< Table of Contents To Breathe Underwater By Joyce Ma A small, rectangular, pink highlight on my calendar, unremarkable at first glance, marked with the initials ‘HI’; not for hello, but for Hawaii. From explorers charting unknown waters to the mythical sirens whose songs beckoned the brave to venture beyond the familiar, I, too, was ready to embrace the call of the deep: I would finally master the ability to snorkel. 8 years ago, amidst a summer ablaze with China’s relentless heat, I found myself at a summer camp, ready for the day's activity: snorkeling. We snorkeled in a pool shaped with gentle curves, a slice of the ocean itself, oddly placed among laughter and sun-kissed faces. Children, unified in a sea of matching swimsuits, gathered to learn the art of breathing underwater. Snorkeling, they said, was simple: through your mouth, not your nose. A task so mundane on land, transformed underwater into a challenge that I simply could not master. We have all heard of the cliché of fish out of water. I was whatever the equivalent to that is in water. Each attempt was a gasp and a sputter, desperately returning to the surface where the air was too abundant to cherish. My memory of camp is one of lungs heaving, drowning in the very element I sought to explore. 3 years ago, during a family vacation to the enchanting Xel-Há Park in Cancun, I faced the azure skies and crystalline light blue waters that met the lush tropical jungle, armed with a sense of adventure and a checklist of essentials. Xel-Há mandatory life jacket? Check. Diving mask settled snugly over my eyes? Check. The one-time use snorkel tube, alongside fins that promised agility in the water, were all accounted for. With natural beauty unfolding before me, this second snorkeling attempt was less about exploring underwater marvels than it was a battle with the equipment itself. The mouthpiece, rather than being an extension of my breath, hung awkwardly in my mouth. It proved as effective as trying to sip the ocean through a paper straw: soon turning soggy and useless. With nothing to do but chew on the tube, I defeatedly swam above the surface, convincing myself there wasn’t much to see at the bottom anyway. Watching the stunning videos of Hanauma Bay in Hawaii, I was determined to snorkel once and for all. Plunging to the depths allowed by the reef's boundary, I encountered coral formations tinged dark brown, their somber color possibly a testament to the impacts of human intrusion over the years. The neon-highlighter fish—unfazed—became our guide through this foreboding world. Each section of coral was uniquely sculpted: statues within an underwater museum, every piece telling ancient stories, silent testaments to the ocean's vast, untold history. Yet, the ocean’s boundless depths and seeming emptiness serve as its greatest masquerade, a realm not bound by the sediment layers of time as the mountains and volcanoes are, but a fluid historian, endlessly swallowing secrets, erasing and reshaping its narrative with each wave. It leaves no trace. My sister and I swam as waves passed over us. Beneath the surface, we moved as shadows, our forms cutting through the clear, sunlit water. Just two specks amidst the eternity, our bodies buoyed and swayed with the ocean’s waves. Our snorkels, thin lifelines to the world above, bobbed in the ebb and flow. We were cradled by the current. “It was a dance of give and take, breathing in unison with the sea.” My focus tightened as I followed the fish, which felt like a mesmerizing guide from a fairy tale leading me on a path. The rubber mouthpiece, initially foreign, gradually became an extension of myself, like gills. It was a dance of give and take, breathing in unison with the sea. To breathe in this underwater realm was to walk a fine line between exploration and surrender, where every breath was a delicate balance—a reminder that to breathe underwater was the essence of drowning. This act of breathing, so effortless on land, becomes a conscious part of your existence, connecting you to life underwater. Now, reflecting, I realize that this act of breathing, so deliberate and mindful underwater, mirrored the ebb and flow of life itself. When I didn’t think about how I couldn’t breathe, or didn’t know how to breathe through my mouth, I unnoticeably could do it. The ocean taught me that to breathe beneath its surface was to engage in a delicate dance with nature, to find my rhythm in the vastness, and to understand that I was a part of something far greater than myself. Yet, it also meant standing at the mercy of forces far beyond my control, where the only thing I have control over is the very act I often overlook: breathing. Those final moments of snorkeling were when I went with the flow of water and discovered fish with their kaleidoscope scales, shifting and flickering with each movement. In the dense silence, punctuated only by the sound of my breathing, I discovered a profound sense of unity with all that surrounded me. The fish, the coral, and my sister beside me—breathing together in a shared rhythm. Suspended in the sea’s weightless calm, we were reminded that we were guests in the presence of a world far older and different than ours. Alan Watts argues we are not just a part of the cosmos but also its substance, rising out of it like waves from the ocean. Snorkeling doesn’t just embrace this idea, it embodies it, one breath at a time. About the Writer... Joyce Ma is a current senior at Collingwood School in Vancouver, Canada. When she isn’t writing, she can be found readin g thrillers or baking cookies.

