Salmon Sophia Rose Smith Contortionist Rowan Blankemeyer Colored ripe and stumbling— caught further and back down stream. You've found your way between notebook lines, past the margins, (college-ruled), loosened the blue stripes with a seam ripper. Hair braided and pushed into your palm— your fingers rip between the three fat trunks in search of equilibrium: chunky velvet and glass noodles. You’ve fleshed out the whorls in your hands, left prints of ink in the fresh snow. By autumn the marks in the mirror seem to dehaze delusions, caught in the blindspots between streetlamps and gutters. Beneath skin is paler flesh to fit their crayon colors. It can be scrawled in a waxy film on printer paper, but that can be scraped away with fingernails. You’ve fought your way pounding the waterfalls upstream. Caught: you ripped up the balance of their symmetry. You will find a place in the world and how to speak it. Find it in the full words buttressed behind your teeth. Return to Table of Contents

15 < Table of Contents Border Town by Ricard Siyi HE Farewells by Rowan Paton Ludovica had not seen Mother Freya since the day before. She had searched the estate from grounds to roof, excluding all the places young girls were not supposed to linger. Perhaps her caretaker had fallen ill? The thought brought fear rippling into her feeble stomach. The winter was harsh that year, even for the normally pleasant Caer. It was the first year in her life she had seen snow fall over her local shores. " Ludovica had watched with eagerness as the delicate icy shavings dissolved upon contact with the roaring waves." A few days prior, Mother Freya had taken her down to the oceanside. Bundled in thick layers of lavender wools, they had wandered along the beach together. Ludovica had watched with eagerness as the delicate icy shavings dissolved upon contact with the roaring waves. She had sat down by Mother Freya’s side for hours, leaning against the woman’s shoulder as she wrote of the snow’s elegance. Mother Freya sat and drew with blue-toned ink. She drew Ludovica sitting on the beach, and she drew images of shells rising beneath the waves. Accompanied by the humming of the stinging winter winds, they created together. The woman had helped the girl dress the previous evening. She had brought Ludovica a supper of warm broth with roasted meat and rose tea. After, she had tucked Ludovica into bed, singing her a lullaby. But she had not even stayed to wait for the girl to sleep. The next morning, she did not return. Ludovica refused to ask her mother or Maurine about Mother Freya. The girl did not want her to get in trouble for her absence. She was intelligent for a twelve-year-old girl, and she noticed the gashes and black eyes hidden on the necks of the servants who slipped up. She had not even dared ask her father. Instinct told the girl to hold her tongue no matter how her anxiety festered. Mother Freya was never late. Mother Freya was never ill. Mother Freya would never desert her without bidding goodbye. In a final moment of desperation, Ludovica found herself wandering about the veins of the estate. This was the name bestowed upon the servants’ passageways, the tunnels connecting secret doors dispersed throughout the building. She heard Mother Freya mention the veins on a few speckled occasions, yet Ludovica had never dared venture within them. She knew the layout of her home well enough to understand the flow of the passageways. Many times, she had studied the sketches of the estate’s composition, in which the veins were clearly detailed. She hoped to be able to find the servants’ quarters, even though she knew Mother Freya never slept in them. She could only hope the other servants could provide some assistance. Mother Freya was well-liked among them, and she hoped her reputation was enough to spare her from loose tongues. She wandered for more than three candlemarks, stranded in the veins. She never lost hope, silently sticking her head into each room she passed in hope of finding the woman. Every room she found was empty, housing only silence. Though she tried not to panic, she felt herself beginning to lose hope. Her mind flickered to Hekate. No, she thought. Hekate would be in school. Just as the girl began to lose hope, she tripped over a loose brick protruding from the floor. She shrieked as she fell, skidding roughly to a halt. She begun to shake. Her hands were bleeding raw, and she held them awkwardly in front of her. Maurine would have her head if she got blood on her dress. Using her elbows and the support of the wall, she took a trembling stand, fighting back tears. She gave into the pain, sinking until she sat on her knees, leaning against the wall. She scarcely noticed the light footsteps approaching her, lithe as those of a cat. She lifted her gaze, squinting through the dim to behold the figure before her. “Oh, Dov, my sweet child,” a melodic voice uttered, welling with sadness. “What are you doing in here?” Ludovica wiped her tears away, unaware that she had smeared blood over her cheeks. She squinted up at the figure, now leaning down beside her. She grinned at the voice of Mother Freya. “I was looking for you,” she stuttered, still shaking from the sting of aching flesh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I know I’m not supposed to…” Mother Freya pulled her into a tender embrace, holding the girl against her chest. Her long, elegant lock of braided hair fell over Ludovica’s shoulder, smelling faintly of ash and soot. “Quiet, my child,” the woman whispered, her gaze planted firmly ahead. “I don’t have much time.” “What?” Ludovica mumbled, her heart skipping a beat. She clung to the woman’s clothes, yearning to never let go. “How do you mean?” The woman did not respond. She gently freed herself from the child’s grasp, tenderly holding Ludovica’s hands before her. “Ludovica,” she whispered. “What have you done to yourself?” She smoothly lifted the small hands to her lips, placing a soft kiss on each of Ludovica’s bleeding palms. “All better,” she hummed, still holding them. Ludovica gasped in wonder as the pain melted away, leaving her fingers blessed with a warm prickle across her skin. “Where are you going?” she questioned, closing her eyes as Mother Freya gently rubbed her hands. The woman did not respond, but as they stood there, Ludovica felt even her fear begin to dissolve as if by magic. She was left only with the warmth and the serenity of that moment, the serenity of Mother Freya’s spirit. “Don’t worry, Dov,” the woman told her, her voice as placid as a lullaby. She raised Ludovica’s hands and placed them on her face, allowing the child to see without light. Ludovica closed her eyes and felt Mother Freya’s face, feeling from her jaw and her lips to her nose and her prominent cheeks. As her fingers rose, she found a feature which was foreign to her, and she felt Mother Freya exhale. Ludovica felt a bandage across the woman’s eyes, dampened and chillingly warm. She wrenched her hands away in horror, sinking to her knees once again. She gazed up at the woman who had raised her to that moment, only able to see an outline of the woman she was. Mother Freya sighed, verbalizing the weight of her heavy heart. “Goodbye, Ludovica,” she whispered, backing away from the child. In a flash of a moment, she was gone, engulphed by the shadows from which she had wandered. And Ludovica was left, her healed hands resting in her lap and bearing the burden of Mother Freya’s blood. About the Writer... Rowan Paton (they/them) is a young, queer writer from Florida. Currently, they are working for Élan Literary Magazine as their Junior Fiction Editor. Outside of Élan, they are in the process of compiling a collection of gothic short stories, tentatively titled "Angel Anatomy." About the Artist... Richard Siyi HE is currently a junior at Beijing No. 4 High School. His passion lies in biology, and he have a particular fondness for painting and writing about nature.

