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Southern Heat by Madison Bradley Excerpt from Homes and Houses by Audrey Brant Restless spirits live here. But they are alive. They have bodies, but no souls. They inhabit this house, but they don’t truly live in it. Their home is not this structure. This building holds them, but it does not hug them. There is an absence of presence here. An absence of positive emotion. Wood and concrete and walls and a roof do not create a home. Only love can do that. Shingles and lumber and cement do not create love. Only warmth and light from people can do that. Money might make the world go around, but love makes it twirl; a mandatory rotation compared with the joy and freedom of a child’s pirouette.” And not the warmth that comes from a furnace, or the light that blooms from a bulb. The kind that comes from a heartbeat or a compassionate mind. Isolation and alienation make a home into a house. Irritation and annoyances spill over into hatred. Little things build up into big problems. A once-shared home becomes a house divided by stress and fading tolerance. Storms of silence brew between a family until it’s unbearable, and somebody leaves. They thought, for the longest time, that homelessness was being without a place to stay, or living on the streets. But when you’ve lost your family, when you’ve lost the people you love or their love for you, that’s when you are truly without a home. Money might make the world go around, but love makes it twirl; a mandatory rotation compared with the joy and freedom of a child’s pirouette. And somewhere along the line, a glimmer of hope appears, like shining stardust into a pool that sends golden ripples to the outskirts of its vessel. An unforeseen rosy light overcomes the house and blankets every room. This light is not from the fixtures in the ceilings or from the televisions omitting their unnatural glow; this light is from peace. The loneliness that came from the individual’s departure dissipates into serenity. The remaining inhabitant finds that their house is more of a home than it ever was.

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.

Eye Can See by Adrian Gibson allegory deferred by Lynn Kong Elderly white thread, teeth and strands of soul: Grandmother’s hands are crumpled like youth’s pink silk dress, like the roof of my mouth when I was born as a lump of clay, virgin to bruise and doubt’s edge— gums bared to verity. She ties a slender noose— milky and knitted with exile— and drapes it around my tooth, where frailty clasps earth and rustles somewhat. How is it that I wish so much to be unscathed? I clutch at violation, sucking rue and the dross of parched mirrors. But I cannot give it up, that tooth. I am still so infantile. Someday, when bubonic fragility melds with grace unmired, there will be a wonder akin to that graveyard odyssey wherein all false selves are discarded like the teeth of one’s childhood. Tongue prods void and rests.

Coming Apart at the Seams by Audrey Lendvay The Weight Is Worth It a response to The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien The question of “what do you carry?” leads me to the very simple answer of “too much.” If you were to ask me why do I carry, or how do I carry, or who do I carry, I could give you a much clearer and concise essay. But since that is not the case, this will have to do. Let’s see. On a daily basis, I carry numerous things. I carry my phone, earphones, a charger, band-aids, cans, and cans of Arizona, the necessities. Sometimes I carry a journal and almost always forget the pen. Other times I carry nothing and regret it. As I roam around carrying nothing, I feel exposed and naked, a deer caught in headlights but the headlights are spotlights and the road is the stage. I wonder if this is a universal experience. That every human feels the need to be prepared for everything, that the change in your pocket, the things you carry but then scatter throughout the day, mean more to you the more you live. “I think about how that person got dressed that morning not knowing they’re wearing their dead man clothes.” I carry impatience and not being able to sit through end credits. The end credits feel like the ghost of the movie, trying to hold onto life so badly that it will haunt the living to do so. The end credits are too greedy to be the end. Seeing those names without faces makes me anxious, and it’s always too cold in the movie theater. Why are ghosts always described as chilly? Why can’t they be hot, walking, dead steam? I think people would be a lot more wary of them if they burnt your insides when they pass by instead of leaving you with a raise of the hair. When I watch something made for a single sitting, I can’t focus. Everything but the movie suddenly becomes so much more interesting. Was that light always there? Why? It’s so hideous! Oh, that spot on my wall looks like a camel with Jesus on his back. Jesus is the only dead person allowed to haunt the living. I carry my skin and everything