, a fashion trend she’s always been fond of. The corset dug into her ribs, poking and prodding with each movement but she didn’t mind. It made her chest and shoulders seem wider, more threatening. Puffier, yes that was the word. Josephine pinned her brooch that bore the portrait of a beautiful lady on her left side of the blouse. She didn’t wear this brooch often, but today she believed today was important. The woman who had this before her had been wearing this on her special day, so it only seemed fitting. She picked the shiniest earrings she could find before standing in the mirror again. She pushed her chest out again and felt a bit better. She spun around and danced for a moment, watching her cage crinoline sway rhythmically. Pleased, Josephine made her way to the door, stopping by a cluttered bookshelf and opening a small box. Inside were her most prized objects. Engagement rings, lockets with photos, and pocket watches of all sorts, taken from passersby. She didn’t like to steal, but something drew her to it. An overwhelming feeling of greed gnawing at her from the inside out. She liked the exhilaration of it. And, if it went well, she had a new, glistening object to look at. Shifting through the box she removed a necklace. A simple, gold chain with a charm on it. Not just a flat, gold charm, no, this necklace was special. The centerpiece was a black diamond surrounded by small ruby gemstones. Josephine hesitated to take it with her in fears that maybe he would not like it. Would it be too much? Too forward? Too feminine? She thought again and put it in her coin purse, certain he would like it. She grabbed a pocket watch that matched her theme for the day. Running her thumb over the lid she pondered the emblem of the crow. "People must be intimidated, she thought. Intimidated by Death’s whetted scythe. All but him." Josephine left without hesitation for the shop. Her heels clicked against the paved and cracked streets of Paris, echoing across the concrete buildings and ringing in the ears of those around. Some ignored her while others stopped to gossip. They’d call her things like the reaper or “an omen of death.” Perhaps it was the way she dressed? The way she held herself when she walked? Well, that’s what she thought, at least. Though, the thought never remained long as she shooed it from her mind. Death is dominant over life. People must be intimidated, she thought. Intimidated by Death’s whetted scythe. All but him. She pushed open the door to the coffee shop and stepped in. The aroma of the morning roast was so captivating one could sit there for hours. As usual, the same few old people sat at the tables outdoors while young businessmen sat inside, reading. Josephine went to approach the counter, but at the same time, he rounded the corner. A tall, olive-skinned man with a flashy smile. He had freckles across his nose and cheeks that laid out like constellations. Stars she could reach out and touch. Stars she could keep for herself. “Josephine!” he said, tying the apron behind his waist as he approached the counter. His nametag read “Albion.” Josephine nodded at him with a smile and looked at the menu. “You’re early today,” he continued, “got something important to attend to?” he concluded, leaning over the counter towards her. She looked up and smiled again. “Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s important. Something I’ve been meaning to do.” She spoke. His expression changed to intrigue. “Oh? Can I know?” “Certainly,” she said, taking out her coin purse, "open your hand.” He hesitated but obliged. Josephine plopped the necklace into his hand and looked at him eagerly. She puffed up her chest again, standing up straight. “A necklace?” Albion asked wearily, looking at her confused. She nodded. “Ah... Well, this looks rather expensive, I don’t want to take this from you.” “Please, it is a gift.” She said, pushing his hand closer towards him. “Do you not like gifts?” Albion shook his head. It wasn’t disgust or displeasure on his face, no, it was worry. Did he know the person who she had taken it from? “Take it, Josephine. Maybe I can accept it some other time. I fear I may lose it.” he laughed it off, handing the necklace to Josephine again. She frowned, retracting her chest, and softening her stature. It was okay, she thought, he’ll take it later. She thanked him for his time and left the shop. Lost in thought, she bumped into a man on the sidewalk. “Watch it, freak!” He shouted at her. Freak? Was he speaking to me, she thought, or someone else? She felt herself return to that dusty old classroom again. Sitting on the creaky, chipped wood floor surrounded by hundreds of laughing faces, waving fingers and a wall of people. She wanted nothing more than to run, flee, anything. Fly. To leave all judgement in her dust and fly away to a place where she could see a bright smile and the stars in one place. A place she could have all to herself. But for now, that place is but a distant dream. Not that it mattered much. She perched on her balcony once more, this time, clutching the new addition to her collection: a twenty-four-carat engraved pocket watch signed, “my Emily.” Her wings drooped behind her, dusting the concrete floor with sleek feathers as the breeze blew past. She twirled the necklace between her nails, now loosely resembling talons, with her free hand, lost in thought. Would Albion ever say something like that? “My Josephine” or something of the like? She’d like that. For him to look at her with that warm smile and say it. Just once, that would be enough. About the Writer... Emerson Flanagan is an active sophomore writer in the creative writing department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She enjoys writing fiction, fantasy, and poetry. She prides herself in her use of description with setting and characters. About the Artist... An artist looks at ordinary things, things that wouldn't interest other people, people who have no time to waste, and it's like being hit by lightning. The feeling is so erratic and fleeting; an artist has to paint it to life before it is lost. I find myself in that very cycle, I live, then I paint it.