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 As I Go to the Sea For Glory! Hanzhen Teng Small Title Raiti Namiranian Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

The Fish Kaysyn Jones False Prophet Vera Caldwell I forgot to buy water at the convenience store. My feet are curling and cramping in my rubber-soled boots with it, and the ache’s grounding. All the cigarette smoke feels like it’s staining my eyes grey, filling my head with air till it floats all the way out of the car, above the clouds, where the sun is hiding. God’s hands are white, like what peels off the skin after a sunburn. White like plaster. I wonder what happens when you peel it? Is He like a hollow statue? And then we’re at the lake. The snow fell hard here. I feel small, drifting, wrapped in my hoodie and my coat, cut by the ice in the air. Everything is white: the cooler for the fish and the beer cans, the sky, my gloves. Everything is white but the trees holding up the snow and the mismatched red-and-black folding chairs I carry out onto the ice. My father cracks a hole in the ice. It sounds like a breaking bone. The bait goes on the end of the fishing hook, and then the drop, and then the waiting. My vision darkens, then fades. I dream that I am alone on the lake. I’m holding my little fishing pole tight in my hands when something pulls on the string, delicate, then harder. I yank back. I strain against a red sky, ripping at the water, trying to drag absolution from the endlessly dark hole in the ice. Instead, I draw a hand. A limp, colorless hand with my silver fishing hook through the palm, dripping red blood onto the snow. The colorless hand is connected to a colorless arm, which is connected to a colorless head on a long neck and the thing has the largest, most beautiful eyes. I’m looking at my angel. The angel crawls from the hole in the ice. It scrabbles and heaves with fingers that have no nails. Its breath is a wreath of steam in the air that floats towards the red sun to kiss it. Drip. Drip. Drip. Every vein in its translucent body, I can see. There is no heart, only blue lines that pulse in the center of the angel. But there are eyes, and those eyes don’t move from mine. Those eyes are mine. It was like meeting a bear in the woods. I knew that it could rip me apart, and it knew that I would let it. But that’s why we both knew it wouldn’t hurt right. The violence would be meaningless. The viscera wouldn’t be fit for marble any more than a whore for the altar. Spoiled goods. What would be taken is already gone. I move first. I break the spell. I take off my glove, and bare my palm to the angel. The heart-line is the love-line and I want something to love me. Anything to love me. “Please.” And the angel raises its bleeding palm, and it gives me a taste of salt. And the angel turns and the angel walks away. Its steps melt the snow and make the ice see-through, showing all the minnows still swimming under all of the powder. The hook stays in its palm, and the fishing line catches aflame and lights the sky. The angel leaves red footprints across the lake, and I realize that the lake is not a lake, but a river, covered in thousands of red prints, all of them melting the ice, burning, underneath a shining sky. I wake up. The sky is hidden under a gray front, but the shadows of the trees have turned violet and blue. I can’t feel my hands or my face. Next to me, my father is sprawled in his folding-out chair. The lid of the cooler is tilted off, a collection of tails hanging halfway out of it, next to a hollow gallery of beer cans. The tails drip blood onto the thick snow. My father casts an eye to me and back again. He takes a long draw of beer, smacks his lips, and takes another. There is a tug at my line. “Well?” My father says. “Reel it in.” Return to Table of Contents

Florida Girl by Hailey Edwards The Effects of Seasonal Changes on Floridian Coastal Wildlife By Scooter Wirth Prologue “When the tiny turtles are ready to hatch out, they do so virtually in unison, creating a scene in the sandy nest that is reminiscent of a pot of boiling water. In some areas, these events go by the colloquial term "turtle boils." Once hatched, the turtles find their way to the ocean via the downward slope of the beach and the reflections of the moon and stars on the water. Hatching and moving to the sea all at the same time help the little critters overwhelm waiting predators, which include sea birds, foxes, raccoons, and wild dogs. Those that make it through the gauntlet swim to offshore sargassum floats where they will spend their early years mostly hiding and growing.” — National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, February 9, 2024 * * * Before I was even conceived, my mother laid a strip of surfboard wallpaper all around my room, painted the walls like the beach, and placed a sign across from my bed reading: “Wiggle your toes in the sand.” The first place she took me was to the sand, and in it I became an elemental. I was more comfortable amongst dune, shore, fish, and bird than amongst kitchen, bedroom, man, and dog. The glare of the sun was similar to the hazy tint of a dream to me. The only air I could breathe was salt and brine. My hair, which fell in waves, was bleached platinum by sun. My eyes were a piercing turquoise-green-gray. They knew the true color of the ocean. If I didn’t have a bed to return to, I could’ve lived as an ocean sprite, an apostle of the waves. I felt like I was suffocating when the sky grew dark. I was unable to sleep some nights, feet always primed to run straight into the waves. My mother held me down to my bed like a soldier, and still I struggled against the chilling dark of night. I hated sleeping. I found myself in an alien