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If you drive down 103rd in Orange Park, you come across a small apartment complex just off the road right next to a convenience store. If you pull up to the gate it screeches as its long arms go to expand for you, and most people drive in cautiously, looking up at all the tall uniform buildings. In building ten, on the second floor is Apartment 201. Apartment 201 is special for several reasons. It is where I went every other weekend, and select holidays, for six months when my mother left her husband. It is also the first place I saw my mother genuinely laugh. Though the apartment stayed empty for most of the time we were there, housing only a couch, a cot for my sister, a television, and my mother’s room that was piled with all the things she could take from the old house, some remaining unpacked, looming in her closet like giant monoliths, I was happy. At first we were all quiet, staying to our separate spaces in the small enclosure. My mom in her room, my sister on the cot, and I chose the porch. My mom never put lawn chairs out there and it remained bare, the concrete ground was rough and had a mysterious gouge near the center. Every night I would lay out on that porch, or stand, grasping the flaking railing, white paint peeling back to show raw wood. I listened to the summer crickets and cicadas create an orchestra. It was the most peace I had in a while. The humid air, and the streetlights and their orange glow. I pressed my forehead to the bars of the railing, and brought my knees to my chest, comforted to watch the people who came and went but never stayed in the late night parking lot. Then Holidays came around and we cooked in the tiny kitchen all day. I smeared pumpkin pie over my mom’s face, and instead of yelling she laughed and dipped her finger in too. We sat on the couch, plates in our laps and ate while watching a chick flick, something my mother’s husband hated. In December, when my mother stepped out to feel the cold I watched her take in a large breath of the crisp hair, her chest inflating and expanding as she let it flow through her. I saw a smile crack on her face. She began to laugh. This laugh was free and loud and full of snorting, something my sister did as well. I remember laughing with her before we went inside to huddle in the house, our hands wrapped around mugs of hot chocolate. -Zoey Carter, Junior Art Editor

This Vlog is being posted  a tad late, but check it out anyway! The Elan Staff couldn’t be more excited to share this new year with you.

As a senior, this has been a year of lasts. Of leaving. Of using my last school supplies, running out of paper, and not finding a reason to buy a new ream. This has been a year of cardboard boxes. Wrapping college in tissue and duct taping the ends. Of new addresses. New homes. Throughout the last couple years at Douglas Anderson, poetry has become my way of breathing. I write what I don’t understand, what I want to know, what I want to forget, apologies. I write about mountains and rivers and trees and seasons. I write poems about leaving. Sometimes, I’ve found, that writing what is real is the most difficult to do. It’s been hard for me to accept the fact that I won’t be able to call my friends next year, tell them I am outside their homes and want to get burritos. It’s been hard for me to accept the fact that I won’t park next to their cars every day, walk to classes in the morning, steal their lunches. I’ve begun putting these feelings into poems—suffocating my fear in similes, worries weighing heavy on the words. Although I often feel lost in all of these lasts, I know that I have to appreciate them for what they are. I have to remember the last looks. The last bits of laughter. I have to remember it all and turn them into words. Into poems. If you’re feeling stuck and need some inspiration, here are my favorite poems about leaving, and remembering: Fifth Grade Autobiography by Rita Dove (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182222) Heavy Summer Rain by Jane Kenyon (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/238652) You Can Have It by Philip Levine (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179090) -- Raegan Carpenter, Poetry Editor

