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< 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

< Back Embracing Flesh by Haven Foster I know I’m supposed to treat you kindly, I can’t By Olivia Chao I. Acidosis Attempting to fix a progression that started ages ago, a body, my body, lies open on the operating table, acid burbles from inside the hemoglobin. Ever so slowly, a vector approaches, years of disuse have finally caught up to me. Erosion eats away at my skin, neurons leak through pores, spilling onto the floor. It’s too late. II. Hypothermia I can barely remember my childhood. Distant, lie vast green fields splotched in windmills, bathed in sunlight. I do my best to describe it to you, but I’m left with nothing. Static. Snow. Wound left untreated, infected. Ripped away as quickly as it came I return to the present Mutilated. III. Coagulopathy I want to bury myself in the skin of your youth, bathe in a lake filled with your blood, somehow let your memories fill the gaps in mine. Waves of nausea sweep over me nostalgia rots away at what’s left of my body I want to run. Remember. I can’t. No matter how hard I try, they slip out of my grasp. Like blood. Death. You look at my attempts, my body, horrified. Wriggling out of the snare I’ve made for myself I sink, slipping out of your gaze and onto a pile of my own organs. Stitches gelled back Scars swelling I remain Wholey incomplete About the Author... Chao is a young writer and artist from Florida. They attend Douglas Anderson School of the Arts with a major in creative writing. Their artwork has previously been featured in the Downtown Jacksonville Public Library, and their writing has also previously been featured in Élan. About the Artist... Haven Foster is a Junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She takes inspiration from self-identity and likes to experiment with different kinds of mixed media. Previous Next

< Table of Contents Still Holding On by Andie Crawford The Myth By Hannah Rouse Mermaids, much like humans, have fingers so they can thread through seaweed. The only differences are their shimmery, scaly tails and magical lungs or gills or whatever they use to breathe underwater. Maybe their skin is seafoam green, and their fins like stained glass with the texture of damp leaves. In my head, they look just like in the stories and the movies. They’re out there somewhere, singing ships to sleep. Perfect and perched on jagged rocks. Dancing in waves that collapse into nothing. They fall in love with sailors and revel in the wreckage of storms. They’re not afraid of sharks or the vast, aqua emptiness that is their home. *** I always wanted to be a mermaid. Even when I wouldn’t swim in the pool unless my parents checked it for spiders and frogs. I wore Disney Princess floaties on my arms, a small inflatable tube on my stomach, and green and blue goggles to protect my eyes from the sting of salt water. I wouldn’t put my head underwater until I was five or six years old, when an older girl asked to play mermaids with me. After that, I finally managed to dip my skull beneath the ripples. My long, brown hair, pulled lovingly into a braid by my mother, once dry, dripped with dreams of my legs merging together and growing gold or green scales. *** I used to reenact the giant rock scene from The Little Mermaid at the mini-golf course. I sang “Part of Your World” softly to myself. The rough surfaces scratched at my skin but all I could think about was swimming with Flounder, about having a dinglehopper. At seven years old, I still wanted a Snarfblatt more than anything in the world. My new room at my grandparents' beach house was decorated entirely by myths: dolls, ornaments, signs, and miniature statues. With my toes in the sand, I observed the whitecaps breaking in the distance, wondering when I’d see her for real. *** There is a painting hanging on my wall: a mermaid sits on a rock, arm outstretched toward a white unicorn—beach waves in her hair, a pale gray