< Back For My Country by Violeta Estrada Rios Return It to where It Persists By Sarah Gozar Christine is famous in her neighborhood for her sparkly Disney Princess shirts, brand new pairs of flip-flops, and her abundance of American canned goods that come in the balikbayang boxes her two overseas nurse sisters sent from the States to their family in the Philippines. She’s famous for her resemblance to her semi-famous older brother: an actor who shares her pale skin, tall and skinny build, sharp pointed nose, and round eyes. Maria. Maria is ordinary. Maria is like the other kids. Her flip-flops are faded, worn till the shape of her feet imprint the rubber bed. Her elbows point through her brown skin. They’re seven years old when Christine bounces her glittery pink ball towards Maria. Maria catches it, feeling the gaze of Christine’s mother linger longer on her more than her own daughter. Maria clutches the ball harder and stares exaggeratedly at Christine’s right shoulder. Christine doesn’t notice Maria’s intentions until the ball softly hits her shoulder. She makes a comment of lighthearted betrayal before hurling the ball at Maria. But she misses repeatedly. "Christine doesn’t notice Maria’s intentions until the ball softly hits her shoulder. She makes a comment of lighthearted betrayal before hurling the ball at Maria. // But she misses repeatedly." They’re both laughing when Christine makes her last attempt, but this time, Maria doesn’t remember if Christine misses. Christine’s chubby cheeks flush a very faint light pink and Maria is once again reminded of how beautiful she is. When they turn seventeen, Christine tells her mom that she’s heading to school early to study before class starts. Her mom walks her out the front door and glances at the house down the street. Maria’s house. She runs a hand through her daughter’s hair as she says goodbye. That’s how Maria finds Christine at her house, spraying and swiping a comb through her bangs in front of Maria’s mirror. They have fifteen minutes until they leave for school. “How are you going to hide the hairspray and use it later?” Christine smiles at Maria. “I’ll hide it beneath my mattress. And I can spare some time at your place to put it on right before I go to school, right?” She winks at her. Maria looks unimpressed. Humming, she adds one last spray then picks out a few strands to hang over her forehead. “Want to try it?” Christine shakes the bottle in front of her face. Tiny droplets of product end up in Maria’s frizzy hair. She raises her eyebrows. “If I could style my hair, I would have bought my own hairspray.” Chritine shoves the bottle into her backpack. “Oh, right. I’m sorry.” She bites her lip, trying to hide the pink blooming on her cheeks. Maria leans closer to her and sweeps back a stray strand. “It looks good on you.” She smiles. “Any style will look good on you. And you have a nice voice too. You can be more famous than your brother.” Christine frowns. “I’m not into showbiz. I’m talentless. And too many actors our age are already showing their bodies.” Maria nods her head, eyeing the deepening blush on her face. “You’re too pure for it.” She holds Christine’s wrist. “And that’s a good thing. Stay that way.” At their all-girls school, they’re homogenous. They sit beside each other in their matching white-collar shirts, blue neckties, and grey angle-length skirts. “Christine?” Maria taps her shoulder against Christine’s. Christine blinks, refocusing her hazy vision on Maria’s face. Thick droplets of sweat trickle down their faces. It’s gym class, and their last names are first on the student attendance sheet. They’ve long finished their laps around the track, so they wait for the rest of the class to finish theirs. They stare at each other from the corners of their eyes. Maria eyes