< Back Foreign Accent Syndrome by Colson Gomez Hair plastered to my mouth; virid leaves drowned to cracks in the road And waxy crayon sank into cement like a sob. ersatz memories By Olivia Shin A year and ten summers passed me by I, reflected in the tall windows that surround high-rise buildings, drink The sun cracked into oxtail soup melting cloudy, wispy mornings Ladled up into my head A piping hot memory broth. In July, rains slithered down the hills– fat tears preceding wrathful downpours The mountains keeled over with a great heave Hair plastered to my mouth; virid leaves drowned to cracks in the road And waxy crayon sank into cement like a sob. There were languorous days too; warm shadows crisscrossing the room I lay on my back behind a watchful old couch, to see Fluttering telephone lines that kiss the wood floors And the air conditioner that whistles with a bright blue grin. I am American. But the sparrows in Seoul, They don’t seem to know; not by my long shorts-hands-folded-hair-crumpled shirt Not by my couldn’t-care-less-don’t-know-maybe-so attitude Or by the look I give them. A long-awaited “homecoming.” The bus driver announces the next stops From his mouth drop round honey syllables, tongue flat, teeth hidden, warm barley tea A middle-schooler behind me slips in earbuds, voice low under the rattle of the handles I try to laugh a Korean laugh, click selfies, fingers, lips Everyone stared; how unrefined! That day– every day– they sprawl across the sidewalk like cats. “They” as a collective, seeking to belong among the shiny hair wispy bangs beige academy tote Bubblegum, lip-glossed, black baseball-capped Girls in loose gray sweatpants Girls in white starched uniform tops, not quite see-through in this weeping heat But instead it’s me, so transparent That even the visor-sporting ajummas on the corner don’t see me. Between mile-high skyscrapers I used to crane up towards crumbling stars, dark and smoked with overseas pollution, shining across the Han river Now we’re miles from the coast, hills rolling to the end of the horizon Yet this atmospheric sea is beyond belief– blindingly, dazzlingly, soul-crushingly Californian. Really, though, who am I to talk? About the Author... Olivia Shin is a junior at Maria Carrillo High School. She is an editor for Polyphony Lit, and the proud owner of a second-hand typewriter that annoys her family when she writes at night. When she is not studying or going down various rabbit-holes, she also enjoys playing the violin and reading classic novels. In her opinion, the world could use a bit more whimsy at any given moment. About the Artist... Colson Gomez is a Senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She has begun to dabble in embroidery and fiber arts, though her heart lies with drawing and painting. Previous Next

c00fc103-7cf4-419e-8b66-9e7f87a040e6 A Challenge Approaches by Alyssa Giraud icarus & her lover by Eva Chen we collected quarters in our inner pockets, the silver staining our jeans. it is mid-summer & we are still young, blood sweet as nectarines & skin-tanned from sleeping in the sun. you place a feather into the folds of my palms and smile, your face rising with the wind. you tell me about the story of icarus and the sun, about how something too small flew too close to something too bright, only to end up shriveled & dead, bones melted into rust. for now, your breathing and the cicadas become the only thing i hear. for now, you become a memory tarnished in the backrooms of my mind. for now, i do not know how to escape you with only these wax feathered wings & my gold-painted body. the indigo night sky, the humming of the birds, and the stroke of your smile are all things that haunt me in my sleep. next to you, i wonder when it’ll be before you scorch the pages of my poetry and i feel hot wax dribble down my skin. turning over, you hand me the most gentle laugh, and your voice floats like a prayer in the air. i feel the harness giving up on me now, the weight of my wings disintegrating into ash as i watch myself fall, becoming mortal again. i am only so small when compared to the overwhelmingness of you. Return to Table of Contents