56740b90-b449-4ffc-b3a7-c83e5768dc2e Soho by Ivory Funari Mountaintop by Itay Frenkel A plane flew by outside, filling my room with a dull whistling noise, like wind blowing at the peak of a mountain. I turned over in bed and pulled the blanket right up to my chin. Cold slithered around me like a snake, prodding at my feet, stroking my hair, running down my back. I curled into a ball under the covers and closed my eyes, but it did no good. The snake was inside me now, and I was shivering. Dammnit, if I wanted to sleep in a cave I would go and do it, why does he insist on keeping it so cold in here? I have slept in a cave once, on a class trip, but it wasn’t cold at all. It was so hot the boy next to me had sweat seeping through his sleeping bag. It formed big black stains. I can’t remember anything from that trip except the stains on the boy’s sleeping bag and the suffocating heat. I turned over in bed, wanting to wrap myself around my husband, maybe then I’d be warm. If not, maybe some of my cold would slither into him. It would serve him right for turning the thermostat so low. I turned over to the side and stretched out my arms, ready to squeeze his slim figure and burrow myself into his back. My arms slid through the air. I poked my head out of the blanket, but I couldn’t see anything in the darkness. I felt around his side of the bed. It was as cold as the rest of the room. I tried not to assume the worst. He probably got out of bed because he was having trouble sleeping. He could be on the couch reading a book. Maybe he headed out to buy some snacks. I reached over for my phone on the nightstand but stopped myself. I should check the apartment before I call. If anything, he was still in here somewhere. I forced myself to take a long breath before climbing out of bed. The warm carpet felt good under my bare feet. I stretched from side to side, exhaled a loud yawn, then shuffled through the small corridor that led to the living room. A green couch, a small white coffee table, and a thin tv that sat on the floor. The tv was turned off. Around ten books lay on the coffee table, some piled on top of each other, most with a bookmark stuck between them. His habit of reading so many books at once had always surprised me, I preferred to take it one imaginary world at a time, any more and I’d start mixing up the different books. Hell, if I tried reading as many as him at once, I’d start mixing up fiction and reality. I walked over to the kitchen, where a large, greasy pan still sat on the stovetop. It contained the remnants of pasta, which I made while he sliced and pickled cabbage, claiming it would add a tangy flavor. I didn’t see much reason to spice up our normal dinner, I hated cooking, and I was happy with my bland noodles. The cabbage was too sour, I tried my best to hide my distaste but he saw right through me and offered to eat my portion. He shouldn’t be hungry, then again, he wasn’t the type to feel full for long. I opened the fridge, as I did every time I was in the kitchen, instinctively. He wasn't in there. I surveyed the kitchen for a note and turned up empty-handed. He was gone, and his trail, like everything else around me tonight, was cold. We didn’t own a car. The first three weeks of our married life were spent making decisions; he would sleep on the left side of the bed and me on the right; the beer would go in the fridge, not the pantry, he liked it chilled; my kindle slept next to me on my nightstand, his books called our coffee table home, unless important guests came over, in which case we’d tuck them into a shelf we got from before we were married. With all these decisions springing upon us, like invisible raindrops pouring from the sky, neither of us had even thought of buying a car. I liked walking, anyway, and he had a bike. Decisions at the beginning of marriage should be natural. I knew I belonged on the right side of the bed like a pilot knows exactly how to land their plane. He knew he wanted his books scattered on the coffee table. It all made sense, we were building up our life piece by piece, together. A car just wasn’t natural, it didn’t fit just yet. I called him, and my phone rang for a long time. The sound bounced around the room like a bullet before being swallowed up by the walls, which seemed to shiver for a moment. I called again, no answer. Where could he be? I turned off my phone and stared at my reflection on the dark screen; bed-hair, dark bags under my eyes. Was that oil on my face or just light reflecting off the screen? I felt tired, so tired, but I didn’t want to sleep until I knew where he was. I left him a text: Hey, please call me back as soon as you can. Then, after a few deep breaths that failed to calm me down, I left him another one: If you don’t answer in an hour I’ll start pulling bookmarks out of your books. It wasn’t a very serious threat, and it wasn’t a very funny joke, but it was the best my tired brain could think to write. I walked back into the living room and looked out the window, but I couldn’t see anything, it was dark as a pupil. I should have gone back to sleep, it was late. But still, the darkness felt warm and inviting, like an old friend. It reminded me of the nights I spent in the library, poring over books I should have read earlier but didn’t because I was busy going to the beach with friends. Or nights before I married my husband when we would drive out to get food and catch a movie. I didn’t sleep much back then. My head always hurt, my stomach growled, but it didn’t matter because I belonged to both night and day. I was living two lives, and I treasured each. I pressed my nose against the dark window, it felt like ice. I exhaled a warm breath and watched a circle of fog appear on the window. