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< Table of Contents The Switchboard Operators By Allison Clausen It seemed like every time Helen returned to the telecommunications office, there were fewer women working and more calls to connect. The office was only slightly brighter than the dusk outside, illuminated by a few flickering lights that hummed above the rows of consoles. Each console had hundreds upon hundreds of jacks that made Helen’s head swim when she looked at them, and multicolored wires she tried desperately not to tangle. “The only person who ever looked at her was Rose O’Neal, another woman at the office, whose smile brightened the room more than the large industrial lights.” She had started developing a callus on her thumb and index finger from the strain reliefs dragging across her fingers as she connected call after call, though she told herself she didn’t mind. It wasn’t like anyone was looking at her hands. The only person who ever looked at her was Rose O’Neal, another woman at the office, whose smile brightened the room more than the large industrial lights. The two of them had become something close to friends over the past few months. They had always known each other—they lived in the same area, ran into each other in shops or restaurants—but had only started talking when they started working. Not during work, as Rose connected international calls, and Helen was in a different room with domestic ones, but afterwards. When Helen arrived at the office, Rose beamed at her from the position at the first console, causing their supervisor to snap, “That’s four more hours, Ms. O’Neal,” though Rose accumulated four hours each shift, so it was hardly worth saying. Helen never smiled in response, keeping her gaze steeled forward. If she offered anything in return, she was bound to receive extra hours as well, and her shift wouldn’t end at the same time as Rose’s. Rose was only doing what she could to ensure the two of them didn’t have to walk the darkened streets of Providence alone, and though she had never said so, Helen appreciated it. The supervisor’s eyes raked heavily across Helen’s face, but she refused to glorify him with so much as a glance. She moved to the next room, head raised, back straight, and set her purse down on a chair before the console, hanging her hat on the back. There was no use sitting down—there weren’t enough of them working the night shift, and Helen had to stay standing to sprint back and forth between each jack. There was only one other woman with her at the moment. But under their supervisor’s harsh glare, they weren’t allowed to speak. There was hardly time to talk, anyway, not with the constant ringing and connecting, over and over and over. As usual, Rose and Helen left the office together that morning and stepped down the sidewalk in unison. “That building gets so stuffy,” Rose complained, making a big show of taking a deep breath in through her nose. Helen took a breath too and walked lightly in her heels. “It is,” she agreed. “Especially after being on your feet all day.” “And never talking. Ugh!” Rose exclaimed. “You know, when we all started getting jobs I thought, ‘This is it. We’re finally going to be treated like men.’ But we still aren’t, are we?” “I don’t want to be treated like a man ,” Helen said with a scoff. “But I wouldn’t mind some decency.” “They could at least let us talk,” Rose said, crossing her arms and tilting her head back. “Or smile, even. You remember Betty? “Sure.” “Word is she hasn’t been around because they fired her for laughing. Can you believe that? Laughing!” Helen shook her head in vexation. “I heard they’ll fire you if you get married.” “Mm, I heard that too,” Rose said, “and that’s a real shame because I’ve had an eye on someone for a while now.” “You have?” Helen turned her head to look at her. Rose was focused on something in the distance, something Helen couldn’t see. “Since when?” Rose didn’t look back at her, fiddling with the bag around her shoulder. “Since we started this job, that’s when. Part of me got it to impress him.” “Well, who is it? What’s his name?” Rose shook her head. “I’m not telling until I know he and I are serious.” “Oh, please,” Helen said. “There’s not a man at all, is there?” The two of them fell silent, accompanied only by the noise of their heels on the pavement. The sun was just barely making its way past the horizon, a dim green peeking in between the buildings behind them. Helen’s house was only a block or two away, and Rose’s a little farther, but there was no way they were going to walk so long without saying anything, though what to say was troubling. Helen had a hard time imagining Rose in a life outside of their job, not that she couldn’t believe Rose wasn’t out and about flirting with men. No, the thought was entirely believable. But Helen never did anything like that. She went home to her parents, ate a small meal, woke up, ate again, and went to work. She hardly talked. She