in between: my lungs, bones, muscles, heart. I constantly feel like I’m in a swimming pool fully clothed with my bag full of junk I can’t part with. I carry it with confidence, too much confidence that it breaks and all spills out. I’m watching the materialistic things sink to the bottom and I can’t go further than the surface of the water but I can see them going further away from my fingertips. The things I begged for are being soaked and submerged forever. My organs are swimming around in their own filthy pool. Sometimes I think too much about breathing and the pumps of blood in my heart, how it chokes and sputters inside me. My heart was never taught how to calm down. When that happens I have to check the pulse on my neck to remind myself that I’m still alive. And until I can feel those bu-dump, bu-dump, bu-dumps slow-down, I am being tossed around in a stranger’s palm, and my fate is up for grabs. I carry the weight of being human: stomach aches, headaches, my lost baby teeth in my mother’s underwear drawers. When you are taught about mortality, no one prepares you enough. You can not pack a bag for the talks about death. When I first learned the word death, I treated it like any human would, with curiosity and fear. As I continued to learn about my inevitable end, the fear turned into sadness. I discovered that sadness is the only emotion I can feel in my stomach like it’s something I’ve swallowed and went through the process of digestion. S came first, then a d n e s s followed and played scrabble in my stomach. It sat by itself, warding off last night’s dinner. No one told me how heavy an internal organ could be. I carry not being able to spell sincerely right without autocorrect. Or saying, “I am a strong, independent woman,” but will do a, “but I’m oh so fragile” when it comes to girl push-ups and bugs in the house. I need to be taught that seeking help doesn’t make me weak, that I will never know how to solve world peace. I need to be humbled, to have someone shove their finger in front of my mouth and tell me to shut up. I need to be grateful that I’ve never witnessed the death of another, that whenever I see a death splattered on the news, it only affects me for a couple of minutes. I need to remember that the world stops only for those minutes and not the rest of my life. I think about how that person got dressed that morning not knowing they’re wearing their dead man clothes. What they carried that morning wasn’t enough. So I will carry their things for them, fistfuls of gratitude, and socks full of hope that I can see the sunrise the next morning. Over time I will lose as many things as I will carry and then have my inevitable death with my bags full of junk. And everyone will know that I died because they will hear the sounds of empty Arizona cans clatter to the floor. The world will weep.

< Table of Contents Morph by Ryan Griffin Vignettes of Childhood in the House at the Edge of the World By Jada Walker The Taste of Dragon He pokes at the dragon with his fork. Because of its difficulty to come by, dragon meat is considered a rare delicacy. He thinks it tastes like chicken, but packed with more iron than it ought to have. He stares down at his plate, which holds an untouched slab of dragon drowning in a dark, sticky sauce. Even without bending to it, its tangy metallicity burns in his nose. He makes a face. “Eat your dinner,” his mother says to him. He lifts his glass and takes a sip of the pale liquid circling in the cup. When he sets it down the drink keeps moving, and it looks like he has a miniature whirlpool trapped in his cup. He imagines a tiny Charybdis lurking at the bottom of the glass, sucking up liquid and belching it out to create the swirling motion. His mother looks at him and tells him to eat the food on his plate. He looks at the dragon, then rubs off a forkful of its sauce and puts the fork to his tongue. It’s earthy and sweet. He tastes another rub of it and decides that it's a good sauce. He takes a pinch of dragon and pulls it through the sauce pooled on his plate, then closes his eyes and puts it in his mouth. He chews once, twice, and then swallows it whole. Nothing can make dragon taste good. Shadows Dancing Diamonds twinkle overhead. Dying light shines through translucent curtains. A ghost teaches her shadow to dance, as he taught her siblings’ before. Two slippered feet and two weightless ones, joined in a long-forgotten waltz. The Monster under the Bed On her first night in her new room, she hears something moving under her. She lies still for a moment, listening to the quiet jumble coming from below, and then she gets off her bed and pulls back the trailing comforter. It’s dark. She can see only a shadowy heap, adjusting its position under her bed. “Who are you?” she asks. It pauses, then rolls so the front of its body faces her. Two circles of light shine through the darkness. “Get out from there, so I can see you in the light.” The creature obliges and she moves from the bed to give it space. “What are