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Granny Girl by Ji'niyah Alexander November's Cardinal by Emerson Flanagan My grandmother holds my hand, gaunt fingers laced between my own sticky, curious fingers. The smell of her skin clings to me, powdery roses and oversweetened strawberry perfume that sticks to the back of my throat. She chirps over family, sipping on unsweet tea with lemon, perched on whining leather in her faded pink nightgown. My grandmother listens to my stories for oily action figures and crayon smeared Barbie dolls when a stuffed animal audience can’t laugh or applaud. She’ll stay on the porch, lounging beneath wind chimes while I chase butterflies and beetles through her planter. My grandmother holds my hand, cold fingers laced between my own bony, soft fingers. I’ll drive down the bumpy street of Fisherman’s Cove, the color black hanging heavier than usual. The house is quiet. Weekly pill organizers lay on the dining table, my grandmother’s nearly full. Her chair sinks with her imprint, leather peeling and quiet. I’ll sit on the porch and hum along to the quieting wind chimes only to stop as a red cardinal lands beyond the screen door. I smell the sickly sweetness of my grandmother’s perfume in the wind as the cardinal takes off only to be replaced with the thick odor of diesel exhaust and the neighbor's cigarette smoke. About the Writer... Emerson Flanagan is a senior in the Creative Writing department at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts and is the current Senior Art Director of Élan. She enjoys writing poetry and fiction, often pulling inspiration from herself and the arts. About the Artist... Ji'Niyah is a senior at Douglas Anderson, as well as a drawing and painting major. Her works are all influenced by her life experiences as a black girl. She specializes in painting but loves to try all forms of art. Ji'Niyah was the youngest to win third place in the Jacksonville fair mural contest and the youngest to live paint at a Winedownfest event.

