Search Results

< Table of Contents Gilded Embrace by Isabella Woods Wax-Feathered Heart By Izzy Falgas In a prison trapped by way of sea and land, watching as your fingers run through soft wax, I’ve seen gentle smiles and calloused hands; father deftly lining quills up from the smallest. They took him forty-two days to construct which left me forty-three to gaze down at you. “I reached out to you, to cup your honey in my hands. / All I could grasp was dripping wax.” You soared, wings brushing my sky as I perch on my own chariot of ignorance. I reached out to you, to cup your honey in my hands. All I could grasp was dripping wax. Your eyes were on the sky, counting the stars of Orion— why did they never lock onto me? Too far to hold you, near enough to hurt you; is arm's length still too close? Cupped in my hands is your ambrosia I never had. You were never vain; I was the selfish one. Washed up on the white sands of Icaria, death held close as the sun fell in love with a dead man. About the Writer... Izzy Falgas is a freshman in Harrison School for the Arts and is in the Creative Writing department. She enjoys writing poetry and flash fiction in her free time, as well as creating other forms of visual art. She has won many awards and accolades for her visual art, including FAEA’s Award of Distinction and a gold ribbon in SSYRA’s visual category. She has a novel in the works, but is mainly occupied by piles of homework and playing with her four-month-old puppy. About the Artist... Isabella Woods is a junior at Savannah Arts Academy. She knew at a young age that she was interested in doing art. Some of her influences have come from her grandmother, mom, and teachers who have all inspired her with their own art. Now attending Savannah Arts Academy, she is able to be creative everyday with multiple different kinds of art.

My Tears are the Ocean and the Weight of them drags me Down by Dashea Reed Sea of Stars by Sam Howell I look up to the sky and no one stares back. Only harsh stars glaring, burning like fluorescent lights. It’s the confidence of millennia backing up those arrogant smiles. We have so little time to glow, to be seen from galaxies away. No time to stand out among endless seas of rolling purple. So, what to do with this century? How to burn like the Sun? How to make this moment matter before imploding to leave no trace? To blink is to become dust, to wink out of existence. The stars won’t dull with the weight of their grief when I disappear. They just carry on with the assurance of tomorrow, for it is a given to those timeless beings who know they have centuries left to burn. All I have is the hope that someone may carry my flame. But my torch will burn out until all that is left is charred memory: Ashes of yesterday, embers for tomorrow. But even embers can be stamped out. The stars won’t end. Some explode, others fade into obscurity. Yet they all leave something behind. When I am gone, only my shadow will remain.

