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Florida Girl by Hailey Edwards The Effects of Seasonal Changes on Floridian Coastal Wildlife By Scooter Wirth Prologue “When the tiny turtles are ready to hatch out, they do so virtually in unison, creating a scene in the sandy nest that is reminiscent of a pot of boiling water. In some areas, these events go by the colloquial term "turtle boils." Once hatched, the turtles find their way to the ocean via the downward slope of the beach and the reflections of the moon and stars on the water. Hatching and moving to the sea all at the same time help the little critters overwhelm waiting predators, which include sea birds, foxes, raccoons, and wild dogs. Those that make it through the gauntlet swim to offshore sargassum floats where they will spend their early years mostly hiding and growing.” — National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, February 9, 2024 * * * Before I was even conceived, my mother laid a strip of surfboard wallpaper all around my room, painted the walls like the beach, and placed a sign across from my bed reading: “Wiggle your toes in the sand.” The first place she took me was to the sand, and in it I became an elemental. I was more comfortable amongst dune, shore, fish, and bird than amongst kitchen, bedroom, man, and dog. The glare of the sun was similar to the hazy tint of a dream to me. The only air I could breathe was salt and brine. My hair, which fell in waves, was bleached platinum by sun. My eyes were a piercing turquoise-green-gray. They knew the true color of the ocean. If I didn’t have a bed to return to, I could’ve lived as an ocean sprite, an apostle of the waves. I felt like I was suffocating when the sky grew dark. I was unable to sleep some nights, feet always primed to run straight into the waves. My mother held me down to my bed like a soldier, and still I struggled against the chilling dark of night. I hated sleeping. I found myself in an alien world. Here, trees grew tall and dark; they sprouted needles instead of leaves. Here, the ground was caked with soggy snow. Here, the horizon rose in jagged peaks. What frightened me the most, though, was that here, I was entirely different. I didn’t care for the ocean, I skied on waves of snow, and I smiled at the bite of the cold through an open car door. On frozen ponds, I found my reflection. It seemed my hair had one day unexplainably curled, just like my father’s had. I was skinnier than I should’ve been, just like my father. The shoes I stood in were an old pair of Timberlands, not my usual sandals. I was the spitting image of my father. This is when the dream became a nightmare. I felt if I got too close to that ice, I might want to move away from the beach. I felt that this reflection might draw me in, might tempt me to become him. I ran before my reflection could speak a word. I felt like if I listened to him, I might begin to see the beauty in this place. I suppose that explains why my father’s skin was like ice. “Y’know, back in New Hampshire, we used to go outside in shorts on summer mornings when it was this exact same temperature,” he would say to me as I stacked layer upon layer over my shoulders and struggled to grab my backpack from beside me as the seatbelt tangled with my buckle. When I finally pulled myself from the car into the biting wind of January, I looked back at him with resentment I knew I had no reason for. It was how different we were, or perhaps how distant he felt, that drove me to roll my eyes at comments like that. When I looked into the rearview mirror and saw a slice of his face, only his eyes, I thought the mirror was pointing at me. I wondered how somebody with his alpine inclination could give birth to somebody like me; I wondered if he was really my father. I ran from my reflection before he could speak a word. I felt like if I listened to him, I might begin to see the beauty in him. Then, he took me to the only hill in Jacksonville: a small uprising in the city that seemed a lifetime away, a foreign land of alien wonder and blinding, scorching, metropolitan lights. From there, I was able to see the sun sink beneath the horizon for the first time, not just the ribbons of purple-orange lightning that called in wary surfers from their heaven. The full sunset was tender, red, fiery, and the sky was dark, empty, twinkling with stars. Even on the hottest, muggiest Florida nights, I found myself shivering. Here, though, against the lights of the city, the night felt warm. About the Writer... Scooter Wirth is a 12th grade student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. He is the winner of a 2022 scholastic gold medal for fiction and a 2024 Extravaganza featured artist. He frequents gothic genres and writes pieces that often revolve around the comparison of humanity and the natural world. He also enjoys songwriting and intends to pursue both forms of art in the future. About the Artist... Hailey Edwards is a 12th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She enjoys storytelling through her art, and her favorite mediums include digital, painting, and oil pastels.

