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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 tracing Canis Major on a cloudy night A Girl's Universe James Helmick Small Title Autumn King Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

782edfde-bc01-404c-ae29-eb641aece495 An Evening to Remember by Audrey Lendvay Return to Table of Contents

< Table of Contents Broken Limbs by Abigail Cashwell I confess to the sea By Jacob Jing that I am exhausted. that I know there is no sky where a lover can fly without the destiny of descent, but I still find myself there, waiting to be hurled back down. in his fiery descent, Icarus was comforted by a tender wind, and returned to the water from the womb of his undoing. if the tragedy is that he recognized the fall too late, then where is the gentle nosedive for the one who predicted plummet from the start? where are the soft waves that will cradle that loveless execution? what I want is to be told that I am enough, that I have been good, that my descent will be more soft than lethal. if not that, then I want to be mourned with more softness than I was loved. to be told that my body once carried something kind inside it. I still need to forgive myself for burning in the name of safety you failed to offer. the scorched plumage: a casualty of my useless heart. before you tell me to swallow my tears, let me first become fluent in the shame “let me first feed these feathers to / the flame.” of wanting to be held. let me first feed these feathers to the flame. let me love the wounds you gave me before I take to the sky once more, chasing what the sun leaves behind. About the Writer... Jacob Jing is a young writer currently studying visual arts at the University of North Texas. He has been published in Spellbinder Magazine and is forthcoming in Eucalyptus Lit. In his free time, he enjoys photography, naps, and the $3 milkshakes from the student union. Find more of his work at https://linktr.ee/Jacob_Jing . About the Author... Abigail is an 11th grade student at Savannah Arts Academy. She enjoys using acrylic paint and experimenting with color. She also likes making art pieces using references from places she has traveled to. After high school she plans to go to college to become an art teacher at an elementary school.