< Table of Contents To Breathe Underwater By Joyce Ma A small, rectangular, pink highlight on my calendar, unremarkable at first glance, marked with the initials ‘HI’; not for hello, but for Hawaii. From explorers charting unknown waters to the mythical sirens whose songs beckoned the brave to venture beyond the familiar, I, too, was ready to embrace the call of the deep: I would finally master the ability to snorkel. 8 years ago, amidst a summer ablaze with China’s relentless heat, I found myself at a summer camp, ready for the day's activity: snorkeling. We snorkeled in a pool shaped with gentle curves, a slice of the ocean itself, oddly placed among laughter and sun-kissed faces. Children, unified in a sea of matching swimsuits, gathered to learn the art of breathing underwater. Snorkeling, they said, was simple: through your mouth, not your nose. A task so mundane on land, transformed underwater into a challenge that I simply could not master. We have all heard of the cliché of fish out of water. I was whatever the equivalent to that is in water. Each attempt was a gasp and a sputter, desperately returning to the surface where the air was too abundant to cherish. My memory of camp is one of lungs heaving, drowning in the very element I sought to explore. 3 years ago, during a family vacation to the enchanting Xel-Há Park in Cancun, I faced the azure skies and crystalline light blue waters that met the lush tropical jungle, armed with a sense of adventure and a checklist of essentials. Xel-Há mandatory life jacket? Check. Diving mask settled snugly over my eyes? Check. The one-time use snorkel tube, alongside fins that promised agility in the water, were all accounted for. With natural beauty unfolding before me, this second snorkeling attempt was less about exploring underwater marvels than it was a battle with the equipment itself. The mouthpiece, rather than being an extension of my breath, hung awkwardly in my mouth. It proved as effective as trying to sip the ocean through a paper straw: soon turning soggy and useless. With nothing to do but chew on the tube, I defeatedly swam above the surface, convincing myself there wasn’t much to see at the bottom anyway. Watching the stunning videos of Hanauma Bay in Hawaii, I was determined to snorkel once and for all. Plunging to the depths allowed by the reef's boundary, I encountered coral formations tinged dark brown, their somber color possibly a testament to the impacts of human intrusion over the years. The neon-highlighter fish—unfazed—became our guide through this foreboding world. Each section of coral was uniquely sculpted: statues within an underwater museum, every piece telling ancient stories, silent testaments to the ocean's vast, untold history. Yet, the ocean’s boundless depths and seeming emptiness serve as its greatest masquerade, a realm not bound by the sediment layers of time as the mountains and volcanoes are, but a fluid historian, endlessly swallowing secrets, erasing and reshaping its narrative with each wave. It leaves no trace. My sister and I swam as waves passed over us. Beneath the surface, we moved as shadows, our forms cutting through the clear, sunlit water. Just two specks amidst the eternity, our bodies buoyed and swayed with the ocean’s waves. Our snorkels, thin lifelines to the world above, bobbed in the ebb and flow. We were cradled by the current. “It was a dance of give and take, breathing in unison with the sea.” My focus tightened as I followed the fish, which felt like a mesmerizing guide from a fairy tale leading me on a path. The rubber mouthpiece, initially foreign, gradually became an extension of myself, like gills. It was a dance of give and take, breathing in unison with the sea. To breathe in this underwater realm was to walk a fine line between exploration and surrender, where every breath was a delicate balance—a reminder that to breathe underwater was the essence of drowning. This act of breathing, so effortless on land, becomes a conscious part of your existence, connecting you to life underwater. Now, reflecting, I realize that this act of breathing, so deliberate and mindful underwater, mirrored the ebb and flow of life itself. When I didn’t think about how I couldn’t breathe, or didn’t know how to breathe through my mouth, I unnoticeably could do it. The ocean taught me that to breathe beneath its surface was to engage in a delicate dance with nature, to find my rhythm in the vastness, and to understand that I was a part of something far greater than myself. Yet, it also meant standing at the mercy of forces far beyond my control, where the only thing I have control over is the very act I often overlook: breathing. Those final moments of snorkeling were when I went with the flow of water and discovered fish with their kaleidoscope scales, shifting and flickering with each movement. In the dense silence, punctuated only by the sound of my breathing, I discovered a profound sense of unity with all that surrounded me. The fish, the coral, and my sister beside me—breathing together in a shared rhythm. Suspended in the sea’s weightless calm, we were reminded that we were guests in the presence of a world far older and different than ours. Alan Watts argues we are not just a part of the cosmos but also its substance, rising out of it like waves from the ocean. Snorkeling doesn’t just embrace this idea, it embodies it, one breath at a time. About the Writer... Joyce Ma is a current senior at Collingwood School in Vancouver, Canada. When she isn’t writing, she can be found readin g thrillers or baking cookies.

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.

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

< 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.