you?” she asks, once it’s out. Even in the light, it looks to her like a mass of shadows, pressed into the vague shape of a man. Its eyes are radiant and white and sit too low on its face. “In this language, the closest word to what I am,” it says, “is monster.” “Do you have a name?” she asks it. It replies, “Not for your tongue.” She's uneasy. She’s been taught the importance of names when dealing with unknown creatures. “What brings you to my room?” she asks the monster. “I’m here to watch over you,” the monster says, “and to warn those who would want to do you harm.” “If you are here to watch over me,” she says, “why did you not before? When I lived in the nursery?” “There are other children in the nursery,” it replies, “and that ancient nursemaid of yours that’s been protecting children since the dawn times. No, anything that would like to get you while you sleep would not enter a room such as that. But now, you are in a room of your own and now, you need me. So, here I am.” She thinks of the songs the nursemaid would sing in the dark of night, when everyone was sleeping, (or supposed to be sleeping, in her case), songs in a language she'd never before heard but sounded to have born in the ages when dragons outnumbered humans. They were strange, lilting melodies. But now, the room is quiet, and if she stills herself and listens carefully, she can hear an ominous absence pulling at the air. It frightens her, the idea of it, and the kinds of things that could hide in it. “And you’re always going to be under my bed?” she asks the monster. “No,” it says. “Sometimes, I will hide in your closet. Sometimes, I will fold myself into your dresser, and sometimes, I will stand watch in the corner of your room. But yes, most nights, I will be under your bed, waiting for something impure to enter your room, so I can prove my worth.” She doesn’t know what to say to that, and she mutters a quiet, “Well, then, thank you,” to the monster. The monster nods. It crawls back under her bed and melts into the darkness. She climbs into her bed and stares at the ceiling. Some time later, as she’s drifting off to sleep, she hears a low growl from under her bed. She doesn’t feel scared, but she doesn’t dare open her eyes. * Lakeshore “They see Death for the first time at the lakeshore. She kneels at the edge of the water, cradling a baby bird with a hanging head.” They see Death for the first time at the lakeshore. She kneels at the edge of the water, cradling a baby bird with a hanging head. Waves lap at Her skirt as She caresses the bird’s featherless neck. When She leaves, She carries with Her something of the bird’s. “She took its soul,” they say to each other, watching as She slowly submerges Herself in the lake. But they can’t know for certain. Her hands are closed around whatever She took. They hold a funeral for the bird. They make a tiny coffin from braided grass and scoop out a place for it in the sand. They tell stories of birds and sing songs of birds and, when it’s all over, close up the hole and carefully pat it even. “It was just a baby,” the youngest sniffles. “That’s all the time it gets,” her sister says. The burial site is marked with a sharp, white-gray shell. * Dream She is practicing the waltz on the first floor of the Museum when she sees it. She is intrigued by the strange sheet draped over its tall, thin figure, by the sound the sheet makes pulling against the stonelike floor, the tender swish of a forgotten era. She calls to it and it turns around, then back around and continues its walk. Slowly. Stately. A crown of candles rests on its shapeless head, their yellow flames shivering in the wind. Tassels of braided grass hang from its fingers. She follows it. Through the rows of bronzed armor, strapped to the wall with thick chains. Through the glass cases that hold faded writings and discarded artifacts. Across a floor covered in ash and dust that collects on the edges of its sheet, and stains the white material gray. Still, it walks. And, running, she can’t catch up to it. * Sunset There’s a cliff at the far end of their property, right at the edge of the world. They sit on its margins and let their legs dangle over a river of time. A chilly wind blows in from the west. As the sun fades from the sky, they huddle together to share their warmth and listen silently to the rush of seconds below. About the Writer... Jada Walker is a junior at Interlochen Arts Academy. About the Artist... Ryan Griffin is a Senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Griffin has won high accolades in local to national art competitions like The Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. She frequently volunteers and aids within her school community by being an active member of multiple clubs/honor societies and advocating for the student body by serving on the senior student council. Ryan looks for beauty in effort and experimentation and their inherent connection with process and science to guide her work not only as an artist, but also as a student.

