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Salmon Sophia Rose Smith Contortionist Rowan Blankemeyer Colored ripe and stumbling— caught further and back down stream. You've found your way between notebook lines, past the margins, (college-ruled), loosened the blue stripes with a seam ripper. Hair braided and pushed into your palm— your fingers rip between the three fat trunks in search of equilibrium: chunky velvet and glass noodles. You’ve fleshed out the whorls in your hands, left prints of ink in the fresh snow. By autumn the marks in the mirror seem to dehaze delusions, caught in the blindspots between streetlamps and gutters. Beneath skin is paler flesh to fit their crayon colors. It can be scrawled in a waxy film on printer paper, but that can be scraped away with fingernails. You’ve fought your way pounding the waterfalls upstream. Caught: you ripped up the balance of their symmetry. You will find a place in the world and how to speak it. Find it in the full words buttressed behind your teeth. Return to Table of Contents

< Table of Contents Editors' Note As Élan has continued to sail into its 38th year of publication we have explored the fluidity of authentic art, and the variety of ways it can appear. In these pieces, artists from around the world grapple with the hard realities of what makes them belong and stand out as they perch on the precipice between childhood and adulthood. Journey with us as we dive deep into the true meaning of these human desires. As Editors-in-Chief, we are beyond proud of the work the staff and artists have put into this issue. We hope that you will allow this collection of work to sit with you. Let the tides of emotion within these pages take you out to sea and lead you somewhere different from where you began. Signed, Niveah Glover, Emma Klopfer, Avery Grossman, & Jaslyn Dickerson

I'm Not Alone by Micayla Latson I am listening to my parents arguing downstairs by Alisa Chamberlain Cooking oil laces the stove, something disrupting The homely kitchen below the ground I rely on for safety. A desperate scream let out by the most gruesome Banshee graces my ears in a way that causes me to jump. I shiver, as loud cries drift up from the kitchen below, Beasts awakening every time I ask any question. The unstoppable force and immovable object meet, Once again, chipping paint off the walls with their bare voices. Unable to sit still, I pace the dusty floors of my chamber, Which was once a room, at a time I can remember only faintly. As the wailing grows and fades, and grows again, Accompanied by the deepest harmony, trading places every couple of minutes. The two creatures cannot seem to find solace within themselves. I continue pacing as I stare out at the murky duskiness developing Over the surface of my neighbor’s artificial pond. I can feel my lungs rise and fall at the growing pace Of a racehorse anxiously pawing the ground, waiting to exit its crate Just as the plastic ones which once brought me solace Now rattle on my bedroom’s nightstand Ready to implode with the energy held inside, Ready to ride out into the night, The darkness and hungry monsters less terrifying Than the ones butting horns in the kitchen of disarray but the hooves are trapped on a worn nightstand, directly above As the two creatures fighting bar any innocent from passing. Hooves quake as the rift at the heart of my home expands, Thunder overpowering the bitter darkness outside, Lightning frying the trees outside, Breaking the glass from the inside of my once-living room, Bright lights and clashing sounds roaring against each-other, Creating whirlwinds that turn what was once a home Into an empty house, animals hiding in dusty, ransacked crannies As the two banshees in the kitchen wave wildly. For all I know, they could’ve been practicing a funeral song, A dirge only meant to be heard by fellow omnipresent ghosts Something I intrude on without knowing. I hear a blunt thok as something metal graces the kitchen tiles. The wailing intensifies as if a bomb dropped, a shard of metal Twisting and scraping the insides of the banshee’s rotting hearts Cutting through their jagged white flesh as if they still lived. My pacing ends as I hear one of them lose their war, Flying away amidst the destruction of the kitchen below me, Evading the shrapnel behind the front door. Slam. One last shriek, and utter silence devours me and my moonlit study.