Lily Pond by Kadynce Singer Excerpted from St John by Kathryn Moore The pickup was stalled under a palm tree. It was summer, the beginning of summer, so the palm had these little fruitish clusters. Now and then, one would thupk down on the hood. The antenna wagged in time with the palm fronds. Some sort of staticky reggae-kumbaya played through the old stereo for a few seconds before coming back to the news. --oday, we remember a hero, brother, an--…d father. Known in the Ocea…--y area as “John the Baptist,” Brother John--…omas was the former nav--…and pastor of St Francis souther--…ptist church located on--…thside Rd--…. He was known fo--…r his traditional baptisms in the St…--ns River. He passed on…--s day--…rs ago-- I turned off the radio. I cranked the window back up, then pulled back the door handle, once then twice, jerking it. The air was like sand and brack, smelled like the wet marsh. A small sedge of sandhill cranes prodded at the sand in the middle of the parking lot, a plague of boat-tailed grackles picking at their legs. I leaned into the backseats of the truck and got my toolbox. “I emerged from the marsh onto the beach. It was soft-sanded beach. Far on the horizon past the delta and ocean was a lonesome fleet of cargo ships like ghosts.” Out of the truck bed, I got my fishing pole and a change of clothes. I’m not really a fishing person; heard a story from my neighbor once about how a friend of theirs caught a hook in the back of their head, and it stuck: the back of my head pangs whenever I think about casting from behind. I more just stand in the water and toss it out in front of me, let the line move down current on its own. From here the marsh surrounded me on three sides, the parking lot and trees at my back. I shoved the butt of the rod deep into the waterbed. There was a row of shallowed indentations all along the mud from previous fishes. I laid out my change of clothes on the hood of the truck, slipped some tools and a handheld radio into my pockets, and then I waded north into the reeds, away from the pole and the truck. The grasses were about breast-high, tickling my arms. Sifting through the reeds I saw a few sparrows flutter around each other; I heard an egret croak. The grass made shift- and crackling sounds, like how I’d imagined corn stalks would do, and like sea oats at the beach. My foot slipped on a crabhole and a fiddler crunched under my big toe; more crabs pinched at my feet. As I waded northward the mud got caky and softer, the air felt saltier, stickier. I emerged from the marsh onto the beach. It was a soft-sanded beach. Far on the horizon, past the delta and ocean was a lonesome fleet of cargo ships, like ghosts. One of the ships’ navigation lights blipped in and out in the late sunrise. An egret stalked the wet bank with some semipalmated plovers, eyeing me. I kicked my shorts off my ankles and undid my fishing shirt. I emptied my pockets and then unzipped my shorts. The cargo ship with its navigation lights blinking let out a low pitch wail, startling the congregation into flight. The great white egret turned its eye to the ships and stood still. I turned on my handheld radio and sat it next to my clothes. --t’s a cool 75 degrees out there this m--…ou’ll want to have your umbrella with…--this afternoon--…. Scattered thunderstorms throughout NE FL, all--…up into SE GA this evening. Traffic on I95 is alm…stagnant down--…thside-- The water was between low and high tide by about halfway. Most of the beach was wet; my feet pressed neat indentations, and then waves smoothed them away. The egret turned its eye to me again and stalked out of my way. The water’s coolness spooked my skin into gooseflesh. I sifted the sand with my toes, sand fleas and coquina shells shifting around beneath. Small, fleeting fish came in with the waves to nip at the sand but avoided me. My steps were heavy and skimmed broken shells. I trudged another step and another, up to my neck, my chin, and then my toes dug into rock. I closed my eyes and ducked under. The river muffled the air, the wind, the reeds. It was murk and muddy water; it felt like bathing. The mud mixed with my hair and settled into my pores. My fingertips were raw and pruney and grit with sand; seaweed brushed against my wrists and algae slipped my hands against the rock. Salt steeped through my eyelids, through my lips. I get nightmares of this moment: where a hook catches my scalp and tugs, where waves bash my skull open like a coquina mermaid’s bra, where something else touches my foot, my back. Where infection worms its way from my ear to my head and drains out everything good. Where I’m forever half-naked at the bottom of the Johns. Where the rock sinks me down with it and holds me for the rest of my breath. When the water had come into my lungs, the sand broke its hold with a suction I could feel. I gasped a mouthful of brackish water and choked; I brought the rock to my chest, heavy and rough like a bare-chested bearhug. Slogging out of the water with it was like the weight on my knees and shoulders, low and hefty, encumbering. I dropped it on my bundle of clothes. It made a thick whump I felt in my feet. I collapsed myself crisscross on the sand next to it: it was a concrete sort of cinderblock, gruff and gray, eroded from the water. I scrubbed at the concrete with a fraying brush, scraped between grooves and barnacles. The handle was slimy with the water from my palms, and so was my chisel--it slid out of place every time I cut in. I used a broken brick washed down from up shore as my hammer. It was grave, anniversary work. The graving read as it always did: In memory of a Great Man; may he rest peacefully with the LORD in this last baptism. A steady drizzling rain had started up, the ship with the navigation lights was blaring its foghorn; the great white egret had stalked back into the reeds. I decided I’d toss it back. My arms yelled at me. The splash was underwhelming, like that of an Olympic diver. I bagged my clothes and tools in my fishing shirt and washed out in the saltmarsh stream. Checked the pole: nothing but the blue crab that always tangled my line. My new clothes were warm and humid on my body. I tugged the pole out of the riverbed--another hole, another day--and tossed it back in the truck bed. I wouldn’t be coming back. The truck rattled to life. The radio spit out a hip-hop beat, then a woman’s bitten rasp continued talking: Ailing third-…--orld countries ar--…the globe, waiting…--for your k--…nd and generous donation.

