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.

< 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

< Back Red Eyes by Jasmine Walker Vietnam jungle fatigues in a Salvation Army By Hannes Duncan I’m sitting in the bed of a U.S Army truck with my rifle between my legs and I’m measuring the distance between the muzzle and my throat. We sit in a cloud of chemical rot with our backs pressed up against piercing metal dirt in our eyes and a stranger’s pulse in the threads of our jungle fatigues. Our rapid heartbeats are synchronized in a song that will keep me up at night for the rest of my life. The thought of my death being the end of my family’s name has kept my bullets as generous as the God I used to pray to before I realized I’m beyond repair. The boy next to me kisses his rosary & I white-knuckle my dog tags. I could use a rapture. The truck’s gears whine under the weight of our nineteen-year-old shadows as it delivers us to another village in need of pacification. About the Author... Hannes Duncan is in 12th grade studying creative writing at Douglas Anderson. He is an avid writer and enjoys poetry of all kinds. His work has also appeared in UNF's literary magazine, The Talon Review. About the Artist... Jasmine Walker is a 12th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her favorite mediums are printmaking and painting. Previous Next

< Table of Contents Editors' Note As Élan has continued to sail into its 38th year of publication we have explored the fluidity of authentic art, and the variety of ways it can appear. In these pieces, artists from around the world grapple with the hard realities of what makes them belong and stand out as they perch on the precipice between childhood and adulthood. Journey with us as we dive deep into the true meaning of these human desires. As Editors-in-Chief, we are beyond proud of the work the staff and artists have put into this issue. We hope that you will allow this collection of work to sit with you. Let the tides of emotion within these pages take you out to sea and lead you somewhere different from where you began. Signed, Niveah Glover, Emma Klopfer, Avery Grossman, & Jaslyn Dickerson

14 < Table of Contents Blue Record by Jiranan Lowchaiwakul Eighteen and Up by Nadine Shanks There are gray giant double doors to enter the Emergency Department. So simple to push open and enter, one swing enough to say goodbye. Instead I hold my year-old cousin on my lap in a small-doored room adjacent. Minutes pass by, baby bouncing bubbles on my lap, fussing for his mother. My parents and aunt are inside, gone to see my grandfather for what only I know will be the final time. Holding his cries to my chest, I stand pacing in the waiting room, thirteen and unsure how to comfort his growing wails. As we walk the stark hallways he begins to quiet. The windows are clear- not one streak and the small garden outside them is a vibrant green. So silent, I can hear only the ringing in my ears, the AC pounding the walls. This is where I watch Death walk. She is a simple visitor. Quiet in her approach: a chaste licorice kiss brought along to answer final calls. Frankenstein’s Monster. "She is both messenger and deliverer. / Veiled beauty in onyx black, / Malice does not know her name." She is both messenger and deliverer. Veiled beauty in onyx black, Malice does not know her name. Her hands are a delicate framework of warm bone, she caresses every face as she walks by. Yet, not one pair of swollen eyes ever lands on her resting smile. Death: ethereal. A step away, she smells of spiderlily and winter water breeze. When her hands reach my face, my fingers flex once into tender baby flesh and release as a breath pushes past trachea. From my eyes, to my cheeks, to my lips, to my chin. Her fingers are smooth as a banister, her smile as sincere as the richest of sonnets, her eyes as honest as the dying man. She trails my cousin’s face with the outside of her index finger, And for the briefest of moments I meet her eyes. And again she began her procession, Moving person by person to the giant double doors at the end of the hall. In a swing, she is gone, and we are left alone with the garden. About the Writer... Nadine Shanks is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts with a focus on Creative Writing. She has published a minor collection of poetry in Scholastic Art and Writing. Centered around ideas of identity and childhood, she predominantly writes in memoir and poetry. About the Artist... Jiranan Lowchaiwakul is an 11th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson who majors in printmaking. She enjoys doing block printing, painting, and photography.