seashell bra, and a glittery green tail. The sky behind them swirls, pink and purple around a flaming sun. But their reflections show them as they are. A girl and a horse under a boring blue sky, fantasizing about a life where they could be something magical. *** “I pretended that my swimsuit was made from scallop shells.” Until I was thirteen, I wore a full-length pink mermaid tail in the pool. Exhilarated by the sensations of gliding, slicing through the thick water. I took my hair down and let it float behind me in the chlorine, a cloud of thin brown strands with a mind of their own. I pretended that my swimsuit was made from scallop shells. Imagined that I was fearless enough to swim, not in the confinement of a pool, but engulfed in the ocean’s cerulean darkness. *** “I’ll give you a dollar to stand by that shark,” Mimi said, pointing to Tommy, the giant fifty-foot statue of my worst fear, whose gaping mouth was the entrance to Jaws Resortwear. I didn’t look at him, but knew all too well what the store and Tommy looked like. Beady, black eyes. His sharp teeth pointed at any poor soul who wanted to enter. All the windows next to him were covered in towels with the terrifying creatures printed on the front. Other sharks, Tommy’s friends, I presumed, were posed to look like they rose through the concrete, their faces full of hunger. I shook my head. Just the thought of standing anywhere near the store made me sick. “Five dollars,” she smiled. I did not. “Ten dollars?” I wouldn’t have stood by the door of Jaws Resortwear for anything. She upped the offer to twenty, thirty, then finally, forty. I always refused. For the rest of the week-long vacation, Mimi tried to make that same deal each time we passed Tommy, the ominous entrance to the store. Not once did I budge. Not once did I even think about actually letting her take the picture of me standing in Tommy’s mouth. On the surface, this is why I cannot live in the ocean. *** For him, my bra was not made of seashells, but rather of wires and lace and polyester. I did not have a tail. My hair draped across the armrest as if again just released from its braid, free to float. I reveled in the way he looked at me. Perhaps he was just a shark, like Tommy, and I just never noticed his bloodthirsty mouth. Or maybe he was the ocean. Seaweed limbs wrapping around me. Hands all over, the stinging tentacles of a jellyfish searching for something shiny in a shipwreck. But he found nothing worth loving in the rotting planks of wood. Drowning in the stained leather of the couch, I began to see myself as the reflection in the painting. The reality. No magical lungs or gills or whatever the mermaids would use to breathe in the chaos of the ocean if they were real. Nothing more than a girl trying to touch something that looks mythic, magic, but is just as raw, as real as she is. *** Now, I don’t dare go in the ocean. Not a single painted toenail touches the seafoam. Even pools scare me when I can’t feel the floor below me. The concrete scraped holes in the thin fabric of the pretend mermaid tail I outgrew. But I still think if I stare at the ocean for long enough, I’ll see the sparkle of a mermaid's fin somewhere in the distance. So, I watch the waves closely, waiting for my girlhood to return. About the Writer... Hannah Rouse is a junior Literary Arts major at Appomattox Regional Governor’s School. She has been published in Asgard, Fledge, Under The Madness, Appelley, Free Spirit, and You Might Need to Hear This. She won runner-up in Georgia Southern University’s High School Writing Contest, as well as fiv e G old Keys, a Silver Key, and five Honorable Mentions from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. She received first prize nationally for the Sarah Mook Poetry Contest in 2023. Hannah is also a competitive dancer and enjoys spending time with her two cats. About the Artist... Andie Crawford is a 12th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her best mediums are drawing and painting.