the shape of Christine’s shirt; it hangs loosely over her abdomen and shoulders but full at the chest. Maria glances at her own. Christine simply examines Maria’s face. She takes a breath but tries to pass it off as a sigh. “What is it?” Maria scoots closer to her until their knees touch. She notices the sweat loosening Christine’s bangs. For a moment, Maria smells pinewood and lavender. Then, aware of her own sour musk, she scoots back three centimeters. Christine’s eyebrows raise a little. She feels the rest of her hair fall forward, straight, and neat, as her mom would have liked it. In the end, Maria says nothing. Christine walks ahead, her black hair swaying against her white shirt. After school, Christine heads to the supermarket to buy her mother’s groceries. She’s left with enough change to treat herself, but she has no appetite. She wants to forget how Maria finished her quiz before everyone else, only to get kicked out of the classroom for letting out an obnoxiously loud yawn. When class ended, Maria was still kneeling in the hallway with her hands above her head. Christine handed Maria her backpack. Maria smiled at her. “See you later, Christine.” Christine can already hear her mother’s voice. “You should at least be as smart as your sisters. It’s a waste that you look like your brother when you’re talentless. And you’re a girl, so you’re easy to influence. Aye, why are you like this?” But to think I failed, even without a curfew, even though I study the moment I get home till I go to bed. Christine approaches the gate of her house. If Maria’s hair was still straight, I could had styled her bangs. We could be matching. If Maria was— “By my side.” The first thing she sees on her doorstep is Maria smiling smugly at her mother. Her eyes crinkle the same way they did when they were children: slender, sharp tipped crescents. Christine sets her groceries on the ground. Maria turns around. Her gaze shifts from spite to pity as their eyes meet. But before Maria can speak, Christine catches her with a tight hand wrapped around her wrist. She leads her down to the corner they met. Maria’s face looks the same: plump, heart-shaped lips, striking eyes, a soft-tipped nose. A bunny’s nose , Christine thinks. Christine thinks that her face must also look the same as before, foreign yet familiar. They speak in hushed voices. “Why?” Christine’s leans her head against Maria’s shoulder. “What if I really can’t see you after this?” Christine reaches for Maria’s hand. Maria sighs. “I used to be jealous of you. You’re beautiful, and you never went hungry. Then, I saw that mini display of China sets, and I felt disgusted.” Christine flinches. “I know that money came from your brother. That’s just what actors do. But—” “I’m not fit for showbiz. And what about you? How can you talk to me like this when you’re acting like that in school? You’re smart enough to be a nurse, but your attitude—” Maria opens her mouth, then shuts it. She chuckles. “Why do you even need me?” “Why can’t I?” They hear a ball bounce against the concrete. A pair of little girls are playing together. One of them is brown, and the other is pale. About the Author... Sarah Gozar is a 12th grade Creative Writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her works, primarily narrative fiction, handles themes such as girlhood and social commentary regarding her culture as a Filipino American. Because she's born and raised in America, she prefers to look at her works that take place in the Philippines as a personal exploration of her culture. Not as a work to properly represent the Philippines itself. About the Artist... Violeta Estrada Rios is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy. Her favorite medium to use is oil paint. However, she loves to paint with acrylic just as much.