945dccfc-1beb-4e0f-9b71-bb84e3582363 LORD BABA (GOLDEN PRIDE) by Taylor Ekern The Last Rite by Giovani Jacques “The sinner will always plead in time of strife.” It was a saying that he was anything but unfamiliar with; his mother making no failure to let it flow from the tips of her lips in any situation she deemed fit. She was an Italian woman that possessed a quite remarkable short, pudgy stature, though her qualities of remarkability, at least to the people that surrounded her, stopped there. That latter portion of her life was spent as a widow, becoming a God-fearing recluse, devoting any time previously invested into her husband and her son, Paul, in the church. The saying was one that Paul hadn’t heard as of late, as communication between the two dwindled as the years went by. The estranged relationship was much to Paul’s own doing, but whenever she did find the chance to, (as scarcely as those chances came,) he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at it, believing he would never alter his beliefs, not even on his death bed. “You’re just like your father, Paul.” His mother would scoff, “When the time comes, my last prayer will be in celebratory nature, not a pleading one. God willing it will be the same for you.” As her days waned, and it was clear that her time had in fact came, her last prayer was exactly that. The day of the last rite failed to see many tears shed. At least not by Paul, nor his mother. For her, there wasn’t too much to be in a grievance over: as death was more of a release to the pains and aches that life was guaranteed to distribute. Besides, it seemed as if she knew where she was headed. Her designated nurse, Alaila, Paul only remembering her name because he recognized it as the Basque word for joy, spoke of the fabulous dreams her patient recounted to her. Dreams of triumphant Angels watching in glee as she gracefully walked upon Heavens steps. Dreams of her husband patiently awaiting at the top of those steps. During Paul’s minimal visits to her bleak, dimly lit hospice room, he was hard pressed to avoid the lady, instead opting to give her a smile and slight words of encouragement to his ailing mother. “She has a wonderful spirit. You should come by more often; it’d give her more comfort.” When he did come by and conversation became scarce, he remembered Alaila’s recounting of her dreams, and wondered aloud about them. “It was God speaking to me Paul,” she’d say in a state of wonder, “and your father was right beside him. God willing, it was your father beside him.” Paul never asked for her to expand on what she meant by God-willing in this instance, deciding that it was for the best to let her dreams run unobstructed in her last days. For Paul, the lack of tears stemmed from the endless booze that dripped through his pores: A rundown liquor store placed conveniently near the hospice building allowed for him to not have to face the reality of his perishing mother, at least not while sober. He’d walk in as he usually did, eyes focused on dirty tiles, avoiding the gaze of the young store attendant who never failed to offer his smile and a polite “Welcome” to the mellow man who made him himself a usual at the establishment. At times he thought about responding: “Today, I’ll say hello. Maybe even ask about her day,” he’d think to himself, attempting to give some form of an unconvincing pep talk. He’d never go through with the plans though, in the end realizing that he saw him as nothing but another drunk: one that rushed to the same gas station cooler every time he entered and evacuated without a word as he began to guzzle them as soon as he exited. Realizing that he was just one of the many. "He didn’t know how he’d be able to make it home that night, but he also didn’t know if he planned to." For a drunk, he had a quite impressive inability to hold his liquor, not that he wanted to anyway, and the effects of corrupted vision and drowsiness, as usual, began its quick onset. He didn’t know how he’d be able to make it home that night, but he also didn’t know if he planned to. It was all worth it for him though, reasoning to himself that he’d do, “anything to avoid the tears.” ] However, the tears that were shed, and the main source of sorrow, ironically came by way of the nurse tasked with easing the pain death would bring. On the day in which death knocked its scythe on the grey hospice door, it was the nurse, her tag reading Alaila (A name that Paul recognized as the Basque word for Joy), who appeared to be the most distraught by the situation. Distraught to the point that Paul found that he had to be the one to comfort the young woman. Paul’s whispering pleads to quiet it down complemented by the pungent alcohol smell his breath carried, was to no avail. “Aren’t you sad too?” she whimpered, confused at the lack of emotion that came from the drunk son. The sound of snot being siphoned up the tunnels of Alaila’s nostrils made the sentence inaudible enough for him to ignore it, perhaps because he realized that the true answer to that question, would be unsatisfactory. The sniffles and yelps became too much for the old woman who lay on her death bed, accompanied by the hospitals catholic chaplain prepared to oversee her death, eventually motioning for the young woman to depart from the room, and to not renter until she was “gone at last.” With that, Alaila shuffled her feet past Paul, giving him a slight rub on her way out. The clergy member began to commence the last rite, a series of prayer and rituals done on catholic practitioners near death. Paul’s now mute mother began to motion for his exit as well, seeking for peace and quiet in her last moments. He drunkenly made way for the exit without a word opening the door to join Alaila in the depressing Hospice hallways. Taking a last look around at the room, the lack of people increasingly became of note; The only people finding themselves present in her last moments being Paul, a now absent nurse, and a chaplain who knew nothing about her thirty minutes ago. It was only in the time of death that Paul truly learned of his mother’s excessive reluctivity: never did he get a call from a loved one inquiring on her health, nor did he hear of anyone coming to check on her in person. It became apparent that, especially after his father’s death, all she had was Paul. It was revelation that plagued his mind in the weeks leading up to the moment. As an adult, he seldomly made any attempts to maintain a relationship with his mother, instead choosing a life of overindulgence in whatever vice he chose. Whenever the going got tough though, he’d never fail to make a phone call asking for money, a request in which she always obliged. However, the time in which they had a real conversation? One in which wasn’t congested with awkward-over-the-phone small talk; couldn’t have been any less than two decades from their last. By now, a couple of new nurses awaited by Alaila’s side, listening in on their queue to enter the room for the inevitable last breaths. The commotion generated by the two nurses attempting to calm the now hyperventilating Alaila down was just enough for Paul to slip away without notice. But truthfully, Paul only desired to avoid the stares loaded with accusation that would arrive when leaving at time like this, Paul knew that they’d notice eventually, regardless of the secrecy in which he had done so, but this way he wouldn’t be here to see it. He made the trek back to the conveniently placed corner store, seemingly tracing his exact steps back to the gas station’s cooler, purchasing the same three cans of beer he purchased just hours before. In a drunken state, Paul was able to gurgle a babylike, “Hello” to the usual cashier that was on shift. This time the store attendant didn’t bother saying hello though, nor did he bother providing a smile. Paul was too intoxicated to notice. But as usual, on Paul’s way out, he stared. Watching the man as he began to drink the case of beer as soon as he stepped off the premise and hop back behind the wheel. He didn’t know how the strange drunk would be able to make it home that night, but it also seemed as if the drunk didn’t plan to. He diverted his attention away from the man, smiling and offering a “Welcome” at the next customer who walked through the sliding doors. Return to Table of Contents