3 Narcissism by Elanee Viray Prom Dress by Mackenzie Shaner Charlotte stands in the center of her mother’s room, cramming the soft meat of her thighs into a dress a couple of decades too far gone. She’s crying. Mrs. White is cursing, holding a bobby pin in her teeth as she tries to work the fabric over her daughter’s hips. “I wore this dress for my prom, as did your grandmother, and yet somehow you are such a glutton that you cannot? You’re going on a diet; this is such a disgrace! Think of how this reflects on me!” “I know ma’am, I’m sorry.” Lacing the pin in the eye of the zipper, Mrs. White tries to get the leverage to close it, to no avail. Charlotte sucks in. Her ribs expand. The zipper pops clean off. The metal clang on the floor sets the frequency her mother’s voice reaches. Without much thought, the woman nodded, pointing the two ladies to the dim-lit corner of the store that held the plus-sized section. There, the dresses had obviously been tailored with modesty in mind; all long, billowy sleeves that hid the shape of your arms and collars that looked suffocating in nature, anything to cover the curve of the bust or the lack of a defined decolletage. Charlotte tilted her head at the dresses, looking down at herself and then back at them. “Ma’am, those aren’t my size. I’m a medium.” She reminded her mother, feeling her gut start to turn. “We’re the same size.” It all felt so wrong, every single minute detail, until she herself felt odd. For a single beat, she wondered if someone had made a mistake, whether that was her, or her mother. “Oh, Lottie honey, how about you finish this? I’ve eaten my fill. You’re probably still hungry, right?” Mrs. White motions to the TV dinner she made herself, dedicating today a “lazy day” where she could treat herself to not cooking dinner. Staring at the plate, Charlotte can’t decipher how much her mom had. She knows there is a right answer to this question, no matter how much her stomach screams. The inevitable look she’d receive if she were to admit defeat was not worth the temporary discomfort. “No ma’am, I already ate earlier, I’m okay.” “Really?" Charolette felt her mother scrutinized her, pulling at every detail and line of her body that was shown from under her clothes. Mrs. White frowned deeply, though quickly collected herself. “Oh- I was just joking. You didn’t think I meant that, did you? Come now.” She turned to the woman. “Where’s the mediums?” Then, the seamstress pointed the two in the right direction, and they went to browsing the store silently. Lottie, looking over her shoulder to see what her mother gravitated towards, tried to pick dresses based on that. She knew Mrs. White would never waste her money on something she did not approve of, so it didn’t make sense to look at the big yellow dresses if all her mother wanted was sleek purple. Just like she wouldn’t put her hair in French braids when her mom was looking for buns. Or wear pink lipstick if her mother wore beige. Mrs. White is just a girl now, looking through her mother's closet of nylons and perfectly tailored dresses that fit her body like a glove. One such dress looks like one right out of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the threads nearly humming in her hands. She wants to wear it. The more she stands there the more she is convinced that the dress wants to be worn, too, and with a start, she pulls it over her head. “Did you ask if you could wear that?” Her mom’s voice is a butcher’s knife, and her eyes are sharper. Hawk like. Like instead of looking at her daughter, she was staring at a field mouse. “Margarite Anne, if you would have asked, I would have let you. Though looking now, I’m not sure if you can fit it.” “I can, mama. I can!” Margarite chimes in, looking at herself in the mirror with a sun-bright smile on her face. “How many times must I tell you? Address me as ma’am. And for Christ's sake, your stomach, Margarite. Don’t be silly. I just don’t want you to make a fool of yourself. Or me.” “Try these on Lottie dear, they’d be rather slimming on you, I think.” Mrs. White said, thrusting dresses into her daughter’s arms and promptly going to sit on a bench in front of the changing rooms. A silent gesture that their search was finished, whether Charlotte was done or not. As if she were a marionette, Lottie stepped into a changing room and locked the door. She worked her way out of her form-fitting jeans, wiggling her hips to pull them fully off and let them pool at the floor. The dresses hung in the background, and for a moment too long she stared there as well, pondering whether there was any dress to help her hide her fat and stow it away. Not these. Maybe that was the point. They were made for someone who didn’t look like her, and that became increasingly clear as she fixated on every small aspect of her imperfections. “I’m not being mean Lottie honey; I’m trying to help you. You won’t get anywhere when you let yourself go like that.” Her eyebrows were in dire need of a plucking- how had her mother not commented on such a thing already? Her lips were awfully chapped too. Her skin was so blotchy. She needed to take care of herself better, how did she leave the house like that? When she got home, she’d go to take care of such glaring issues. She tried on each dress in rapid succession, walking outside and giving her mother a twirl to show her what she already knew. Each time, she was sent back with a “Let me see the next one now.” No matter how much she liked the dresses before, until she no longer cared. She just wanted the search to be over. Finally, there was one dress left. It was the color of raven feathers, with no major detailing to attract eyes to unsightly spots on her body- and as far as Lottie and Mrs. White were concerned, that was everywhere. That’s why her mother loved it. The dress slimmed her down some, and she couldn’t help but feel a little bitterness at the fact that she only looked nice as an optical illusion. Once she’d taken a deep breath and sucked in, she walked out. “Oh honey, that’s perfect! Don’t you think so?” And her mother’s tone to an untrained ear may have been supportive, but to Charlotte, it was a challenge. A test. “I love it, ma’am.” “I’m happy to hear that, Lottie.” About the Writer... Mackenzie Shaner is a junior creative writer at DA who has been writing and creating narratives since she could use a pencil. About the Artist... Elanee Kristen Viray is a 12th Grader at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At the school, Elanee is a visual arts major who dedicates her life to her artistry. She creates art, generally Mixed Media art because of her vast love for experimentation. She has a preference for acrylic paint because it is very easy to work with on multiple mediums and allows her to get work done quickly. Elanee’s work has won multiple awards, from gold and silver keys at the Northeast Florida Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, to Awards of Excellence and Merit in the Duval County Art Show. Her work has also been featured in various exhibitions such as Extravaganza, Douglas Anderson’s personal exhibitions, and more.