< Table of Contents Summer Job by Lillian Cosby The Boathouse By Georgia Witt “A fat, blooming heat, like a pink hydrangea bursting exhaustively in its hue.” The air outside was typical of a Florida July. A fat, blooming heat, like a pink hydrangea bursting exhaustively in its hue. We sat wilted by the boathouse, Ms. Margaret fanning herself wildly with a paper napkin, every now and then using it to dab at the sweat that glistened on her collarbones. I thought she was disgusting. A young girl of 23 and acting like she was a 5-year-old girl raised in a barn. Her white skirt fanned out like a peacock’s tail, but underneath you could see her legs were splayed out like a man’s. Her feet, small and sweltering in tiny black boots, were propped up on the empty chair across from her. I kept my lips pursed and tried to comment on something drab. “Those cicadas are really drumming up some noise, aren’t they?” I said, feeling sweat trickle between my lips and quickly dabbing it away with my handkerchief. “Sure are,” she said lousily, I despised her country bumpkin accent, “though I kind of like the sound. Reminds me of when I used to sit on the front porch with my daddy on summer nights back in Georgia. He would drink moonshine and I would drink orange juice, and we’d listen to those things hum all night.” “What a nice memory,” I allowed myself to say, my eyes buzzing the boathouse for my husband, who had a much larger tolerance for Ms. Margaret’s lazy, wild talk. “Have you told Henry about that? I’m sure he’d love to hear a story like that.” Ms. Margaret shuffled herself upright in her chair, the wicker whining as her weight shifted. “Naw, I haven’t really told him much. John and I have been so busy with this traveling; I haven’t had much time to really get to know y’all. But I’m so glad I’m able to now!” This last phrase choked awkwardly from her throat in a half-shout. A few beats of silence pulsed between us, with only the sound of the canopy whipping tightly in the wind that came off the green water. “Well, I, for one, am delighted that we have this time together now. It’s really such a pleasure.” The heat was becoming suffocating. It thrummed about us like thick smog, damp vapors and mosquitoes. Now, I was getting truly uncomfortable, my dress sticking to me like a second skin. I kept my back straight against the wicker lounge and watched as Ms. Margaret pressed her glass of ice water to her cheeks. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, and by her tone I could tell she actually hoped she hadn’t offended me. For a moment, I was almost touched. And then I watched as dribbles of water and sweat ran down her red cheeks, and my stomach twinged back to its usual distaste. “It’s just so hot ,” Margaret sighed. “God, it was so nice when John and I were up in Virginia. The air was cool as a spring breeze. You wouldn’t have believed it was June.” With these words my husband appeared, dressed smartly in a cream suit and boat hat. I felt all the tightness in my chest loosen a bit at the sight of Henry, like a stubborn knot of string being pulled at to unravel. His face melted into an easy smile, and he reached for Ms. Margaret’s damp hand. Ever since we had returned to Florida, I had noticed hints of the South trickling back into Henry’s voice and talk. Up North, you could have mistaken him for a proper gentleman born and raised. He had shocked me in his courting when he revealed that he was a self-made man from humble beginnings: a ma and pa down in Florida who ran a modest citrus farm flat in the middle of nowhere. Now, I saw his roots in nearly every move he made. The easy curve of his smile and how he took to every chair like he was sitting on his own front porch. Now, I was the odd duck. “Margaret May! How is it that you look daisy fresh in this July heat?” Henry said, beaming like a schoolboy at the sight of Ms. Margaret. The sight of her! To me, she looked like a pig in lady’s clothing, pink-faced and watery blue eyes gleaming eagerly up at my husband. If Margaret was daisy fresh, then I was Greta Garbo. “Aw, you’re too kind to me, Mr. Malloy. Really, I’m sweating like an animal in these clothes.” Every time Ms. Margaret revealed another personal flaw, I felt the gravity of my world being rocked. Despite the difference in climate, both down South and up North, proper ladies refused to reveal such afflictions. Even now, in this boathouse, you could spy several of us pinned up like colorful dolls, smiling through the strain and sweat. Ladies fanning themselves, poised like gentle, perspiring feathers. But here was Margaret, letting all of her discomfort roll off her chest like it was nothing. Not a worry in the world that it might offend me or my husband. Perhaps it was a sign of the times, of this so-called “liberated woman” that flaunted her sexuality and danced with her skin showing, but Ms. Margaret hardly seemed the flapper-type. I was beginning to think she was just unfortunately honest. “How many times do I have to tell you, Margaret?” my husband said, that familiar reassurance on his face that I loved so well. “Please, call me Henry. You’re married to my boy after all. We’re family.” At this, Margaret just smiled. A real smile, not the thin and aching one you put on to end a conversation. It was the kind of smile that broke into an almost downturn at the ends of her lips, where she had to bashfully avert her eyes from my husband down to her boots. Henry took his seat next to me and leaned into the wicker with ease. “Speaking of my boy, where is he? He’s holding off lunch and I’m ready to eat !” “I haven’t seen him since he went to speak with his cousins,” I said, scanning the boathouse for a sign of John. “Would you like me to go get him?” “No, don’t bother darling. We should be catching up with you anyway, Margaret. Tell us about the trip, how did you like it up North?” Margaret grew bashful again with the attention back on her. My son had taken her on a tour around the Northeast, starting at the top in Maine and going through New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, New York, and ending the trip in my home state of Pennsylvania. My heart sang for Pennsylvania. Every day spent in Florida, I ached for it more. Henry had consoled me about the move, told me there were beautiful places down South that I would love. I remember watching the country sink flatter on the train ride down, the green hills and purple mountains deflating into long stretches of nothing. I had closed my eyes and tried to focus on the scent of Henry’s pipe. Normally, I hated it when he smoked, but in the train car, it was a reminder of the ashen cold up North. When great swaths of trees burned in the distance and the entire winter was coated in the smell of hemlock and birch, smoldering. About the Writer... Georgia Witt is a seventeen-year-old writer based in Jacksonville, Florida. She enjoys writing poetry, southern gothic fiction, and creative nonfiction. She hopes to work for a literary or fashion magazine after college. About the Artist... Lillian Cosby is currently a senior attending NOCCA and Hammond high part time. She has come from a long line of artists ranging from writers and musicians to painters.

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Hannes Duncan Hannes Duncan is a senior studying creative writing at DA. He is an avid sci-fi writer and enjoys poetry of all kinds. He also has an affinity for photography.

Kamayan by Camille Faustino

< 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

< 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.

6 < Table of Contents Vibrant Death by Andie Crawford Who Were You, and Who May I Become? by Alyse Gammons " Will I someday leave behind / a fossil of fondness that is so enchantingly echoed / across the offerings to my resting soul?" Like a ghost, lurks the day that I may finally think of you fondly. Standing comfortably side by side to your ofrenda, I think to myself how, besides these reasons why, do I begin to comprehend someone who I have never met? Aimlessly I listen to ancestors alliterate the altruism you so graciously left behind… and yet what is this to me? Will I someday leave behind a fossil of fondness that is so enchantingly echoed across the offerings to my resting soul? Spilling whispers of contentment and memories of life and legacy to the garden of marigolds that have but a chokehold on the square as they bloom around the tombs. Diligently dancing to the sound of celebration, their petals lifting up and down to the beat of the death they represent. A resting, yet radiating, heartbeat. Although I do not know you, I bake this bread to give you pieces of the earth you left behind. Although I do not know you, I burn this incense to represent your passing. Although I do not know you, I stare attentively at this framed photo: eyes that offer a gentleness, hands that once cared tenderly for the familia I gather with today. And although, I did not get as lucky as my cousins to truly know you, I will light this candle to guide you back towards us in hopes that someday you will take my hand as tenderly as you took my mama’s and her mama’s before that, and guide me to the place you now rest. Maybe then, year after year of celebration in your life’s honor, may I one day know you as well as I know your face in this one still framed picture resting against your ofrenda. About the Writer... Alyse Gammons is a student at Lehigh Valley Charter High School for the Arts in their junior year who enjoys writing poetry, drawing in their free time, and learning about the sciences. They plan to pursue a career in the sciences and/or in English. Once they can find a steady job in their field, they plan to continue writing in hopes of being a self-published author in poetry and someday fiction. In school, they are a part of the National Honor Society, are awaiting their acceptance letter from the Spanish National Honors Society, and represent at Literary Arts Cafe the Lodge Events as 2025’s co-chair. When not writing or in school, they participate in the Kutztown Area High School’s Marching Band as a majorette, and during the fall are a member of the Kutztown Area Indoor Associations Twirling Team. About the Artist... Andie Crawford is a Senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in drawing and painting.