6b5b6bc7-3542-4110-9115-40f80c1497a1 Groceries by Camille Faustino The Orange Tree Across the Street by Sarah Ermold It wasn’t trespassing, Because the house was for sale And the orange tree in the back yard was public property. Grandma promised it was safe and held my hand when we crossed the street, Because I was still in elementary school and didn’t know better. I gripped a Longaberger basket soaked in stress and Florida humidity, And picked the rotting fruit hanging from the shortest branches. Watched the fruit flies at my feet scream in excitement, As they invade the soft veil of the peel encrusted in a silky brown slime. Their weak bodies drowning in the bitterness Of the perished organs decomposing in ant piles and feral grass. I reached to pick it up, and Grandma slapped my hand. She wiped my hands on my shorts and told me The best oranges hang from the tree. Grandma squeezed my hand before we stepped onto the pavement, And walked the thirty feet back to the house. I sat in the chairs that lined Grandma’s kitchen table, As she lathered the forbidden fruit in the water that leaked from her faucet. She sat a napkin in front of me, heavy with the slobber of a freshly polished orange. I held the meat of the orange like rotting flesh on my tongue. She watched me as we ate the oranges together, With each bite, the pith slide between my front teeth like dental floss And the pulp bled from the corners of her mouth, I used the lung shape of the orange’s body to put on a smile. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, because they were the best oranges she ever had. When she offered me another, I told her I was full. And when we were finished, I told her they were the best oranges I ever had. When my mom came to get me, Grandma begged me to take them home. Shoved them in the used Publix bags from under the sink. Her hands coated in orange saliva and my bitter lie, She made sure to put them in the car so I wouldn’t forget them. Grandma buckled me and the oranges into the car seat, As she told mom of our day, elbowing me to tell mom, These were the best oranges I ever had. Return to Table of Contents