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

< 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.

< Back Unzipped by Yujin Jeon 火花 Fire Flower By Joycelyn Zhang I am Asian, born with sparks in my belly, the same fire stoked by my ancestors lighting the first firecrackers. Back then, firecrackers were lit in celebration; they scared away evil. They were long, crackling snakes with tongues of wick, and they protected the Chinese spirit. I used to think I was a firecracker as well, so I could protect my own Chinese spirit. I am American, English a familiar weight on my tongue, ABCs engraved in my head, in my sentences pledging allegiance like clockwork every morning. Firecrackers aren’t allowed in school—they sound too similar to something else. I burned out and buried mine deep inside long ago. My home is clogged with soot and spicy fresh meat, Nai-nai , her nostalgia apron stained with yesterday’s dumpling flour, native language flowing and curling from my relatives’ native lips, like warm water. In China, gray is in the soot that powders the ground, in the layers of smog in the sky, in the air that coats your lungs if you breathe it in for too long. But beneath that gray is the bubble of hot cooking on the old iron stove and the Chinese language that bubbles around you, like a hot sauna. My home is cool and clear and thin like the air, mirroring each other in winter and summer dresses; the paved roads and streets hold their breath when the night comes out to play. A sun that glows persimmon over the ocean is the only ornament in the clear, clear sky. In California, the sky swallows everything up. The ocean rolls and spits white foam onto the sand. The air is clear at night, sharp like broken glass. I wonder if I can cut myself just breathing. It’s hard to breathe freely in America, the land of the free. I am Asian, and so people at school perceive me as such. I am almond-eyed, just like my ancestors. I have golden-brown, glossy skin and a face that betrays no hint of color when I’m embarrassed. But above all, I’m smart, I’m good at math; I ace every test because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Because I’m Asian. I struggle with all my might to rise to the top, struggling to keep my Chinese spirit alive. And this time, it’s not the firecrackers protecting me—it’s the grades. And they never burn for half as long. In China, everyone looked like me—same shiny dark hair and warm Chinese voice. But my grandparents look at me and shake their heads. Her skin is too dark , they agree with each other. She is full of bones. Why don’t you eat enough? How is my golden skin perfect for an Asian girl but not perfect enough for a Chinese girl? Plumpness is beautiful in China—it shows you have enough to eat. Thinness is beautiful in America—it means you have the luxury of choosing not to eat. But my stomach sits in rolls like the mantou that my nai-nai makes, far from the accentuated, glossy LuLuLemon models. My shoulders are too broad and my arms too skinny to make up for it. I’m too plump in America and too thin in China. I will never be beautiful. I’m a foreigner in a country I thought I’d feel welcome in. My scrappy Chinese tumbles and trips over itself as it leaves my mouth. 姑姑 (gū gu): father’s younger female cousin What do you do when she approaches you with her sons in tow, excitement so palpable you can taste it through your nose, and then she says, “Your little brother wanted to hear authentic English from an authentic source!” If I could say anything to myself from back then, I would ask: do you remember how gray that place was? How you compared the underground to the sky above, how it was as if the smog outside had plastered itself onto the damp walls? Can you picture how the faded murals were the only warmth in the otherwise cold tunnels? How the poems and proverbs consisted of hanzi you’d never once encountered in your pathetic American-curated Chinese textbooks? Do you remember how colorless you felt? 爸爸妈妈 (Dad and Mom) point in a dirty subway station: Can you read this? At school, I’m smart because I have to be, answering question after question like they are tokens of my identity I must earn, so how can four little words leave me unable to speak? My cheeks flame like firecrackers, and not in the way I want them to. I thought that flying to China in a Chinese plane, breathing Chinese air and speaking only Chinese and eating Chinese food would make me as Chinese on the inside as I was on the outside. When you were little, you’d perk up like Pavlov’s dog every time the word “Chinese” was mentioned. You’d clutch your fists into spark-breathing firecrackers and shout, “That’s me!” But was it really you? Was it not the eyes and skin but the heart that made you Chinese? What do you do then? What if all your life, “authentic” meant being Chinese, knowing the streets with those old stone courtyards? I’m fake. I can see it in their eyes, I can see it in quiet ai-yah s they hiss in their authentic accents, like ripe tea kettles—soft and sizzling to the touch—the sounds I’ll never be able to replicate. I’m too American. "I’m fake. I can see it in their eyes, I can see it in quiet ai-yah s they hiss in their / authentic accents, like ripe tea kettles—soft and sizzling to the touch—the / sounds I’ll never be able to replicate. / I’m too American." But am I? If even the people in China, which America sees as nothing but a communist dystopia, can see me and say, nope, not white enough, while at the same time tell me I’m exotic…which is it? Mandarin or English? Asian or American? Is there a line in the sand I must find so I can be equally both? Why do I even care what they label me as? 飞机 (fēi jī): airplane, flying machine The only place I felt free. Because up in the sky, the clouds blurred everything. Even the invisible borders and the sea between the two worlds. About the Author... Joycelyn Zhang is a freshman at Canyon Crest Academy, San Diego. Despite the workload at the school, she finds time to enjoy writing and playing the piano. When she is not busy with dance class, she is thinking about how and what she should write. While Joycelyn prefers to write poetry and short stories, she is open to trying other styles. She is always looking to expand her understanding of the literary world, and is honored to have her work featured in Élan. About the Artist... Yujin Jeon is a 17-year-old junior at Hamilton High School. Her favorite medium is acrylic paint layered with colored pencils. By utilizing acrylic paint she can capture a wide color range and through colored pencils, she can accentuate small layered details. Her motivation as an artist is to create art depicting one’s “flaws or “imperfections” through a confident persona. She feels that it is important to appreciate one’s “flaws” through the idea of body neutrality. This challenges the traditional beauty standards as it shifts the focus from appearance to functionality. Moreover, centering vulnerability in this journey can help individuals be in tune with themselves regardless of physical appearance. She translates her art into a magazine-inspired format depicting the “imperfections” of inanimate objects and people to make it truly unique and give it a sense of individuality. Previous Next