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I left it alone and kept making circles. I made a mental note to wash the window tomorrow after work. How was I forming these circles indoors? Could it be that cold? I decided to do one more survey of the apartment before going back to sleep. I made sure the front door and all the windows were locked, then I dragged myself back into bed and curled under the covers. My eyes snapped shut. I lay on my side and waited for sleep to take me away. My lips trembled, but why? I tried to think of something, anything, just to help ease my mind into sleep. Nothing came. My head was as empty as the darkness around me. All I could feel was a faint throbbing headache, more of a sound than a feeling. It was as if my heart had traveled up my throat and slid into my head, where it was beating, pressing against my skull like a baby chick trying to hatch. My ears felt clogged, my nose was stuffy, my lips were too cold to part. It was like my body was closing itself off, trying to keep something out. Trying to keep the darkness out. It didn’t want to sleep, not alone. It hated being alone more than anything. But the darkness was too much, and soon it found a little hole in my otherwise impeccable defense, a tiny opening in my left ear, and it struck, pouring into me and shrouding my brain. I fell into a heavy sleep. I dreamed that I was standing on the beach, surrounded by people I used to know, and others I couldn’t recognize but somehow felt like I would get to know soon. There was an air mattress on the water, a green one, swaying to and fro over the gentle waves. A little boy was sitting on it. He was the only one in the water. The sky was grey and low; it looked heavy, like it might fall and crush everyone on the beach. A dense fog settled over everything so that I couldn’t see the waves grow big and deadly, but I could hear them. Nobody moved. The kid on the air mattress screamed for help. I looked around, but still, nobody moved. I was on the swim team, back in high school. Not that it would help me swim through a ten-foot wave built like a brick wall, but I felt I had to try. I ran towards the water. Suddenly the sand swallowed my left foot. I tripped and heard a loud snap. Lying face down in the sand, which was now pulling me into its grainy shifting skin by the left leg like I was a noodle it was trying to slurp down, I wondered if I would be crushed by a wave or swallowed by the ground. My ears were ringing. I closed my eyes and held my breath. The ringing grew louder and louder. I waited for death to come, feeling a mixture of dread and relief. At least now I wouldn’t have to go to work tomorrow, it was my first day. I still wasn’t even sure that I wanted the job. Besides, dying in your sleep was a good way to go, even if it was in a nightmare. The ringing grew louder, and soon it drowned out the sound of the waves. I opened my eyes and stared at my dark ceiling. My phone was ringing. I felt vomit in my throat. My lips were covered in drool. I rolled over in bed and picked up my phone with a cold, sweaty palm. “Sorry I didn’t answer before,” my husband said. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah.” His calm voice, raspy and airy like a quiet trumpet, made me angry. I wasn’t sure why. “I was so worried, why’d you make me worried like that? I really will take the bookmarks out of all your damn books.” “Sorry.” There was a long silence on the phone. I could hear his heavy breathing on the line, it was uneven. I considered yelling at him more, but I was too tired, and I wanted to see him again. I wasn’t used to sleeping without him. We’d often go on long walks together after dinner, come back, and fall into bed. I missed it when he could stay up all night with me whenever I asked. I tried waking him up sometimes, but he insisted that he needed to sleep to function at work, so I would go and read on the couch alone until I was ready to call it a night. I didn’t like being alone at night. “Buy me dinner,” I said, “as much as I want and we’ll call it even.” “Aren’t you starting at that place tomorrow morning?” “Yeah, we’ve still got a couple of hours.” He considered it for a moment before answering. “Alright, I’ll come home and pick you up, I’m ten minutes away.” “Hurry.” I hung up the phone and rolled out of bed for the second time that night. I took off the plain white tee and grey sweatpants I slept in, changing into a pair of jeans and a white knitted sweater, then I went to the couch to wait. I didn’t feel tired, just empty, as if I was nothing but a balloon, ready to float away. A chilly breeze had burrowed itself into the house to remind us that summer was over. It ran along the walls and whispered in our ears that it was time to get a job, a car, maybe even a kid. I spread out on the couch and closed my eyes. I had just enough time to exhale a long calming breath before hearing the sounds of keys