< Back Inner Child Manifesto by Brooke Coulter Beached By Olivia Chao You’re standing on the concrete plateau that lies next to the number one beach on the Oregon Coast. Though, you can’t quite remember the name of said beach because, at the time, you were only so young and now, you’re all grown up. Memories long forgotten have begun to surface in your mind because—scratch your face. Remember why you’re here in the first place—a beach trip with your uncle and cousin. The sun is setting and you can see the dip just where the waves meet the rays. Imagine placing yourself there, nestled between a warm and cool embrace. Your uncle is talking about your mother like she’s here. Something about how sad your grandfather is. How your mother never visits, never calls. You don’t know it yet but years into the future, right before you enter puberty, you’ll see your mother cry for the first time in your life. She’ll tell you how awful your grandfather was to her, how he didn’t support the marriage. You didn’t notice you were barefoot. Scratch your legs. Stare off in the distance, right on the line where the sea meets the shore. Think on it. Imagine shedding your clothes. Your skin. Consider entering the water, letting the sea take you, naked as the day you were born. “It just feels like she doesn’t love us,” your uncle says with tears in his eyes. Scan the beach. See a grey mass further down the coast, so far that it’s barely a dot in your vision, but it’s there. Put back on your skin, your clothes, walk down the stairs of the plateau. Let your soles sink in the sand. Your uncle and cousin don’t notice you’ve disappeared. Continue walking. Surely, they wouldn’t mind you staying on the sand for just a bit longer. Walk more, farther than when you started and consider giving up on this venture. Think about abandoning your skin again. Can’t. The gray dot begins to take shape, fins, a tail, eyes. Something more than base curiosity spurs you on. Run. Trip. Stumble. Eat a face full of sand. Don’t let it stop you till you reach what you’ve been looking for. Take no time to consider that, however, because you’ve reached your destination. A dead sperm whale lies beached on the sand. Well. Not dead yet. She’s still breathing. With every breath she takes, the sand vibrates. Scars cover her from head to tail. Some old, some new. The sand stops moving. Due to bacteria after death, gas forms. Her body swells. A concoction of carbon dioxide, methane, and ammonia forces the fetus out. Her dead body births a Calf, covered in only Its own amniotic fluid for comfort. The umbilical cord pulses, the mother has left the Calf without milk. Her body deflates in Its absence. Stand over the Baby’s body. Touch Its skin, find your fingers coated in pieces of placenta. You’re done. Walk past the Baby and let your feet touch the water. Almost walk knee deep before doubling back, head snapping to where the Baby lays. It’s dead. In one last rattle, the Baby cries. Remember your childhood. No, not this childhood. Further back. When you first started sleeping alone, without your parents and in a different room. Remember the events of those mornings. You’d stand in your new room, with orange walls this time, by the window and peered through the blinds—the best you could, given how short you were—and stared at the neighborhood kids playing in the driveway. One’s riding a skateboard with another pushing him, and everyone is laughing. Ask your mother if you can join. “They’re hooligans,” she said, every baleen on display. “What if you get hurt while you’re out there?” Slink back to your room to watch. The sun sets. Get scared of the dark. Find your parents and ask if you can sleep with them. Know that they’ll say no, it’s routine, go down the stairs to their room anyway. Carefully open the red door. Shuffle to your mother’s side of the bed. Listen to each creak of the floorboards. Stand over her body. Watch. Wait. You don’t know for what. Listen to the sound of her breathing. Find that you’ve been waiting for nothing. About the Author... Olivia Chao is a young writer and artist from Florida. She attends Douglas Anderson School of the Arts with a major in Creative Writing. Her artwork has previously been featured at the Jacksonville Public Library, and her writing has also previously been featured in Élan. About the Artist... Brooke Coulter is a junior Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her chosen mediums are acrylic painting and block printing. Previous Next

Braids Mackenzie Shaner Abyss of Gold Joshua Hein I write this poem for my Grammy. The only woman who did my hair since it was long enough to work with. She’s the only person I know who could twist it in beautiful braids. I’d sit on my knees, hands clasped in front of me, Staring at the cartoons on her TV. Her coarse hairbrush- With bare bristles from their plastic bulbs being long forgotten- Combing through the thick strands. Nimble fingers parting each side expertly Like pieces of thread she used to suture old teddy bears. I’ve always been aware of my indigenous heritage, Though even more aware that I don’t look like it. It’s far more apparent in my Grammy. Her skin is tanned indefinitely, With long black hair resembling that of an elegant horse's tail, Swaying in air as it prances with such confidence, You’d wonder if it had been taught, or simply born that way. I’m white as snow, With the type of skin that peels in the sun, And instead of gold underneath, All I see is red- But I’m told you still see it in my hair. Besides vague ideas and a name, I didn’t know about my heritage, Only recently I learned that hair has meaning, Some teachings say that your hair holds your life story So, it’s put in braids- for protection To keep it safe so the story may grow with you. Part of me was always bitter that I didn’t know much about myself But that wasn’t completely true In every day she did my hair, she was protecting me. Return to Table of Contents

