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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 New Orleans Nights Bright Adventures Ahead Zoë Forstall Small Title Zoë Forstall Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

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 Papa On The Way Home Olivia Sheftall Small Title Zoë Wagner Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

< Back Crushing Pain by Shawn Ivonet The Second Law of Thermodynamics By Elizabeth Lindsey A degree of disorder or uncertainty in a system, like bombs that barely work or lessons from my father. Creating while it destroys, cat-like and breathing, it feels every corner of infinity and pushes it forward, folding gaps into families and the lives of high school girls that feel d- isordered and lazy where something else should be. You taught me your dreams, just in case I would turn out just like you, like father, like daughter, just kidding and unseriousness weighing on your shoulders now where the lack of gravity should have been, an astronaut being able to bear casualties—or maybe actually an astrophysicist, except now you tell me not to dream away my life. Questions you held, on space & time, if piercing the line between praise and permanency is enough or because amazing things happen when they're irreversible, will we survive? These questions, once charred into molars, now have their very own place everywhere. Life gets stretched out, the distance betweeneverything increases, like the distance between stars and even me & you. Growing up, I thought you were too complex to understand, but according to the second law of thermodynamics, simplicity and disorder can be very synonymous— we just keep expelling chaos because we need to live, praying on X’s & O’s and things that take us back for a while, like David Bowie’s The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust playing from your car radio, living simply in between dazed lyrics. "Even though this law is as cynical as it is, that which could be our end is our growth, entropy consumes, / nests chaos and entanglement inside imperfect things, allowing life to weasel out of impossibility." Even though this law is as cynical as it is, that which could be our end is our growth, entropy consumes, nests chaos and entanglement inside imperfect things, allowing life to weasel out of impossibility. Things just wind down at right or wrong times, it doesn’t matter and everything matters have overlapped then grown apart— only we were never able to get our hands on something as unworldly as patience, but we’ve got the time to wait around because you told me, thanks to science, things can never decrease.In an isolated system,There’sonlyspace for more space. About the Artist... Shawn Ivonnet is an 11th grade Visual Artist student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. They most often paint portraits and use acrylic paint. Previous Next

80d55063-7849-4d34-844c-eef5acf1d9de Dreamscape Randos by Vera Baffour My mother's letters to my father. by Chloe Pancho I. December 6th, 2004 I remember the night, You, rubbing the hoof of my foot Our new-born, sucking on my right bosom The three of us are laying on the mattress That I grew up on, as you tell me that I deserve more. You offered to swim across the ocean For me In which you described the States As a gold mine waiting to be quarried With your hands itching to become dirtied. I hope your hands are a black as night, my darling. II. June 24th, 2006 The week before you left I witnessed you Hatch down a dozen mango trees With the universes dullest of blades In your calloused hands Scaling a school of fish large enough To feed the size of our village The week before that. You had saved me one fish that day Grazed upon its scaley stomach, the sweet blade Delicately twisting into the creatures soul, One by one, you scooped out its innards followed by its gills And though it was tiny and though it was grotesque With the same hard hands, You offered me its heart “From me, to you” you said. I keep that fishes heart in the pocket Of my cheek, so I will always remember What your affection tasted like. III. May 31st, 2008 When I have trouble sleeping at night I imagine you Still crouching at the end of my bed Counting the ribs of our baby, Smiling up at me as you say that She still has twelve. A perfect set. I count the ribs on the left side Of her chest when she is asleep. I can only bare to count up to The number six. IV. May 11th, 2009 Today marks another year We have been together, yet apart You send me a letter as a gift— Inside are two plane tickets. V. August 22nd, 2009 The world has finally given us permission And my heart cannot wait to see you on The other side of these large yellow and white wings I promised to introduce you once again To our daughter, who has reached her fifth year of life To show you that not only has our Love remained But grown. We are the perfect set, The whole fish. Return to Table of Contents

< Back Florida's Gift: The Forbidden Fruit by Hailey Edwards Zest By Reagan Lichtenwalter Everybody knows The best way to peel an orange Is with your nails and The best way to eat the world Is raw. The summer’s swelter ripens Those fuzzy Georgia peaches, All sticky sunrise skin And citrus-flavored fleetness. We’re all rotten by the dawn, So sink your teeth Into something sweet. Anything worth eating Is worth a couple cavities. "We’re all rotten by the dawn, / So sink your teeth / Into something sweet." I take my orange juice With the pulp And my sorrow With the zest. I passed back to life Some lemon rinds And made do with What was left. Any fruit worth eating Is worth sharing all the rest. Any life worth living Is worth undoing at the seams Like stripping back an orange To the slices underneath Because, as everybody knows, The best time to eat your heart Is when it’s sugar-coated sweet. About the Author... Rea gan Lichtenwalter is a high school junior from Murfreesboro, Tennessee. She has been writing poetry since the 5th grade and has been heavily involved with her local writing community for several years. She is a frequent reader at "Poetry in the Boro", a local open mic hosted by MTSU Write. Additionally, she was the founder and president of the Poetry Club at Central Magnet Middle and High School. When she isn't writing, Reagan enjoys reading horror stories, playing the bass guitar, and hosting a Dungeons and Dragons game at her local library. About the Artist... Moss Edwards is a 12th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Their work includes scenes from their own life, incorporating exaggerated colors, lighting, and elements to create a new world. They enjoy experimenting with mediums including cardboard, oil pastels, and colored pencils to create more texture. Previous Next

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.