< Table of Contents Second Place Team by Stella McCoy Texas Children By Isobel Stevenson We are eight and nine and ten, sitting in the back of a truck, moving up and down, down and up with the rhythm of the rocks. The stars are out, so many they almost block the moon. We are lunar creatures, free as a breath of air, souls full of summer and sunburn. We are Texas children who bore heat rash before scars, who caught snakes and watched scorpions fight in lights. We are tough kids: Lord of the Flies unbound, barreling towards a farm to blister and pick grass. “I point out the Big Dipper to him, something I learned in science class, and he nods. I feel infinite.” Sonny takes my hand in the bed of the truck when I almost fall out. He’s one of the tough boys I want to be. He’s rogue and brave and I’m almost as tall as him. “You gotta hold on,” he says, always watching out for me. I nod, keep his hand close, and look up at the sky. I point out the Big Dipper to him, something I learned in science class and he nods. I feel infinite. In the back of the truck, we are infinite: Texas children turned lunar creatures, barreling through our memory. About the Writer... Isobel Stevenson is a high school student in Houston, Texas. She loves the summer more than the winter , and her favorite book is Catcher in the Rye. About the Artist... Stella McCoy is a current junior at Headwaters School in Austin, Texas. She particularly enjoys using 2D media within her work, such as oil and acrylic paint. Within her subject matter, she’s often inspired by other artistic disciplines beyond the visual arts, including ballet and classical guitar.

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.

8 < Table of Contents Jack o’ Lantern by Mackenzie Shaner 1. I dream of the cutting board— I'll let you put me down, a secure hand keeping me from rolling right off the counter, your body casting long shadows over my round frame, " Slathering virgin olive oil / And a pinch of cinnamon / Onto every curve." Slathering virgin olive oil And a pinch of cinnamon Onto every curve. Licking sugar off deft fingers, The oven purring, heat rising In a plume of saccharine vapors. The fan kicked on so the smoke alarm Doesn't whine. Consume me. Slice me with the most decorative spatula, The one with the white handle, The curling grapevines— maybe It’s even shaped like a wide leaf, creating A schism between pie and slice— but 2. You find it is much easier to mutilate. To Take a spoon, your bare hands, shirtsleeves Rolled high, clawing out my seeds By the fists full. Slick Strings stuck under nailbeds As you flick them into the trash With a wet smack. Your hands smell like resistance, dyed Carotene orange while fibers lull Down the drain. Here, you take certain creative liberties, Carving out jagged eyes, Two triangles, so I may stare Vacantly at the back of my skull Or count tiles on the ceiling. A sprawling smile, perpetually open Should you feel the need To reach a slender fist Through my gaping maw. When you’re finished, You light a fire. Drip wax on my core So the red candle sticks. You set me on your porch. You let me die. About the Writer... Mackenzie Shaner, a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts, has been studying Creative Writing for seven years and hopes to one day teach the subject. She writes mostly poetry, which circles such ideas as identity, self-worth, and the relationship between mother and daughter.

16 < Table of Contents Guazi by Yiming Low To My Mother by Luna Lu 9:58 p.m. I unlocked my phone after finishing my essay just before my 10 p.m. deadline. A sigh of relief escaped my pursed lips and instantly turned into white fumes – fall in Michigan is already frosty and wintry. There was nothing new except a photo from my father. I reluctantly opened it, annoyed at the thought that it might be just another reminder to do the homework that I just finished or his exciting discovery of a new way to make scrambled eggs. But my immature annoyance soon disappeared upon seeing the photo, and a swamp of emotions washed over me. I had to close the screen to put it aside so my tears wouldn’t stain it. It was a plain, domestic photo of my mother sitting in front of a quiet bar at sunset, posing semi-awkwardly for my father’s camera. She was wearing a white dress with black maple leaves on it, designed in a traditional, minimalist Japanese style she always liked. Her hair was dyed to be as brown as mine, elegant curls draped around her shoulders in a way that reminded me of the delicious croissants she used to bake. But I couldn’t recognize her face. I zoomed in as hard as I could, desperately searching for something familiar. Her lips seemed to have a different color, her nose bridge was way taller than what I remembered to be, and her eyebrows looked thinner. The gradually growing distance between me and my mother was beginning to have an effect, and when I realized that I couldn’t register the softness in her eyes, my own eyes began to swell with tears. Mother and I didn’t have the easiest time with each other. In fact, our differences were already painfully obvious during my earliest years, as if we were living side by side in two different worlds. Mother was born in a village at the bottom of a mountain during the 1970s in China, a time I could never