hardly laughed. She had no man to impress. Only twenty dollars a week, sore feet, and calluses. After mulling it over in a few short moments, Helen broke the tension and asked, “They let that new girl wear skates.” Rose’s hand on her bag fell still, and she glanced over at Helen, eyebrows raised curiously. “Who?” Helen shrugged. “Think her name is Louise.” Rose looked a little dubious. “What, she just skates around the place taking calls?” “Mhm.” “Could be fun, I guess.” “I never learned.” “It’s not too hard,” Rose responded, a smile starting to crinkle at the corners of her eyes. “I’d teach you if we ever had a second to ourselves. Heaven knows we need some fun around here.” The smile fell as quickly as it had appeared. “Did you hear about the girl in Boston?” “Do you know how many girls in Boston there are?” Helen asked instead of answering. “She worked switches, too,” Rose continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Killed herself last night. It was in the paper.” Helen let out a heavy exhale, murmuring, “Can’t really blame her.” Rose made a noise of agreement, then asked, “You wouldn’t though, would you?” “No,” Helen said. “I need the money. Besides, I’d miss this.” “Miss what ? Taking calls?” “No way,” Helen shook her head. “I’d miss talking to you.” She had spoken before she even realized she was thinking it, and the thought surprised her. Now that it had been said, and the words were lingering in the early morning air, Helen realized speaking with Rose may be the only thing she ever looked forward to. It was starting to stump her, but she didn’t dwell on it too long, Rose’s voice cutting through her thoughts: “I have considered leaving, but I wouldn’t go to any extremes or anything.” Rose was full of surprises tonight, sharing more than she usually did, so Helen asked another question. “Why haven’t you?” “Why haven’t I left?” “Mhm.” “I told you, to impress someone.” Helen raised an eyebrow. “Well, is it working?” Rose shrugged. “I’m not sure, yet.” “I doubt anybody’s worth working this job for.” Rose met Helen’s eyes for a brief moment. “Some people are,” she said. About the Writer... Allison Clausen is a senior Creative Writing student at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Even outside of school, she spends most of her time writing, and has an appreciation for all genres. Her favorite genre to write is fiction.

< Back That Time of Day by Valentina Zapata Rotting Roots By Alethea/Jamie Lohse The very air in the South pants, muggy and oppressive, down her neck, like a monster’s breath. As she steps out of the car, Elaine can tell she’s home just by the taste of a humid breeze and the sting of mosquito bites on her arms. The Oakley family’s home is dingy, deserted, and small — not traditional. The paint outside is weathered and stained, a makeshift flowerbed has been overgrown by weeds. The double-wide trailer is hardly a home at all, but it's the closest thing to it that the Oakley family has ever had. Elaine hauls her only suitcase out from the trunk and slams the lid. It isn't as if there are any neighbors around to disturb. Her grandpa bought this land for cheap, way back when there was even less around than the godforsaken nothing here now. He plopped the trailer down, propped it up with some cinderblocks, and there it stayed. Out here, everything stays. This North Florida mud — stickier than honey but not half as sweet — clings to anything, if it’s unlucky enough. Elaine starts slowly toward the trailer’s rickety steps, dragging the dead body of her childhood behind her. She knows Pa left the trailer to her because he had nothing better to do with it. The old man could never sell this wretched thing. Still, Elaine feels that he liked the idea of her having it. That always was Pa’s special, sick form of pride. His children were extensions of himself, and maybe this was his final selfish act: a subtle way of keeping the little he owned, even in death. It wasn’t a charitable way of thinking. In Elaine’s experience, that meant it was the truth. "Elaine starts slowly toward the trailer’s rickety steps, dragging the dead body of her childhood behind her." The sun starts to set over the trees, casting golden light behind their towering silhouettes. Elaine picks up her pace, as if she can outrun the rising sound of crickets. She’s always hated being out here at night. It started a few weeks after Elaine had turned seven. On a random Saturday, Pa woke her and Camden up by kicking them out of the house with a simple, cruel: “because I said so!” Elaine started crying, but Camden, eleven at the time, knew better. Only Pa was allowed to throw tantrums in this house. Her big brother gave her a piggyback ride the mile-walk to their neighbor’s house, just to calm her down. The Carsons were kind folks, with some kids around their age. They always let her and Camden stay for dinner without asking any questions. Elaine couldn’t count how many meals she must owe them over the