jingling, shaking like they had stage fright. Then the lock turned, and my husband stepped in. A tall, thin man with large round glasses, perpetual bed hair, and dull brown eyes. He shuffled into the living room, looked at his books on the coffee table, and smiled when he saw all the bookmarks were still in place. He lay down on the edge of the couch, holding onto me to stay on. I bit him on the nose, he recoiled and almost fell off the couch. Now we were even. “What was that for?” He asked. “It woke you up, didn’t it?” I said. “I guess, why are you still up?” “Can’t sleep.” “Yeah, me neither.” “At least we’re on the same page.” “I’d rather be asleep than on the same page right now.” I laughed. He leaned in, not that he had to, and kissed me on the cheek. His lips were warm, alive. I could feel his heartbeat through them, like a reassuring pat on the back. He moved his head away slowly so as not to roll off the couch. His breath carried the faint smell of pasta. “Do you still wanna eat?” He asked. “Yeah.” “Where are we going?” “Breakfast place, something like Denny’s.” “In the mood for pancakes?” I nodded. We lay on the couch in silence. I looked at my reflection in his eyes, shooting myself a reassuring smile. He smiled back; a tired, strained smile that made his nose look small and his eyes extra big. I wanted to have kids, and a car, and, if I had to, a job. It was the logical next step, and I felt good taking it with him by my side. He nodded as if he were reading my thoughts. “There’s a place ten minutes away with good pancakes, shall we?” He asked. “Lead the way,” I said. He yawned, and before he had stopped I rested a hand on his shoulder and pushed him off the couch. He landed gently on our brown carpeted floor, looking up at me with a bewildered smile and a slight tilt of the head, like a parent whose child just did something unexpected but impressive. “You’re on a bit of a mean streak tonight,” he said. I got off the couch and extended my hand to him. He grabbed it, then let go like it was on fire. “You’re freezing,” he said. “I know.” “But like seriously, I don’t even want to touch you, and that’s never the case.” “Aww, thanks.” He got to his feet and took hold of my hands. His slender, bony fingers intertwined through mine. “Thanks,” I whispered. "The cold breeze that whispered rude reminders and unsolicited advice was pushed away. " He nodded. After a moment of gripping my hands, he smiled, appearing satisfied, and let go. We walked to the door, got our shoes on, and headed out. It was warm outside, with a gentle wind that did its best not to upset anyone it bumped into. The cold breeze that whispered rude reminders and unsolicited advice was pushed away. The sky was dark and filled with silver stars, like polished marble embroidered with silver gemstones. I buried my hands into the thin pockets of my jeans. “You’d be better off holding one of my hands, they’re pretty warm, I’ve been sitting by a fire all night.” I gave him my right hand, and we continued walking down the cracked pavement. We turned into a street with low buildings on either side, it was too dark to see the end. Return to Table of Contents

2a2ede67-55e5-44fe-a97c-c29a61b8b011 Blackout by Micayla Latson Deep in Georgia by Autumn Hill 1. Deep in Georgia’s heart, off to the left In the season of the bare dogwood Feeble and blessed, I, aged six or seven had stood Heavy enough to hear The creaks in the floorboards That guffed their scalded scent. On Sundays the church bell rang Leaden and hefty, drawing the crowd Into the haven, across from the cotton field. My grandmother held open the books of hymns. I sat into her, underlining the thread of gospels Between the bands of the piano’s written word. Her eyes closed, voice croaky but softened--  harmony like a crowd of Alaga. They sang so deep like the musk of tobacco, its haze seizing my breath, mumbling underneath their roars. They praised till the walls peeled like a blade to bark. Stomping till they wore the bleeding carpet Open. Dancing till they weren’t here no more  2. In the cloak of night they come for the church.  The wood collapses into heaps of hot ash white capes like picket fences ignited their rugged crosses, high in the sky, a message sent  crackling and churning with sin.  The Lord’s passages roar through the fire, flames take seat in the pews, clutching hymns, melting praise into its bodies. Afar, brown eyes glow, with no tears to extinguish anything.  Again, a building rises, again, our songs sung, squalls curling against the walls, shaking the deal doors. Sun rays casting aglow the pulpit through empty windows. Sisters and brother rise, slamming calloused hands against the pew.  Shaking and convulsing, chorus of wails purer than the light cleansing like fire.  High as the days where the sun swelters our skin sweat the sweet scent of ash. 3.  The piano dwindles in its wailing lament.  The now somber steps of keys dousing these familiar folk, whose wrinkles I revere, more so, as they exhale a blackened breath. Grandma, whose arms I am tucked under once again slightly tremble with ache, creaking bones, scorched under flesh still. Like a pillow of Sunday best, my head onto rests, till the cooling moon waxes, summoning benediction. Return to Table of Contents

313346b5-cc4f-49af-90e0-66e76deecc8f Who's Point of View by Solara Cotton Return to Table of Contents