Fading Marlo Herndon You, you came back with your fiery eyes and burning touch Trying to light me up again The smell of smoke filled the air as you trudged closer Making its way into my lungs ‘I miss you’ poured from your lips like tar But all I heard was the crackling fire behind you Your fingertips traced from my jaw line to my ear Tucking my hair behind it You leaned close Hesitation chilled my spine My mind drifted back to the last time I saw you I pulled back My chest felt like it was burning Silver droplets fell from the icicles on my fingertips This is what you do Make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside Then you watch as the ice melts away Leaving me to condensate You came back with your fiery eyes and burning touch Trying to light me up again But it`s time for you to go I`d rather be cold than let you burn me Return to Piece Selection

20 Ant Town by Jeremy Hall Roadkill by Marlo Herndon Leaking out against stiff black pavement, oozing chunks of red out his pale stomach -the body blocking the way to every love to ever be mine. Abhorrent, his limbs stretch out as if trying to grab & pin me- the indent in his chest the only fresh thing for miles. The sight of the carcass flares my eyes creating crisp tears that only cling to burn -why else would this body not turn to ash. Simply swerving to steer clear of his memory fails me, the antlers pierce the tires, my head thrashes with the fallen glass, a shard seeps through & buries itself in my beating heart- it refuses to stay away, births hands of red but not eyes -in protest, longing for the gentle love I knew. The newborn hands steer back towards the vile memory -that refuses to die -that violation he committed between my thighs. He gave me life some days, which in the after is what kills me, what made the hands ignore the road signs, the memory of the good guy I saw before, with a smile brighter than streetlights, who’d put my hand on the stick shift to show me we were safe to give me an allusion of control, before he took me for that spin, that forced collision – his keys in my ignition against that bedframe- he ignored the red lights I gave him. What remains of him can be found on every road & every passenger I welcome for as long as my skin burns & the organ in my chest remains & tries to learn – to live with the buried on the way. About the Writer... Marlo Herndon is a local poet & author. Currently they are invested in learning from their community & creating more art. About the Artist... Jeremy Hall has been going to Savnnah Arts Academy for 4 years and this is one of the pieces he's most proud. He finished this while I had covid in 2021 and believes it shows his best abilities in his most confident areas of expertise.

Salmon Sophia Rose Smith Contortionist Rowan Blankemeyer Colored ripe and stumbling— caught further and back down stream. You've found your way between notebook lines, past the margins, (college-ruled), loosened the blue stripes with a seam ripper. Hair braided and pushed into your palm— your fingers rip between the three fat trunks in search of equilibrium: chunky velvet and glass noodles. You’ve fleshed out the whorls in your hands, left prints of ink in the fresh snow. By autumn the marks in the mirror seem to dehaze delusions, caught in the blindspots between streetlamps and gutters. Beneath skin is paler flesh to fit their crayon colors. It can be scrawled in a waxy film on printer paper, but that can be scraped away with fingernails. You’ve fought your way pounding the waterfalls upstream. Caught: you ripped up the balance of their symmetry. You will find a place in the world and how to speak it. Find it in the full words buttressed behind your teeth. Return to Table of Contents

