< Table of Contents Star II by England Townsend "You can almost chart income inequality over the years by measuring the height of New York's ceilings." By Angelina Avelino I. the day we run out of bread striding through the market around the corner, hand in hand with Sammy. Lucia waits at home, perched amongst deteriorating skylines outlining the inequality of our jagged lives. gripping onto balcony rails, she leans far enough to catch glimpses of the philanthropic monuments of America. envisioning an epoch, Lucia will dispel misery as a skyscraper. “trudging past the frozen aisle, Sammy believes he’ll morph into a glacier.” hand in hand with Sammy, trudging past the frozen aisle, Sammy believes he’ll morph into a glacier. adjusting instead to an aerial craft across Alaska, he waits for me on the other end. i’m frigid in thought, unable to unravel anything other than the stinging silence of the apartment we share. II. i left the loaves of bread on a platter a slight creak, a single ray. the room reeks of glue and varnish when he comes home, a kiss on each of our foreheads. loaves of bread on a platter serve as centerpiece, while mother obliquely imparts breaking news. wrapping the bread into its pertaining bag, stuck in cyclical failed attempts of unemployment, she's perched amongst skylines, a state of inner turmoil that’ll never resurface. molding the insignificant into celestial lyrics meant for me and the pearl of the gods above, i’m just a prolific poet against our barren room wall. under tidal currents of auroral pages, placing poems in a cache, never finished. i’m cognizant of the life we seem to be irrevocably meshed into. tomorrow morning we’ll split the loaves of bread into fifths. About the Writer... Angelina Tang is a writer currently studying at Williamsville East High School. She is the self-published author of Birds Playing God, and her work has previously appeared in Cathartic Youth Lit and Polyphony Lit. She would like to learn how to design planners, and her favorite flower is the wisteria. About the Artist... England Townsend is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in drawing and painting, but enjoys other forms of art such as printmaking and photography. With each creation, Townsend strives to push her boundaries and explore different ways of producing art. She is excited to keep creating to learn and share her progress with the world.

< Back Editor's Note Brendan Nurczyk, Emma Klopfer, Niveah Glover Spring heralds renewal. As what remains of winter melts, we find ourselves scampering to be ready for the new life warmer months promise. While our lives speed forward it's easy to forget to carve out moments of standing still. Our lives and bodies ever-changing, aging, moving, we are constantly taking on new challenges and opening new chapters. In our first issue of our 37th year we offer this art and language as a moment of slowing down to reflect. A kind of refuge from the cacophony of the daily . In this issue you will find work that wrestles with moments of uncertainty, transition, and what it means to belong to a place, even if it's just for a moment. We present to you Elan's Spring/Summer 2023 issue, an issue that asks us to reflect on not just where we're from, but also where we're heading.

