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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 Two Beautiful Things, Entangled at the Joints Angelic Reflection Cherry Cheesman Small Title Krislyn Fraser Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

7 < Back Last Call at the Yellow Bird Lauren Underberg Man With the Hat by Bria McClary Last Call at the Yellow Bird by Lauren Underberg Business never used to be slow on a Tuesday night, crowds staying well over curfew, waiting to rise with the rest of the city at daylight. As the days grew longer and the sun more unforgiving, it seemed that spring had drawn to a close, and so the dancers went back home to their second lives. These nights, there were rarely “problems” at the bar, and the old docksmen weren’t any harm once they stumbled past the door, dribbling spilled baijiu on their way out. One of three waiters had shown up in the past week, a mild-mannered boy clearly too young to be working at such an establishment. Uncle probably made an exception, and Irene had a feeling it had to do with the unusually pearly white plates being bused back to the kitchen, coupled with the boy’s shifty gaze. She let him go home early ever since the crowds had begun to dwindle over the weekend, and she was ready to close the restaurant tonight at ten-thirty, the earliest since Typhoon Ellen had cast the island in total darkness, nearly six years ago. That is, if it wasn’t for the triad. “ Puk gai! ” “ Aiyah , Fanfan, there’s no reason to shout.” “Oh, you say that when you’re being cheated by an egg-headed ninny in a suit! Gimme the dice.” “It’s your turn to drink.” The scrawniest of the three grabbed an empty shot glass, downing the tepid air in a menacing wince before slamming it back down. Irene knew them by their orders: Brian Lam (gin and tonic), low voice and dreamy eyes, or so she’d overheard the girls at the bar say. He frequented the least, often away renegotiating contracts overseas, but when he did appear it was always in a different tailored suit with the same faded pair of cufflinks. She remembered that once, a British officer had gotten in without a warrant, barking in sharp consonants at one of the guys who drew in and lost the most crowds with his deck of cards. Brian drew him aside, exchanging what appeared to be strained pleasantries, and within seconds the officer gave his sincerest apologies and was promptly led away by one of the hosts, never to be mentioned again. Irene only knew Fanfan (a beer was enough to get him tipsy, three and he’d be passed out) by his nickname, but that was all that people seemed to call him. He wasn’t exactly what she’d call trouble, but she also found herself with less and less pity for his laments each time they sat at the bar. Uncle said he was the best shot on the island; rumor had it he’d killed a man three cabs away, coming in from the Cross-Harbour Tunnel. The game resumed as Fanfan shook the dice. “Three twos!” Brian sighed, glancing into his own cup. “Five threes—” “ Bu xing [1] ! ” Fanfan cried. “I can’t do this anymore,” Brian said, fingers pressing to his temple as Fanfan pouted. “Aw, are someone’s pockets getting too heavy? Maybe if you spared a few hundred dollars, you’d be better able to sit back on your—” “Gentlemen, please,” the third said, glancing up from his drink with a grin. “There’s a lady present.” Kit—the newest in town, a hot cup of oolong every night from the first he walked in. Pain in the ass. Irene turned her back, repolishing the crystal. “Yes—our apologies,” Brian quickly said, folding his napkin on the counter. “We’ll be taking our leave shortly.” “ Coward! A real backstabber finishes the job!” Fanfan howled. “Alright, alright,” Kit said, shaking the cup. “One more round.” Brian sighed. “Don’t encourage him.” “Like you did?” Kit shot him a look, and Brian fell silent, watching him tilt the cup back to examine its interior. “Four fours.” Fanfan groaned, beating his forehead against the counter. Brian frowned. “I think you’re bluffing.” Kit twirled the cup between his fingers, holding the other’s. A cryptic expression seemed to stretch itself across Brian’s face as he reached into his pocket, fanning out the bills he’d collected that night. Fanfan peeked between his fingers, while the other placed them in the center of the counter. “ Bu xing ,” Brian said. Kit slid the cup down the counter, coming to a halt between the other two players. They peered in. Irene paused, listening as the song on the jukebox drew to an end. “ Ging zau [2] ! ” Fanfan cried, snatching the bills from the counter and falling out of his seat. Kit smiled over his shoulder. “A gin and tonic, please—plus some ice.” [1] “Not possible!” (Players shout it when they suspect someone of bluffing in Chui Niu, a popular Chinese drinking game.) [2] “Cheers!” (Used in reference to when someone has to drink as a penalty, either during a toast or drinking game.) About the Writer... Lauren Underberg is a junior in the Creative Writing department at the Alabama School of Fine Arts. Their work appears in the department’s student-run literary magazine, Cadence. They have been referred to as a long-distance runner on multiple occasions, which basically means they’ll never write a short short story in their life. About the Artist.... Bria McClary is a 12th Grader at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At the school, Bria is a visual arts major who dedicates their life to her artistry. They create art, generally in paints, and many kinds of mixed medias like cloths, collage, embroidery, inks, and charcoal because of the looseness the materials creates and the freedom in creating such pieces. Bria also has been apart of NAHS—National Arts Honors Society throughout her junior and Senior year at Douglas Anderson. Entering and winning multiple silver keys and a gold key art portfolio along with multiple scholarships from Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.