years. The day was alright, but the path home was different in the dark. In Elaine’s young mind, she swore the trees had changed shape, that the wind was whispering something ancient and terrifying through their branches. The crunching of leaves and strange sounds from the forest weren’t any regular critters, but a great beast stalking them through the night, something big and mean, with pitch black eyes and a wide, gaping mouth. Elaine remembers telling Camden, "These woods turn hungry when the sun goes down.” Usually, her brother would just laugh at her for saying something so stupid. That night, he’d stared at the star-filled sky for a moment with an expression like piano music in an empty chapel. Elaine finds herself thinking about that look on her brother’s face a lot more than she probably should. She hadn’t seen it again till Camden's fifteenth birthday, when Pa first goaded him into trying a drink. “Just a sip, son. C’mon, you’re a man now, aren’t ya?” If she had said something back then, maybe it would have made a difference. But she didn’t, and thinking about it would do nothing but kill her. That night, Elaine was small and afraid. She didn’t question it when Camden wordlessly grabbed her hand and pulled them into a run for the rest of the way home. Pa was passed out drunk on the couch when they came in. Elaine knows this place is empty now, but she still finds herself bracing for the smell of booze. After years of disuse, the trailer doorknob is a little rusty. Still, when she fishes a key out from under the ancient welcome mat, it opens just fine. As Elaine steps inside, the first thing she notices is that there’s far less mess than she was expecting. The place looks cleaner than she’s ever seen it. Pa ’s church had handled the funeral, so they probably cleaned up too, as a good deed. Elaine faintly remembers them calling her, offering condolences, and inviting her to speak at the memorial service. The woman on the phone didn’t bother hiding her shock when Elaine politely declined to attend at all. The quiet gasp from the other end of the line still lingers in Elaine’s ears, like an itch she can’t scratch. She knows they spent the reception wondering what “Poor Ol’ Tommy” did to deserve such a rotten daughter. Everyone said he found God, towards the end there. By Elaine’s count, that would have been the fifth time Pa had “found God” over the years. This time though, he never got the chance to relapse. Pa had died a good man. The trailer door shuts softly, leaving Elaine alone in the dark. She freezes, a sudden and irrational unease washes over her. She slowly turns, cautiously staring into the black void. She reaches for the light switch, but no illumination follows the click. The darkness seems to press heavier, and in the deafening silence, Elaine can only hear the faint sound of her own shallow breaths. Her chest tightens with a senseless panic, and the image of unseen hands reaching for her flashes behind her eyes. She stumbles, trying to run to the windows, and tripping over her suitcase in the process. When her hands finally find the blinds, she rips them open with a resounding ‘clack’ in the silence. Fading sunlight spills in, revealing nothing but her own shadow. As a girl, she’d been terrified of the dark. Never once before college did she sleep without a nightlight, despite Camden’s teasing. When she was in middle school, Elaine had been so determined to quit that she threw her nightlight into the retention pond. She wound up not sleeping for three days straight before she finally broke and begged Pa to buy her a new one. After that, she’d been resigned to the fact that it was impossible for her to rest in the dark. Every time Elaine closed her eyes, she swore she could feel something watching her. Creeping closer. Just waiting for the chance to strike. Eventually, the nagging dread always twisted into a gripping terror. She’d snap her eyes open, shaking and desperate, only to find an empty room. It was stupid. Elaine knew that, even as a kid. “Ain’t nothing to be scared of, girl. You keep on crying like that, and I’ll give you something to cry about!” About the Author... Alethea/Jamie Lohse is a young queer writer from Orange Park, Florida. They are currently a Junior in Douglas Anderson School of Art’s creative writing program. They love to draw outside of school, and hope to one day pursue the medium of sequential art. They've previously been published as a print exclusive in the Élan 2023 issue with their non-fiction work titled “Sparks in Rainstorms”, a personal essay on life and its end. In future endeavors, they're working on a multi-media urban fantasy horror story called “The Chaska Investigations”. About the Artist... Valentina Zapata is a sophomore at New World School of the Arts. She explores multiple mediums across different art forms, from ceramics to animation. The majority of her works are acrylic paintings. Zapata takes an interest in themes of identity, childhood, and family. Previous Next