14 < Back Sunday Sunday by Faith Spicer About the Artist... Faith Spicer is an upcoming artist, born and raised in Baltimore. She is attending Baltimore School for the Arts where she studies visual arts and will be graduating this year. She was introduced to the art as a child and it developed as she went to the TWIGS program at BSA. During her senior year she was selected as a first place winner for the City Halls black history contest for her oil on canvas piece titled "The Black Butterfly on the Fence". This was an exciting and also rewarding experience and now she is going to work with mayor Brandon Scott for upcoming projects. Faith is currently living in Baltimore but plans on pursuing her art career in New York for college.

Sleepy in the Shade by Eleanor Goodwin Ripe by Bella Hart - For Abigail When we were young dad's backyard was a world of sweetly smooth grass and strong glowing trees. Bubbly sour oranges on our orange tree became baseballs, weapons, and orange juice. The shaggy shed was our playhouse, where we’d swing on the frame until our fingertips turned white. You climbed the zig-zagged branches of the tree further then you had ever gone, once. I watched as you gazed into the oil-painted sky floating above tacky leather pieces of our neighbors' roofs. When we woke to the whirling sound of metal grinding against metal, we ran through the back door. Dad stood in his clattering flip flops sawing down our tree from the base. Your eyes simmered in tears, dripping down my pajama shirt. In choked desolation I watched as a dozen ripe oranges fell from our heaven, splattering into the ground. We still graze past the stump of once was and climb onto the weary roof of the shed looking over the world we built. We pick at the earthy rough tiles mounted onto the rusty roof until there are bare spots across the top. The shed has begun to rot too. And our world, collapsing under our feet.

10 < Back Afterwards Daria Krol Elysion by Elanee Viray Afterwards by Daria Kol There is something here. My mirror melts into the bathwater. Dribbles of mercury leak over the sides. The sludge is ever-persistent. There is something here. "I knelt on the kitchen tile and// held your hems in my filthy// palms" You were good and I was green. I knelt on the kitchen tile and held your hems in my filthy palms. You turned away. There is something here. Tuesday night I go to the laundromat with Rachel. She laughs when my panties turn pink. I laugh when her quarters slip through the cracks in the sidewalk. There is something here. Poison blooms in my chest and gnaws on my collarbone. I taste it on my tongue and press it to yours anyway. My saliva burns through the paper under the stamp. There is something here. Milk soured in the fridge, I go to the market. The woman in the fish aisle has no eyes. She watches me anyhow. She buys butterfly weed and lime juice and sunglasses. There is something here. I walk home alone at night and look up at the stars, and everywhere I look, another one appears. They begin to tumble from their perches. I catch one on my tongue. There is something here. I do not know where to put my hands. I dig them into my ribs and hold the bones. I cut them free with my teeth. They are meant for bigger things than me, I’m afraid. There is something here. The knife grinds dull in the pit of the stomach, the snake slithering, the blunt nectar turning to rust, the bleeding staunched by the taste of bile. There is something here. I eat a pear over the sink. The skin is soft and sinks in my mouth. I crave another. I eat the second one, waiting for the same feeling. It’s underripe. I throw it out. There is something here. Do you still hang the lavender above the door? Do your fingertips still taste like rosemary? Do you still keep a lock of my hair in the shoebox under your mattress? There is something here. I was meant to be hungry. I was born to be rotten. I want more. I burn my tongue on chamomile tea. I stuff my jaws full of love. I find it underwhelming. There is something here. It is at the door. It is in the master bathroom. It is under the skin. It sleeps with the fishes and rises with the moon. It strangles me while I sleep and says your fault your fault your fault- There is something here. About the Writer... Daria Krol enjoys reading by the fireplace and Sour Patch Kids. Her favourite author is Eve Babitz, and she works part-time in the service industry. She hopes to pursue a career in publishing or law. About the Artist... Elanee Kristen Viray is a 12th Grader at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At the school, Elanee is a visual arts major who dedicates her life to her artistry. She creates art, generally Mixed Media art because of her vast love for experimentation, but she also delves into other mediums such as photography and fashion design. She especially loves creating colorful and fantasy like work, with deep meanings behind them that you grow to understand more by looking at it. Elanee’s work has won multiple awards, from gold and silver keys at the Northeast Florida Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, to Awards of Excellence and Merit in the Duval County Art Show. Her work has also been featured in various exhibitions such as Extravaganza, Douglas Anderson’s personal exhibitions, and more.