15 < Table of Contents Border Town by Ricard Siyi HE Farewells by Rowan Paton Ludovica had not seen Mother Freya since the day before. She had searched the estate from grounds to roof, excluding all the places young girls were not supposed to linger. Perhaps her caretaker had fallen ill? The thought brought fear rippling into her feeble stomach. The winter was harsh that year, even for the normally pleasant Caer. It was the first year in her life she had seen snow fall over her local shores. " Ludovica had watched with eagerness as the delicate icy shavings dissolved upon contact with the roaring waves." A few days prior, Mother Freya had taken her down to the oceanside. Bundled in thick layers of lavender wools, they had wandered along the beach together. Ludovica had watched with eagerness as the delicate icy shavings dissolved upon contact with the roaring waves. She had sat down by Mother Freya’s side for hours, leaning against the woman’s shoulder as she wrote of the snow’s elegance. Mother Freya sat and drew with blue-toned ink. She drew Ludovica sitting on the beach, and she drew images of shells rising beneath the waves. Accompanied by the humming of the stinging winter winds, they created together. The woman had helped the girl dress the previous evening. She had brought Ludovica a supper of warm broth with roasted meat and rose tea. After, she had tucked Ludovica into bed, singing her a lullaby. But she had not even stayed to wait for the girl to sleep. The next morning, she did not return. Ludovica refused to ask her mother or Maurine about Mother Freya. The girl did not want her to get in trouble for her absence. She was intelligent for a twelve-year-old girl, and she noticed the gashes and black eyes hidden on the necks of the servants who slipped up. She had not even dared ask her father. Instinct told the girl to hold her tongue no matter how her anxiety festered. Mother Freya was never late. Mother Freya was never ill. Mother Freya would never desert her without bidding goodbye. In a final moment of desperation, Ludovica found herself wandering about the veins of the estate. This was the name bestowed upon the servants’ passageways, the tunnels connecting secret doors dispersed throughout the building. She heard Mother Freya mention the veins on a few speckled occasions, yet Ludovica had never dared venture within them. She knew the layout of her home well enough to understand the flow of the passageways. Many times, she had studied the sketches of the estate’s composition, in which the veins were clearly detailed. She hoped to be able to find the servants’ quarters, even though she knew Mother Freya never slept in them. She could only hope the other servants could provide some assistance. Mother Freya was well-liked among them, and she hoped her reputation was enough to spare her from loose tongues. She wandered for more than three candlemarks, stranded in the veins. She never lost hope, silently sticking her head into each room she passed in hope of finding the woman. Every room she found was empty, housing only silence. Though she tried not to panic, she felt herself beginning to lose hope. Her mind flickered to Hekate. No, she thought. Hekate would be in school. Just as the girl began to lose hope, she tripped over a loose brick protruding from the floor. She shrieked as she fell, skidding roughly to a halt. She begun to shake. Her hands were bleeding raw, and she held them awkwardly in front of her. Maurine would have her head if she got blood on her dress. Using her elbows and the support of the wall, she took a trembling stand, fighting back tears. She gave into the pain, sinking until she sat on her knees, leaning against the wall. She scarcely noticed the light footsteps approaching her, lithe as those of a cat. She lifted her gaze, squinting through the dim to behold the figure before her. “Oh, Dov, my sweet child,” a melodic voice uttered, welling with sadness. “What are you doing in here?” Ludovica wiped her tears away, unaware that she had smeared blood over her cheeks. She squinted up at the figure, now leaning down beside her. She grinned at the voice of Mother Freya. “I was looking for you,” she stuttered, still shaking from the sting of aching flesh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I know I’m not supposed to…” Mother Freya pulled her into a tender embrace, holding the girl against her chest. Her long, elegant lock of braided hair fell over Ludovica’s shoulder, smelling faintly of ash and soot. “Quiet, my child,” the woman whispered, her gaze planted firmly ahead. “I don’t have much time.” “What?” Ludovica mumbled, her heart skipping a beat. She clung to the woman’s clothes, yearning to never let go. “How do you mean?” The woman did not respond. She gently freed herself from the child’s grasp, tenderly holding Ludovica’s hands before her. “Ludovica,” she whispered. “What have you done to yourself?” She smoothly lifted the small hands to her lips, placing a soft kiss on each of Ludovica’s bleeding palms. “All better,” she hummed, still holding them. Ludovica gasped in wonder as the pain melted away, leaving her fingers blessed with a warm prickle across her skin. “Where are you going?” she questioned, closing her eyes as Mother Freya gently rubbed her hands. The woman did not respond, but as they stood there, Ludovica felt even her fear begin to dissolve as if by magic. She was left only with the warmth and the serenity of that moment, the serenity of Mother Freya’s spirit. “Don’t worry, Dov,” the woman told her, her voice as placid as a lullaby. She raised Ludovica’s hands and placed them on her face, allowing the child to see without light. Ludovica closed her eyes and felt Mother Freya’s face, feeling from her jaw and her lips to her nose and her prominent cheeks. As her fingers rose, she found a feature which was foreign to her, and she felt Mother Freya exhale. Ludovica felt a bandage across the woman’s eyes, dampened and chillingly warm. She wrenched her hands away in horror, sinking to her knees once again. She gazed up at the woman who had raised her to that moment, only able to see an outline of the woman she was. Mother Freya sighed, verbalizing the weight of her heavy heart. “Goodbye, Ludovica,” she whispered, backing away from the child. In a flash of a moment, she was gone, engulphed by the shadows from which she had wandered. And Ludovica was left, her healed hands resting in her lap and bearing the burden of Mother Freya’s blood. About the Writer... Rowan Paton (they/them) is a young, queer writer from Florida. Currently, they are working for Élan Literary Magazine as their Junior Fiction Editor. Outside of Élan, they are in the process of compiling a collection of gothic short stories, tentatively titled "Angel Anatomy." About the Artist... Richard Siyi HE is currently a junior at Beijing No. 4 High School. His passion lies in biology, and he have a particular fondness for painting and writing about nature.