We Still Have a Heart in Ourselves Indie Pascal The ground beneath my feet was grass. It was soft, fuzzy, and long. It scratched against my black boots. It was different ground then where I’d stood three years ago. Then, I was at my grandparents' house. There was construction at my house, so I wasn't home. That day, that night, I stood on different ground. And, again, tonight, three years later, I’m under a tent, singing and praying with my community. Remembering. Remembering that day. Three years ago. Three years seems like a long time, but I remember it like it was yesterday, and fear it like it will happen tomorrow. My grandparents were on a trip, in Vermont. We were staying temporarily at my dad’s parents, my grandparents’ house. They are fancy people, with fragile objects that shouldn’t be touched. I saw statues of Jesus and Mary, and red tapered candles on the dining room table. I am not like them. I am Jewish. I am used to the Mezuzah, bolted into the side of the door, and Hanukkah candles in the freezer. But, it is different at a Christian’s house. Every Friday, Jews would put on their tallit and kippah, and, if you are the religious type, you walk to synagogue. I am not the religious type, but my uncle and his family are. They go to shul every Friday, and pray to God, thanking him for creating the Earth. On that Saturday morning, they went too. Tree of Life is a small congregation. Even on a Saturday morning, the most crowded occasion, very few people attend. It wasn’t always like this. I remember the halls, packed with people. The hall was so noisy, voices echoing off the walls. Kids ran around in their Purim costumes, and tugged on their parents’ legs trying to gain their attention. People greeted us at the door and hugged us, handing us our sidurs. I’d run in and Rabbi Chuck would squeeze me tight, the strings of his tallit brushing along my face. We sat between the pillars in the main sanctuary and played LEGOS secretly, quietly in the aisles. We’d bring buckets of small knights and make them fight on top of a siddur. People stood in the hallways and chatted as Rabbi Chuck- and later, Rabbi Myers- chanted the prayers and hundreds of voices chimed in. When my mom recognized someone, she gave them a hug and laughed and talked. Sometimes, things change. You eat Cavatelli for a week, and one day, you decide to eat Gnocchi. Things are different now. It isn’t about Gnocchi or Cavatelli. It’s about life or death. Words aren’t processed as fast as you receive them. I remember my mom’s face, changing from a neutral skin tone, to a pale white. She shut the phone. Fear rushed through me. “There is an active shooter at Tree of Life,” she said. I received the words into my brain, but the processing took a minute. As soon as it was processed, fear, then questions. That is one thing I remember very well. Questions. At Tree of Life? Are you sure? My mother tried to call her brother, to find out where he was. If he was safe. She tried at 9:50. And, again. And again. Who was it? How many killed? Are Uncle Sam and Max, and Auntie Andy, and Simon okay? I didn’t know whether they were alive, or not. My mother went to my father, and they talked rapidly, using words I didn’t know. I was so confused. “Turn on the T.V. Quick. Please,” my mother said. We all rushed into the room with a television, and turned it on. We changed the channel to CNN, but, really, it would probably be on any channel. At least three deaths. Exchanging Gunfire. Shelter in Place. On the T.V., we read the most dreadful words. My mother walked frantically around the room. She kept calling Uncle Sam. Finally, he answered. My uncle was always late to things, and for once, it saved his life. Time passed. They said that more died. In the end, eleven were dead. This is what we remembered. The day we lost eleven. The day our synagogue was taken from us. Where we prayed and laughed together. As a congregation. As a community. As a family. Now, three years later. Fear is still with me. The shooting changed me. I will always have fear in me, and worry about the very next day, hour, minute, second. I never want to lose what I lost again. People make sure of it, like the police. They guard every service we have, and make sure we are safe. It is kind, but why do they need to do it? Why is our world so much like it is, that Jewish people, Black, and Muslim people need to have police watching their backs? (Or, need people to watch the police?) I don’t want someone protecting me from the bad. I don’t want there to be bad. But the world is still like this. I still stand, the grass beneath my boots. I still stand, in the house of my grandparents. I still stand, the tragedy on the T.V. screen. I still stand with my community, holding their hands. We keep the memory of the people we lost. We keep our community. We keep our hearts in our bodies, in ourselves. They may have taken my community, my synagogue, and some of my courage. But they will not take away my heart. Return to Piece Selection