I’ve always dreamed of being the Red Ranger from Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. He led everyone and sought wisdom whenever he needed direction. Though brash at times, he did whatever it took to protect and enlighten his fellow rangers. But what happens when the morpher isn’t working? What happens when the megazords and ferocious monsters leave the screen? Finding superheroes beyond the screen was always a challenge since I wasn’t as avid of a reader as I am now. I skimmed over Shel Silverstein’s poetry, knew every shade of Brown Bear, and scarcely remembered Dr. Seuss’s intricate rhyme schemes. But in middle school, I encountered Jacqueline Woodson’s Locomotion, a book about a young man that used poetry to talk about the trials of his life. After I read her book, I made it my mission to meet Lonnie. I looked everywhere I could -- on websites, social media, newspapers, but nothing ever came up. I eventually gave up and stopped looking for Lonnie since he hadn’t shown up. But about four weeks ago, Lonnie’s “mom,” Jacqueline Woodson, popped up. One of my mentor’s sent me an application for her workshop and I filled it out as soon as I got it. After waiting for my acceptance, I thought long and hard about Lonnie again, pondering. I wonder if Lonnie is her son or nephew or someone she knows. The curiosity grappled me again and reached a new peak as soon as I found out that I was accepted into her workshop. Finally, I thought, I might just get to find out about who Lonnie really is. During the workshop, Ms. Woodson discussed her past books, Locomotion, If You Come Softly, After Tupac and D Foster, and her recent National Book Award winning memoir, Brown Girl Dreaming. I became infatuated with her immediacy and connectivity with her work. She rattled off sections of her past books as if she were reading from the page. I couldn’t believe that she had memorized whole sections of a book. But I figured since it was her work that she ought to know it. One of the students asked her if Locomotion was real, and she said he wasn’t. I was a bit saddened but I understood when she told us, jokingly, that “Fiction is just professionally lying.” We laughed and continued to inquire about topics ranging from her books and suggestions for building a better story to even her friendship with her editor. After participating in the writing exercise, all of the other younger writers took pictures with her and dispersed back to their parents while I walked with her through the Ritz. Her eyes shone as she walked, analyzing everything that good old LaVilla had to offer back in the days. As we walked through the museum, she inquired about everything, even one of the tag-lines of a photographer. When we walked towards the end of the museum, we talked about one of Jacksonville’s greatest and unfortunate tragedies -- Ax Handle Saturday. As I explained the nuances to her, she looked with disbelief. She wanted to find more of the history that had been hidden in Jacksonville. I then told her about the Kingsely Plantation and a story that I had created from my last visit. She became so engaged that we even discussed the Gullah Geechee people and their relevance in the south and even possibilities for stories about them. Before she left, she signed my journal and took a picture with me. As I waited for my mom to pick me up, I realized that I was Locomotion the entire time. Lonnie and I starting writing and learned the power of words around the same time. I guess you could say that you become your superheroes when you look up to them long enough. That’s the best part about Fall -- the best things will hit the ground someday. We just have wait until they are ready. -Dwight James III, Senior Marketing & Social Media Editor

This year, being a senior the phrase “New Beginnings” brings a certain series of images to my mind. That is, moving boxes and masking tape, college acceptance letters, graduation, moving out, and moving on. All the talk of universities, plans for apartments, and big cities makes me break out in hives internally and makes me think a little less of myself because I don’t know if I want any of that. While I see all of my friends buying cute towels for their dorms and anxiously going to the mailbox every day I always ask myself if I am doing the right thing. Is it ok that I don’t have a desire to move away? Or go to a university just nearly four months after I’ve graduated? Is it normal that I am very much content living at home and going to community college for the first two years? I ask myself these questions almost once a day and sometimes those questions feel like they eat me alive. And when anyone asks me where I am going to school next year is it ok that I’m almost ashamed to say? These questions are ones that I only know the answer to. And there is no right or wrong ones. And I have learned that over the last few weeks. I have learned not to compare myself to others as much even though it’s a true struggle. I have learned that everyone has different goals and different plans. And most importantly, I have learned that my choices cannot be made just to live up to the standards of others. So instead I have decided to hustle hard, think good thoughts, and be a goal digger. And as my friends may sit in a campus library across the country, I can only hope that I won’t regret the decisions I have made. -Madison George, Social Media Editor

My mother cannot read the same book twice. She just can't do it. She has made exceptions for franchises like Twilight and Hungry Games, but only as a refresher before she goes and sees the movies. She is constantly looking for new material to entertain her, new characters to meet and new plot lines to follow. I, on the other hand, can't put a good book down. The first time that I read "Gone With the Wind" by Margaret Mitchell was in sixth grade. It's 1,024 pages long and I finished it in a weekend. Since then, I've consistently read it again once or twice every year. Sometimes, when I'm having a bad day or am feeling entirely uninspired in my own writing, I'll flip to the part where Rhett steals a horse for Scarlett, or where Frank Kennedy falls in love with a girl dressed in drapes as if that's where I'd left off, and read on from there. I'm not a fiction writer. I write fiction, sometimes, but it's not how I identify. I am, however, a fiction reader. I love analyzing the same plot line over and over again; I love crying when my favorite character dies or losses love all  over again. I enjoy it just as much as I enjoy finding new literature to read. I think, in part, it's because I understand how much a writer has to go through to create something like this. To write a novel, or even a poem or a short story, a writer has to know their characters fully. We don't usually make things up as we go along. We usually plan things out, we think about who our characters are; we think about how and why these things are happening to them. To a writer, their characters are real people. So to me, when I read about them, these characters are real people too. The best part of writing is that it encapsulates humanity. I think that I read the same novels again and again because I can relate to them, even if the story does take place in Georgia during the Civil War or in a constant loop of reincarnation. I see myself in the characters and in the lessons they learn. I want to see their triumphs, to laugh at the funny things that happen in their lives and even to relive their heartbreak. Novels remind me that everything ends, but also that everything can begin again. It's kind of hopeful. And so, I can't ever really move on from a story that truly touches me. Do you have any novels like that? -Savannah Thanscheidt, Web Editor