6 The Bracelet by Nylah Watkins The Bracelet sits pretty, and lonely on her nightstand. Each bead is brown; a subtle combination of Mahogany and Russet. But, when the bead is turned over, the brown slides into a shade of wheat, then back to brown again. Gilded gold cylinders engraved with flowery designs rest between each of the beads, trailing down to a rusty elephant charm. The Bracelet never sees outside of the house, it barely leaves the nightstand. When the girl leaves every morning, she turns the beads over to their wheat side. When she comes home, she likes to look at the brown side of the beads, staring with a hint of jealousy, wishing she could switch sides just as easily as her beads do. When the girl wraps up her daily staring-session, she straightens herself up, and turns the beads of the bracelet to the wheat-colored side, and stares at them before bed, prepping herself before she goes to sleep. When she wakes up, she keeps the beads on their lighter side all morning, before flipping them once more. Sometimes, she thinks about leaving the beads on the brown side. She never does. She allows herself one last glance at the brown beads, then she flips them over to their wheat-colored side and leaves for the day. This girl is pretty, and she is never alone; but she is always lonely. She gets up at 4 am every morning to build herself, no matter how tired she is. Some days, she cries when her alarm rings at the early hour. She curses herself until she gets out of bed. The girl has the same routine: shower, wash face, moisturize. She combs out her hair. Concealer before foundation, then more concealer on top. Thin black eyeliner with black mascara coating each lash, until they weigh heavy on her eyes. She picks out something cute to wear, usually a mini skirt and a crop top; her boyfriend likes it when she wears these clothes, even if it’s cold outside. She arrives at school early to meet him. They kiss until the bell rings. She does not want to sometimes, even though she never says this. At lunch she sits with her large group of friends, people who she hardly knows even though she’s known them for years. They speak in tongues, that’s what it sounds like to her anyway; she could less about their meaningless words. They invite her to parties, to sleepovers, she says yes. She never says no anymore, she’s learned not to. When she would say no, they would pout or shoot her dirty looks; why not Addie? Do you think you're too good for us? She has never said no again. Her boyfriend is loud behind her, he wraps his arm around her waist and laughs with his stupid friends. When he remembers her existence, he kisses her, again, in front of everyone to show that she is his. She smiles and giggles when he does this, but she wishes he would stop. She pleads with him in her eyes every day to stop, but he never sees her. He never has. All she can do is hold tight, and wait for the day to pass, for the moment where she can return home to her Bracelet, flip the beads over to their side of Russet and Mahogany brown, and stare at them once more. About the Writer... Nylah Watkins is a writer and a student at Douglass Anderson High School. She enjoys spreading the messages, and having meaningful conversations to provoke the thoughts of others. She strives to improve herself and the livelihood of those around her.