Crepuscular, a portrait of matrilineal scoliosis By Ariel Wu grandmother, who is from the north & has scoliosis, totters from the car like a bad tooth, the black, acidic sugar of dusk eating into her spine. in the bone-damp lampshade, her body swells like the skeleton of chinese lanterns in spring, bulging with pus-colored light. mama helps her out of the car, her hand on the crutch reverent like an empty ambulance. against the sunset, i strive & fail at tracing the straight lines in her shadows, a well-weeded garden. couldn’t you be more enthusiastic? father asks. grandmother says she feels neglected. in the crescent of our chinese bones, sympathy melts into bullets, dripping from our surfaces in heartfuls of ash. at night i dream of her figurine tucked into an embroidered shoe box, the stream of her flesh out flapped and brimming like butter. the chinese daughter i am, obsessed with steam irons & corks & labyrinths: how comely & beautiful it would be to straighten & disentangle a time-arched body. for dinner, grandmother nai makes pork dumplings with chinese chives, her hands snow-choked & soil-veined like grandfather’s tombstone in her birthplace, dough rising from the crevices of her hand like hemlock. the cuffs of the dumplings like rags. at dinnertime i hide in my room and tell mama the chives smell like dead rabbits and mama says she agrees. grandmother calls her a shen jing bing. good & chinese, grandmother lets poison flow in ivory rivulets in her body but sees everything as omens: my refusal to eat chives, shrapnel of the broken plate mama scraped her palms on, mama’s confessions to her faceless, bloodless heathen god. the day she and father fought mama for the fish bones mama forgot to dump in the trash, i stand behind my door, hearing grandmother’s wails billowing through her enclosed, sea-sealed body like a window, the glass unraveling her curvature like the gliding doors at the hilton. on the way to the airport, the car lights of father’s benz, deer-eyed and bloodshot under a fracturing sun, nai nai tells me to hold home on the tip of my tongue & that gratitude is a prayer to our ancestors. in our household, scoliosis is matrilineal, a legacy of arrow-backed heathens, the summer moon clipped between our knees. father’s benz ebbs into the distance like a hearse, the bony sky weighing on it’s back. About the Writer... Ariel Wu (she/her) is a high school senior from Shanghai, China. Her poems have been recognized by Chinchilla Lit, Nowhere Girl Collective, and PVLSE. She is an alumna of the Iowa Young Writers Studio and Juniper Young Writers. When she is not writing about the quandaries of girlhood and over-analyzing literature, she can be found at various K-pop concerts. Check out her published work on Instagram at @ariel_by_sylvia_plath.

Rebirth by Elanee Viray The Laws of Melittology by Kaydence Rice Listening to the whistle of the wind I whispered to you every single piece of honey I had left on my tongue. I think I saw it, still in your ear. Can you still feel it stick to drums and drip down your neck like sweat? The drone you named died last night. You don’t seem to know if what I said was true, if what I said was true then why are you still here? I watched a drone dance for the queen this morning. She ate him. It’s only a matter of time until the honeycomb rots. I’ll wait here until it reaches the bottom. I’ll never understand how you could forget how to dance. Is it because you didn’t want to learn in the first place? Honey drips down the trees and onto the dying grass. Why haven’t you left yet? What happened to thinking I wanted you gone? Bees buzz too loudly to deserve to be called flies. Bees buzz too loudly to deserve to be anything at all. The only good quality of a bee is the fact that their sting is gentler than a wasp’s. And the only good quality of a wasp is that it doesn’t buzz as loudly as bees and perhaps that means that wasps are flies. And perhaps that means that you didn’t hear me the first time.