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

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 November's Cardinal Granny Girl Emerson Flannigan Small Title Ji'niyah Alexander Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

We Just Want to be Loved Riayn Smith Are we really a threat? Do we always react to a “Hood rat”? We’re not all in gangs, but somehow, we still end up dead. Always seem to “have drugs or a weapon,” but we aren’t the ones to come at. Are we really that bad, where you have to clutch your purse? Do we really have to get treated this badly? It all seems like a curse. To me it’s just sad. We just want to be loved. Is that a lot to ask? But instead, we are shoved, and they get away from a dirty task. Return to Piece Selection

4d9a123b-addc-496a-ae0b-29a71dbfac14 As we approach the upcoming warmer months of spring and summer, we bear witness to life emerging and evolving—to new and old, to reckoning and revelation. To our readers, we bring this life to you in language and art. As Élan emerges into its 36th year, we enter with fresh eyes but with the same purpose: to highlight, uplift, and empower emerging young writers and artists in conversation with the world around them. We invite you, our readers, to explore your own individual and diverging paths in this issue, to find single solace; to take a step back, to reminisce, to laugh, to feel, and to be affirmed in this anthology of personal exploration and self-evident truth. We bring you the Spring/Summer 2022 Issue: a labor of passion. A love letter to the capabilities of young voices and the possibilities of the future. -Editors-in-Chief Blair Bowers and Brendan Nurczyk Return to Table of Contents

20 Ant Town by Jeremy Hall Roadkill by Marlo Herndon Leaking out against stiff black pavement, oozing chunks of red out his pale stomach -the body blocking the way to every love to ever be mine. Abhorrent, his limbs stretch out as if trying to grab & pin me- the indent in his chest the only fresh thing for miles. The sight of the carcass flares my eyes creating crisp tears that only cling to burn -why else would this body not turn to ash. Simply swerving to steer clear of his memory fails me, the antlers pierce the tires, my head thrashes with the fallen glass, a shard seeps through & buries itself in my beating heart- it refuses to stay away, births hands of red but not eyes -in protest, longing for the gentle love I knew. The newborn hands steer back towards the vile memory -that refuses to die -that violation he committed between my thighs. He gave me life some days, which in the after is what kills me, what made the hands ignore the road signs, the memory of the good guy I saw before, with a smile brighter than streetlights, who’d put my hand on the stick shift to show me we were safe to give me an allusion of control, before he took me for that spin, that forced collision – his keys in my ignition against that bedframe- he ignored the red lights I gave him. What remains of him can be found on every road & every passenger I welcome for as long as my skin burns & the organ in my chest remains & tries to learn – to live with the buried on the way. About the Writer... Marlo Herndon is a local poet & author. Currently they are invested in learning from their community & creating more art. About the Artist... Jeremy Hall has been going to Savnnah Arts Academy for 4 years and this is one of the pieces he's most proud. He finished this while I had covid in 2021 and believes it shows his best abilities in his most confident areas of expertise.

12 Shrill and Cut Loose by Annalisa Strub Summer Mornings by Keira Doody On summer mornings, I watch, as the sun fights to rise above the clouds with fresh orange juice dripping down my face the same color as the light. I watch, as the stars die while the sun rises. On summer mornings, it is just me and my knife, sharp metal cutting into soft flesh. I do not know how to cut an orange but I do try. On summer mornings, the rays hit the clouds just right, they look like cities in the sky. I wonder who lives there, lost princesses or lonely girls, certainly only outcasts of our world. On summer mornings, Venus is in the sky. Our glowing morning and evening star, I never see her anymore at night. And I wonder how horrible am I for missing a planet and not my mother. On summer mornings, I use my orange half as a bowl, and I am reminded of my birthday several summers ago. Chocolate cupcakes in orange peel frames, I do not like chocolate or oranges, But I’m afraid I miss people loving me. On summer mornings, the sun crawls like some spindly creature reaching its long legs over the horizon. And it finally cracks, sun pouring out a golden orange yolk on the pale bruised sky. On summer mornings, I look for people I will not find. My mother in every woman older than me, a lover in every girl my grade, people I’ve left, people who will never come, and people suspended in between them both. On summer mornings, I let it all go. That is why I am here, the sun rises into the sky a rebirth and I am born again. On summer mornings, the whole crowd of us flock to the beach to watch the sun rise until we can no longer see. Watching because it’s pretty and we like pretty lights, watching until we think we will go blind. Are we fools or romantics? The poets would say they are the same thing, but I am a poet and I do not know anything. On summer mornings, I imagine the love of my life. When I kiss her, she will taste like oranges and bad ideas. And I will smile as the sky burns like paper. About the Writer... Keira Doody is a student at Nease High School. She lives in Florida but idealizes her childhood when she lived in Atlanta, Georgia. When not doing homework she is writing, reading, or researching articles about outer space. At any given point she's most likely daydreaming about something or outside in nature. About the Artist... Annalisa Strub creates art, generally in acrylic, because of the beautiful colors and contrast acrylic's make.