Scoliosis Orthosis by Harper Golden barbeque ribs by Ziyi Yan count your ribs, fingering the clinging meat rack by rack, selecting a prime cut for picnic lunch, still raw, bouncing with fleshy aliveness of a pig. dry in the ebony heat until you shrivel, plum seeping tart juices– purple bloodstains on the kitchen floor, until the bones are smooth as a science-class skeleton bleached to untarnished porcelain– water is the first taste of remorse. sink into the rhythm of throbbing, dull knife sawing through ruby-red flesh– there’s a visceral glory in moving one muscle to make another tremble, sinewy fibers tortured into marbled pasture-raised grease. cook until every muscle withers, chalky sinew gurgling misty-eyed refractions before burning to bitter coals. cut into your unrendered porcelain, scaly creases cracking like a china bowl, pick up the shards that your blue-green veins might bloom to painted cobalt flowers, knives on the checkered floor– red and white, bloodstains and lard stained bowl, baby-backs still jiggling. eat rack by rack, stretching the stomach until ribs burst to slimy entrails, emaciated arm cranking the ropes splintering like tendons snapping like rubber bands with every bite, tears moist against ant-infested wood, pleas fat with senseless simile, your law cares nothing for mercy. clean up the bone-white shards and shrug a sweater over that flowery dress– your guests will be waiting and it’s a nice hot day– so pull out that textbook smile and feast under a sun of melted butter.

After thirty-five years, Élan has persisted in its unique literary and artistic precision. As we finish off this year, we invite you to explore the multi-faceted truths of this issue: identity, coming-of-age, nature, loss, beauty, and more. Each piece illustrates the uniqueness of our contributors and the artistry they have used to tell their history and narratives. We thank our submitters and readers for their participation and interest in Élan and involving themselves in creating and evolving the legacy of this literary magazine. Presenting the Fall/Winter 2021 issue, we welcome you and anticipate your connections to these works. As the year ends, we are pleased to announce and share these truths and hope you are, too. -Editors-in-Chief Blair Bowers and Brendan Nurczyk