1 < Table of Contents Summer by Elizaveta Kalacheva Before the Kudzu Elise Russell It’s between Alabama and Mississippi that the sun turns soft. All I can do is half-see, and the vines turn telephone poles into looming shadows, jungle monsters reaching their tendrils toward the future. When muted violet, blue-green-mosquito-breeding- marsh overtakes the monotony of that roadside tree— the kind that only knows the highway, like some codependent childhood sweetheart, too afraid to leave— and when looking out the window isn’t a dizzying blur of there-then-gone foliage, everything just opens . And suddenly, I get to imagining how it used to be, years and years ago: when rigs and refineries didn’t dot the wetlands like the egrets do. Plumes, not of smoke, but pure white and soft. "Before the water hyacinth, the nutria, the apple snail, / when we weren’t training jasmine to grow in / isometric triangles and concentric circles, / did nature know the word ‘tame?’ Does it now?" Before the kudzu, what were we? Before the water hyacinth, the nutria, the apple snail, when we weren’t training jasmine to grow in isometric triangles and concentric circles, did nature know the word “tame?” Does it now? There are men in safety vests along the highway driving cherrypickers, holding chainsaws And they try to cut back what comes back: Overgrow , overthrow , overgrow . About the Writer... Elise is a Junior at the Willow School in New Orleans, and a member of Willow’s Certificate of Artistry (CA) Creative Writing Program there. They have lived most of their life in New Orleans, apart from two years near Washington D.C. With a passion for stories since they could read, Elise loves to learn and explore life through language. Besides writing, they also enjoy music, cooking, crocheting, and traveling. Their creative writing teacher, Dr. Allison Campbell, supports their work—you can find her at allisoncampbell@willowschoolnola.org . About the Artist... Elizaveta Kalacheva is an aspiring artist from Russia now based in America and currently studying at Savannah Arts Academy. Her art draws inspiration from Picasso, Monet, and Van Gogh. Their revolutionary styles influence her work, blending modern innovation with classical beauty. She weave her cultural experiences into each piece, creating a unique fusion of traditions and perspectives. Art is her passion, and through her creations, she aims to invite others into a world where colors speak volumes and imagination knows no bounds.