comprehend as a Generation Z kid born in an already-developed urban city. Growing up in a conservative family, my mother was perfectionistic and meticulous, and she lived by a strict set of standards: utensils must be set before meals with chopsticks on the right side of the rice bowl; be quiet when you are in a room with people older than you; floors and shelves in the household must be spotless at all times. I never understood why she allowed these unimportant details to control her days. There was more to life than dishes in the sink, dust on the floor, and unorganized shoe cases. There were insightful books to read, infinite topics to learn, and exciting creative work to pursue. An unmade bed could be reasonably ignored if one is rushing to write the next best chapter of their life. Having to spend ten minutes scrubbing the clean floor before I could resume my homework was an immense source of frustration for me. Now, looking back, her compulsiveness was her own way of maintaining the family and keeping us together. But for the younger me, it was something I needed to run away and escape from. Mother and I had countless arguments with each other during the following years, and it was because of our different views on womanhood that our relationship turned sour. Mother was raised in a misogynistic family, and she brought the scars along with her. I hated how she looked with them, and for that I hated her. I hated how she didn’t dare to speak during social events when my father was around; I hated how she gave up looking for jobs and settled as a housewife; and I hated how she spent countless hours trying to lose weight and telling herself that she wasn’t thin, slim, or attractive enough. One day, after hearing her saying how it’s best for me to choose the easy way and stop trying so hard, I shouted back: “Just because you are too much of a coward to muster up the courage to do something challenging, doesn’t mean that I am!” I ran out of the room without looking back. I didn’t see her puffy, exhausted eyes. This time, I ran 7591 miles away from her. She begged for me to stay, but she knew about my stubbornness. I swore to myself that I will never be like her. I made sure that we were living in different countries, eating different food, and speaking different languages. I stopped calling her, and I even stopped celebrating holidays and chose to spend my long breaks at my friends’ houses instead. " As I went on living without her, though, I started to find more and more of her shadow in me." As I went on living without her, though, I started to find more and more of her shadow in me. We both liked the smell of new cashmere sweaters, the burnt, crispy part of vanilla cakes, and spontaneous picnics in zoos and lake parks. We had a soft spot for anything with caramel, and we both agreed that the best pizza topping is pineapple. I could never forget the way she rode the scooter through rainstorms with me on her back. Comfortably leaning on mother’s warm shoulders and hiding under a comically large raincoat with raindrops dripping off my eyebrows, I peeked through an opening gap, curiously observing the blurry streets hugged by the hazy fog and traffic lights – that was my way of seeing this world. And for a while, my mother was my world. Even though she didn’t understand why I would rather practice roller-skating in the rain than take a day off, she still came and picked me up with dry clothes and chips. She was baffled when I picked non-fiction over comic books, but nonetheless made me custard buns and set them beside my bookmark. I never thought about how painful it was for her to have trouble understanding her own daughter. I didn’t hate my mother, not really. Hatred was the cheapest mask I got to cover up all the blame I put on myself for being too weak to stand up for her and the astringent guilt I hid in my bedroom closet. It was the only way I knew. Maybe mother and daughter are not meant to understand each other at all. Instead, we were made to push and pull and pass each other like Jupiter and Saturn, and all we could do was grow. In the end, it doesn’t matter if our worlds never intertwine together perfectly, as long as I can still sit by your side and have a cup of your coffee. I love you, mother. I am glad that I am your daughter. Thank you for protecting me in this vast, confusing universe. 10:19 p.m. Sitting next to Lake Michigan, I unlocked my phone once again and dialed my mother’s number. Earthy breezes teased with my sleeves and tickled my cheeks. A lone lighthouse shimmering from afar, its amber glow being the only thing that was keeping me away from the cold and endless darkness. “Oh baby, you haven’t called me for a long time. Did you eat dinner?” “Yeah yeah I did. Mom, guess what, I’m coming home this winter break.” About the Writer... Luna Lu is a current junior at Interlochen Arts Academy majoring in Interdisciplinary Arts, her focuses include film, theater, music, creative writing, visual art, and collecting books. A life-long learner, she dedicates her energy to the pursuit of beauty and knowledge. About the Artist... Yiming Low is a visual arts major at the Savannah Arts Academy in Savannah, Georgia. Along with traditional styles of realism, she enjoys experimenting with graphic design, photography, and printmaking.