Language, Summer Carrier Go, forth, prosper, as if Kansas now means any place, we're not. Here's Johnny! Knock. Knock. Babble on about the need for speed. Keep moving and calling upon precedent: deja vu, and the ever bastardized call of the moon, mourning, and marriage. If one more claims cliche, I shall throw a fit. Fit, now a wonderfully common expression. Frankly, my dear, yesterday, my friend said she couldn't remember the name of her favorite cereal. But knew to follow her nose, language our luckiest charm- that milk was got. Apples jacked. Cola Coked. Jack Crackered. A wonderful and reckless refurbishing! Return to Table of Contents

Spring/Summer 2023 Cover Art: Elysion by Elanee Viray Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Editor's Note Button Editor's Note 0 Brendan Nurczyk, Emma Klopfer, Niveah Glover Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Mango Heart Button Mango Heart 1 Small Title Camille Faustino Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Elegy for Big Talbot State Park Captured Memory Button Elegy for Big Talbot State Park Captured Memory 2 Brendan Nurczyk Small Title Kaleigh Simmons Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Her name A Past Memory Button Her name A Past Memory 3 Chloe Park Small Title Maria Bezverkh Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" My HAIRitage Button My HAIRitage 4 Small Title Nyriel Sarures Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" to you, the sea Il fiore Button to you, the sea Il fiore 5 Mia Yen Small Title Samantha Criscuolo Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" A Night Swimmer Depleting Vehemence Button A Night Swimmer Depleting Vehemence 6 Esme DeVries Small Title McClain Allen Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Last Call at the Yellow Bird Man With the Hat Button Last Call at the Yellow Bird Man With the Hat 7 Lauren Underberg Small Title Bria McClary Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" thoughts at longhorn Sins of the mother Button thoughts at longhorn Sins of the mother 8 Nico Johnson Small Title Marshall Shane Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Ars Artis Lover of Chess Button Ars Artis Lover of Chess 9 Emma Klopfer Small Title Liza Kalacheva Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Afterwards Elysion Button Afterwards Elysion 10 Daria Krol Small Title Elanee Viray Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Where I'm From Bantu Button Where I'm From Bantu 11 Giovanni Jacques Small Title Nyriel Saures Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" now, with a son Mother Button now, with a son Mother 12 Sam Kats Small Title Ronni Ochoa Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" To Be Home Again Instead of On This Free Soil Tighten Up Button To Be Home Again Instead of On This Free Soil Tighten Up 13 Sarah Gozar Small Title Micayla Latson Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Sunday Button Sunday 14 Small Title Faith Spicer Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Temporal Displacement Puzzle Man Button Temporal Displacement Puzzle Man 15 Liang Jingyi Small Title Nishchay Jain Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Night Painting Journey Towards Self-Discovery Button Night Painting Journey Towards Self-Discovery 16 William Du Small Title Kenzie Kurdys Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Lucky Money Button Lucky Money 17 Lauren Underberg Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Beloved Omen Narcissus Button Beloved Omen Narcissus 18 Emerson Flanagan Small Title Liza Kalacheva Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST"

We Stopped for Daily's Blair Bowers Mirage and Menagerie Rowan Blankemeyer We stopped for snacks at the Daily’s on the way back The lucid, translucent orange and blues hit the windshield So perfectly. Not bound by brick and mortar Untaxed by the worries Of becoming a starving artist. We listen to Sublime on the way home (Just like we do every Friday) Your brother turns up the volume so loud I can’t hear my own voice. I drown in the music The bass hitting with each heart beat Still, I listen closely. I drink pineapple soda and sit in the backseat I think to myself; I want friends like you Have. The kind that stops for snacks and firewood at Daily’s The ones that know what the other is saying without Saying a word. We’ve known each other for seven months, But when you invite me to the conversation I still look at you with golden eyes. Before you I spent so long feeling the heaviness Of a burden too large to bury. I look out these windows and see into my past, Graveyards of past best friends Abandoned And in mourning. When we pull into the driveway, Opaque stars have awakened, their light Travels across our eyes Your brother takes a swig of pineapple soda. My pineapple soda. I don’t take this as an insult, but rather a compliment He knew he could take mine And suddenly I feel as if I, too am a brother. Return to Table of Contents