world. Here, trees grew tall and dark; they sprouted needles instead of leaves. Here, the ground was caked with soggy snow. Here, the horizon rose in jagged peaks. What frightened me the most, though, was that here, I was entirely different. I didn’t care for the ocean, I skied on waves of snow, and I smiled at the bite of the cold through an open car door. On frozen ponds, I found my reflection. It seemed my hair had one day unexplainably curled, just like my father’s had. I was skinnier than I should’ve been, just like my father. The shoes I stood in were an old pair of Timberlands, not my usual sandals. I was the spitting image of my father. This is when the dream became a nightmare. I felt if I got too close to that ice, I might want to move away from the beach. I felt that this reflection might draw me in, might tempt me to become him. I ran before my reflection could speak a word. I felt like if I listened to him, I might begin to see the beauty in this place. I suppose that explains why my father’s skin was like ice. “Y’know, back in New Hampshire, we used to go outside in shorts on summer mornings when it was this exact same temperature,” he would say to me as I stacked layer upon layer over my shoulders and struggled to grab my backpack from beside me as the seatbelt tangled with my buckle. When I finally pulled myself from the car into the biting wind of January, I looked back at him with resentment I knew I had no reason for. It was how different we were, or perhaps how distant he felt, that drove me to roll my eyes at comments like that. When I looked into the rearview mirror and saw a slice of his face, only his eyes, I thought the mirror was pointing at me. I wondered how somebody with his alpine inclination could give birth to somebody like me; I wondered if he was really my father. I ran from my reflection before he could speak a word. I felt like if I listened to him, I might begin to see the beauty in him. Then, he took me to the only hill in Jacksonville: a small uprising in the city that seemed a lifetime away, a foreign land of alien wonder and blinding, scorching, metropolitan lights. From there, I was able to see the sun sink beneath the horizon for the first time, not just the ribbons of purple-orange lightning that called in wary surfers from their heaven. The full sunset was tender, red, fiery, and the sky was dark, empty, twinkling with stars. Even on the hottest, muggiest Florida nights, I found myself shivering. Here, though, against the lights of the city, the night felt warm. About the Writer... Scooter Wirth is a 12th grade student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. He is the winner of a 2022 scholastic gold medal for fiction and a 2024 Extravaganza featured artist. He frequents gothic genres and writes pieces that often revolve around the comparison of humanity and the natural world. He also enjoys songwriting and intends to pursue both forms of art in the future. About the Artist... Hailey Edwards is a 12th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She enjoys storytelling through her art, and her favorite mediums include digital, painting, and oil pastels.

Donations are greatly appreciated! Visit our GoFundMe to donate. All proceeds go to the betterment and production of Élan as well as to the Douglas Anderson Creative Writing Department. Donate now!

Incandescent by Daysha Perez His Mother's Cries by Anai Harris On the 16th Street Church Bombing, 1963 Mama cried for her ; s he cried for the little brown girl that lived at end of our street who was no longer with us. But instead , buried underneath the ruins of the church . I felt my mother's cries. I could tell by the way her tears stained her cheeks : she was losing her faith. She had been there after the explosion. When the little girl's mother ran through the crowd and fell to her knees at the foot of the ruins. Where she found nothing but the sho e she had put on her daughter that morning. The girl's mother sat there asking God why. Soon after , my mother began to do the same. Every night , she would ask God why. Why he’d taken something so precious. Not long after , we stopped going to church. My mother claimed there was not a church to go to and my father was just happy to sleep in on Sundays. My mother cried , knowing that horrible things were always happening all around her. Mostly , she cried knowing that she could do nothing about it. Yet another tragedy m anufactured in the eyes of hate. Hate so strong that death was not a sacrifice b ut a relief. I cried for my mother. She cried for the world. Who cried for me? About the Writer... Anai Harris is a junior in Creative Writing at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. With five years of experience in writing plays, ballads, mysteries, and numerous poems, Anai has developed a diverse and impressive portfolio. She has participated in various contests with her original work, including the Tomorrow's Leaders Contest and the NaNoWriMo Contest. This year, Anai was honored with an award from the James Weldon Johnson Young Writers Contest. Anai is excited to bring her creative writing to new heights as she embarks on her next writing adventures. About the Artist... Daysha Perez is a 11th grader at Douglas Anderson school of the Arts. She is a visual arts major who has always had a passion for creative artistry, particularly painting. Most of the art she creates is acrylic paint on canvas. She fell in love with the medium in elementary school and works with it frequently.

Astrid Henry Astrid Henry is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts, where she is majoring in Creative Writing. She is the Senior Managing Editor of Élan, and Co-Chair of the Student Homecoming Committee.