I have read countless quotes, excerpts, and lines of poetry that have inspired me. But, no line of poetry, no paragraph from a fiction piece, no “quote of the day” has ever resonated with me the way Richard Blanco’s poem, “América,” did. This poem discusses a Cuban family’s struggle with balancing, and accepting two cultures. I have a strong attachment to this idea because I often find myself in the same situation. I, like the characters in Blanco’s poem, am Hispanic. My mother was born in La Habana, Cuba, and my father in Fajardo, Puerto Rico. I was born in Jacksonville, as an American, but my parents raised me with their Hispanic customs. We celebrate Hispanic holidays like Three Kings Day and Hispanic Heritage Month the same way Americans celebrated Veterans Day, and Martin Luther King Jr. Day. But we never celebrated them both. It was either Veterans day, or Hispanic Heritage month. As I got older I began to reflect on my past and realized the significance in all of these differences. I began expressing interest in learning about my background as an American Citizen. I’d spend my entire childhood embracing the Hispanic side of me, so I never got the chance to explore the American. My family soon tried to adopt the beliefs. Simple things like having turkey on Thanksgiving, and putting American Flags on our lawn during Veterans Day. Studying American history and culture in so much detail that it became engrained within us in the same way Hispanic culture was. After this period of self-discovery, I realized that balancing both cultures was harder than I thought. My attempts, though genuine, did not feel natural. I could not be only Hispanic or American. I am a Hispanic American, and I'm allowed to be both. The cultural resonance and applicability of this poem gave me justification in my realization. Blanco expressed to me, with excruciatingly vivid detail that is hard to balance two cultures at once. That it is impossible to rid of my roots. But that it is possible, to learn to accept both cultures for what they are, and how they play a role in my life. This poem completely captivated me and gave me a sense of self-realization that I had never experienced before. Now, when someone asks me where I’m from, or what I am, I tell him or her, with pride, that I’m a Hispanic American. I embrace my roots and enlighten others about my Hispanic and American heritage, rather than hide it. I now celebrate all holidays not just “the Hispanic way” or “the American way” but both ways. I wear red white and blue to display pride for America, and also for Cuba and Puerto Rico as well. Cuba, Puerto Rico, and America all share the same colors on the flag, and I share all the same colors in the complex, layered concept of my identity. -Briana Lopez, Junior Social Media Editor Read it here! Follow the link: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/245318

Check out our very first monthly Vlog post! Get a look into how our Editors-In-Chief and lovely teacher sponsor feel about Élan and what it means to them.

Writing is built on relationships. Writing is composed, constructed, resurrected, and thrown together with a relationship in mind. In literature, readers -myself included- are quick to judge the characters without in depth analysis or benefit of the doubt to the situation unfolding. As readers you place your struggles and the concepts of your own personal relationships into the text, sometimes letting it overshadow the new way of thinking the writer wants you to experience. For example, last year, I read the book Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neal Hurston. This book is sewn together with beautiful language as it follows the life of Janie, a mixed race woman in the early 1900s. Though I connected to the strength and determination the main character had the entire time in the book, I couldn't understand why she stayed married to a man who abused her. Even after reading this book, I weighed the argument that Janie had a nice life married to a pastor but was muted into submission by him. I didn't understand why she didn't just pack her stuff and leave. As a senior in high school I have already begun to mentally pack my bags for college and have grown to understand Janie. I've learned that even when the front door is open it's hard to leave the people and the place you've called home for so long, that there is a relationship you have to even the drippy faucet you'll only notice when you're gone. As the year progresses I take the idea on relationships Hurston gave her character Janie and now look for it in other stories. Relationships run deep. They don't need to be subjected to a list of archetypical characters. In the long run, they are really hard to walk away from. -Chrissy Thelemann, Submissions Editor