< Table of Contents Sa Aking Mga Kamay by Sophia Gapuz Son, Your Mother is Praying for You. By Amaya Thoene 22. And I pray for her too, in the lone hours of Monday mornings. I pour myself mugs of Brazilian coffee and toast brown bread, hoping to draw her spirit from the memories under my floorboards. I light incense as Damini, the girl I hope to marry, wakes. Elizeth Cardoso sounds through my bedroom wall, connected to hers, from a record player we found at the Saturday flea market. Two minutes later, she is knocking on my door, grabbing my hand in hers. This is the first contact we’ve had in four days. Time melts around us, slipping from my aching hands, so I restrict our proximity as best I can. Her smile tempts me to allow myself the pleasure of her company, but this morning is dedicated to my mother, so I settle for smiling back. Conversation is not one of my gifts, but I’m the kind of person one can be around without speaking. Damini has never told me this much, but she is not one who can conceal her thoughts. I pull her into my living room, placing her cup of Peruvian tea on the stained coffee table. Rain whispers for her from the window, charmed by her in the way everyone is. She is sought after by everything beautiful in this world, but nothing quite so much as rain. It succumbs to her every touch, jealousy ever-present in its loyal following. I kneel on the rug next to her, our elbows pressed together. Here, my prayer begins. I am pressed into the pages of distant memory. *** 9. I lie on the porch of my brother's house in Caetés, Pernambuco, sweat crowding like my grandmother’s teeth. My mother died the Monday before, bestowing this house upon my brother. He is nineteen and married to a quiet girl from Rio de Janeiro. Their daughter is silent as the dead, which she will soon be. Sickness has stolen the words from her throat. My sister-in-law begged me to sleep in the house, to take the bed by the window, but I refused the offer. I told her I would not watch another girl in my family die, and besides, that bed was my mother’s. She nodded solemnly at this and kissed my head, whispering a prayer against my matted hair. “I have begun to fear the sight of her: all her baby fat gone, replaced by shadows and the outline of delicate bones.” The porch is rotting, giving way to the poverty in the air, the humidity. I press a finger against the softened railing. Quiet footsteps sound behind me and I squeeze my eyes shut, afraid my niece will try to wake me. I have begun to fear the sight of her: all her baby fat gone, replaced by shadows and the outline of delicate bones. A foot nudges my shoulder, compelling me to open my eyes. If it is my niece, so be it. I will lead her back to bed and place a cool, wet cloth on her head, as she is always warmer than the temperature permits. My niece is not the girl I see. Instead, this girl is the age of my sister-in-law, but the two share no other similarities. She sings Elizeth Cardoso from her throat, strong arms carrying wet laundry from the house to the clothesline. She is barefoot and tall enough that she must stoop to avoid the doorframe. Her foot nudges my arm again and I groan, catching her attention. This girl is my mother, years ago, youth present in her features. She smiles at me, a braid tucked behind each shoulder. “Benício, what are you doing on the porch? It’s hot out today.” She speaks softly, her lilted Portuguese bringing tears to my eyes. Portuguese has sounded wrong since her death—felt different between my teeth—but it is so natural coming from her, even with her thick Peruvian accent and hints of Spanish, her first language. She leans down beside me, worry creasing her forehead at the sight of my tears. Warm knuckles wipe them from my face and she presses a kiss to my cheek. “ Mijo , there is no need for tears. Al mal tiempo, una buena cara. *” Conversation does not find us, but I relish in her company. I fall steadfast into sleep, calmer than I’ve known in weeks, and when I wake, hours have passed with rain falling on my foot. My sock is soaked through, as are the clothes hanging above my head. I look for my mother, hoping for assistance in wringing out the water from my brother’s work shirts, but she is gone, having departed into the early hours of Monday morning. In her place is my niece, feet dangling over the porch, rain cupping softly in her extended hand. Grief is heavy on her features, an emotion I’ve never seen on a child so young. I turn towards the house, unable to bear the sight, and beckon her in after me. She follows willingly. The only sound is her hollow breathing. Inside, I make us toast and pour her a glass of milk, almost doing the same for myself but stopping, instead stealing cold coffee, leftover from my brother. It is bitter, which is surprising, considering his affinity for sugar. I prefer it this way. Final words are not attempted by my niece, who will die in two days, her lungs giving out in the heat of the summer night. Instead, she leaves her toast untouched, coming to join me as I sit in the doorframe. She holds my hand in her small fist, sticky from the milk she spilled on herself. Here, we begin to pray. It is silent and she is shaking with sobs when I reopen my eyes. I find that I, too, am falling apart. This will be our final moment together, the two of us as selfish as children among the dead can be. I wrap the memory in newspaper and bury it beneath my bed. *** 22. Mondays draw dust into the air as I am returned to my prayer. My mother’s name, the same as my niece’s, repeats painfully in my mind. Rain greets me, harmonizing with the music in Damini’s bedroom, caught in the middle of “Luciana”. She turns to face me, resting her forehead on mine. My mother’s voice finds me again, folded between raindrops, drowning under Cardoso’s heavy words. “Death is imminent, Benício. It will not steady if you resist happiness; it will always persist.” In times like these, I remember my mother in such a raw form. She is young, before children, whispering to me with the knowledge of her older self, slipping between Portuguese and Spanish, attempting comfort with words of both our country and our ancestors. These moments are the most painful, because they are everything I have never been. But in this instant, I accept her advice and compress every thought I bear into Damini’s lips. *** 25. And when Sunday evenings call out, Son, your mother is praying for you, I respond. We are praying for you, too, in this American apartment, where we toast brown bread and drink overpriced coffee, our daughter giggling at the rain outside her bedroom window. She carries with her two things tainted by fortune: a Monday morning prayer and your name, carved into her tongue. *In bad weather, a good face. About the Writer... Amaya Thoene is a junior in the Creative Writing department at Harrison School for the Arts. She has been involved in eight public readings since her freshman year and has been published in the Polk County Poetry Anthology. She is a varsity cheerleader and spends most of her free time sleeping out by her pool. 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.