< Table of Contents The Switchboard Operators By Allison Clausen It seemed like every time Helen returned to the telecommunications office, there were fewer women working and more calls to connect. The office was only slightly brighter than the dusk outside, illuminated by a few flickering lights that hummed above the rows of consoles. Each console had hundreds upon hundreds of jacks that made Helen’s head swim when she looked at them, and multicolored wires she tried desperately not to tangle. “The only person who ever looked at her was Rose O’Neal, another woman at the office, whose smile brightened the room more than the large industrial lights.” She had started developing a callus on her thumb and index finger from the strain reliefs dragging across her fingers as she connected call after call, though she told herself she didn’t mind. It wasn’t like anyone was looking at her hands. The only person who ever looked at her was Rose O’Neal, another woman at the office, whose smile brightened the room more than the large industrial lights. The two of them had become something close to friends over the past few months. They had always known each other—they lived in the same area, ran into each other in shops or restaurants—but had only started talking when they started working. Not during work, as Rose connected international calls, and Helen was in a different room with domestic ones, but afterwards. When Helen arrived at the office, Rose beamed at her from the position at the first console, causing their supervisor to snap, “That’s four more hours, Ms. O’Neal,” though Rose accumulated four hours each shift, so it was hardly worth saying. Helen never smiled in response, keeping her gaze steeled forward. If she offered anything in return, she was bound to receive extra hours as well, and her shift wouldn’t end at the same time as Rose’s. Rose was only doing what she could to ensure the two of them didn’t have to walk the darkened streets of Providence alone, and though she had never said so, Helen appreciated it. The supervisor’s eyes raked heavily across Helen’s face, but she refused to glorify him with so much as a glance. She moved to the next room, head raised, back straight, and set her purse down on a chair before the console, hanging her hat on the back. There was no use sitting down—there weren’t enough of them working the night shift, and Helen had to stay standing to sprint back and forth between each jack. There was only one other woman with her at the moment. But under their supervisor’s harsh glare, they weren’t allowed to speak. There was hardly time to talk, anyway, not with the constant ringing and connecting, over and over and over. As usual, Rose and Helen left the office together that morning and stepped down the sidewalk in unison. “That building gets so stuffy,” Rose complained, making a big show of taking a deep breath in through her nose. Helen took a breath too and walked lightly in her heels. “It is,” she agreed. “Especially after being on your feet all day.” “And never talking. Ugh!” Rose exclaimed. “You know, when we all started getting jobs I thought, ‘This is it. We’re finally going to be treated like men.’ But we still aren’t, are we?” “I don’t want to be treated like a man ,” Helen said with a scoff. “But I wouldn’t mind some decency.” “They could at least let us talk,” Rose said, crossing her arms and tilting her head back. “Or smile, even. You remember Betty? “Sure.” “Word is she hasn’t been around because they fired her for laughing. Can you believe that? Laughing!” Helen shook her head in vexation. “I heard they’ll fire you if you get married.” “Mm, I heard that too,” Rose said, “and that’s a real shame because I’ve had an eye on someone for a while now.” “You have?” Helen turned her head to look at her. Rose was focused on something in the distance, something Helen couldn’t see. “Since when?” Rose didn’t look back at her, fiddling with the bag around her shoulder. “Since we started this job, that’s when. Part of me got it to impress him.” “Well, who is it? What’s his name?” Rose shook her head. “I’m not telling until I know he and I are serious.” “Oh, please,” Helen said. “There’s not a man at all, is there?” The two of them fell silent, accompanied only by the noise of their heels on the pavement. The sun was just barely making its way past the horizon, a dim green peeking in between the buildings behind them. Helen’s house was only a block or two away, and Rose’s a little farther, but there was no way they were going to walk so long without saying anything, though what to say was troubling. Helen had a hard time imagining Rose in a life outside of their job, not that she couldn’t believe Rose wasn’t out and about flirting with men. No, the thought was entirely believable. But Helen never did anything like that. She went home to her parents, ate a small meal, woke up, ate again, and went to work. She hardly talked. She hardly laughed. She had no man to impress. Only twenty dollars a week, sore feet, and calluses. After mulling it over in a few short moments, Helen broke the tension and asked, “They let that new girl wear skates.” Rose’s hand on her bag fell still, and she glanced over at Helen, eyebrows raised curiously. “Who?” Helen shrugged. “Think her name is Louise.” Rose looked a little dubious. “What, she just skates around the place taking calls?” “Mhm.” “Could be fun, I guess.” “I never learned.” “It’s not too hard,” Rose responded, a smile starting to crinkle at the corners of her eyes. “I’d teach you if we ever had a second to ourselves. Heaven knows we need some fun around here.” The smile fell as quickly as it had appeared. “Did you hear about the girl in Boston?” “Do you know how many girls in Boston there are?” Helen asked instead of answering. “She worked switches, too,” Rose continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Killed herself last night. It was in the paper.” Helen let out a heavy exhale, murmuring, “Can’t really blame her.” Rose made a noise of agreement, then asked, “You wouldn’t though, would you?” “No,” Helen said. “I need the money. Besides, I’d miss this.” “Miss what ? Taking calls?” “No way,” Helen shook her head. “I’d miss talking to you.” She had spoken before she even realized she was thinking it, and the thought surprised her. Now that it had been said, and the words were lingering in the early morning air, Helen realized speaking with Rose may be the only thing she ever looked forward to. It was starting to stump her, but she didn’t dwell on it too long, Rose’s voice cutting through her thoughts: “I have considered leaving, but I wouldn’t go to any extremes or anything.” Rose was full of surprises tonight, sharing more than she usually did, so Helen asked another question. “Why haven’t you?” “Why haven’t I left?” “Mhm.” “I told you, to impress someone.” Helen raised an eyebrow. “Well, is it working?” Rose shrugged. “I’m not sure, yet.” “I doubt anybody’s worth working this job for.” Rose met Helen’s eyes for a brief moment. “Some people are,” she said. About the Writer... Allison Clausen is a senior Creative Writing student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Even outside of school, she spends most of her time writing, and has an appreciation for all genres. Her favorite genre to write is fiction.

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

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

Dysmorphia by LaBrenda Bell GAIA by Lynn Kong Gaia needn’t travail, she dines, ingests fingers and whole mythologies of motherhood and torpor. We ask her, what is it, this orange thing called suffering? Why did you have to make bewilderment out of your first slumber, out of your tasseled thrashings with the sky? Why can’t we smile? You have made eternal Niobes of us all, now we’re vanities dueling with self. Tell us, what are we to do with the eyes that own our skulls? Please give birth to your own tears, tears for the tumors that rub against our lives with tulip lust for you, Gaia.