The fantastical world of Henry by Eleanor Goodwin

2 < Table of Contents Life in the Lighthouse by Lena Foster Symptoms Include Forgetfulness by Ava Rukavina The girl staring at me in the rear-view mirror is one I have never seen before, and not just in the sense that she is closer than she might appear. Her almost smiling lips are a rather brilliant shade of peach, though their texture wouldn't have you believe they were anything other than raisins. She's dehydrated. She must need water- I mean, I must need water. She's me, the doctors told me to remember that. My pupils are green or gray or an unsaturated brown maybe? I wonder if it's normal to forget the color of your eyes. She's tan with clusters of acne along her jaw. Her hair is pulled back too tightly to be sure of the texture, but it looks like a darker color, slightly damaged, maybe from a few coats of hair dye. Together, her features sing a soliloquy that is slightly off tune, but joyful and passionate nonetheless. She is — I am kind of pretty actually, and that feels good. Someone says something. It wasn't me, the mirror-girl's mouth didn't move. "She is gorgeous. Like she walked straight out of a renaissance painting kind of gorgeous." I look to my left. There's another girl in the driver's seat. She's sad. Sad and beautiful. Her nose swoops elegantly above her lips, which are the spitting image of cupid's bow. Her raven hair waterfall-flows out of the top of her head; her eyes are similarly dark and tragic. She looks at me and tries to smile. She fails. She is gorgeous. Like she walked straight out of a renaissance painting kind of gorgeous. I don't think girls in the middle ages had quite as many piercings though. I want to ask her out. Now doesn't feel like the appropriate time, as indicated by the mascara running down her cheeks. She taps rhythmically on the steering wheel. ls that my name tattooed on her wrist? Who is this girl? What was it she said again? I love you.” Her words are choppy and wet, and her shoulders are sunken down so far they're nearly at her stomach. “You don't have to say it back if you don't want,” she sniffles. “I don't,” I mumble. I regret it immediately. She thinks it's a question.“Yeah, no you don't have to say it. It's fine I know that you — ” “No, I'm telling you that I don't love you — or at least I've forgotten how to.” These are not my words. Not my words and yet my vocal chords are vibrating in tandem with each syllable. I think I have just fallen in love with this girl, I didn't mean to say that. I swear I didn't say that. She stares at me. I don't know what to call the expression she is making. She is fighting something inside her. I think I hurt her. It's not my fault. It wasn't me . I didn't mean to do it. Instead of getting upset she tries to reason with me. “You can learn,” she offers. I don't say anything. I think this is my decision, I'm not really sure, the silence I'm sitting in could just be a coincidence. She sniffles again. If she gets any more sorrowful she might burst at the seams and start spewing salty tears all over the interior of this car. I want to make her happy. I try to smile. She returns it this time, I’m not sure if it is out of pity or love. Maybe she’s finding the hopelessness of her situation comical. It occurs to me suddenly that I don’t know what her situation is exactly. I don’t know. But I can feel it. She's still facing me. She sighs, a cloud of coffee stained breath and vague familiarity exits her mouth and slowly coats my face. It feels rejuvenating. There’s something romantic about this whole thing. I lean in to kiss her, she looks mildly surprised, slightly giddy, and embraces it. Her lips taste like home. “Let’s go,” she says, and I remember. About the Writer... Ava Rukavina is a junior, currently attending Oakland School for the Arts. While she specializes in fiction, she also has tried her hand at all sorts of genres, including poetry and creative non-fiction. About the Artist... Lena Foster is a current 9th grader at DASOTA. She loves ballet, painting, and writing.

< Back Élan would like to invite you to our 40 th Fall/Winter Edition. As you navigate through the issue, we encourage you to open up to the endless possibilities of change and recognize these young artists as they delve into conception and familiarity through their voices. As the days grow shorter, we ask that you take a moment to reflect with us. Élan looks back on the dying year, but more importantly, we look towards the future. For nearly 40 years, the foundation of Élan has always been uplifting the voices of young artists, and no matter what change occurs, that much will stay the same. We thank you for being on this journey with us. Signed, Jeneva Hayes and Deidra Curtis Previous Next

Black Walnut Eli Mears Dead to the World Jillian Atwood The black walnut is a silent void, an altar bloodied and pulled into the spirit that chopped gaps, long wrinkled hardened bark, yanking you in by the fingers into the nutcracker designed for divine fruit. Alone on a rural Maryland hill where people once prayed to immortals like the black walnut and died under the shredding of their chestnuts who rotted from their uncaring vows the black walnut too fickle to die, and echoing into you. They told you it was bitter, strong, epochs twisted into a dendro, a nut, a God you sensed the moment you laid eyes on it like a child rubs her hands in old dust and senses the ground you felt your size. Fruit advances and some say it never ages long enough to enjoy like grandparents who could not face the blackness of an empty life, who faded into flickering ghosts, as they gazed upon the black walnut in the silent glory of drifting grass. Return to Table of Contents

< 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.

Patient Flowers Khloe Klopfer The snow was dense and heavy on the snowdrop’s delicate stem, making her shiver and wail. When was the time to grow? Would it ever come? Or would she forever live in ugly torture? Would she forever live in darkness? Suddenly, the snowdrop’s wishful prayers had been answered by the beautiful force that holds this world in its fingertips. The snowdrop saw a sliver of light, a raindrop on a painfully humid day. She took it as a sign, her time would come soon, but she must be patient with herself, even if it hurt so horribly that she wished to scream in anger and frustration, she must wait. So she did. She waited, and waited, and waited. Until that one, singular raindrop, became a thundering storm. All the ice drifted away to a happier place, while the beautiful snowdrop stretched her wings as the clouds and the sun kissed her and warmed her until her pale smile brightened the earth much more than the sun ever could. The poppies may look at her in disgust, the roses may shun her beauty, but she was happy. She was proud of herself for holding onto that piece of thread that those cruel poppies and envious roses could never have held onto for so long. She had been patient, she had been kind, and her love would live on longer than the rusted petals of the roses and poppies could imagine in their dark, shadowed roots. Return to Piece Selection