< Table of Contents Star II by England Townsend "You can almost chart income inequality over the years by measuring the height of New York's ceilings." By Angelina Avelino I. the day we run out of bread striding through the market around the corner, hand in hand with Sammy. Lucia waits at home, perched amongst deteriorating skylines outlining the inequality of our jagged lives. gripping onto balcony rails, she leans far enough to catch glimpses of the philanthropic monuments of America. envisioning an epoch, Lucia will dispel misery as a skyscraper. “trudging past the frozen aisle, Sammy believes he’ll morph into a glacier.” hand in hand with Sammy, trudging past the frozen aisle, Sammy believes he’ll morph into a glacier. adjusting instead to an aerial craft across Alaska, he waits for me on the other end. i’m frigid in thought, unable to unravel anything other than the stinging silence of the apartment we share. II. i left the loaves of bread on a platter a slight creak, a single ray. the room reeks of glue and varnish when he comes home, a kiss on each of our foreheads. loaves of bread on a platter serve as centerpiece, while mother obliquely imparts breaking news. wrapping the bread into its pertaining bag, stuck in cyclical failed attempts of unemployment, she's perched amongst skylines, a state of inner turmoil that’ll never resurface. molding the insignificant into celestial lyrics meant for me and the pearl of the gods above, i’m just a prolific poet against our barren room wall. under tidal currents of auroral pages, placing poems in a cache, never finished. i’m cognizant of the life we seem to be irrevocably meshed into. tomorrow morning we’ll split the loaves of bread into fifths. About the Writer... Angelina Tang is a writer currently studying at Williamsville East High School. She is the self-published author of Birds Playing God, and her work has previously appeared in Cathartic Youth Lit and Polyphony Lit. She would like to learn how to design planners, and her favorite flower is the wisteria. About the Artist... England Townsend is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in drawing and painting, but enjoys other forms of art such as printmaking and photography. With each creation, Townsend strives to push her boundaries and explore different ways of producing art. She is excited to keep creating to learn and share her progress with the world.

< Table of Contents Felicity by England Townsend About the Artist... England Townsend is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She specializes in drawing and painting, but enjoys other forms of art such as printmaking and photography. With each creation, Townsend strives to push her boundaries and explore different ways of producing art. She is excited to keep creating to learn and share her progress with the world.