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 My Light by Daysha Perez Orbit By Allison LaPoint A celestial body in orbit of another—by definition—is in a constant state of freefall. Yet, they never touch, because there is just enough tangential inertia to keep them falling parallel to the surface of the other body. Always falling, but never connecting. You told me this as we sat on my roof, covered to our necks in wool. We gazed up at pinpricks of light, effervescent and shining through the dark ocean above us. I could barely see you in the dead of night; the new moon plunged the town into a pool of nothing. The world fell away around us, as it does when one is young and happy. It was us and the sky alone. Your planet is a swirling violet, I imagine. I see six rings, matching the ones you keep on your fingers. You and I were so far away from Earth and the rest of our galaxy. We were a binary planet system: you orbited around me, and I you. You reached your hand up high and made a cross in the air. Do you see that one? Yes. Cygnus, you said, your voice pensive. His best friend was thrown into the river by Zeus. Cygnus prayed to him, begging him to spare his friend, for he knew his friend would die if he didn’t save him. So, the god transformed Cygnus into a swan, and he dove into the river, pulling him out. The greatest sacrifice. The ultimate act of friendship. We were so young then, and your face was full of hope and wonder. Do you promise we’ll always be friends? You asked this with such fear, such anticipation of this future, this “always” that crushed all possible ulterior outcomes. The intensity of your gaze made me squirm, and the rough shingles of the roof scratched my bare shoulders. I said yes. What else could I do? I could feel it when our orbit broke, and you went soaring into the dark nothing of space. I didn’t realize at the time it meant that I would go as well and be lost and alone in the universe. We had been friends for so long, I had forgotten what it was like to not be a part of your orbit, or for you to be absent from mine. That night on the roof seems so far away now, and so do you. I find other beings and other ways of being. I become a part of something bigger, a system of planets like me, all orbiting around a commonality between us. Our star. "That night on the roof seems so far away now, and so do you. I find other beings and other ways of being. I become a part of something bigger, a system of planets like me, all orbiting around a commonality between us. Our star." I don’t know where you went, or where you are, but I hope you have a system too. About the Author... Allison LaPoint is a junior and aspiring artist. In her free time, she enjoys exploring various forms of creative expression, such as writing, visual art, theater, and music. About the Artist... Daysha Perez is an 11th grader at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She is a visual arts major. Her main medium is acrylic paint on canvas and also experiments with mixed media often. Previous Next

Syrup Ty'ana Pope I could have killed him, that night in the woods. We were alone, no one around for miles, the silence between us filled with the crackling of the bonfire we had spent a near hour trying to figure out how to light safely. No one would have known what I did in those nights. I could have thrown him in the blazing fire, I could have impaled him like a finger brushing against old wood, I could have tied him up and left him under the dock at the lake for the leeches to feed on for all anyone would care. But I could not. I had done it so many times; I had chased people down for blocks on end, I had gutted people alive, and that is not even all of it, cause I had done so much more, and even better I had played my part to get away with it. I had been everyone’s worst nightmare. This should have been no issue for someone like me. But I just could not kill him, no matter how hard I tried, I could not. He was just too… something ? I do not think there is even a word to describe him. His voice played so soft and sweet, almost in a way that sticks with you like sap no matter how much you try to wash it off. His eyes never glowed, only empty, only ever filled with light hope and deep sorrow. His hair always seemed so unkept, but not in a bad way, but in a way that felt like he did not have it in him to maintain his daily appearance. He carried a familiar scent to him, almost like home, not the building, but the feeling of a long-distance family that have not been brought together for years, but are finally coming back with one another, at a funeral, not exchanging a word, the despair in the room saying enough and more than they ever could. Stupidly, I let the night play on, to give him a chance, to let his actions, thoughts, and words give an explanation to his demeanor, and with that the fire no longer popper over us, instead our voices echoed over and throughout our campsite. But soon the fire did not pop at all, and unexpected rain poured from the sky flooding the ground around, just missing us with the incline of where we rested our site. We spoke for hours in the tent, waiting for the rain to stop. Though rather uncomfortable, he made sure there was no space left for an awkward silence to refill the air, and instead he told me stories; ones from his past, ones he had never told another, ones that told me that he trusted me, ones that made me want to sob into the sky until the angels heard my cries to spare him. And I nearly did cry at one point, but he noticed me, stopped, and grabbed my hand; they were rough, yet soft. Nothing about him matched, I was sure of it then. Even his hands contrasted every other thing about him. He began to apologize profusely for saying too much and asked if I had anything to say, anything to change the direction of the conversation. I did not. So, the rain having stopped by then, we moved on. He brought me outside, the smell of petrichor filling the air, easing the atmosphere. And deciding to take advantage of the now clear weather, he started to teach me. He taught me how to fish, how to find poisonous plants and berries, how to avoid them, how to cure any illness with them, how to turn them into a bittersweet honey like syrup. That was my favorite part; mushing the berries and watching their rich nectar ooze out into the little bowls until it was nothing but, the skins of them being taken out to dry out by the fire for a snack later into the night. The syrup we made was put in these almost childlike cups, sippy cups maybe. It tasted like what I imagine Ambrosia from those Greek stories tasting like. By the third sip I felt my body glow down to its core; my veins felt electric, my eyes felt like they had opened a new color spectrum, my muscles could climb my way up to the top Olympus from the underworld with no assistance. But if this were a Greek story, I would be Paris; falling for a forbidden beauty unknown without thinking about the consequences, because syrup is still syrup in a sippy cup, and it is an even deeper cut when it is poisonous. I should have seen it; building trust with a sob story, it was such a typical move, one I had used many times myself, my own game used against me. I should have taken it as my chance to strike, I was stupid not to. But I just had to let the night happen, just I let him play his game. I should have gotten him first, remove this first story and I would still hold my title. I would not be dead right now. Return to Piece Selection