Reflection by Nyriel Saures

< Table of Contents Gilded Embrace by Isabella Woods Wax-Feathered Heart By Izzy Falgas In a prison trapped by way of sea and land, watching as your fingers run through soft wax, I’ve seen gentle smiles and calloused hands; father deftly lining quills up from the smallest. They took him forty-two days to construct which left me forty-three to gaze down at you. “I reached out to you, to cup your honey in my hands. / All I could grasp was dripping wax.” You soared, wings brushing my sky as I perch on my own chariot of ignorance. I reached out to you, to cup your honey in my hands. All I could grasp was dripping wax. Your eyes were on the sky, counting the stars of Orion— why did they never lock onto me? Too far to hold you, near enough to hurt you; is arm's length still too close? Cupped in my hands is your ambrosia I never had. You were never vain; I was the selfish one. Washed up on the white sands of Icaria, death held close as the sun fell in love with a dead man. About the Writer... Izzy Falgas is a freshman in Harrison School for the Arts and is in the Creative Writing department. She enjoys writing poetry and flash fiction in her free time, as well as creating other forms of visual art. She has won many awards and accolades for her visual art, including FAEA’s Award of Distinction and a gold ribbon in SSYRA’s visual category. She has a novel in the works, but is mainly occupied by piles of homework and playing with her four-month-old puppy. About the Artist... Isabella Woods is a junior at Savannah Arts Academy. She knew at a young age that she was interested in doing art. Some of her influences have come from her grandmother, mom, and teachers who have all inspired her with their own art. Now attending Savannah Arts Academy, she is able to be creative everyday with multiple different kinds of art.

Language, Summer Carrier Go, forth, prosper, as if Kansas now means any place, we're not. Here's Johnny! Knock. Knock. Babble on about the need for speed. Keep moving and calling upon precedent: deja vu, and the ever bastardized call of the moon, mourning, and marriage. If one more claims cliche, I shall throw a fit. Fit, now a wonderfully common expression. Frankly, my dear, yesterday, my friend said she couldn't remember the name of her favorite cereal. But knew to follow her nose, language our luckiest charm- that milk was got. Apples jacked. Cola Coked. Jack Crackered. A wonderful and reckless refurbishing! Return to Table of Contents

Excerpted from The Silencing Properties of Snow by Georgia Witt Marge sighed. It was a sigh that she always released after baking cookies. An exhale that yes, was from the labor of baking, but also held something melancholy to it. Something she never could place but always felt. It reminded her of the sighs she always had on Sundays, back when she attended school. Those Sunday night sighs that she let out while her father snored in front of a ball game, while her mother nagged her little brother about finishing his homework. The drone of the sport’s commentators narrating the ball game, her backpack stuffed with books in preparation for the next morning, the laundry folded neat on the couch, the dinner leftovers packed in Tupperware, stored in the refrigerator, the hazy sun melting away like a creamsicle pop, all the light gone now, just black, quiet night that would soon break into morning. A new Monday. A new week. A week uncannily similar to the last. All of it such a rat race, a maze. Dreary and monotonous, leading to what exactly? Her books in her backpack, her studies, all leading to college. College to a career? A career to make money. Money to make her happy. They had money. And they weren’t happy. “It was like a guitar string inside her, some invisible finger strumming against it continuously until it just snapped.” Marge pinched her nose to break the spiral of thoughts. She patted her apron, washed her hands, entered the living room to join her husband. “Cookies are in the oven,” she said, dropping to the couch. The beaten leather coughed under her weight, and she coughed into a fist. “Mmm…,” said Seamus. He was halfway through the paper now. Finger shaped streaks of sweat were visible on parts of the flimsy pages he had previously gripped. Marge stared. She watched Seamus’ mouth, slightly agape, and his tongue flit around lazily inside. She watched his finger dig in his ear. She lasered in on his tee shirt, the end of it pulled up a bit to reveal his pot belly. She felt disgust twinge in her stomach. It was like a guitar string inside her, some invisible finger strumming against it continuously until it just snapped. “I’ve got to use the toilet.” Marge said suddenly. Seamus didn’t seem to notice her abrupt manner. She sat up from her spot in the couch with much effort and walked away. “Okay.” Seamus murmured. Marge walked to the bathroom, feeling the broken string writhing into rage inside of her. She tried to quiet it. She dragged down her slacks, placed herself on the toilet. As she peed, she rubbed the skin of her forehead, trying to stop whatever feeling was inside her at the moment. But it continued to heat up, just like her oven in preparation for the cookies. She had felt that red hot temperature rise slowly all afternoon, and now it was at the checkpoint, ready to rumble. She wiped herself dry, stood up and flushed the toilet. In that moment many things came together at once, and Marge had to lean her forehead against the cool glass of the bathroom window to prevent her head from swimming. It was the sound of the toilet water flushing. The smell of their bathroom, the same smell as her husband and his wretched soap. The smell she woke up to each morning and went to sleep with each night. Her sweating feet and the icy tile meeting. The sickly yellow lighting weak as broth. The image of Seamus back in the living room, cocooned in his greasy armchair, his hands probably rifling in a bag of cheesy potato chips. It felt good. Her eyes closed. The perfect silence of the home. Save for the distant whistling of falling snow outside. She felt she was in a liminal space. Some blinding, dangling dream-like spider sack bouncing silently in space and time. The plate of cookies untouched on the kitchen counter. Seamus burning through his paper. Snow falling through pitch black forest outside. No people for miles. Just the two of them.