2 Nostalgia by Maria Bezverkh Perched by Annika Gangopadhyay The crow perches on a telephone line, just adjacent to my house on the sullen, gray pavement. The neighbors left yesterday, probably some party or funeral or ceremony we didn’t know about, or didn’t care to know about. It caws a few seconds later, its voice mimicking the guttural movement of the clouds today–sluggish, ugly. I take out the trash in my room, reluctant, keeping my eye turned toward this bird that calls, occasionally at me, occasionally at some other companion on the opposite wire. As I lift the bulky plastic lid of the garbage can, the crow observes me and moves to a wire below. I flinch, and the lid nearly falls on my hand as I drop the trash bag. I want to run inside now, but for some reason I look back at the reptilian eyes that won’t blink. It swoops down on the ground, three feet in front of me. I hope it stays away from me, sharp eye contact far off into the distance. I back away towards the front door and decide to watch the crow from inside the living room; I don’t want it to peck me with its silver beak, angular against the sky like a blade unsheathed. A friend told me once that I shouldn’t feel intimidated by things smaller than me, since I have the arms, legs, and bones to defend myself from beaks no thicker than a miniature cone, or talons that fit around my shoulder. I realize now that the beak has a point, a tip, a curvature that I do not have. If the massive conquered the tiny, bugs wouldn’t bite humanity to death. Birds wouldn’t peck out eyes and limbs and joints. I stand behind the living room window–3:00pm, almost time to grab lunch–but the crow doesn’t stand. It walks toward the windowsill, still at a respectable but unnerving distance. I head to the kitchen, backing away toward the fridge and pull out a cold sandwich, some orange juice as the crow’s stare pierces my back. I can’t let this thing win, I decide, and so I return to the living room with a sandwich in hand, chewing with conviction, hands cold, feet shifting. It’s still looking at me, except now the talons grip the snapdragon vine we secured onto a wooden trellis three summers ago. “Do birds eat flowers?” A pause. “Probably, at some point, when they run out of the usual stuff. You know, bugs, fruits…” My dad trails off, too wrapped up in some Marvel movie to notice me hunched over in apprehension. Even with the TV playing, even with the windowpane insulating the road noise outside, I still hear the cawing in the living room. I still see the crow on the trellis, and the sun hides behind the clouds. I decide to tune into the drone of CGI explosions and superhuman fight scenes instead. Thor flies in with his hammer, invisible wings, almost like a– “There’s a bird outside, on the plants.” He doesn’t say anything. “Dad,” I tap him on the shoulder, “There’s a bird outside.” “Just leave it. It’s a bird .” “Can you do something?” He shakes his head and closes his eyes. If he falls asleep on the sofa again, it won’t be easy to wake him up. I walk up to the window and flick it with my index finger; as if entertained, the bird wriggles a little and stretches a foot. Sitting on the sofa, I keep my back turned, eyes fixated on the reflection of the window on the TV screen, still chewing on the sandwich, a glass of orange juice atop the table. Eyes still closed, he asks, “Did you take out the trash?” “Yeah.” As Thor emerges from the pretend-flames, my dad falls asleep. I nearly do too, eyelids barely flitting open. The action flashes in a predictable way, as if I can tell who is destined to defeat who, and which Avenger will die only to return in the next movie. I stop following along, mind numbed to road sets blowing up out of nowhere and cars crashing into each other. A crash behind me–I turn and see streaks of red on the window glass–not dripping, more like smudges or maybe fading imprints as the crow flies away with a limp wing. Gulping down orange juice, I wonder if the crow had leaned, how long it took to notice the glass screen. If it would have swooped into the living room–why didn’t it eat the flowers? That bird took my sanity, I scoff, while searching up a crow’s diet on Google. Worms, seeds, fruits. Meat. Just chicken and fish, I reassure myself: this isn’t a horror movie. Movies–Thor just killed these wimps with ease, flung them around like a natural. I head to the kitchen with my empty plate and glass. The garbage in the kitchen’s full, and I grab the trash bag, go through the living room. The companion crow sits on another telephone wire, watching me as I step outside. About the Writer... Annika is a young writer from the Bay Area. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in LIGEIA, The Incandescent Review, Blue Marble Review, and the borderline. She enjoys performing music in her spare time. About the Artist... Maria Bezverkh is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She is a photo major in the visual arts department. Maria specializes in photography because she loves how photography lets her capture beautiful moments in time.

< Table of Contents Phalaenopsis Orchid by Eavin Carney Memories Plucked from the Vine By Cove Johnson Rabidoux Memories fly like butterflies on bruised wings, limply floating up to death’s reach before falling into a net obscured by the curtain of time. Clocks tick with age and wonder. Moments shrivel into chalk like dusty wildflowers left in heavy rain, rotten like summer peaches, aureate and plump, sucked of life. Like sour syrup memories drip, drip, drip onto warm concrete, collapsing into an unknown fate, shaded with amnesia. The tiny wings sizzle and snap, bodies bent into shadows of darkness disappearing forever, like pink lips no longer breathing with life, chapped and shrunken, their glassy eyes devoid of consciousness. These memories dissolve and dissolve like fruits on the vine, plucked and savored, but now perished, weakened by the weight of the years. Moldy and forgotten, faded vibrant colors. Scattered and broken like shells on an ocean's shore, the once fragrant aroma of sweet moments, now still, slipping through the cracks of forgotte n time; the life within is lost to the ages. Miss their smell and taste, honey on warm golden skin. Try to catch them in loose fingers as they fly away on bruised wings, never to be felt again. About the Writer... Cove Johnson Rabidoux is an 11th-grade student at San Francisco University High School. Her work can be found on Teen Ink, The Teen Magazine, The Spearhead Magazine, Hot Pot Magazine, The Trailblazer Literary Magazine, Leaders Across the World, and her blog, Blue Pencil Writing. She serves as a Managing Editor for The Teen Magazine. She also edits for The Trailblazer Literary Magazine, Hot Pot Magazine, and Cathartic Youth Magazine. When she is not writing her novel, Cove enjoys reading, traveling, and baking. About the Artist... Eavin Carney is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy. She mainly prefers painting over drawing and enjoys incorporating natural materials in her art.