Fall/Winter 2025 Cover art: I Am Going To Grow Wings by Leo Bowyer Table of Contents Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Editors Note View Jeneva Hayes, Deidra Curtis Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The ouroboros eats its tail in perpetuity, and True Colors View Anayelli Andrews-Nieves Small Title Ryleigh Marsh Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Perceptions of Potential I Am Going To Grow Wings View Olivia Sheftall Small Title Leo Bowyer Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Corner Cycle Memphis, Egypt View Tremaine Shears Small Title Maya Wynne Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Before the Fall Peacock & Peahen View Sofiya Sharova Small Title Chloe Mathern Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Umbilical Cradled by Beauty View Vanessa Chen Small Title Angelina Gao Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Haibun for Mom and Gramps (1945-2025) Bonded View Carter Manalla Small Title Krislyn Fraser Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Believe in the unseen, have faith At once View Kiyura Davis Small Title Sol Cuneo Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Genetic Dawn Fish Out of Water View Hannes Duncan Small Title Stefani Thomas Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button The Cadaver Lab as a Medical Student Scarlet Waves View Elise Lewis Small Title Charleigh Herrin Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button I know I’m supposed to treat you kindly, I can’t Embracing Flesh View Olivia Chao Small Title Haven Foster Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Moses never swam View Marcus Holley Small Title Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Misson log 1001- POST BURIAL REPORT Curing Lights View Meheru Alaspure Small Title Sophia Waller Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button I eat lemons the way I eat oranges A Warm, Fuzzy Feeling View Caitlin Spinner Small Title Leo Bowyer Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Life is a Circus Life is a Circus View Small Title Yujin Jeon Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button ersatz memories Foreign Accent Syndrome View Olivia Shin Small Title Colson Gomez Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button North-East FL Under the rain View Brianna Clark Small Title Jason Galub Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button We Part Ways at the End Waiting with Bun-bun View Luigi Avila Small Title Sophia Waller Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC Art Title" Button Peony Season Human Scrapbook View Mary Bartels Small Title Alexis Swenson Small Title Small Title Connect 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92b11cd1-696d-484f-9ebc-fc5a1451ca18 Off by Jadalyn Gubat I Left my Heart in the Knot of a Weeping Willow Tree by Peyton Pitts Spanish Moss sways back and forth from the tired branches, the daffodils tickling her feet. Her white gown frolics in the hazed sunlight, a smile wetting her face. She wanders the trail near her little cabin, enjoying the air to herself. She lives alone with not much interaction; her job has her constantly exhausted. To have the weekends to herself was absolute freedom, and every Sunday she walks this hidden path. Ever since her father died of a heart attack, she’s trying to come to terms with her heartache; it didn’t know how to take its first steps again. She sits in the nook of a large weeping willow tree reading the latest of Hawthorne and a bit of Robert Frost. Her round glasses hugging the bump on her nose. She strokes the old wood, rusty valleys and canals carved by aging years of tolerance; she scans the poem, Birches . “You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground.” Placing the book in a nook of the tree, she slides to meet the grass. She enjoyed the peace, but she must be making her way back home now, she has a job to tend to the next day and isn't interested in insomnia. She always had issues with sleeping, vivid dreams stretching her rest thin. Nightmares had gotten worse since the passing of her father; she hadn’t slept in over thirty hours. After the long walk, she steps into her home to greet the ash cat Sage and begins to cook dinner. A tomato soup is brewed, which she hastily consumes, and with that retires to a waiting full and woven quilt. Eyelids pressed over those bright blue pupils, she tries to sleep, but much to her avail, she sits awake in silence. Hours passed and unfortunately the young woman received not a drop of rest, images of a darling man squeezing her concentration. He had auburn hair with olive skin, brown eyes, and a charming birthmark stretched across the nape of his neck. Not much occurred between them, he only stood in front the large weeping willow, gazing with love. There was a tear striking his face, he seemed so dreadful. He reached to her and kissed her forehead, before slowly disappearing. She had to have known him, he was already registered in her mind as someone she knew, but she had never seen him before. She sketches his picture in charcoal before leaving for work, it sitting on her nightstand. Arriving at the little bookstore, she sits and sorts some elder books with her hair in a messy bun; anxious curls pry from the hair tie, but she always slicks them back. A book had fallen off the top shelf and she reached to grab it, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost. A tear sheds from her tired eyes as she collapses to her knees, trying to be as silent as she could. Her father loved that book dearly, even read it to her when she was little, she could hear his sweet voice reading the third stanza to her one more time. “The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.” "There was a moment of silence between the two, a stare that was undecided in what it meant." He was everywhere she went, always reminding her he loved her. Wallowing in agony, chest compressed and the rope against her heart tightened, her lungs tense in fruitless effort. Small, shallow breaths were soon replaced with gaping exasperation, and she fought for air. The room spins, and she feels as though she is about to faint. Just as her vision fades to faint patches, the bell to the door chimes, and she is reunited with this merciless world. Collecting herself from the carpet, she steadies her legs and attempts to stand, almost forgetting how to walk. Her desk waits for her while she smoothes the stray tears from her cheek and hairs from her bun, turning to see a new yet familiar customer. The man had auburn hair with olive skin, brown eyes, and a black turtleneck sweater on. There was a moment of silence