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

< Table of Contents A Mother's Love by Emilia Hickman My.BaptistChart.com By Abbey Griffin After Nicole Sealey “My / father’s mother’s more sweat than blood / half the time.” I have been anxious. I’ve created half the scars on my own skin. I can’t focus. My mother has, my mother’s mother had, high blood pressure. My father is depressed. My father’s mother’s more sweat than blood half the time. My grandfathers are dead or gone. I sleep fine. I don’t eat. Wellbutrin for a will to live. B12 for keeping my eyes open. My eyes are opposite—one near, one far: compensating. I shiver at shadows. Aunt Susan died of cancer. DeeDee, a stroke in bed. Uncle KiKi died at 34, slipped on a cliff during a night hike, no spotter. I have wasted time in weighted blankets wondering if I will die at twilight, too, under a gaping map of slasher stars. I’m anemic. My blood wells too easily, like apples, and my forehead breaks out oily, Ash Wednesday staining my crown the shape of Daddy’s fingerprint. I know from dust we were born and to ashes we will return, but there is a sunrise I haven’t seen in Boston Commons and a memoir, open on a library desk for me. About the Writer... Abbey Griffin (she/her) is a writer in Florida. "What the Living Do" by Marie Howe made her fall in love with poetry and decide to devote her life to it. She hopes that everyone can find their own inspiration throughout their lives and a unique understanding and love of the arts. About the Artist... Emilia Hickman is a junior at Savannah Arts Academy in Savannah, Georgia. She specializes in reali sm, an d her favorite mediums are drawing and painting.

< Table of Contents Broken Limbs by Abigail Cashwell I confess to the sea By Jacob Jing that I am exhausted. that I know there is no sky where a lover can fly without the destiny of descent, but I still find myself there, waiting to be hurled back down. in his fiery descent, Icarus was comforted by a tender wind, and returned to the water from the womb of his undoing. if the tragedy is that he recognized the fall too late, then where is the gentle nosedive for the one who predicted plummet from the start? where are the soft waves that will cradle that loveless execution? what I want is to be told that I am enough, that I have been good, that my descent will be more soft than lethal. if not that, then I want to be mourned with more softness than I was loved. to be told that my body once carried something kind inside it. I still need to forgive myself for burning in the name of safety you failed to offer. the scorched plumage: a casualty of my useless heart. before you tell me to swallow my tears, let me first become fluent in the shame “let me first feed these feathers to / the flame.” of wanting to be held. let me first feed these feathers to the flame. let me love the wounds you gave me before I take to the sky once more, chasing what the sun leaves behind. About the Writer... Jacob Jing is a young writer currently studying visual arts at the University of North Texas. He has been published in Spellbinder Magazine and is forthcoming in Eucalyptus Lit. In his free time, he enjoys photography, naps, and the $3 milkshakes from the student union. Find more of his work at https://linktr.ee/Jacob_Jing . About the Author... Abigail is an 11th grade student at Savannah Arts Academy. She enjoys using acrylic paint and experimenting with color. She also likes making art pieces using references from places she has traveled to. After high school she plans to go to college to become an art teacher at an elementary school.