Depth to my Body Mia Parola Sorrowful Reflection Hasina Lilley I wanted to swim through a fountain inside myself and kick laps around shallowed water, allow each stroke to jet me forward but not deeper so the tilt of my head could still fill me with easy air. For reward I wished to erupt whimsically into the sky from an upward faucet, like the one that lights and spews cold fireworks into dull dusk while I drive down Main Street Bridge. If it were a diving board, I would plummet myself from it, down to be congratulated by that dancing water who’s droplets shine like clear cut diamonds that hit as they fall from bursts above. When I do jump into the water of myself, no light show greets me at the surface. the splash I send into the sky is lost, maybe nonexistent against the open waters that meet me and reshape my body under a new murk. I’m not prepared for the lack of lap lanes to help me forward and begin to sink down into myself, falling through the ocean as a diver. Lost in drowning panic, it’s easy to forget how to breathe from the tank that is my lifeline as I fall like a tossed boulder until the final depth. The seafloor catches me where I never wanted to reach, sixty-five feet down and alone with myself almost. Sunlight oddly sends scattered rays all this way down that swim with the water as they reflect from sand. No fountain spews artificial bursts of color, but patches of neon coral are explored by schools of fish I hadn’t known could exist but am close enough to swim along with, learn the ways of. Each time bubbles gush from my mouth, I watch them travel up desperately and race to spew at the surface, but I make no struggle upward. I am not sunk but have gained power to beat out my own waves in every direction of my body and mind, every inch I can possibly extend itself. Return to Table of Contents

< Table of Contents Lurking by Sophia Gapuz the disease called home. By Anayelli Andrews-Nieves The machinery hums its familiar tones. Lyrical stories and medicinal lies Course through my veins, And yet, even with that saccharine anesthetic, I can’t get it out of my sight— the way everything in the house seemed to live , how each system pulsed and breathed, and my survival hinged on all of it. “Bougainvillea petals are floating in my IV.” Bougainvillea petals are floating in my IV. i can see the tree from that hospital bed’s window. i picked the petals from the concrete and mixed them in myself. Their memories leak out and The color seeps in. My skin is colored a shade that looks so wrong, Blooming from blemished skin. it’s a shade that once meant i was home. I’m dyed down to my bones In the colors of a dead man. they were supposed to save me. the systems have already stopped sending signals. the house became pallor and cold a long time ago, and yet the curtain hasn’t been pulled over it. “allow me,” and “i wouldn’t dare,” the heart monitor screams as my fingers run along white fabric. sometimes i think i must be a corpse still attached to life support, endless wires connected jaggedly to my veins. they stretch and tear and dig into my rotting, festering flesh. when (if) it ends, will these marks be burned away? there is no remedy for what isn’t a disease, and a decayed heart cannot beat again, so what am i to do? sweetening my senses until there’s nothing left, swallowing down falsities, i’ve changed nothing. that place is still so very far, so far that i shouldn’t be able to say “i still, i still, i still,” but the words form the sound of my pulse, and the words stab into my heart. i still hear birds chirping in a cage on the front porch, i still find myself in sync with the whirring of an oxygen machine, and i have such a weak heart that it will beat in a different rhythm if it believes its going at the wrong pace. But for my own sake Even with my weakened body, I can stand At the gravestone of a memory. About the Writer... Anayelli Andrews-Nieves is a student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts in the Creative Writing department and a member of the Black Arts club. She is a biracial, queer writer and was born and raised in Florida. She enjoys writing and reading fantasy stories that have a balance of character and plot focus. A side from fiction, she also has an interest in free verse poetry that uses visceral descriptions to get across intense emotional ideas. About the Artist... Sophia Gapuz is a visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts in Jacksonville, Florida. She majors in drawing and painting, and explores the world in an emotionally abstract lens, continually searching to create something new.