Dear Linh Kate Kim My grandma’s backyard still looks the same. The potted little yellow flowers on the veranda. The shady arbor wrapped in twisting branches and climbing vines. The wooden bench, splintery and peeling, yet sturdier than any store bought seat. The rows and rows of strange and exotic fruits and vegetables, all in various stages of growth. The large oak tree, with its leaves healthy and lush, its branches stronger than ever. I like to think that everything is the same. But it isn’t, and that is everywhere. Images of my grandpa repairing the brown picket fence, humming nonsensical tunes to his own whimsy, flash by like mirages. Pictures of him on his knees, working alongside my grandma in the garden, and with his deep, throaty laughter as he spun small children around with his arms. He seems to have taken Bà’s soft smile, her airy laugh, and sparkling eyes along with him. The fried scent of bánh tai heo , “pig ear” cookies wafts into my nose as I look around, temporarily wiping any melancholy thoughts away. I trace the scent to the backyard door, where Bà is carefully walking towards me, holding a bright red porcelain plate stacked with her signature treat. She sets them down on the table, the plate thudding dully on contact. “How are you, dear Linh?” she asks, her words slightly stilted from her accent. She slides into the chair and folds her hands together. Her thinning white hair is pinned up, although wispy frontal strands drift astray of the ponytail, brushing against her tanned, wrinkled skin. “I’m good,” I mumble through a mouthful of crisp, sweet cookie. “Oh, lovely,” she says softly. She strokes the kitty, Maggie, absentmindedly and her gaze clouds over as she stares off into the distance, as if covered by an invisible film of sadness. “Ngoại ?” I say tentatively. “Unh?” She shifts in the chair to smile at me. The corners of her eyes crinkle into their well-worn lines. “Are you all right?” “Oh, yes.” She bobs her head in a nod. Under my doubtful stare, she pauses, as she seems to play with the right words, and simply adds, “I . . . miss him.” There is a palpable weight on my stomach when I say, “I’m sorry.” My grandmother, my bà ngoại, so strong, who has gone through so much, looks so fragile. So sad. I don’t know what to say to help ease her pain. “I miss him too,” I bumble. She smiles sadly, then pats my hand. “Cám ơn con ,” she says. Thank you . The effort in her voice to lighten the conversation is apparent. She takes a deep breath and resettles her shoulders, a reset, if in posture only. “You see that tree?” she asks, looking over at me to make sure I am understanding. “Chú Quang and I are going to cut. We build a greenhouse. Much better for plants.” Her stilted words and long pauses leave broken holes in the sentence. It takes me a second, then the crushing meaning of the words falls down on me. "Oh,” I say. My cookie tastes like cardboard now. “When?” She reaches for a cookie of her own. “Quang is coming by next week,” she tells me, seemingly oblivious to my thundering heart. “We try to finish by end of January.” She bites into the cookie, then makes a face. “This is not good,” she spits. “Bá ngoại did a bad job.” She pushes the plate away. “It is too cold out here,” she says. “Inside?” “. . . Yes, of course,” I say, after some hesitation, and push my chair back to stand up. She gets up from her own chair, much more slowly than I. She strains to get up; her hands tremble as they press against the armrests and a strenuous pink blossoms across her cheeks. Somewhere in the back of my head I know that something’s not right, but I bury it deep, deep down. Bà is okay; she is healthy and strong . I convince myself that saying this makes it true. But fear lingers in the back of my head, sticky and creeping and sending chills down my spine. She has to be okay. “You… you did it,” I whisper, my mouth falling open. “You cut it down.” It’s April, and the sun is finally overcoming the crisp chilly air. It’s been three months since Bà’s fall—right after Tết, the Lunar New Year, and almost two months since her return from the hospital. We’re standing in her backyard, staring at the stump of a tree that, not even a week ago, proudly stretched high in the sky. “I did,” she says simply. “Now there is room for the greenhouse!” My eyes feel like they are bubbling, and my face feels hot. Grandpa planted that tree thirty years ago. Gone. Gone, gone, gone. “Linh,” she