Élan is a literary magazine publishing the best writing and art from high school students around the world. Archives Publishing since 1986. Online Print Online Issues 1/2 SWITCH VIEW See as a gallery Online Print Issues 1/1 SWITCH VIEW See as a gallery Print

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 Unprepared Small Title Shanwill Wang 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 We Desire Anything but Peace Don't Let This Darkness Fool You Chao Small Title Jenna Williams Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

< Back Unzipped by Yujin Jeon 火花 Fire Flower By Joycelyn Zhang I am Asian, born with sparks in my belly, the same fire stoked by my ancestors lighting the first firecrackers. Back then, firecrackers were lit in celebration; they scared away evil. They were long, crackling snakes with tongues of wick, and they protected the Chinese spirit. I used to think I was a firecracker as well, so I could protect my own Chinese spirit. I am American, English a familiar weight on my tongue, ABCs engraved in my head, in my sentences pledging allegiance like clockwork every morning. Firecrackers aren’t allowed in school—they sound too similar to something else. I burned out and buried mine deep inside long ago. My home is clogged with soot and spicy fresh meat, Nai-nai , her nostalgia apron stained with yesterday’s dumpling flour, native language flowing and curling from my relatives’ native lips, like warm water. In China, gray is in the soot that powders the ground, in the layers of smog in the sky, in the air that coats your lungs if you breathe it in for too long. But beneath that gray is the bubble of hot cooking on the old iron stove and the Chinese language that bubbles around you, like a hot sauna. My home is cool and clear and thin like the air, mirroring each other in winter and summer dresses; the paved roads and streets hold their breath when the night comes out to play. A sun that glows persimmon over the ocean is the only ornament in the clear, clear sky. In California, the sky swallows everything up. The ocean rolls and spits white foam onto the sand. The air is clear at night, sharp like broken glass. I wonder if I can cut myself just breathing. It’s hard to breathe freely in America, the land of the free. I am Asian, and so people at school perceive me as such. I am almond-eyed, just like my ancestors. I have golden-brown, glossy skin and a face that betrays no hint of color when I’m embarrassed. But above all, I’m smart, I’m good at math; I ace every test because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Because I’m Asian. I struggle with all my might to rise to the top, struggling to keep my Chinese spirit alive. And this time, it’s not the firecrackers protecting me—it’s the grades. And they never burn for half as long. In China, everyone looked like me—same shiny dark hair and warm Chinese voice. But my grandparents look at me and shake their heads. Her skin is too dark , they agree with each other. She is full of bones. Why don’t you eat enough? How is my golden skin perfect for an Asian girl but not perfect enough for a Chinese girl? Plumpness is beautiful in China—it shows you have enough to eat. Thinness is beautiful in America—it means you have the luxury of choosing not to eat. But my stomach sits in rolls like the mantou that my nai-nai makes, far from the accentuated, glossy LuLuLemon models. My shoulders are too broad and my arms too skinny to make up for it. I’m too plump in America and too thin in China. I will never be beautiful. I’m a foreigner in a country I thought I’d feel welcome in. My scrappy Chinese tumbles and trips over itself as it leaves my mouth. 姑姑 (gū gu): father’s younger female cousin What do you do when she approaches you with her sons in tow, excitement so palpable you can taste it through your nose, and then she says, “Your little brother wanted to hear authentic English from an authentic source!” If I could say anything to myself from back then, I would ask: do you remember how gray that place was? How you compared the underground to the sky above, how it was as if the smog outside had plastered itself onto the damp walls? Can you picture how the faded murals were the only warmth in the otherwise cold tunnels? How the poems and proverbs consisted of hanzi you’d never once encountered in your pathetic American-curated Chinese textbooks? Do you remember how colorless you felt? 