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26d8ae08-f853-4650-862a-cc16b123ab93 Late by Jadalyn Gubat Firstborn by Satori McCormick I tried to tell my husband about my first son but every noble intent of the act failed. As we lay in bed months into our honeymoon, I attempted to sketch out the exact shade of his newborn skin (terracotta? rose? like the color of a brilliant desert sunset when it hits the sandstones just before nightfall?) and the deep black pools of his eyes when he opened them (he cried all the time and it was like he wailed, stopped, and opened his eyes just to fill them with sorrow all over again). But with each new sentence I paused, frowning, my hand outstretched in the middle of the air, and I could not remember if this was my baby I was talking about or the fantasy one I’d dreamed up in years since. My patient husband leaned over to kiss my forehead. He rolled over and turned off the light, leaving me in the dark wondering what color my son had been. But the tragedies topple over each other into peripheries. I was overjoyed to discover that someone wanted to marry me even after I was left destitute and childless and absolute societal wreckage. My husband was so sweet and shy I could hardly believe he was mine. He left every morning at seven to go to work in an office building and came home every night at five. He made his own coffee and poured a measured teaspoon of cream into it. He grew a beard and it tickled my mouth when he kissed me. He never asked me about my past. It was ancient history, a dark age, an aftertaste fading in my mouth. Our daughter was born on Christmas Day so we decided to name her Mary. She was pale and quiet like an angel. She never cried. In her crib, under a delicate canary yellow mobile of butterflies, she gazed up at me adoringly with caramel brown eyes. I took her everywhere with me. When she wanted to nap I cradled her in the crook of my elbow and watched TV, and when she was awake I took her on walks in the neighborhood in a pink stroller. My husband and I photographed her every minute development, whether it be an extra tuft of hair or a new dress or that the seasons had changed, but suddenly somehow autumn looked different than it always had once it enveloped our child. "Her fatherless child started crying on the other side of the room and I went to clean up his mess of spilled milk. I felt a sharp hatred towards him." At her third birthday party I invited one of my oldest friends and she approached me as I cut the cake for a group of eager toddlers. She started talking about how much I had changed, god, what a fucking miracle. I darted her a scornful frown and she laughed. She asked me how much my husband made at his job. Enough for us, I said. And this house? She glanced around at the white walls and contemporary furniture. She scoffed. You got yourself a real perfect life, she spat. Her fatherless child started crying on the other side of the room and I went to clean up his mess of spilled milk. I felt a sharp hatred towards him. What an ugly child. He looked at me with big black bug eyes encrusted with diamond lagoons and I had to look away. My husband was working late so I brought Mary to the mall. I bought her a light blue backpack to put all her things in. She stuffed in the most audaciously unnecessary things: a pack of crayons, her favorite stuffed animal, a bag of crackers, and a flower barrette, just in case the one I’d clipped in her hair that morning wasn’t adequate by the end of the day. I bought her ice cream in the food court. She savored it as we went in search of a toy store. I noticed a boy who must’ve been not older than eleven or so. He had shaggy black hair and deep golden skin and as he passed me he looked at me strangely. He joined a white couple that must’ve been his parents and they walked together through the wide glossy mall hallway. I tugged my daughter along faster and she whined in protest, her ice cream dripping onto the floor. In the hoards of people going the opposite way I lost track of the boy. Mary stumbled to keep up. I caught a glimpse of the family going up the escalator. I climbed in, pushing past strangers who shouted after me and at the top I saw them heading to the exit. I dropped Mary’s hand and followed swiftly. Just before I could reach the boy the mother whirled around and hissed, “What do you think you’re doing, following us?” Behind her I stared at the boy. He didn’t look like me. He wasn’t my son. I glanced at the woman, her face frightened and reddened, breathing heavily. Without saying anything, I turned back and made my way to Mary, who was beginning to cry in the midst of a thousand strangers. Return to Table of Contents

6 < Back A Night Swimmer Esme DeVries Depleting Vehemence by McClain Allen A Night Swimmer by Esmé DeVries My father is a creature of habit. I understand I’ve inherited this from him. He wants the best for us, his family, and he strives for it in everything. This I wish I had inherited. Where my dad is habitual, my brother, Oliver, is spontaneous. I see this difference as the reason they bonded so easily. I, in my similarities, wasn’t as lucky as to have the close-knit, macho connection. This combination of my father and brother’s two personalities made for interesting family vacations in the Floridia Keys nearly three times a year for most of my young life. It was on this triannual pilgrimage that I came to closer know my father and brother in a way that, at the time, was beyond my comprehension. It was some spring break, many years ago. In those years, back before my brother and I became our own people, grew flaws, and went our separate ways, vacations ran together. We always stayed at the same hotel: the Chesapeake. It had a certain charm that comes with a low budget. Stray cats roamed the property and my brother and I took to naming them after Harry Potter characters, though perhaps most memorably, there was a little pool out behind the place. It was a perfect rectangle and, if memory serves, lacked