Hilltop Timekeeper Toko Hata Trip to Nowhere Zhanna Marzan “There’s this episode where Basil and his friends see Sailor crying in his house,” she continued with a trembling voice. “They ask him what’s wrong, and he tells them ‘I don’t want to live in this wretched place anymore.’ So, Basil offers to find him a new home, but he just refuses, saying ‘I hate my situation, but I don’t want to leave.’” “…Oh?” “Back then, I hated Sailor because of this episode. Like, Basil was trying to help him, but he just pushed him away. But when I read it again yesterday, I could kind of relate to Sailor,” After saying that she plunged her face into the book once more. I didn’t know whether to be sympathetic or surprised. What was there to be sad about? The fact that she could relate to a character she hated? Wisty continued to sniffle. For a second, I thought of wrapping my arms around her but dismissed it immediately. “But people’s perspectives change when they grow, you know?” I replied, trying to make this lighter. The sun had finished its art routine; it was beginning to sink, tinting our silhouettes with a cold shade of navy. I pulled my knees close to my chest, attempting to shield myself from the remnants of a bitter winter. I couldn’t feel more awkward. “...I don’t know, I just realized, I would never be able to see the story from Basil’s eyes anymore. That part of me is gone. It makes me feel so... empty.” Wisty’s voice sounded desperate. I didn’t know what to reply. We spent so much time together, but there were hardly any times when I could relate to her. “Yeah…” was all I could say in the end. Another silence. A cold gust managed its way into my coat, and I shivered. “I’m sorry I called you here. I know you’re busy,” Wisty suddenly apologized. I flinched. Had she sensed my uncomfortableness? “No, no! It’s fine! It’s your last day, after all…” “I just… thought of a final favor to ask you,” she whispered with a cracked voice. “I want you to keep this book for me. I want to leave it in this town.” “…Why?” Wisty’s face went red. “I’m so disappointed with my change in perspective, but in a few years, that probably won’t even matter to me anymore. I would read this book and think, ‘Oh, I remember being sad about not having a child’s view anymore. How edgy!’ I don’t want that day to come. If you keep it, I wouldn’t have those thoughts. My time would stop in this town.” Everything that made Wisty unstable were things I could never understand. But at the same time, perhaps those were what made me admire her. Even though the conversations made me uncomfortable, I couldn’t imagine my life without them. Maybe this book would help me remember the times we spent together. Plus, if something as little as this could help her— I didn’t have a reason to say no. “Okay. I’ll stop the time for you,” I answered. Wisty handed me the book and I held it close, feeling my own heartbeat thump against the ripped papers. The sky was now completely still, its darkness deepening far into the ends of the galaxy. Nothing moved. Time had stopped on the hilltop. Return to Table of Contents

Becoming One Amelia Elder I lay in the grass Every time I go to leave My skin aches for the grass The tingling feeling That reminds me Everything will be okay The sun coating my skin With fresh, thick, steamy pools of heat Causing a sudden redness plastering my forehead Circus music Ringing my ears Spinning my head around And I can see everything The World, Space, darkness, light The world seems great But I'd rather hide from it Preferring to lay in the grass The grass that protects me Hiding my heart, Keeping me safe from all pain Make sure it doesn’t get hurt Then I feel a sucking motion. Does my heart want to go out there? Explore things? Find love? Be in my chest, thumping hardly? I'm pulled towards the ground Trying to break free But the grass pulls me down Within five seconds I'm in the Earth, Space, the Universe I've become one, with my heart The empty void inside of me is filled My heart is not only protected by me But by the Universe I have become one, finally, Again. Return to Piece Selection

17 < Table of Contents Growing Pains by Kayden Davis Homemade Blueberry Pie By Via Sheahin " our laughter / echoes like thunder / erupting from the night sky / & / washing away every / lasting drop of our innocence" we watched the sunrise every morning, observing as the sky curled and twisted into hundreds of different hues, i view our childhood through pink and orange tinted glass. every memory is splattered on slabs of concrete glittered by vibrant chalk. ice cream dripping down chins, catching raindrops on our tongues; our laughter echoes like thunder erupting from the night sky & washing away every lasting drop of our innocence; i sat alone and watched every sunrise slowly turn to gray. i still feel the sickly sweet taste of lemonade stands and homemade blueberry pie settling uneasily in my throat. you drank your freedom away to forget but i'm still drinking the rain. About the Writer... Via Sheahin is a 15 year old student from Chicago, Illinois. She enjoys poetry as an escape from life but also a look into it. She has been previously published in Cathartic Lit and Teen Ink, among others forthcoming. About the Artist... Kayden Davis is a visual arts senior student at Douglas Anderson. She enjoys painting and drawing as a medium but also enjoys a bit of photography as well.