爸爸妈妈 (Dad and Mom) point in a dirty subway station: Can you read this? At school, I’m smart because I have to be, answering question after question like they are tokens of my identity I must earn, so how can four little words leave me unable to speak? My cheeks flame like firecrackers, and not in the way I want them to. I thought that flying to China in a Chinese plane, breathing Chinese air and speaking only Chinese and eating Chinese food would make me as Chinese on the inside as I was on the outside. When you were little, you’d perk up like Pavlov’s dog every time the word “Chinese” was mentioned. You’d clutch your fists into spark-breathing firecrackers and shout, “That’s me!” But was it really you? Was it not the eyes and skin but the heart that made you Chinese? What do you do then? What if all your life, “authentic” meant being Chinese, knowing the streets with those old stone courtyards? I’m fake. I can see it in their eyes, I can see it in quiet ai-yah s they hiss in their authentic accents, like ripe tea kettles—soft and sizzling to the touch—the sounds I’ll never be able to replicate. I’m too American. "I’m fake. I can see it in their eyes, I can see it in quiet ai-yah s they hiss in their / authentic accents, like ripe tea kettles—soft and sizzling to the touch—the / sounds I’ll never be able to replicate. / I’m too American." But am I? If even the people in China, which America sees as nothing but a communist dystopia, can see me and say, nope, not white enough, while at the same time tell me I’m exotic…which is it? Mandarin or English? Asian or American? Is there a line in the sand I must find so I can be equally both? Why do I even care what they label me as? 飞机 (fēi jī): airplane, flying machine The only place I felt free. Because up in the sky, the clouds blurred everything. Even the invisible borders and the sea between the two worlds. About the Author... Joycelyn Zhang is a freshman at Canyon Crest Academy, San Diego. Despite the workload at the school, she finds time to enjoy writing and playing the piano. When she is not busy with dance class, she is thinking about how and what she should write. While Joycelyn prefers to write poetry and short stories, she is open to trying other styles. She is always looking to expand her understanding of the literary world, and is honored to have her work featured in Élan. About the Artist... Yujin Jeon is a 17-year-old junior at Hamilton High School. Her favorite medium is acrylic paint layered with colored pencils. By utilizing acrylic paint she can capture a wide color range and through colored pencils, she can accentuate small layered details. Her motivation as an artist is to create art depicting one’s “flaws or “imperfections” through a confident persona. She feels that it is important to appreciate one’s “flaws” through the idea of body neutrality. This challenges the traditional beauty standards as it shifts the focus from appearance to functionality. Moreover, centering vulnerability in this journey can help individuals be in tune with themselves regardless of physical appearance. She translates her art into a magazine-inspired format depicting the “imperfections” of inanimate objects and people to make it truly unique and give it a sense of individuality. Previous Next

Deidra Curtis Deidra Curtis (She/Her) is a young African American writer in Jacksonville Florida. She attends Douglas Anderson School of the Arts as a Creative Writer and the junior Editor-in-Chief of Élan. She has a love for the thriller genre when it comes to fictions tales to read, but her passion runs deeper for writing personal poems on societal issues and creative nonfiction.

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

5 < Table of Contents Dandelions by Julia Dinzelbacher Hungry Throes by Ronen Manselle It is the year 1942. The soldier lifts his weapon. He does not look into the man’s eyes – though, should the man not have chosen to flee the battlefield, then the soldier might have been a good friend of his. Not a step back . And the man took a step back. It is that simple. Russians do not flee on the Eastern Front. They die. The soldier fiddles his trigger, and loosely, like pulling off a fingernail, it releases; the tug is so natural – The fleeing man in question was a certain Sergeant Fydor. He has never loved his life more than he does now. Which is ironic, considering he will not have it much longer. Something had awoken in him when he decided to run. Perhaps others would call it ignorance, or cowardice – Fydor certainly did not feel that way. It would be easier to describe if Fydor had any potent memories to latch on to, ones that could explain the awakened meaning in him. But all he had was dirt poor. Dirt poor, like his mother, whose skin was made of ash and rice. Or the girl he used to know, Nina, who for whatever reason would call him “Feo”, as if his name was made of air – which it most certainly was not. " There is a question, buried deep in Fydor, somewhere beneath his army vest and loose whiskers." There is a question, buried deep in Fydor, somewhere beneath his army vest and loose whiskers, somewhere in his red beating heart, his bruise-knuckle fists leaning against his father’s heavy chest as they both hold back their tears. But this is not how he likes to think of things. He prefers to say that he loved his childhood. Especially the sweet candies, which he could never get enough of, often spending nights drooling on his mattress, dreaming sweet