anything that could be distinguished as a “deep end” or a “shallow end”, yet much of who I am is dedicated to it. Memories of my brother roughhousing with me and the pair of us trying to coax our mother to swim with us span my recollection. In every way, it was a majestic expanse of sea. "It wasn’t often I got to stay up long enough to see the sun disappear into the Atlantic." One night, after my mother had gone up to bed, my brother, dad and I stayed in the pool. The darkness was thrilling, terrifying, and intoxicating. It wasn’t often I got to stay up long enough to see the sun disappear into the Atlantic. Oliver and I drifted eagerly throughout the pool, keeping our heads just above the surface of the water. Something about the cool saltiness of the pool was safer than the eerie blackness hanging heavy over the ocean. We were in our own little world, blanketed and isolated together. Dad, under the chillingly adult cover of night, was teaching us to swim the length of the pool in one breath. He could do it easily. Several quick breaths and he dipped gracefully under the water. Even in this, he was habitual, masterful. Oliver and I watched him push through the pool. Time went slowly. With Dad underwater, the two of us were silent, watching and learning. Our breaths mingled with the spring air, our heartbeats in time with Dad’s swim strokes. He made it to one side, then the other, and halfway back in one breath. Oliver was next. He mimicked Dad’s movements perfectly, naturally. Thin as a beanpole and quick as a bullet, he darted through the water like a pale silver minnow. Even in this recreation, I saw our differences. Where I was clumsy, he was tactful. When I was quiet, he was noisy. He swam to the other side and halfway back before resurfacing. Finally, it was my turn. I did just as I had been shown. Short breaths, then the plunge. Underwater was another world. I strained my eyes to see through the chlorine. The light embedded in the side of the pool gave the water an eerie green glow. I swam without grace, the only thing driving me my burning intention. My lungs, limbs, and eyes seared. Above me, I could hear my father and brother yelling. Perhaps encouragement. It didn’t matter, because I didn’t make it to the other side. I resurfaced, completely exhausted and utterly devastated. It hadn’t occurred to me that this was something Oliver and Dad could do that I could not. I had watched them execute the task so flawlessly and had, foolishly, thought I could achieve the same. I turned to face them, pushing my hair from my eyes as the graceless child does, and waited for their disappointment. But Dad and Oliver, simultaneously reliable and shocking, merely beckoned me back to the other side and told me to try again. This I did, to no avail. Yet my family pushed me to try again. I got no closer. I can’t remember if I ever wanted to give up. If the inclination was there, it was chased away the second I broke the surface of the water and let Dad and Oliver shower me with teachings and encouragements. Countless efforts pushed the hours later, to the point where I don’t know if I was driven by the need to reach the end and know success or my family never letting me give up. If they never gave up on me, who was I to give up on myself? I felt, as I swam, that I was becoming something new. As I acquainted myself with the water, I became amphibian and as I acquainted myself with the night, I became more adult. That night is my earliest memory of being with my dad and brother alone, in pursuit of a common goal. This would soon grow into a strange, inconsistent relationship. There was always something for the three of us to team up on, yet our collective dynamic was an uneasy thing. To look back on it is to watch myself wobble on a tightrope in a swaying trio. We could not all be balanced at the same time. Such it was with swimming. Dad and Oliver did it with gentlemanly grace, while I dogpaddled through a thick sludge at a snail’s pace. Though what I lacked in power, I made up for in passion and at some point, late in the night, I decided I was swimming my last night. Hearing their voices break through the water, I swam on, though the end seemed to grow no closer. I knew if only I reached it, I could seal my fate as a night swimmer with my father and brother for the rest of my life. I felt the dry crumbliness of the wall beneath my wrinkled, outstretched fingers. I broke the surface of the water, exhausted, yet triumphant. The water that drained off my face was a burden set down. Oliver and Dad were yelling unintelligible things, waving their arms in the air and high fiving one another. Together, we celebrated my victory, though it was a small one, practically meaningless, with no one there to see it. Tired and giddy, we went up to bed, climbing the stairs in the mysterious florescence of the hotel hallway lights. Towels hung limply on our bodies, wrapped across my bony shoulders and my brother’s narrow hips. My body ached, but it was an ache of accomplishment. I had earned the right to my weariness. Inside, Mom said she could hear Oliver and Dad screaming through the walls. I know now that she knew, as mothers often do, that that night marked the beginning of our schemes in a group of three, though I was unaware. About the Writer... Esmé is a sophomore creative writer at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts who has been recognized previously in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. About the Artist... McClain Allen put, I've been inspired by art my entire life and precisely the way it encompasses our world and everyone in it. Art can completely change the way someone thinks as it pushes the boundaries we establish within ourselves, to see beyond the picture and find its hidden meaning. My art expresses my reality of the world in a creative light through its composition and use of colors to emulate realism and depth. It displays my individuality by bringing life into my work that feels real to everyone.