says gently as hot tears spill down my cheeks. “Oh, dear Linh.” Her comforting words don’t help me; her wrinkled, tanned hands, capable of soothing any injury, heal nothing. The change in the air is unbearable. The tree is gone, and she’s so fragile , and I don’t know what to do. I can’t control anything right now. I need things to be the same. “Bà —” “Oh, good, dear Linh.” My grandma’s frail, wrinkled hand reached up and pats my hand cheerfully, like she isn’t lying in a hospital bed surrounded by chirping, humming machines whose purpose I can’t even begin to fathom. “How are you feeling?” I ask, settling into one of the plastic armchairs that sit by her bed. My uncle is in the other, his eyes closed. I’m not sure if he’s sleeping. He’s been fussing over my grandma all day. “Okay,” Bá hem-haws. “I have many people taking care of me. How about you? You are good?” “I’m good,” I say hesitantly. “Good?” She inspects me closely, scanning my face. “No, I do not think so.” Her warm fingers brush against my forehead. “I am,” I say, but it’s hard to swallow. She touches my cheek. “Linh,” she says calmly. “Look at me. Tôi đang lành lại —I am getting better every day. You can’t do any -thing.” This last part is said rather bluntly as she leans back on her bed. “I fell. We cut the tree. It happened. All done. Now we just focus on how to fix.” She pauses, thinking. “Or how to grow.” Her words are clipped, blurred, mixed up in the space between her native tongue and English, but I know what she’s trying to get across. I marvel at how my small little grandma can use the few words in her limited English inventory to land such a hard punch. Beside me, Uncle Quang lets out a loud snore. “Is there anything I can do?” I blurt after an extended period of silence, surprised that coherent words are able to tumble past the rock in my throat. “Oh, yes,” she says, looking pleased. She draws herself up and starts rambling off a list of things in Vietnamese. “I need my sewing basket, my cup—” “Hang on—” I scramble for my phone and jot down all her wish list items. She continues. “—book on my bed table—ahhmm—pillow? Mmm . . . kem đánh răng —how do you say?”—she jabs Uncle Quang awake and asks him something in rapid-fire Vietnamese, who replies groggily, “Toothpaste?” (“Ah! Yes!”), then continues, “Picture of Ông Ngoại …and pretzels.” The corners of her lips curve into a smile. I don’t know why she loves Snyder's pretzel rods. She always keeps a stockpile of at least three king-size bags in her pantry. I read the list back to her to double-check. She nods, pleased, once I’ve finished reciting it. I kiss her on the cheek, then get into the car and drive to her house. Maggie is right at the door when I unlock it, mewing at me angrily. “Hello, Maggie,” I giggle, slipping my sneakers off. “I know. I’m sorry. Bà being sick is tough on you too, isn’t it?” Maggie stalks across the floor. “But she’s shown us she can fight.” I pause, thinking about her struggle these past few months. “If there’s one thing we’ve learned about her, it’s that she’s one tough cookie. . .She’ll get better soon.” I continue my monologue as I pour some cat food for Maggie. First on Bà’s list is her mug. I’m already digging through the cupboard for her floral peony mug when the window catches my eye. I walk outside, Maggie at my heels, and sit on the bench, facing the stump with a clear view of the expansive backyard. I lean back and take a look at the potted little yellow flowers on the veranda. The shady arbor wrapped in twisting branches and climbing vines. The handcrafted wooden bench, splintery and peeling but sturdier than any store-bought seat. The rows and rows of strange and exotic fruits and vegetables—longan, grapefruit, guava, all carefully selected by Bà—all in various stages of growth. . .and the oak stump. I take one long look at it, in all its glory, and walk towards it, inspecting it closely. Yes, things aren’t the same. But that’s okay. I think it is. There’s nothing more to do—nothing I can do. My gaze falls on a few forgotten planks of wood by the stump, and I think of the abandoned efforts to build a greenhouse. Bà’s words in the hospital come drifting back to me. Now we just focus on how to fix. I slide my fingers along the smooth bark, wondering. Or how to grow. With an effort that’s almost painful, I wrench away and walk back to the house. Bà is still waiting. Return to Piece Selection