Soviet boy dreams. He loved sweet things. Which is why he spent so much time around Nina, who called him “Feo” like he was made of air, who gave him two kisses and three days to decide the future of her little life. She had fallen into his life like an acorn from the sky, filling his existence with luxuries like yellow eggs and full moon skies. But that was never what he lingered on. Rather, it was always her manifesto that stuck with him; unforgettable words spoken under the hot, blistering hot summer sun: “Feo, I don’t wanna live like this anymore. Don’t you ever think that somehow, we’re missing out on something? Say, have you ever wondered what it’s like to be full ? Because I have. And I figure that it’s magical.” Fydor could not say why he ran, only that he was crying while he did. He did not think much about death. But there was something he was thinking about, and to Fydor, in the moment of mad glee and impulse, it was very important. For once in his life, Fydor would like to know what it is like to feel full. Just once. Just for a moment, so that he can know, for whatever it was worth, that it is indeed possible; not just another fantastical reverie that Nina’s big imagination construed, not just one more lie to add onto the growing tower of them, but instead real full, and overflowing with sweet, sweet, sweet Russian fullness – Boom . The soldier blinks once, as if something was caught in his eye. Pity, maybe. Somehow, to the soldier, and to everyone fighting – with their eardrums bursting to the sound of full ammo canisters emptying in a split moment – on a battlefield so full of screams, it had never been so silent; they had never realized how beautiful silence was. About the Writer... Ronen Manselle is a senior creative writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. He loves history and hopes to continue writing throughout his future. About the Artist... Julia Dinzelbacher is a Junior at Episcopal School of Jacksonville. She specializes in photography, especially nature and candid photography. She got her first camera for Christmas of 2020 and started taking the photography class at Episcopal the following year. Now in her third year taking the art, she is excited to keep pursuing photography throughout high school.

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 An Open Door The Minkin Kitchen Lila Hartley Small Title Hana Minkin Small Title Small Title Connect to "TOC Title" Connect to "TOC AUTHOR" Connect to "TOC ARTIST" View

2 Nostalgia by Maria Bezverkh Perched by Annika Gangopadhyay The crow perches on a telephone line, just adjacent to my house on the sullen, gray pavement. The neighbors left yesterday, probably some party or funeral or ceremony we didn’t know about, or didn’t care to know about. It caws a few seconds later, its voice mimicking the guttural movement of the clouds today–sluggish, ugly. I take out the trash in my room, reluctant, keeping my eye turned toward this bird that calls, occasionally at me, occasionally at some other companion on the opposite wire. As I lift the bulky plastic lid of the garbage can, the crow observes me and moves to a wire below. I flinch, and the lid nearly falls on my hand as I drop the trash bag. I want to run inside now, but for some reason I look back at the reptilian eyes that won’t blink. It swoops down on the ground, three feet in front of me. I hope it stays away from me, sharp eye contact far off into the distance. I back away towards the front door and decide to watch the crow from inside the living room; I don’t want it to peck me with its silver beak, angular against the sky like a blade unsheathed. A friend told me once that I shouldn’t feel intimidated by things smaller than me, since I have the arms, legs, and bones to defend myself from beaks no thicker than a miniature cone, or talons that fit around my shoulder. I realize now that the beak has a point, a tip, a curvature that I do not have. If the massive conquered the tiny, bugs wouldn’t bite humanity to death. Birds wouldn’t peck out eyes and limbs and joints. I stand behind the living room window–3:00pm, almost time to grab lunch–but the crow doesn’t stand. It walks toward the windowsill, still at a respectable but unnerving distance. I head to the kitchen, backing away toward the fridge and pull out a cold sandwich, some orange juice as the crow’s stare pierces my back. I can’t let this thing win, I decide, and so I return to the living room with a sandwich in hand, chewing with conviction, hands cold, feet shifting. It’s still looking at me, except now the talons grip the snapdragon vine we secured onto a wooden trellis three summers ago. “Do birds eat flowers?” A pause. “Probably, at some point, when they run out of the usual stuff. You know, bugs, fruits…” My dad trails off, too wrapped up in some Marvel movie to notice me hunched over in apprehension. Even with the TV playing, even with the windowpane insulating the road noise outside, I still hear