Caitlin Spinner Caitlin Spinner attends Douglas Anderson School of the Arts, majoring in Creative Writing and working as the Junior Prose Genre Editor on Élan Student Literary Magazine. She has previously had her work featured in Alternate Routes fourth edition and has been in several performances including Douglas Anderson’s annual show “Extravaganza” in 2025. She gets involved in groups at her school, being a member of Literary Arts Honor Society and Spoken Word. When she’s not writing, you can catch her making paintings, playing video games, doing photography, or writing new songs.

7 Reclaiming my roots by Julie Hathaway Prenatal Exposure by Maeve Coughlin Each night I sing you a lullaby For seventeen years I have been kneeling by your bedside and whispering to the back of your scalp as if my voice will bandage your insomnia. You tell me it does because even in suffering from my selfishness, you are selfless. Tonight, I’m singing you “Little Lion Man” by Mumford & Sons. I’m mumbling the lyrics so maybe you won’t hear them. I’m not ready to tell you that it’s my fault, since I’m a coward and a liar who’s been lied to. It’s a safe pain reliever in pregnancy Your daughter will not suffer and no one will ever know you’re an addict. But I’m ready to apologize for it: for the anxiety attacks and the nail biting and the feeling lesser than your classmates. “It was not your fault but mine.” When you were little, I searched for answers. I scoured for someone to blame. I found my answer in an old blunt, poorly rolled, fallen behind my vanity. Seventeen years ago, I quit. didn’t want you to remember I was too high for your delicate little hands to reach. I stopped too late. “And it was your heart on the line.” You tremble in your skin while you pick it off your fingers. You make yourself small so maybe your brain will remember to make your body breathe. After years of being told it was some higher power, some twist of luck, some brutal misstep in your DNA. “I really messed it up this time, didn’t I, my dear?” About the Writer... Maeve Coughlin is a senior creative writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her work has previously been published in Elan's volume 36, issue 3. She is a writer of both poetry and prose and intends to work in the editing as an adult. About the Artist... Julie Hathaway is a 12th grade student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At Douglas Anderson, Julie creates paintings representing queer joy and the healing of generational religious trauma. She creates art, generally with acrylic paint, because she likes how expressive paint strokes can clearly represent these unspoken feelings.