Can I Keep Them? by Moriah Roland The Ocean Voyager Exhibit by Whenever my eyes close I see it: The whale sharks drone above me Beside me Around me A pocket of air escapes my lungs and floats to the surface A sea turtle nips at the ball and chain Tied to my sore ankles I didn't mind the water all too much If only it didn’t feel as if my lungs were being crushed I can see the two walls beside me, painted to resemble A free and expansive ocean Above, the harsh white ceiling lamps shine into our tank I look at the viewing window, and all I see is a reflection Of my water-logged skin And empty reddened eyes Hair being tussled by a manta ray, With a gray nub replacing his stinger The glass holds a lie: I know I have an audience The glass holds a truth: It shows me who’s at fault Exiled to the depths of my mind, I wait in place for the water to flood my small lungs And for the salt to make me anew The whale sharks are beautiful Oh giant floating mass of wisdom I wish I was just like you Gigantic, mindless, idolized Pacing your football-field sized cage When all of this is said and done, Will they find my rotting corpse in your carnivorous maw? The ball stays cemented in the sand The chain floats freely between us A gasp is all it takes. The inky water sucks the air out of my lungs And the audience of past mistakes (Would-be’s, talk-to-you-later’s, and i-love-you’s) Watch the person I used to be Drown in that most gorgeous place

< 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.

< Back Crossstreets by Katherine Chen African Winter By Mila Rose Bredenkamp Proud fever trees, lined like soldiers along the broken, cracked road. Sweet bile creeps elegantly down their languid forms as they observe and form a formidable barricade. The lady in the supermarket has a gold tooth; it winks as she smiles at us. She complains of the cold, scanning our jar of peanut butter, her beaded bracelet clinking happily. She says the electricity is out again. We say our water has been cut off. We all nod solemnly, smiling and shaking our heads, and there is a mutual exhausted humor that passes through us. It is with a loud smile and an orchestral laugh that she wishes us well. She means it. The fever trees turn their gazes from the supermarket window back to the street, where darkness has long since spread out. They observe hushed figures that scatter awkwardly and pull frantically at the veins of the streetlights, rip thorns out of the fever tree flesh to place onto the road, in search of flattening tires. "The fever trees turn their gazes from the supermarket window back to the street, / where darkness has long since spread out. " where darkness has long since spread out. Tomorrow night, there will be no light on this street; there may not even be light in the houses that line it. But the lady in the supermarket, in her singsong voice, wishing us all well, reverberates through the empty streets. And the pumping heart of Africa stays bloody, warm and red, an encasement of thorny fever tree roots preventing the frost from settling. About the Author... Mila Bredenkamp is 17 years old. She was born in South Africa and is currently living in Singapore studying at the German European School of Singapore. In her free time, she enjoys reading, baking, sketching, and writing poetry and short stories. Her favorite poet is Sylvia Plath, and she hopes to discover more about poetry and read the work of famous poets. After school, she hopes to go into a field surrounding writing or travel. About the Artist... Katherine Chen is a 17-year-old senior at Hamilton High School. Her favorite medium is oil and chalk pastels. However, she also frequently uses collage and various unconventional forms of medium to express her art. She has won several Gold Regional Keys in the Scholastic Art Awards. Hoping to continue her art journey, Katherine will be pursuing art for university. Previous Next

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 Translated and Transferred Bino Natalie Cappelletti Small Title Tatiana Arroyave Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

9482b418-f06e-49b5-ad36-f0f37af4d902 Innocent Until Educated by England Townsend Return to Table of Contents