Kamayan by Camille Faustino

55abbc5c-f352-45e7-96ae-2384491fa7fe Commensalism by Arabella Riefler Between the Eyes by Maeve Coughlin "The fear wouldn’t even process before the lights faded, he’d told her, and besides, all animals went to heaven." His daughter used to get upset when her father came home with dead animals. She would look at her father with tears in her eyes and ask him if he’d at least been gentle. So, he made her a promise that he’d kill them so fast they wouldn’t even feel it. Right between the eyes, he’d said. The fear wouldn’t even process before the lights faded, he’d told her, and besides, all animals went to heaven. She was only satisfied with the deal when she got a pet rabbit (to replace the one he’d killed that day, she’d said, although she didn’t believe it could be replaced). Eventually he bought her one from the pet store. His daughter’s name was Millie. They also called her Milkweed, and LiLi, and Mil. The hunter’s son was only two years older – nine – and he had only ever known himself by the name Ziggy, but his legal name was Zenith Goldson. Together, those two had hung the stars and the moon. And the hunter would bring them something fresh to eat. Suddenly, the doe’s head shot up. Her ears twitched in every direction, nose wiggling. For a moment, the hunter thought he’d been seen, but then there was a sound from across the clearing. Click. Then, a roar. Thunder condensed into a single syllable rather than rolling growls. A bullet grazed the back of the doe’s head, leaving a shallow gash. She screeched, all the air in her lungs whistling out, a noise of fear, of fury. Then, she breathed in. The bullet had passed her, whizzed through the leaves, and landed in the hunter’s chest. He grunted, wind knocked out of him, brought a hand up to his heart. The doe was leaping off through the woods, her white tail straight up, scared half to death. Led was lodged in the hunter’s right atrium. The muscle twitched and jumped erratically, blood spraying out onto the brown leaves, soaking into the damp soil beneath them. His heart overflowed – with the thought of his family, of how much he loved them, of how lucky he’d been to know them. His hand came down again, sticky. The man came down with his hand. “Shit!” Someone said from the other side of the clearing. The doe was gone. How unfortunate that the other hunter’s killing shot was successful all the same. “Shit,” he said again, quieter. He approached the dying hunter in a rush. Branches snapped in his wake. It was evening when a police officer arrived at Mrs. Goldson’s doorstep. She and her children sat around the dinner table, staring at their canned-tuna-and-barbecue-sauce sandwiches. No one had touched the food. They were worried sick. It was possible that the lousy meal would make them sicker. It was Millie who stood first. For how small she was, she had her father’s strength – not in her delicate little hands, but in the marrow of her bones. She let the officer in. Mrs. Goldson was right behind her, clutching the yellow fabric of her dress. “Where is he?” She asked. “What happened to him?” The officer removed his hat and held it to his chest. He glanced at Millie. She held his gaze, eyes flaring – or perhaps that extra shimmer was from unshed tears. He looked away. “Mrs. Goldson,” he said. “He’s… gone.” In the silence that followed, he handed Mrs. Goldson a piece of paper, slanted handwriting scrawled across it. St. Bernard’s Hospital of Marble, North Carolina. Room 113 . “It was an accident. He was shot by another hunter. I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Goldson held the paper in one shaky hand, the other still clutching the fabric of her dress, wrinkling the freshly ironed cotton. She didn’t say anything, just stood there and shook. Millie stood, too, frozen in time. Then, with a shudder, she turned to the officer, only a fraction of an inch. “Sir,” she whispered. “Please… did he… at least, was it quick?” She paused, then met his gaze through the blurriness of her tears. “Right between the eyes?” Return to Table of Contents

13 I am my own enemy by Kierra Reese Amaranth and Adolescence by Gray Fuller I began this hobby in the heart of the pandemic, although the seeds of my interests were long sown before. It was sustainability , the thought that I was able to make some small difference in the environment, naturalness , the notion of a home-grown cucumber and the taste to go along with it—and most simply and prominently—the novelty , the not-so-distant dream that I could create for myself something so arduous, beautiful, and primitive, which motivated my beginning. I had relied on my former professor, Mr. Dee, to get me started. The man who bewildered me in the world of Lewis Carrol, Oedipus complexes, and Freudian interpretations, inspired me with a dreamy story of slurping down freshly picked blackberries in the hot sun. He would diligently pick up my phone calls, answer my questions, and guide me on my journey to harvest. Eventually he stopped replying to my pictures of corn tassels and cucumber vines. The