Handcrafting a Predictable Meatball Anthony Bernando The Peace of Pre-Quarantine Kyra Lai “Arrivederci Roma” playing from the street like Dean was there himself, Vendors selling fresh bread, fruits, and vegetables. Brooklyn, New York, 1983. Frank Caporaso got his hair cut. No charge from the barbers. They were joyful to see their homemade Italian meatball prepared, Covered in his own red sauce and shame. The dismal child walks home, His empty abode filled with the lingering stench of a vodka soaked carpet. Mama never had the money to replace it. Papa spilled drinks on the carpet whenever he got disoriented. He’s been gone for three years. Papa had his own world. It was filled with parallel figures, Deforming the fabric of his family. He was never alone, though he was never there. Cut Frankie out like the chooch’s cut into his head, Disappeared into a forest of voices and riches, Never cooking the meatball, No seasoning or preparing, only leaving blood and ground meat of a cow. Meatballs are meant to be cooked and served for the world to enjoy: Just a little pink on the inside, Delectable and scrumptious with a little ricotta. So why not follow in its true footsteps alone? Return to Table of Contents

Can I Keep Them? by Moriah Roland The Ocean Voyager Exhibit by Whenever my eyes close I see it: The whale sharks drone above me Beside me Around me A pocket of air escapes my lungs and floats to the surface A sea turtle nips at the ball and chain Tied to my sore ankles I didn't mind the water all too much If only it didn’t feel as if my lungs were being crushed I can see the two walls beside me, painted to resemble A free and expansive ocean Above, the harsh white ceiling lamps shine into our tank I look at the viewing window, and all I see is a reflection Of my water-logged skin And empty reddened eyes Hair being tussled by a manta ray, With a gray nub replacing his stinger The glass holds a lie: I know I have an audience The glass holds a truth: It shows me who’s at fault Exiled to the depths of my mind, I wait in place for the water to flood my small lungs And for the salt to make me anew The whale sharks are beautiful Oh giant floating mass of wisdom I wish I was just like you Gigantic, mindless, idolized Pacing your football-field sized cage When all of this is said and done, Will they find my rotting corpse in your carnivorous maw? The ball stays cemented in the sand The chain floats freely between us A gasp is all it takes. The inky water sucks the air out of my lungs And the audience of past mistakes (Would-be’s, talk-to-you-later’s, and i-love-you’s) Watch the person I used to be Drown in that most gorgeous place

bdaef953-30b4-4207-acd3-a2a92ccdebf0 Pisgah by Audrey Lendvay The Willful by Nayra McMahan The garden in my backyard is dead. I planted it in a spring long past, dug my small hands into the rainy earth and poked holes small enough for my seeds— Roma tomatoes, pickling cukes, pumpkins— to find comfortable. I spent hours planting, kneeling before the boundary I’d created between grass and fresh earth until it felt something like home. Summer never brought me the growth I was seeking, though. An unforgiving sun fried the tomatoes before they were green; the pumpkins and cucumbers never even sprouted. Weeds, teeming with barbed seeds, took root in the earth that I had worked in. No gloves could keep my hands safe. I let my hands bleed, dripping life into the soil. Now, relentless yellow Florida grass clumps where the tall weeds aren’t. It settles its roots into the home I made, inserts itself where it was not welcome, and grows. Grows, despite it all. Despite the weeds above it taking the sun, even when they’re dead and dry and browning, selfish corpses. Florida grass doesn’t worry about its yellow. It doesn’t care that it’s splotchy and rough on bare feet. It fights for sunlight. I want dirt under my nails again. I want grit and bitter yellow in my blood, the strength to have roots that live through frost, through fire. Roots that find comfort in my beating, beautiful Florida sun and grow new green leaves as soon as they burst up, stubborn and singing, through the dirt. Return to Table of Contents