Wishful Thinking by Rose Knudsen To the dock of the Black River by Alicia Vinson Today, I run The black essence that connects my feet To that painted on the concrete Diligently admiring these stains Of blue vandalized soul Kids restricted by the streetlight Whose mamas only trust them with the other brown folk Rusted plaque regulations in white Our neighborhood speaks love Yet the city speaks Wildfire and bruises Anyone who’s smart would awaken For safety is our killer Anyone whose timeline is smeared in white-out Would lead prayer We ask, what will this city be painted in? The murals of our youth, Or the tears blooming the flowers of our ancestors? We know the answer As the backbone of this city, we must go The tears Make up this ocean Holding the planks up with such prosper Which I run towards, For the sanctuary of my grandma’s cradling For the flowers that rub my veins in hymn While I wait my turn On this dock; this grave My friend I get your fear, I do For our dock is not painted a chalk gold glaze It is raw wooden brown The water leaking our blood at their palms Sister and brother I believe we will continue this revolution For our roots will elongate to and from the fractured heart To the children so criminal For the black boys Limited in toys And girls whose hair not cherished in the eyes of the sea But masked in the bitter plucks of bleach and chlorine From hands to dock we clamp Dock to droplets we kiss Not a taste of the discolored boat on our lips The time on our watch reads2000 And I understand the strong fingers that Pull me towards your revolt Eyes blank with fear “Will we simply float past time In the tombs of our blood? To be passed down from generation To generation we Will carry us, only us?” Crooked smile in confidence My feet dive into our waters A bridge of your love To the promised land Until our sea is so black Floods the city of our rhythm That they can’t run, that they can’t wait

Animals and Social Trash Kevin Kraft Clawing at My Dread Joshua Luke Rogers Cars are racing down a highway. On the median, an exhausted man, not quite old but certainly not young either, holds a ripped cardboard sign with nearly unintelligible writing scrawled across its surface. Earlier in the day he had been waving and smiling at passing cars, foolishly believing yet again that someone would stop and help him. But it’s been hours since then, and now he sits defeated with his chin resting upon a loose, shaking fist. In the early hours of the morning, when the sun had just started to peek over the horizon, he had trudged out to the highway from the nearby park where he had taken up residence. There were a few other people like him who slept there, some with bedrolls and other with cheap tents, all avoiding eye contact and jealously hoarding their few possessions, and dodging the cops whenever they decided to go and clear out the park. That was when the man saw a Range Rover come flying down the road before quickly coming to a stop. The man was ecstatic, thinking someone had finally stopped to help him! The man walked over to the car and a teenager climbed out. The teenager opened his trunk and removed a shovel, and he shooed the old man away, shouting and waving the shovel in the air like a spear. The man ran back to the median, and the teenager threw his shovel to the ground and removed a big, bulky black trash bag from the trunk. — “...get out of here! I don’t want you scaring away my customers.” — The man, panting and suddenly lightheaded, immediately ran to a nearby convenience store that was just opening. The owner was searching for his keys in his pocket when he saw the man running up. “Hey,” the owner shouted, “get out of here! I don’t want you scaring away my customers.” “No, wait, there’s a guy over there,” the man said, pointing. “He just chased me around with a shovel, and I think I saw him take a body out of his car! I think we need to call the police or something.” The owner looked over at where the man was pointing. He eyed the teenager and squinted, but then he saw the Range Rover. “Come on, there’s just a kid over there. He’s not hurting anybody. Now get out of here.” The owner unlocked the store and went inside. The man sighed and trudged back out to the highway median. The teenager slammed the trunk shut and dragged the large trash bag over to a nearby shrub, where a black cat suddenly emerged with a bird clenched in its jaws, freshly killed. The cat stared at the teenager, folding its ears, arching its back, spitting and hissing. The teenager swung the shovel at the cat, who dropped its kill and sprinted away. "Goddamn animal,” the teenager muttered. The teenager gripped his shovel and thrust it into the earth. He started to dig, whispering expletives and references to divinities as he did. Quickly he became hunched over as the dig seemed to sap his energy, but he continued to stab at the earth with every ounce of resolve he had. Before the hole was any more than a foot or two deep, long shadows began to form on the ground. The teenager quickened his pace, shoveling dirt into the steadily growing pile next to the hole as quickly as he could. Sweat began rolling down his face and onto his shirt in thick, steady beads as he growled and panted at the ground. The man watched all of this and couldn’t help but wonder where all the police were. They had always been hidden just out of sight years ago when he was speeding. When he was running low on cash and