between the two, a stare that was undecided in what it meant. After somewhat of an awkward moment, he spoke. “Hello, may I please check this book out?” Startled, she began frantically snatching the book from his hands, shaking as she tried to ring him up. “Oh my, of course! I’m sorry, you seem familiar is all. Have we ever met before?” “Not from what I’m aware, I’m new here.” “Is that so? Where are you coming from? You know, not many people travel through here.” “I’m coming from outside the county, actually. Here to find something I lost.” “And what is it that you lost?” “Just a friend of mine, we always find our ways back to each other. It’s been some time since I’ve seen her, and I just know I needed to pass by here.” “Well, is there any way I can help you find her?” “No, my intuition is the only way I plan. We have a very strong connection after all. Thank you though.” His voice is raspy and deep, honey to her ears. He turns his black sweater to leave for the exit, the fading silhouette encasing her growing confidence. In a last-minute spur, she blunts, “My name’s Amber.” His neck turns as he pulls at his collar, a charming birthmark revealing itself. “Elliot.” He walks from the store and continues down the street, not looking back. She’s so flushed that she dashes home to see the charcoal picture she had drawn. After slipping on her rug and nearly tripping over Sage, she finds the sketch and assures herself it was him. Ironic, the man of her dreams came to visit her, but he only paid her no mind. After little consideration, she decides she has to go find him. After over an hour of scouring the streets of this little town, she notices him at a nearby café enjoying some tea. It’s not long before she stumbles across him, panting from the sprint. “I apologize, this is so random, but I need to speak with you.” He seems as though he was prepared for this sort of interaction, reorganizing himself and his thoughts. “Was the book not up for rent? I’m sorry, I can return it at once-” “No, nothing like that; I just wanted to get to know you. You’re horribly familiar, and to be frank, I need to know how I know you. I know this is abrupt, but please consider having tea together.” “I unfortunately have to leave in a few, but perhaps we meet for dinner later tonight? Then you may ask whatever questions you’ve been needing to ask.” “That works, perfectly! Thank you so much for considering. Where should I meet you?” “Right here; same table in just a few hours. Does seven work?” “Excellent, I will see you there Elliot.” “I look forward to seeing you again, Amber.” Surprise washes over her face; he had genuinely agreed to a random dinner with a random girl. Maybe he saw her in his dreams too? This hadn’t been the first time she had seen him in her dreams; ever since her father died, he had been appearing every now and then, greeting her as usual. This was, however, the first incident they had met in person. Either way, fact or fiction, she had to go home to get ready. After the journey to her little cabin, she applies a light blush and some rose lipstick, just to add some subtle glow. A lovely floral dress and her father’s brown jacket he wore to the library every day, she was ready to leave. Anxiety tugs at her mind a little bit, she hoped he wouldn’t notice the dark rings around her eyes. Addressing herself in the mirror, convincing herself to go, she made her way to the café. Meeting him at that exact table, he sat there patiently, white wine already ordered for the two- pure luck he ordered white, red always gave her a headache. She sits down and fumbles with her napkin; he could see her nerves slowly fraying. He made a subtle joke about the night, trying to ease the tension. “Have you always greeted strangers like this? I’m sure you make a sum of friends.” She giggles, slowly floating down to reality. “No, I actually don’t socialize very well, anxiety doesn’t deal well with friendship.” “Well, you should try greeting people more, you sure do make an impression.” “I suppose I made quite the impression; I don’t typically act that way you know.” They both chuckle a bit, relieved with the casualty of the conversation. “What about you?” “In a similar boat, I don’t necessarily socialize often, though I know I need to. Any hobbies you enjoy?” “I used to write, but ever since I had to take over my father’s library, I haven’t the time nor the motivation. It was something I loved to do, but there are so many renovations I have to make for the bookstore that I simply don’t have time.” “And what renovations have you made?” “Nothing at the moment, I know it looks bad. Dad’s gone, and I hate changing his store. I don’t have motivation or incentive, so I’m just stuck.” “Time management is a difficult thing, but I think writing some more may help you out of this loop, sometimes you have to force it.” “I’ve thought about it, it’s just taking some time. I never have enough of it anyways. Well Mr., what about you? Have any idea where your mysterious girl is?” He looks at her for a moment, a grin lingering across his face as he looks down to stare down at his food, “I believe I’m on the right path.” The two chatted for the whole night, connecting beautifully. It was an ecstasy; she couldn’t remember a thing but the joyous laughter they shared. After the meal was shared and experiences exchanged, her heart fluttered. He takes her home and saw her to the door, where he plants a soft but simple kiss on her blushing lips. Her mind races as her lips chased his, his hand tucking that stray curl behind her ear, the other holding her cheek in adoration. She stood on the tip of her toes to try and reach him, falling into his warm embrace. After a few moments, he leaves her on the brink of excitement, her heart stumbling about. The two spend nearly every day together, even Sage likes him. They take part in little dates, and he helps in the library. Renovations are done, she painted the walls, and he replaced some shelves. There are more customers than ever, and she’s genuinely laughed for the first time. The two hearts have grown as one throughout, and her heart is learning to walk again. He’s teaching her how to talk to people, she practices on him. And when she stutters and wants to abandon any hope, he holds her still and encourages her, praising her attempts. She’s making some new friends and not isolating herself; she made a new best friend named Autumn. They eat together during lunch break when Amber is pried away from Elliot. She would ramble all she could about Elliot, describing him to her; Autumn was always confused on who she was talking about. Amber started writing more and even became published. All her books detail her