closed window by Dion Hines Heavenly Gifts by Phillip Simmons Jr. The Sky has her favorites Sure she is spread evenly across the world Everlasting and Effervescent. But the waxing crescent has chosen its favorite. Black boys shine blue under moonlight Once creatures of the Day Striding proud and strong Now shunned and scarred We have become lovers to the Night. Once the Sky lets her dark hair down We play in it Some lay in it The Night is filled with possibility Creation Liberation Relaxation These are her gifts. Black boys shine blue under moonlight Some vanish into the Night Never to return Some become shadows and hide in her light Safe from those who wish we’d burn. The Sky has her favorites Sure she is spread evenly across the world Lustrous and Lovely But we all know who shines when it’s sunny. Black girls glisten under the shining Sun Once creatures of the Night Safe and serene Now sacrificed and scared We have become workers of the Day Once the Sky curls her hair We head to work Some put on their pearls The Day is warm with wisdom Ambition Fruition Definition These are her gifts. Black girls glisten under the shining sun Some work the whole Day Building their lives Some have it their way Basking in her light. The Sky has its favorites, but we are her people Day or Night Fun or Fright She reigns and remains our forever guiding light.

Jesus in a Tie Dye Shirt Skye O'Toole Word Vomit Isabela Mendez When I was young, I lived in a new development in Denver. The trees were only saplings then, and had to be held up by wire and wooden posts. A few blocks down, there was an empty lot, riddled with prairie dog holes and leftover metal from some forgotten skeleton of a building. In the center sat a teal minivan, its wheels long deflated, painted with all sorts of colors and images our little minds couldn’t understand. A small garden grew around it, groves of dandelions and clovers and five-pointed green leaves we didn’t know what to call. There was no fence, but a collection of odd items served to corral them; an overgrown watering can, a wooden cross, a homemade McGovern ‘72 sign. We would go there every Saturday, and chase each other around the van, careful not to trip in the prairie dog holes. When we fell to the ground, we were caressed by the sun’s rays and our little bodies shook with relentless giggles. We got dirty, but it was fun, and the soil was warm and the air clean, and our lives so innocent and full of potential that we didn’t mind that our clothes were soiled, though our mothers did. — "He would show us how to make wishes as we blew on dandelions, never losing patience when we struggled." — Mr. Scott lived in the teal van. Every Sunday morning, he would be awakened by our giddy cries, and he would walk out into the sun and laugh as we somersaulted and cartwheeled and threw clumps of dirt at each other. If one of us skinned our knee, he would be the first at our side, armed with some homemade medicinal rub. My parents didn’t mind; their lives were busy enough with three jobs and four kids and an angry grandmother who lived in the basement. When we were deflated from running and laughing, and fully coated in dirt and sand, Mr. Scott would beckon us over to his garden. He would show us how to make wishes as we blew on dandelions, never losing patience when we struggled. Then he would do it himself, and point as the seeds were carried by the wind into the ether. When we asked him what he wished for, he told us he wished for world peace, and that he wanted everyone to come together and be friends. When I told him that sounded boring, and that I wished for a horse, he chuckled and patted my shoulder, telling me that soon enough I would understand. When it got cold, he invited us into his van. It was cramped, and you couldn’t see the walls, as they were blanketed in trinkets of all kinds. But it felt like home. A guitar hung from the wall, and when I asked Mr. Scott to teach me how to play it, he guided my fingers through some chords, humming along to the abomination I made. Even though I sounded terrible, he never gave up on me, and when I got sad he would take the instrument and play a little tune and said that soon enough I would play it, too. All around the van there were crosses, except they were painted rainbow and Jesus was smiling. When I asked him why Jesus was colorful, he told me it’s because he prayed to a Jesus in a tie dye shirt, one who believed in peace and love and good children, just like me. I told him that the colorful Jesus was prettier than the Jesus at my church, who was sad and made out of bronze. He smiled and told me that Jesus was a happy person, recounting stories of him loving the poor and orphaned. I smiled back, and told him that he was a happy person, just like Jesus. But we soon grew out of tag in the garden, and no longer wanted to be covered in dirt for Saturday dinner. Still, Mr. Scott stayed in our hearts. Sometimes, when I walked near the lot, I could hear him play a sad song, where the guitar wept. Despite what he said, I would never learn how to play it. I watched as his beard became gray, and his van overgrown. The big developers grew interested in the lot. I was expecting it, though I still cried when I saw a police car whir by me. I chased it down five blocks. The cops were there, leading Mr. Scott off the lot. His van was already gone. He smiled at me and mouthed something. I never said anything back. Now the trees are large and block out the sun. Mr. Scott’s van is scrap metal, and the lot has been converted into luxury apartments, big gray ugly things. Sometimes I walk around them, trying to imagine a carefree seven year old jumping and laughing and covered in dirt. There’s a man by her, one who is always happy and loves good children. Every so often I’ll stand where the van used to be, and pray to Jesus in a tie dye shirt that Mr. Scott is still laughing, somewhere. Return to Table of Contents