Collette Carlee Collette Carlee is a student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She is the Junior Managing Editor of Élan Literary Magazine, has earned two honorable mentions from Scholastic Art and Writing for her prose, and is a WordPress Certified Editor. Her work combines satirical comedy and Southern Gothic literary elements.

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 Saltwater Escape Nico De Guzman Small Title Elizaveta Kalacheva Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

541a1371-2508-48aa-9d08-613f36b1a509 My Inner Brewing Conflicts by Alana Guifarro motherland by Evangelina Ariana Thornton your eyelids slope like yunnan’s mountainous horizon; your skin is the pale- yellow of your grandparents’ love letters; the bridge of your nose, the peak of a muddy shallow gorge; your hair is woven from the wooden silk loom. Child, curve your pink lips like the weathered moon gate in darkened gardens, to form the vowels that don’t exist in your second language. This is how we say go and collect , the steamed fish of spring festival feasts and the lush-green rice paddies you have never seen. Your tongue flounders like a foreigner’s; your muscles strain in international waters. Sleepless, you bend over your bathroom sink, excavating your reflection. Your irises are the black ink of pine resin soot, bones exposed like unraveled handscrolls. You toil with your mouth until your cheeks sting and thighs twinge, staying there until the moon rises in that distant country, struggling to speak to the origins of your body and to enunciate your motherland. Return to Table of Contents

Inocencia by Ian Castro Soto Worship/War by Su Thar Nyein 2019, Shwedagon Pagoda. I sleep a little when my mother tells me to pray. I close my eyes. I dream. Child-like. I call her over. Hey, look. The grass is growing. Sometimes I think each blade is a small god: proof of survival. strength of breath. I say a prayer. Not scripture or ancient writing, but a hieroglyph of my hope. A wishbone. A miracle. A mouth in a drought. Mumble in the silence, in the serenity, “သာဓု သာဓု သာဓု ” 2023, Shwedagon Pagoda. I’ve wanted to pray for a while. My eyes can't close. The smallness of a person in an earthquake. A home in a tsunami. A drowning deity. Prayers stuck in my teeth. Gums uprooting. My dog tongue. Sometimes, I cling onto life like death. I meditate, hands poised on my lap as tightropes, floating like Buddha with the world below me. I am touching the sky. Raindrops or bullets. A mouth of ashes. Unsaid and undone. Whispering under the melody of a bomb, “သာဓု သာဓု သာဓု” "သာဓု သာဓု သာဓု," a phrase said after finishing a prayer, pronounced “Thadu, Thadu, Thadu," meaning “well done." About the Writer... Su Thar is a Literary Arts student at the School of the Arts, Singapore, set to graduate in 2025. Her work has placed first in Singapore's 2022 National Poetry Competition (Senior Category) and York University’s 2023 YorkIASG Competition. She is also an alumna of the SUNHOUSE Summer Writing Mentorship. Her favorite part of writing is explaining her work to her mother in broken Burmese. About the Artist... Ian Castro Soto is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy. He specializes in graphite, pen and ink while always doing his best to experiment with different mediums.

Jay Lechwar Jay Lechwar is a Senior studying Creative Writing at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. They are the current Junior Layout and Design Editor of Élan Literary Magazine as well as the Manager of Hours of their school’s Literary Arts Honors Society. Presently, they are focused on finding more opportunities to interact with their local community through their art.

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 His Mother's Cries Incandescent Anai Harris Small Title Daysha perez Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View