Welcome to Élan literary magazine.  This launch of our website is the beginning of what our staff hopes will be a home for aspiring young writers and artists. We are proud that what started out as an after school club in 1986 has grown to a publication that accepts submissions from national and international high school students. This year, as our inaugural dive into the digital world, we will publish two online magazines. A year-end print edition will highlight the best of all this work. Our staff selects all pieces for publication through three to four rounds of evaluation as part of a blind reading process. Writing submissions, which include fiction, non-fiction and poetry, are read by all staff members and art pieces are chosen by group discussion. We follow the National Council for Teachers of English guidelines for excellence in writing and look to seasoned professional writers and professors of English for our overall finalists in writing and art. The experience of creating our first digital magazine after years of print editions has deepened our identity as a publication run by young artists and writers for young artists and writers. As the world becomes involved in our endeavor, we strive to be on par with prestigious literary publications in offering artists new opportunities to share work. We are a dedicated staff under the direction of two passionate teachers, and we hope to make the staffs of years past proud. With that said, we continue the tradition of spontaneous, boundless love for art and literature, while adding a fresh edge that reflects the changing dynamics for youth around the world. This website is a place for creative thoughts to be published, but also a place for reflection and interpretation. It is our valued readers who keep such an imaginative book alive. With much gratitude, Jenn Carter and Emily Cramer, Editors-in-Chief

Over the course of this school year, our staff created a whole new position for getting our name out and really advertising the launch of our books and the work that we do. Being the first social media editor, there was a lot to do, and so much to leave behind. I had the privilege of having junior social media editor Madison work under me and really help prepare the role of what social media is. During book launches, it consists of consistent and multiple posts throughout the week to help promote the work from all of you. Madison and I wanted to ensure that your voices would be heard farther than the boundaries of our school. We were really excited when we got our first outside submissions, because that meant we were doing something right. So to guarantee that more would come, we researched other magazines and studied their social media habits to see just how well they reached out to their writers and readers as well. In doing that, we created ways to stay involved and keep in contact with you as much as we could. Thus, Mondays and Fridays were dedicated to posts about our current book. We highlighted what we felt best represented the caliber of both art and writing that we publish. That way not only could we show our gratitude and appreciation of the talent that you have, but also spread the word. Without a doubt, this position was a time-consuming but rewarding job to have. I feel each and every staff position is crucial to the success of this publication, social media being the driving force to help find all of you. I am completely satisfied in the work that we have accomplished (although I know next year, it will run more smoothly,) and I hope you enjoy your new social media editor, Madison, as much as I did. The next chapter to Élan is in such incredible hands and I couldn’t be more confident in the way all of our future seniors will do. So thank you readers for making our jobs on this staff so incredibly rewarding and fulfilling. We could not produce the work that we do without you. I know this publication will thrive, and I am so happy to have been a part of it. -- Haley Hitzing, Social Media Editor

Fiction writing is…hard. For me, the longer the piece, the harder it is to produce words. Perhaps it’s a magical word count; you reach a certain amount of words and suddenly the pages seem too crowded. So crowded, in fact, that your mind refuses to crowd the poor pages any more. This past November (feeling inspired by the incredible fiction pieces we received in our Winter Submissions) I decided to participate in NANOWRIMO, National Novel Writing Month. Basically, you have a goal of a certain amount of words per day which by the end of November will hopefully have produced a full novel. It’s hard enough to keep your thoughts organized to reach that word count, but on top of school and work, it forces your brain into overtime. The progress I made was below satisfactory, I can assure you, and yet I feel somehow better about my writing as a whole. Shaping the characters, working through the plot, it has been a rough journey, but I’m closer to the words because of it. I have a few tips, though, for your long-term writing process: Don’t compare yourself to other famous writers. Jane Austen may be able to create a timeless masterpiece, but that doesn’t mean your characters should go around saying, “Oh, there is nothing more I love than to sit and enjoy the splendors of reading, Mr. Smith! I daresay a woman who does not enjoy reading has not fully exercised the true potential of her mind!” If you reach a block, just keep writing. Even if the words are nonsense, sometimes the subconscious powers your writing more than you know, and you just might get some material out of it. Sometimes it’s not about the end result. The point of NANOWRIMO was not to produce the next award winning novel – it’s about the experience. –Zoe DeWitt, Fiction Editor