Fall/Winter 2021 Cover Art: Ephemeral by Jayci Bryant Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button As I Go to the Sea For Glory! Hanzhen Teng Small Title Raiti Namiranian Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

The Fish Kaysyn Jones False Prophet Vera Caldwell I forgot to buy water at the convenience store. My feet are curling and cramping in my rubber-soled boots with it, and the ache’s grounding. All the cigarette smoke feels like it’s staining my eyes grey, filling my head with air till it floats all the way out of the car, above the clouds, where the sun is hiding. God’s hands are white, like what peels off the skin after a sunburn. White like plaster. I wonder what happens when you peel it? Is He like a hollow statue? And then we’re at the lake. The snow fell hard here. I feel small, drifting, wrapped in my hoodie and my coat, cut by the ice in the air. Everything is white: the cooler for the fish and the beer cans, the sky, my gloves. Everything is white but the trees holding up the snow and the mismatched red-and-black folding chairs I carry out onto the ice. My father cracks a hole in the ice. It sounds like a breaking bone. The bait goes on the end of the fishing hook, and then the drop, and then the waiting. My vision darkens, then fades. I dream that I am alone on the lake. I’m holding my little fishing pole tight in my hands when something pulls on the string, delicate, then harder. I yank back. I strain against a red sky, ripping at the water, trying to drag absolution from the endlessly dark hole in the ice. Instead, I draw a hand. A limp, colorless hand with my silver fishing hook through the palm, dripping red blood onto the snow. The colorless hand is connected to a colorless arm, which is connected to a colorless head on a long neck and the thing has the largest, most beautiful eyes. I’m looking at my angel. The angel crawls from the hole in the ice. It scrabbles and heaves with fingers that have no nails. Its breath is a wreath of steam in the air that floats towards the red sun to kiss it. Drip. Drip. Drip. Every vein in its translucent body, I can see. There is no heart, only blue lines that pulse in the center of the angel. But there are eyes, and those eyes don’t move from mine. Those eyes are mine. It was like meeting a bear in the woods. I knew that it could rip me apart, and it knew that I would let it. But that’s why we both knew it wouldn’t hurt right. The violence would be meaningless. The viscera wouldn’t be fit for marble any more than a whore for the altar. Spoiled goods. What would be taken is already gone. I move first. I break the spell. I take off my glove, and bare my palm to the angel. The heart-line is the love-line and I want something to love me. Anything to love me. “Please.” And the angel raises its bleeding palm, and it gives me a taste of salt. And the angel turns and the angel walks away. Its steps melt the snow and make the ice see-through, showing all the minnows still swimming under all of the powder. The hook stays in its palm, and the fishing line catches aflame and lights the sky. The angel leaves red footprints across the lake, and I realize that the lake is not a lake, but a river, covered in thousands of red prints, all of them melting the ice, burning, underneath a shining sky. I wake up. The sky is hidden under a gray front, but the shadows of the trees have turned violet and blue. I can’t feel my hands or my face. Next to me, my father is sprawled in his folding-out chair. The lid of the cooler is tilted off, a collection of tails hanging halfway out of it, next to a hollow gallery of beer cans. The tails drip blood onto the thick snow. My father casts an eye to me and back again. He takes a long draw of beer, smacks his lips, and takes another. There is a tug at my line. “Well?” My father says. “Reel it in.” Return to Table of Contents

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.

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