< 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

12 < Back now, with a son Sam Kats Mother by Ronni Ochoa now, with a son by Sam Kats 1. Mama lays in a white hospital bed. A crowded room of relatives push against one another, waiting for baby girl’s head to move. Ogling at her soft skin and pink lips, caressing her feminine cheeks. Grandma turns on the DSLR and snaps a photo to remember. It sits tucked into the pocket of a pale pink baby book. The bindings are worn in and the plastic inside is covered in smudge marks. 2. She races across a narrow hallway, the blue tulle in her dress scrunched in shaking fists. Soppy tears stain her dirty cheeks and she wipes them off in between hard exhales. She doesn’t mention how the dress prickles against her legs or that long hair weighs down her head. She just cuts big chunks of it off behind the couch a few months later. It turns into jagged lines and her dresses mend into dirty jeans. 3. Mama shakes in his arms. He whispers, “Mama, it’s okay, I’m here,” as she lays on his flat chest. He knows it’s because of him, because of whom he has become, but he is not sorry. "Five years of grief looks like it could heal,// but there’s no amount of time that// will replace a daughter." Five years of grief looks like it could heal, but there’s no amount of time that will replace a daughter. Still, life must go on, now, with a son. About the Writer... Sam Kats is a 17-year-old writer from Jacksonville, Florida. He is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts and enjoys realistic fiction. About the Artist... Ronni Ochoa is an art major at Savannah Arts Academy. They enjoy working with charcoal as well as digital painting.

< Back Scarlet Waves by Charleigh Herrin The Cadaver Lab as a Medical Student By Elise Lewis I step into the room, Blinded by a haze of fluorescent light, I can see what’s only shown in this shade of white— Clusters of crying families: Mourning mothers, Weeping wives and broken brothers, I wake up. I walk around the room, Examining the cases of vacuumed lungs, Achromatic eyes and lifeless tongues. Minds once bursting with color and creations, Praised for their unique ideas and interpretations, The way they showed kindness and how they’d think, Is now simplified to a single shade of pink. “Where shall we begin?” Shh. Let's learn how to respect the worlds torn apart, Before we tear open the silent hearts. Let’s quiet down and bow our heads. Let’s gather around and close our eyes. Let’s imagine their lungs still full of breath, The way they laughed and the things they said. Let’s imagine their eyes before resting on doves, How they once swelled with tears and made someone fall in love. Let’s imagine the words formed between their teeth, Their exaggerated letters and distinctive speech. Before we begin, let’s look around the room, At the clusters of crying families, Who sent their skin-covered sterilized love, To help save others from seeing doves. About the Author... Elise Lewis is a senior at the Willow School. She is taking Creative Writing Elective 1 and enjoys running for her school's track team. About the Artist... Charleigh Herrin is a 12th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She is studying photography. She takes inspiration from music she listens to and loving memories. Previous Next

9482b418-f06e-49b5-ad36-f0f37af4d902 Innocent Until Educated by England Townsend Return to Table of Contents