trials with grief, some fantasy, and she wrote a book dedicated to her father- those were a tough few months. She sleeps comfortably now; her mind lets her finally sleep. Her father’s jacket will always be fastened on her shoulders, but Elliot’s arm is draped over, holding her tall. They spent the day in the nook of the weeping willow tree, reading Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening , and it was the first read she had where she didn’t erupt into tears. “I'd like to get away from earth awhile, And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me, And half grant what I wish and snatch me away, Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love: I don’t know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk, Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back.” She feels content with the book that she could appreciate it once more. Somewhere on the third stanza, her eyes doze off and she falls asleep in his arms. Elliot holds her as a tear leaps from his eye, his heart shaking with each passing moment. His arms close her even tighter as he tries to keep his crying silent so as not to disturb her. His breathing staggers, and his vision is shaking with pain as he kisses her forehead one last time refusing to let go. He is on the right path, he finally found her, and she found herself. His purpose is fulfilled, and his heart forgets how to walk. When she wakes up, Elliot is nowhere to be found. She searches the little town everywhere she could, and he was gone. All their little date spots, he was gone; his belongings that were collected on the floor of her room, gone; his love that he vowed to her she swore was gone. It’s a difficult night, lying in her bed trying to sleep with tears stinging her eyes. But when she closes her eyes, he comes back to her. They are in the nook of the weeping willow tree; he strokes her hair. He told her she needs him, and that her heart learns how to walk again; he would always catch her if she fell, but she needed to take the first few steps. She grabbed his face, looking into those brown eyes crying. He did nothing but stare at her, and all the memories came rushing to her in a blur; the awkward first stare, her bliss from their first kiss, when Sage would finally let him pet her, when he told her he loved her, all of it. Her imagination was tight again, and the vision of him became strained, just like that, he was gone again. She went to ask Autumn if she remembered her with Elliot, but her along with the rest of the town, said they had never seen Amber with a man apart from her father, that she was always alone. Town records showed no evidence of an Elliot anywhere, and no traces of his belongings, or him for that matter, could be found. When she get home that day, she takes the sketch she made and gone to the tree, tucking the sketch in the knot of the weeping willow. The breeze trying to hold her back, leaves whispering for her to turn around. Standing there, she has the rope in her hand, ready to tie it to the tired branch, trying to force herself to jump. Her foot dangles off the end, and she toys with the idea of falling, but she never could. She could feel him telling her no, the man in her dreams caressing her cheek and wiping her tears. The old canals of the wood holding her feet steady, begging her not to jump. The memories of her father rush back, he was behind her too. His brown jacket is wrapped around her, her holding it dearly. Time seems to continue for hours, her pushing herself around the branch. She finally fastens the noose around her neck and stares to the sky, hoping she’ll accidentally slip. The coursing thread of rope scratching her throat and she tries to swallow her fear. Eyes still swollen from all the tears she cried and fresh ones rolling, she rips the noose from her throat and throws it to the ground, falling back into defeat. Ontology was questionable in that moment, but Elliot said he’d always catch her if she fell. She looks around to see if he was near, but she knew he was watching. Her legs refuse to work as she collapses back into the grass, screams scrapes from the bottom of her stomach and rung into a cry. Daffodils cradling her like a lost child, and she waters them with fresh sobs. A few hours and the moon arrives, tickling her bruised skin. The grass indents with her cracking body and the flowers crane, understanding her torment. A hand begins caressing her hair, but she couldn’t bear to look. He takes her hand and tries to help her up, she refusing to move. He puts his hand on her lower back and urges her to a sitting position, leading the hair away from the tears. Just then, her legs shiver and they push her back into reality; she returns to an upright position. The sketch of him stares down from the elbow of the branch, and she fantasizes for just a moment, that maybe he’s still there. Turning back in shame, she heads for her cabin, leaving her heart in the knot of a weeping willow tree. Return to Table of Contents

784437cd-4e6f-4020-bff7-08e80d205b06 Tangled in Transformation by Camille Faustino A Tribute to Mitski’s “Class of 2013” by Hollis Ackiss my mother makes separate noodles for me in a big pot of chicken noodle soup because she’s been on a diet ever since she got out of jail, and she still loves me yet she doesn’t know my name and when i wake up at eleven pm to feel the bowl is still warm, sitting in the fridge, labeled with a name i remember she called me by, i realize why my brother and i stayed up so late that one night ambling in the kitchen to see her make spaghetti at one am in her denim and name tag when she only got home from work an hour before, and she never saw any new dishes in the sink. now i stand on my tiptoes to reach the opaque glasses on the top shelf as i pour a drink, every light off in the house except for the fridge, filled with soda again even though now it’s all diet. i know i should sleep soon when i have work tomorrow, and my back hurts but i can only let her hold me as many times as i can allow myself a moment of reprieve; the first night we moved into this house we watched a movie in silence and with my head hovering over her shoulder she says she waited for this moment. Return to Table of Contents