pandemic, and my teacher’s plans to retire, dried out his attention to my plot—just as the record-setting temperatures did the same to my pepper plants. The last time I saw the old man was at my school’s garden, a year later. As almost his final goodbye to me—and the professional world—he hacked away at weeds and began to transplant some young tomato plants. The garden, a half barren landscape still occupied with last-season’s crops, seemed to me an ending and a beginning. Like the old Dee’s exit from academia and entry to retirement, there seldom exist distinctions, boundaries, beginnings or endings, in gardening. Each planting season begins with a scramble for information. I research for hours, pull up crop rotations and seed prices and personal blogs and whatever else might lead me through the Summer. I graph out my crops with rulers and grids, and then stress for days. But as the growing season nears, as work on paper turns to work in my plots, and as a natural reality begins to take shape, my hobby again reminds me of its constraints (or lack thereof). The work my garden requires of me is simple— only made complex by my racing mind: water, sun, dirt. My compost pile, mulch stash, and irrigation system all go above the call of the tomato; its seeds will inevitably populate next season, a subtle, perennial thank you and F you to the father. My plots blend the beauty, the ugly, the complex and the simple. The sweet stench of dirt, decay, grass-clippings, and coffee grounds rises in the humid air. Insects inhabit the droopy elephant ears of my corn. The young cucumber plants reach up and wrap their fragile green vines around my trellis like children begging for their mamas. The summer heat is constantly upon me. Sweat always finds its way to my forehead. A morning trip to check on the plots, or an evening forage for more green beans results in stickiness. Robins and blue-jays pay a visit to my birdbath, quickly washing themselves in the cool water. This scene, this land confined to my crude fence-line, is what drives my Summer…The quietness of my little backyard, the engine of the passing car along my street. The focus of my neighbor Linwood, his freshly mowed lawn, his turnip greens and garlic (generations as old as him) all battered by the heat. My forgetful brain and zombie-like body moving from the garage to the yard, back to the garage for a shovel —no, a rake— do I have my water? the roses need a trim . The squirrels, the rabbits, the frog: they’re all part of nature, my nature. It’s limited, it’s narrow and kiddish… but it's mine. The wooden tepees made of loose sticks and water-flour glue are mine. The PVC pipes running underground are mine. The netting, loose and yet constant, running around my beds, is mine. But is the corn… is the dirt.. is the bird, is the sun is the sky is the land… mine? About the Writer... Gray Fuller is a light skinned, mixed kid from St. Louis. He’s a high school senior getting ready for college, a punter and a gardener. Gray has been published in newspapers around the Midwest such as the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the Kansas City Star, and The Tennessean. He loves to write mostly about politics, but feels most proud about the works he writes for himself. About the Artist... Kierra Reese is a sophomore at Douglas Anderson .At the school, Kierra is an arts major who dedicates their life to her artistry.

Truth in Bitterness— A Small Look at Addiction Josselyn Ortiz Twirler/Biter/Picker Triptych Rachel Brown The perfect slice of orange is an unremarkable piece. It has juicy individual droplets, yet, at a glance, the whole looks fruitless and dry. This is how I know that this orange is in rehab. A piece of translucent skin is ripped and torn in decision-making. Therefore, the orange has no choice but to hide beneath its sweat and tender tears. Past the thin layers of fond memories and into the traumatic events, he stares at me in agonizing pain. Unspoken truth lays beneath this insufferable silence--he refuses to talk to anyone. This orange is addicted to the rush of color and taste. Without the color orange, he is all but nameless. He is a stranger in the droplets of sweet bitterness. He knows he possesses such acidity--we all know he gets it from his father orange. — "Without the color orange, he is all but nameless. He is a stranger in the droplets of sweet bitterness." — This orange is in rehab because my grandmother insists he is too vulnerable and incapable of reasoning. Everyone must think he is incompetent, but maybe he has seen more than the rest of us. And, as I sit here, underneath the inviting sun, I can testify that he is small and disappointed. Thirty minutes have passed since my arrival, and yet he still insists that he is fine. But can we trust him? Can I trust him? I see his eagerness as he pleads for me to let him go. We know how bitter it is to see him rot on the kitchen counter, but we must lie to him. We must tell him to be patient and complacent--so as not to make him pound his orange fists on the visitor’s table. And I can see the misty truth hideously splatter all over our shared silence. My grandmother doesn’t grace him in her prayers anymore because she knows he is in rehab. He has been there three times. Esther has yet to visit her son from past experiences, and I am late in peeling this scenario. I was unaware of that one time he spent Christmas with the neighborhood ‘junkies.’ Huddling in the corner of 5th and 6th avenue, I am sure everyone could see a group of cold nobodies. This was not what Esther saw for her little orange--everyone’s little brother. The one who played with car toys and looked up older girls’ skirts even in kindergarten. The one who seemed aloof in his teenage years as if he was sure to be bound to daily mediocrities. Juan is everyone’s little brother. The youngest of eight--how could my grandmother fail to nurture him? Return to Table of Contents

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

< Back zlatá hvězda by Sabrina Inga The World is Burning. Look Back. By Chloe Backes “But Lot’s wife looked back, and she became a pillar of salt.” Genesis 19:26 I have seen what those men do to the angels. How they surround like vultures, look down at us as we search for the stars— block out with big black wings spread like fingers, outstretched, reaching hungrily for life. We live like paranoid animals. Rabbits that run through day and dark, we tend to see nothing but fear as the bird swoops down, we bow cheeks on chilled sand, our palms young and raw, sticky with the salt of purity. Angel, you must look back at the world—the life within it: isopods hidden in the damp crunched pockets of dirt slopped and sun-worn plastic bags. The autumn air brushing past it all, into the trees as leaves scatter in our sun, it is a daytime disco as confetti from the crape myrtle tree, pink and plentiful, land on what is now rose-petaled sidewalks littered with crunches of bright orange, splashed acorns from the water oak trees that the squirrels run through, careless of the abundance they drop. An acorn lands on a pedestrian's head as they look up simply to giggle to themselves, and later to their friends, about the funny thing that happened to them at the park today. My God, I know more than what you and your servicemen assume. You said this city was below salvation, but did you even look for its humanity? Beautiful people, full of flaw and unorganized color, canvases who could have been more but were burnt, unable to see anything except for sin—they were more to this world than sin: "You said this city was below salvation, but / did you even look for its humanity?" They were young ladies with their tongues stuck out, windows down, they scream knowledge in the form of hip-hop music. Their skin tastes like salt, fresh from the sea. They live unafraid of the sun. Old men in worn, nearly antique flannel shirts, take one determined step forward and one hopeful step back in the kitchen they’ve had since they were the naive age of nineteen. Still naive, I see them silently look down to cry as they hold onto their partner in the butterscotch candlelight, praying to at least save their love. Little children, voices so light, they know not to lower their strength as the world says goodnight. Fighting the tide their yawns are wide as they measure their height, I wished for them a longer life. My God, our God, your angels looked at us and said: We are going to destroy this place. The park I used to dance at, where the disco would sparkle as I spun, and the lizards would bathe in the sun. They told us they would kill this land, set the fire and leave us as roadkill. They said: The outcry to the LORD against its people is too great that he has sent us to destroy it. And as my husband cried, all I could do was question you. You, who floods and sets aflame all the world with your handgun named judgement. I looked back at my home. We were worth fighting for. About the Author... Chloe Backes is the Marketing Liaison of the Elan literary magazine staff. A visual artist and creative writer, she often speaks on the beauty of life, the complexities of relationships, and the cyclical nature of it all. About the Artist... Sabrina Inga is a junior at Savannah Arts Academy in Savannah, Georgia, where she majors in visual arts. Her favorite mediums to use are acrylic paint and graphite, however, she likes to experiment with different techniques. She is currently taking an AP 2D art class, where her main focus is exploring fairy tales and myths from different cultures.

Giana Bradshaw Giana Bradshaw is a senior in the Creative Writing Department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She enjoys writing fiction and performing spoken word.

Deidra Curtis Deidra Curtis (She/Her) is a young African American writer in Jacksonville Florida. She attends Douglas Anderson School of the Arts as a Creative Writer and the junior Editor-in-Chief of Élan. She has a love for the thriller genre when it comes to fictions tales to read, but her passion runs deeper for writing personal poems on societal issues and creative nonfiction.