Fall/Winter 2021 Cover Art: Ephemeral by Jayci Bryant Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Editor's Note Blair Bowers and Brendan Nurczyk Editor's Note 00000000-0000-0000-0000-000000000003 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 0 Gravity Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Brown Fruit Gravity Autumn Hill Brown Fruit Nishka Mirchandani 00000000-0000-0000-0000-000000000002 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 1 Lily Pond Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button St. John Lily Pond Kathryn Moore St. John Kadynce Singer 00000000-0000-0000-0000-000000000001 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 2 Eye Can See Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Allegory Deferred Eye Can See Lynn Kong allegory deferred Adrian Gibson 8369316c-3922-48ab-afd4-a7f4470baf45 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 3 Coming Apart at the Seams Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Weight is Worth It Coming Apart at the Seams An Lin Hunt-Babcock The Weight is Worth It Audrey Lendvay a00f936e-1e60-441a-be88-713de7174eff Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 4 Dysmorphia Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button GAIA Dysmorphia Lynn Kong GAIA LaBrenda Bell 244b5e6c-812d-4eb2-bf1c-edd3f530b234 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 5 My Tears are the Ocean and the Weight of them drags me Down Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Sea of Stars My Tears are the Ocean and the Weight of them drags me Down Sam Howell Sea of Stars Deshea Reed 326b340e-bd96-45cd-96db-4e58c0253b22 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 6 Can I Keep Them? Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Ocean Voyager Exhibit Can I Keep Them? Kota Locklear The Ocean Voyager Exhibit Moriah Roland df22dff7-3690-4541-8248-c989c591ee6a Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 7 Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Goose Esmé DeVries Goose a6e55e00-fcbc-484d-9122-651e78de9275 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 8 The fantastical world of Henry Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The fantastical world of Henry The fantastical world of Henry Eleanor Goodwin c74a45c2-321d-4a81-87e9-cfeb1ed2d3f2 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 9 Wishful Thinking Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button To the dock of the Black River Wishful Thinking Alisia Vinson to the dock of the black river Rose Knudsen db57fdf3-f02f-429b-9a7f-cb811d5d82f9 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 10 Scoliosis Orthosis Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button barbeque ribs Scoliosis Orthosis Ziyi Yan Barbeque Ribs Harper Golden 1b92b68a-bfb6-4e66-b8c0-0b8b33525784 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 11 Reflection Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Reflection Reflection Nyriel Saures 9f6b710f-6a61-4fe7-9759-7c368f1ee09b Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 12 Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Silencing Properties of Snow Georgia Witt The Silencing Properties of Snow 23ee8108-19c5-4efc-9e81-f5c3da82aba3 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 13 Sleepy in the Shade Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Ripe Sleepy in the Shade Bella Hart Ripe Eleanor Goodwin 8a4e3407-8e03-4d94-830e-62a75a3e0870 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 14 Ephemeral Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button You Used to Know How to Dance (Really Well) Ephemeral Nayra McMahan You Used to Know How to Dance (Really Well) Jayci Bryant 8e1b07b1-1814-4122-a8f0-df0a0e9c82d0 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 15 closed window Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Heavenly Gifts closed window Phillip Simmons Jr. Heavenly Gifts Dion Hines fb3f835e-4020-450a-ad15-b1f0f2df7f61 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 16 A Thriving Abyss Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button your favorite song A Thriving Abyss Blair Bowers your favorite song Catye Evoniuk 2a60ad91-3507-4f09-928b-51b03f75df91 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 17 Rebirth Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Laws of Melittology Rebirth Kaydence Rice The Laws of Melittology Elanee Viray 33fe79c2-e827-40fe-ae8a-1ebf5d2271eb Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 18 Kamayan Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Kamayan Kamayan Camille Faustino 0f6194bf-28f8-4a61-93c3-58d65ab358cb Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 19 Southern Heat Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Homes and Houses Southern Heat Audrey Brant Homes and Houses Madison Bradley 3d598145-bb97-430d-85d8-b7fc76be6048 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 20 I'm Not Alone Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button I am listening to my parents argue downstairs I'm Not Alone Alisa Chamberlain I am listening to my parents arguing downstairs Micayla Latson 0e52b592-56ac-4c46-80cb-90516339fcf1 Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 21 What Happened to Us Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button How to: Make it to Room 404 What Happened to Us Chloe Pancho How to: Make it to Room 404 Dion Hines 36f0a7ff-d1e8-4901-832d-db4fd6a095ed Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" 22 Fall/Winter 2021 Staff Blair Bowers Brendan Nurczyk Zarria Belizaire Nia Moneyhun Parker Sheppard Lanina Herndon Anna Smith Nayra McMahan Bonny Bruzos Sage Whitecotton Kaysyn Jones Leila Warner Editor-in-Chief Junior Editor-in-Chief Poetry Editor Prose Editor Art Director Junior Art Director Associate Art Director Managing Editor Junior Managing Editor Social Marketing Editor Associate Marketing Editor Associate Marketing Editor