56740b90-b449-4ffc-b3a7-c83e5768dc2e Soho by Ivory Funari Mountaintop by Itay Frenkel A plane flew by outside, filling my room with a dull whistling noise, like wind blowing at the peak of a mountain. I turned over in bed and pulled the blanket right up to my chin. Cold slithered around me like a snake, prodding at my feet, stroking my hair, running down my back. I curled into a ball under the covers and closed my eyes, but it did no good. The snake was inside me now, and I was shivering. Dammnit, if I wanted to sleep in a cave I would go and do it, why does he insist on keeping it so cold in here? I have slept in a cave once, on a class trip, but it wasn’t cold at all. It was so hot the boy next to me had sweat seeping through his sleeping bag. It formed big black stains. I can’t remember anything from that trip except the stains on the boy’s sleeping bag and the suffocating heat. I turned over in bed, wanting to wrap myself around my husband, maybe then I’d be warm. If not, maybe some of my cold would slither into him. It would serve him right for turning the thermostat so low. I turned over to the side and stretched out my arms, ready to squeeze his slim figure and burrow myself into his back. My arms slid through the air. I poked my head out of the blanket, but I couldn’t see anything in the darkness. I felt around his side of the bed. It was as cold as the rest of the room. I tried not to assume the worst. He probably got out of bed because he was having trouble sleeping. He could be on the couch reading a book. Maybe he headed out to buy some snacks. I reached over for my phone on the nightstand but stopped myself. I should check the apartment before I call. If anything, he was still in here somewhere. I forced myself to take a long breath before climbing out of bed. The warm carpet felt good under my bare feet. I stretched from side to side, exhaled a loud yawn, then shuffled through the small corridor that led to the living room. A green couch, a small white coffee table, and a thin tv that sat on the floor. The tv was turned off. Around ten books lay on the coffee table, some piled on top of each other, most with a bookmark stuck between them. His habit of reading so many books at once had always surprised me, I preferred to take it one imaginary world at a time, any more and I’d start mixing up the different books. Hell, if I tried reading as many as him at once, I’d start mixing up fiction and reality. I walked over to the kitchen, where a large, greasy pan still sat on the stovetop. It contained the remnants of pasta, which I made while he sliced and pickled cabbage, claiming it would add a tangy flavor. I didn’t see much reason to spice up our normal dinner, I hated cooking, and I was happy with my bland noodles. The cabbage was too sour, I tried my best to hide my distaste but he saw right through me and offered to eat my portion. He shouldn’t be hungry, then again, he wasn’t the type to feel full for long. I opened the fridge, as I did every time I was in the kitchen, instinctively. He wasn't in there. I surveyed the kitchen for a note and turned up empty-handed. He was gone, and his trail, like everything else around me tonight, was cold. We didn’t own a car. The first three weeks of our married life were spent making decisions; he would sleep on the left side of the bed and me on the right; the beer would go in the fridge, not the pantry, he liked it chilled; my kindle slept next to me on my nightstand, his books called our coffee table home, unless important guests came over, in which case we’d tuck them into a shelf we got from before we were married. With all these decisions springing upon us, like invisible raindrops pouring from the sky, neither of us had even thought of buying a car. I liked walking, anyway, and he had a bike. Decisions at the beginning of marriage should be natural. I knew I belonged on the right side of the bed like a pilot knows exactly how to land their plane. He knew he wanted his books scattered on the coffee table. It all made sense, we were building up our life piece by piece, together. A car just wasn’t natural, it didn’t fit just yet. I called him, and my phone rang for a long time. The sound bounced around the room like a bullet before being swallowed up by the walls, which seemed to shiver for a moment. I called again, no answer. Where could he be? I turned off my phone and stared at my reflection on the dark screen; bed-hair, dark bags under my eyes. Was that oil on my face or just light reflecting off the screen? I felt tired, so tired, but I didn’t want to sleep until I knew where he was. I left him a text: Hey, please call me back as soon as you can. Then, after a few deep breaths that failed to calm me down, I left him another one: If you don’t answer in an hour I’ll start pulling bookmarks out of your books. It wasn’t a very serious threat, and it wasn’t a very funny joke, but it was the best my tired brain could think to write. I walked back into the living room and looked out the window, but I couldn’t see anything, it was dark as a pupil. I should have gone back to sleep, it was late. But still, the darkness felt warm and inviting, like an old friend. It reminded me of the nights I spent in the library, poring over books I should have read earlier but didn’t because I was busy going to the beach with friends. Or nights before I married my husband when we would drive out to get food and catch a movie. I didn’t sleep much back then. My head always hurt, my stomach growled, but it didn’t matter because I belonged to both night and day. I was living two lives, and I treasured each. I pressed my nose against the dark window, it felt like ice. I exhaled a warm breath and watched a circle of fog appear on the window. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I left it alone and kept making circles. I made a mental note to wash the window tomorrow after work. How was I forming these circles indoors? Could it be that cold? I decided to do one more survey of the apartment before going back to sleep. I made sure the front door and all the windows were locked, then I dragged myself back into bed and curled under the covers. My eyes snapped shut. I lay on my side and waited for sleep to take me away. My lips trembled, but why? I tried to think of something, anything, just to help ease my mind into sleep. Nothing came. My head was as empty as the darkness around me. All I could feel was a faint throbbing headache, more of a sound than a feeling. It was as if my heart had traveled up my throat and slid into my head, where it was beating, pressing against my skull like a baby chick trying to hatch. My ears felt clogged, my nose was stuffy, my lips were too cold to part. It was like my body was closing itself off, trying to keep something out. Trying to keep the darkness out. It didn’t want to sleep, not alone. It hated being alone more than anything. But the darkness was too much, and soon it found a little hole in my otherwise impeccable defense, a tiny opening in my left ear, and it struck, pouring into me and shrouding my brain. I fell into a heavy sleep. I dreamed that I was standing