the cawing in the living room. I still see the crow on the trellis, and the sun hides behind the clouds. I decide to tune into the drone of CGI explosions and superhuman fight scenes instead. Thor flies in with his hammer, invisible wings, almost like a– “There’s a bird outside, on the plants.” He doesn’t say anything. “Dad,” I tap him on the shoulder, “There’s a bird outside.” “Just leave it. It’s a bird .” “Can you do something?” He shakes his head and closes his eyes. If he falls asleep on the sofa again, it won’t be easy to wake him up. I walk up to the window and flick it with my index finger; as if entertained, the bird wriggles a little and stretches a foot. Sitting on the sofa, I keep my back turned, eyes fixated on the reflection of the window on the TV screen, still chewing on the sandwich, a glass of orange juice atop the table. Eyes still closed, he asks, “Did you take out the trash?” “Yeah.” As Thor emerges from the pretend-flames, my dad falls asleep. I nearly do too, eyelids barely flitting open. The action flashes in a predictable way, as if I can tell who is destined to defeat who, and which Avenger will die only to return in the next movie. I stop following along, mind numbed to road sets blowing up out of nowhere and cars crashing into each other. A crash behind me–I turn and see streaks of red on the window glass–not dripping, more like smudges or maybe fading imprints as the crow flies away with a limp wing. Gulping down orange juice, I wonder if the crow had leaned, how long it took to notice the glass screen. If it would have swooped into the living room–why didn’t it eat the flowers? That bird took my sanity, I scoff, while searching up a crow’s diet on Google. Worms, seeds, fruits. Meat. Just chicken and fish, I reassure myself: this isn’t a horror movie. Movies–Thor just killed these wimps with ease, flung them around like a natural. I head to the kitchen with my empty plate and glass. The garbage in the kitchen’s full, and I grab the trash bag, go through the living room. The companion crow sits on another telephone wire, watching me as I step outside. About the Writer... Annika is a young writer from the Bay Area. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in LIGEIA, The Incandescent Review, Blue Marble Review, and the borderline. She enjoys performing music in her spare time. About the Artist... Maria Bezverkh is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She is a photo major in the visual arts department. Maria specializes in photography because she loves how photography lets her capture beautiful moments in time.

< Table of Contents Religious Passing by Mai Tran jesus seen once in Ohio By Alahna Vallone “he is said to burn bright, sweat-slicked and smiling.” there, ablaze in the midwestern sun he is said to burn bright, sweat-slicked and smiling. and he will take mothers from daughters and sons. she will be saved. a girl said to her mother that jesus was seen on a screen in Ohio. where? where? tall in the corn fields. show me. show me. she cannot see through the glass, he came for Ohio, in all its vast nothingness. what greater being does not yearn for late night department store trips with only coins, rattling in your pockets? he wanders earth like we peruse the dollar section, the aisles cold, white and clean, like hospitals. the store will be closing in 10 minutes. please make your way to the front. my mother shakes me. please bow down to him, though your knees are not made to bend. please don’t leave me alone with your father. the one in heaven. the one at a home of her dreams. i cracked open her leather-bound bible to cite my sources mla style. dust expands like smoke. i cough all the same. put it on my bedside table when you're done. i leave it on the cold tile outside her door because i hear her muffled sobs. because i do not know jesus and i’ve never been to Ohio, but sorrow i have seen. sorrow. i have seen sorrow in the mirror, in my mother’s eyes, in losing faith in all fathers, in the eyes of a little girl who found out about saint nicholas under an empty tree, who has fallen to her knees so many times, for so many brothers and fathers, mouth agape. always, she has risen starving for a miracle. jesus is just another fantasy. no man is coming back to save us. About the Writer... Alahna Vallone is an artist in her senior year of Creative Writing at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts in Jacksonville, Florida. She focuses on writing confessional poetry and lyrical fiction. She’s an alumnus of Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference and is the current Managing Editor of Élan Literary Magazine. Her work often discusses womanhood, regret, and identity. She has been recognized by Scholastic Art and Writing and First Coast Young Voices. About the Artist... Mai Tran is a senior at Savannah Arts Academy majoring in visual arts. She has three dogs and a twin sister. Their favorite medium is working on scratch board.