Spring/Summer 2024 Cover art: Covered by Sophia Waller Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Editor's Note 0 Niveah Glover, Emma Klopfer, Jaslyn Dickerson, Avery Grossman Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Texas Children Second Place Team 1 Isobel Stevenson Small Title Stella McCoy Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button the disease called home. Lurking 2 Anayelli Andrews-Nieves Small Title Sophia Gapuz Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button My.BaptistChart.com A Mother's Love 3 Abbey Griffin Small Title Emilia Hickman Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Switchboard Operators 4 Allison Clausen Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button "You can almost chart income inequality over the years by measuring the height of New York's ceilings." Star II 5 Angelina Avelino Small Title England Townsend Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Avarice Grin 6 Small Title Max Watt Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Vignettes of Childhood in the House at the Edge of the World Morph 7 Jada Walker Small Title Ryan Griffin Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button I confess to the sea Broken Limbs 8 Jacob Jing Small Title Abigail Cashwell Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Myth Still Holding On 9 Hannah Rouse Small Title Andie Crawford Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Boathouse Summer Job 10 Georgia Witt Small Title Lillian Cosby Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Felicity 11 Small Title England Townsend Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Son, Your Mother is Praying for You Sa Aking Mga Kamay 12 Amaya Thoene Small Title Sophia Gapuz Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Wax-Feathered Heart Gilded Embrace 13 Izzy Falgas Small Title Isabella Woods Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Sullen Memories of a Bereaved Adult Daffodils 15 Astrid Henry Small Title Dare Macchione Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button to my mother, who never cried in room 207 Welcome to the Family 16 Aarushi Gupta Small Title Amrita Ketireddy Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button To Breathe Underwater 17 Joyce Ma Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button jesus seen once in Ohio Religious Passing 18 Alahna Vallone Small Title Mai Tran Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Memories Plucked From the Vine Phalaenopsis Orchid 14 Cove Johnson Rabidoux Small Title Eavin Carney Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST"

8 < Back thoughts at longhorn Nico Johnson Sins of the mother by Marshall Shane thoughts at longhorn by Nico Johnson we’re at your 51st birthday dinner, you’re sitting across from me. the loud hustle and bustle of the waiting staff bringing table 23's hot lava cake and table 36's medium steak swallow up my pitiful attempts at small talk. in this moment i wonder what it’s like being you. to see this hand-me down face staring back at you and expecting something. maybe you sit and try to find little differences. i’ve got longer lashes, bigger eyes, and thick, curly hair that couldn’t possibly have come from you. or maybe you don’t think about this at all. maybe i’m just overthinking your gaze. all these thoughts join the pile of things i don’t say just like i don’t say that i’m glad you stayed this long but you still say I’m just happy you showed up this time. we talk about school, the boy i’m supposed to like, the lack of ketchup, and the soggy fries. your hair, uneven and straight as a board, is longer since we last spoke just like the new wrinkles sprouting at the edges of your eyes. i talk about my writing, and you say you got it from me, turning the spotlight to back you rapidly. I loved to write. i don’t remember you ever writing. in fact, i have very little memory of you at all, i don’t even remember what you looked like before i was twelve. i never saw you much. before then the idea of mother was a patchwork quilt of the mothers on tv who looked at their children like they hung the sun. you never see me now. but i still remember the way you held me tightly in your arms the night CPS knocked on our trailer door. i remember how the words I’m sorry spilled messily from your lips like a prayer. i remember trying to comfort you with my frail little hands brushing through your hair telling you it’s okay. i remember wishing you hugged me like that all the time. and now I catch myself in times of sadness searching my memories for the stale scent of sweat and nicotine. i blink back into reality and look at your thin hair, streaked with gray and the stressors of middle age, and peer through the sides of my eyes at my own because i cut my hair shorter every single time and i know one day you won’t say she’s mine . and i know that you know that when you look into your bathroom mirror it tells you that i am what you could’ve been just as mine whispers that you are all i will ever be. we’ve always been just a little too much alike. as we leave you hold my hand and say i love you the sunset paints you in its soft glow as you finally let me go. "i quietly mourn the knowledge that the light will never shine bright enough// to dissipate the shadows we cling to// in place of one another." and to myself in the separate car ride home i quietly mourn the knowledge that the light will never shine bright enough to dissipate the shadows we cling to in place of one another. About the Writer... Nico Johnson is a senior creative writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She primarily writes fiction and non-fiction, but poetry also holds a special place in her heart. About the Artist... Marshall Shane is currently a junior in high school with a passion for the arts and the macabre.