on the beach, surrounded by people I used to know, and others I couldn’t recognize but somehow felt like I would get to know soon. There was an air mattress on the water, a green one, swaying to and fro over the gentle waves. A little boy was sitting on it. He was the only one in the water. The sky was grey and low; it looked heavy, like it might fall and crush everyone on the beach. A dense fog settled over everything so that I couldn’t see the waves grow big and deadly, but I could hear them. Nobody moved. The kid on the air mattress screamed for help. I looked around, but still, nobody moved. I was on the swim team, back in high school. Not that it would help me swim through a ten-foot wave built like a brick wall, but I felt I had to try. I ran towards the water. Suddenly the sand swallowed my left foot. I tripped and heard a loud snap. Lying face down in the sand, which was now pulling me into its grainy shifting skin by the left leg like I was a noodle it was trying to slurp down, I wondered if I would be crushed by a wave or swallowed by the ground. My ears were ringing. I closed my eyes and held my breath. The ringing grew louder and louder. I waited for death to come, feeling a mixture of dread and relief. At least now I wouldn’t have to go to work tomorrow, it was my first day. I still wasn’t even sure that I wanted the job. Besides, dying in your sleep was a good way to go, even if it was in a nightmare. The ringing grew louder, and soon it drowned out the sound of the waves. I opened my eyes and stared at my dark ceiling. My phone was ringing. I felt vomit in my throat. My lips were covered in drool. I rolled over in bed and picked up my phone with a cold, sweaty palm. “Sorry I didn’t answer before,” my husband said. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah.” His calm voice, raspy and airy like a quiet trumpet, made me angry. I wasn’t sure why. “I was so worried, why’d you make me worried like that? I really will take the bookmarks out of all your damn books.” “Sorry.” There was a long silence on the phone. I could hear his heavy breathing on the line, it was uneven. I considered yelling at him more, but I was too tired, and I wanted to see him again. I wasn’t used to sleeping without him. We’d often go on long walks together after dinner, come back, and fall into bed. I missed it when he could stay up all night with me whenever I asked. I tried waking him up sometimes, but he insisted that he needed to sleep to function at work, so I would go and read on the couch alone until I was ready to call it a night. I didn’t like being alone at night. “Buy me dinner,” I said, “as much as I want and we’ll call it even.” “Aren’t you starting at that place tomorrow morning?” “Yeah, we’ve still got a couple of hours.” He considered it for a moment before answering. “Alright, I’ll come home and pick you up, I’m ten minutes away.” “Hurry.” I hung up the phone and rolled out of bed for the second time that night. I took off the plain white tee and grey sweatpants I slept in, changing into a pair of jeans and a white knitted sweater, then I went to the couch to wait. I didn’t feel tired, just empty, as if I was nothing but a balloon, ready to float away. A chilly breeze had burrowed itself into the house to remind us that summer was over. It ran along the walls and whispered in our ears that it was time to get a job, a car, maybe even a kid. I spread out on the couch and closed my eyes. I had just enough time to exhale a long calming breath before hearing the sounds of keys jingling, shaking like they had stage fright. Then the lock turned, and my husband stepped in. A tall, thin man with large round glasses, perpetual bed hair, and dull brown eyes. He shuffled into the living room, looked at his books on the coffee table, and smiled when he saw all the bookmarks were still in place. He lay down on the edge of the couch, holding onto me to stay on. I bit him on the nose, he recoiled and almost fell off the couch. Now we were even. “What was that for?” He asked. “It woke you up, didn’t it?” I said. “I guess, why are you still up?” “Can’t sleep.” “Yeah, me neither.” “At least we’re on the same page.” “I’d rather be asleep than on the same page right now.” I laughed. He leaned in, not that he had to, and kissed me on the cheek. His lips were warm, alive. I could feel his heartbeat through them, like a reassuring pat on the back. He moved his head away slowly so as not to roll off the couch. His breath carried the faint smell of pasta. “Do you still wanna eat?” He asked. “Yeah.” “Where are we going?” “Breakfast place, something like Denny’s.” “In the mood for pancakes?” I nodded. We lay on the couch in silence. I looked at my reflection in his eyes, shooting myself a reassuring smile. He smiled back; a tired, strained smile that made his nose look small and his eyes extra big. I wanted to have kids, and a car, and, if I had to, a job. It was the logical next step, and I felt good taking it with him by my side. He nodded as if he were reading my thoughts. “There’s a place ten minutes away with good pancakes, shall we?” He asked. “Lead the way,” I said. He yawned, and before he had stopped I rested a hand on his shoulder and pushed him off the couch. He landed gently on our brown carpeted floor, looking up at me with a bewildered smile and a slight tilt of the head, like a parent whose child just did something unexpected but impressive. “You’re on a bit of a mean streak tonight,” he said. I got off the couch and extended my hand to him. He grabbed it, then let go like it was on fire. “You’re freezing,” he said. “I know.” “But like seriously, I don’t even want to touch you, and that’s never the case.” “Aww, thanks.” He got to his feet and took hold of my hands. His slender, bony fingers intertwined through mine. “Thanks,” I whispered. "The cold breeze that whispered rude reminders and unsolicited advice was pushed away. " He nodded. After a moment of gripping my hands, he smiled, appearing satisfied, and let go. We walked to the door, got our shoes on, and headed out. It was warm outside, with a gentle wind that did its best not to upset anyone it bumped into. The cold breeze that whispered rude reminders and unsolicited advice was pushed away. The sky was dark and filled with silver stars, like polished marble embroidered with silver gemstones. I buried my hands into the thin pockets of my jeans. “You’d be better off holding one of my hands, they’re pretty warm, I’ve been sitting by a fire all night.” I gave him my right hand, and we continued walking down the cracked pavement. We turned into a street with low buildings on either side, it was too dark to see the end. Return to Table of Contents