The Minkin Kitchen by Hana Minkin An Open Door By Lila Hartley AUGUST 2010 Two young parents nervously walk up the driveway to a stranger’s door, curious—or maybe unaware—their toddler following closely. The sun is setting, sky bright orange and pink, the warmth of August day holding onto dusk: iftar approaching, and the family approaching iftar. The man’s pre-glow-up hair, dark, long and curly, shifts with the soft breeze that offers no aid to cool. He wears a T-shirt and jeans. The woman’s brown hair drapes over her shoulders and touches her seven-month pregnant belly. She wears a dress that allows stretching around the abdomen. The toddler with her light brown hair, thin on top of her head, neck length, waddles like a penguin; she can’t take too far a step, or she’d stumble. Next to the driveway, there is a prayer garden, small fountain, wooden bench and a little bridge if you’d rather go through the garden instead of the concrete path, if guests would like a moment of solitude before entering the busy home of strangers and conversation. The family hopes that this is the right door, and knocks. When the door opens, they are warmly welcomed by a man who looks like how one would imagine an Ottoman warrior in ancient Turkey: built like a wall, tall and strong with short, dark hair and a mustache. They are asked to take their shoes off at the door before they enter the house. Immediately, the smell of delicious food invades their noses. They walk past the office and dining room, toward the living room. In this house, the living room is life, where friends and strangers talk alike. Yellow walls are covered in paintings and décor. Every surface has an item or three carefully and intentionally placed, including a glass vase on the back patio behind the kitchen. A semicircle forms in the sitting room, and the strangers go from nameless to acquaintances, acquaintances to friends. The hosts introduce themselves as Sel and Angie. Sel is Turkish and Muslim, and Angie is Filipina and converted to Islam. The two of them moved from the Philippines to Jacksonville in 2002 and started hosting these dinners in 2007 to share the nightly Ramadan tradition with friends and soon mutual friends. They started a charter school in 2007, Sel inspired from his brief work as a janitor when they first arrived in Jacksonville, his parents’ work as teachers back in Turkey, and his work building schools in the Philippines. They wanted to bring people together; they wanted to build bridges and introduce others into a tradition that may be outside of their own religious or traditional practices. They talk about Ramadan, introducing some of the strangers to a foreign practice they didn’t grow up knowing. Ramadan is the Islamic holy month where Muslims fast and reflect on how they live throughout the rest of the year. Sel has said that it is a time for him to recharge or reboot, and to truly appreciate the food and water he has throughout the rest of the year. The group gets into a line towards the potluck-style trays in the kitchen as the sun sets and iftar begins. As each guest gets their food, they trickle out to the screened-in back patio. The table becomes full of conversation about each other’s lives and origin stories. While the mother eats, she converses with a fellow stranger. In this moment of distraction, the toddler wanders away from her mother and father. She does what any curious child would do: inspect everything with her hands. The girl lifts a small glass vase smelling of a subtle eastern perfume oil. A crash of glass shards follows shortly. To the young mother’s horror, she quickly realizes what her daughter has done. She rushes to the scene, partly to keep her daughter from hurting herself, partly to try and clean up the mess that her child had caused in these strangers’ house. But the host couple comes to the mother’s aid and tells her that she doesn’t need to worry. “We will take care of it,” they say warmly comforting the mother. The young mother and father worry whether they will ever be invited to iftar again, whether they will ever be invited to Sel and Angie’s house again. Did their toddler just sever any possibility of friendship? * * * I am that toddler who broke the vase in 2010. I can tell you Sel and Angie did not even wait until next Ramadan to invite my family back to their home and hearts. That iftar in August 2010 is exactly what started a friendship that has lasted over a decade now. After years of attending iftars, not a common experience for white, Christian children in the south—and for a time having someone in the house who was Muslim and fasted—I started to question what the deeper meaning of Ramadan was. Ramadan is important to Muslims religiously and culturally. “Muslims observe this sacred month of Ramadan to mark when Allah sent an angel who revealed to the Prophet Muhammad the Quran, the Islamic holy book,” according to Trafalgar. Ramadan also fulfills one of the Five Pillars of Islam, called Sawm, fasting. Sel discussed one of the reasons he and Angie were called to start hosting iftars: “…it is a cultural background, because prophet Muhammad said share your breaking fast with your neighbors, but doesn’t say your Muslim or any other religion, just says your neighbor. So, we are in Jacksonville neighborhood, right? Every day we see people at different times. Sometimes we understand people more than our real neighborhoods. So, that’s why I started bringing, because sharing is good.” Opening one’s home to friends and family is not an uncommon practice among Muslims during Ramadan for this reason and others. It allows people to connect with each other and appreciate breaking fast in community together. Sel talked about what the significance of Ramadan, saying “Ramadan is like a recharging for me, recharging spiritually and mentally and also physically, and it is the opportunity for me to get better person every year.” Ramadan is a thoughtful time to recognize all the things that one takes for granted during the rest of the year. It is a way to empathize with the poor, hungry, and thirsty, and to remember to give to others when you can: helping our friends, family, communities and putting ourselves in each other’s shoes. I began to notice parallels between the beliefs that have been instilled into me throughout my childhood and those of Ramadan and that have been brought out because of those evening iftars at Sel and Angie’s house. I see how my family and friends’ actions parallel with the ideals of Ramadan. Regularly, my dad gives some of his extra cash or change to a homeless person on the sidewalk. My mom hosts dinners at her house to bring people together. At school, my classmates and I hype up each other’s writing and outfits and bring extra food for a friend who forgets to get lunch. About the Writer... Lila Hartley is a Creative Writing sophomore at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. In her freshman year, Lila fell in love with performing literary works. She participated in several open mics and in Douglas Anderson’s annual show, Extravaganza. She enjoys writing poetry and creative nonfiction. Lila is currently the Vice President of Literary Arts Honors Society at Douglas Anderson. Previously, her poem The Blue and Yellow was published in Élan Literary Magazine’s Middle School Writing Contest the 2022 Spring/Summer season and placed third in the writing category. About the Artist... Hana Minkin, 18, is an art student based in Savannah, Georgia. She plans on attending the Savannah College of Art and Design to purse Fashion Marketing and Merchandising.

Colson Gomez Colson Gomez is a visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts who specifies in Drawing/Painting. Her work has been exhibited at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Jacksonville and has won several regional Gold and Silver Keys in the Scholastic Arts and Writing Contest.

< 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.

Élan is a literary magazine publishing the best writing and art from high school students around the world. Banner ORDER THE LATEST PRINT ISSUE Volume 39 is now availible! Order Recent Issues SEE MORE Anchor 1 Volume 39 Spring/Summer 2025 Fall/Winter 2024

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

16 Torn by Micayla Latson About the Artist... Micayla Latson is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy. At the Arts Academy Micayla is a Visual Arts major, who has been dedicated to art her entire life. Currently during her time at Savannah Arts she has produced many pieces, some helping to spread awareness to various issues in society. Although not pursuing art in college she still hopes to be making art in the future and wishes to spread impactful and powerful messages within her community using her artwork.