decided to help his dealer friend to make some extra cash, the first guy he tried to sell to turned out to be a cop. They were never seemed to be far away when he was sleeping in the park. Now this horror was unfolding in front of his eyes and it seemed there wasn’t a cop for miles. A car raced down the highway, and the teenager threw his shovel aside and began to dig with his bare hands, throwing the dirt aside, burrowing into the earth. He was like a mole, blind and afraid of what the light might bring, knowing only that the meaning of existence is to dig, dig as fast as you can, eat the dirt if you have to, you goddamn animal. The man suddenly, involuntarily, reached for his right pocket, where he used to keep his phone, but only ended up patting his leg. A second car raced down the highway and the teenager suddenly decided that the hole was deep enough. It grabbed the black bag and threw it into the hole, using its hands to pile dirt on top of it. It patted down the earth with its blackened, filthy paws and then scrambled back to the car and fled, leaving the shovel behind as it went. Cars are still racing down the highway. It’s been many hours since the teenager and the man were the highway’s sole occupants. The man thinks back and realizes it’s been a sad day. Nobody has stopped to give him food or money, or even talked to him, and he’s afraid he’ll have to go another day without eating. A police cruiser drives down the highway with its lights flashing and stops in front of the man. The police officer climbs out of her cruiser and says, “We’ve gotten some reports of panhandling here. I need you to leave.” “Leave?” the man asks. “Leave where? Where am I gonna go? I’m not hurting anyone.” “We’ve actually been told by some of the stores around here that you’re scaring away customers,” the officer replies. “I don’t really care where you go, but you can’t stay here.” The old man sighs and struggles to his feet, making sure to take his cardboard sign with him so the officer can’t yell at him for littering too. As he walks away, the officer stops him and asks: “By the way, there’s a silver alert out right now. A woman disappeared from her retirement home last night, less than a mile from here. Have you seen anything?” The old man stops and stares over her shoulder, looking at the grass on the side of the highway, with the dirt disturbed and the shovel still lying where the teenager had left it hours earlier. He feels his heartbeat starts to race as he forms a connection only he can make. He looks back at the officer. “Nope. Just two cats fighting or something.” Return to Table of Contents

< 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.

Southern Heat by Madison Bradley Excerpt from Homes and Houses by Audrey Brant Restless spirits live here. But they are alive. They have bodies, but no souls. They inhabit this house, but they don’t truly live in it. Their home is not this structure. This building holds them, but it does not hug them. There is an absence of presence here. An absence of positive emotion. Wood and concrete and walls and a roof do not create a home. Only love can do that. Shingles and lumber and cement do not create love. Only warmth and light from people can do that. Money might make the world go around, but love makes it twirl; a mandatory rotation compared with the joy and freedom of a child’s pirouette.” And not the warmth that comes from a furnace, or the light that blooms from a bulb. The kind that comes from a heartbeat or a compassionate mind. Isolation and alienation make a home into a house. Irritation and annoyances spill over into hatred. Little things build up into big problems. A once-shared home becomes a house divided by stress and fading tolerance. Storms of silence brew between a family until it’s unbearable, and somebody leaves. They thought, for the longest time, that homelessness was being without a place to stay, or living on the streets. But when you’ve lost your family, when you’ve lost the people you love or their love for you, that’s when you are truly without a home. Money might make the world go around, but love makes it twirl; a mandatory rotation compared with the joy and freedom of a child’s pirouette. And somewhere along the line, a glimmer of hope appears, like shining stardust into a pool that sends golden ripples to the outskirts of its vessel. An unforeseen rosy light overcomes the house and blankets every room. This light is not from the fixtures in the ceilings or from the televisions omitting their unnatural glow; this light is from peace. The loneliness that came from the individual’s departure dissipates into serenity. The remaining inhabitant finds that their house is more of a home than it ever was.

2a2ede67-55e5-44fe-a97c-c29a61b8b011 Blackout by Micayla Latson Deep in Georgia by Autumn Hill 1. Deep in Georgia’s heart, off to the left In the season of the bare dogwood Feeble and blessed, I, aged six or seven had stood Heavy enough to hear The creaks in the floorboards That guffed their scalded scent. On Sundays the church bell rang Leaden and hefty, drawing the crowd Into the haven, across from the cotton field. My grandmother held open the books of hymns. I sat into her, underlining the thread of gospels Between the bands of the piano’s written word. Her eyes closed, voice croaky but softened--  harmony like a crowd of Alaga. They sang so deep like the musk of tobacco, its haze seizing my breath, mumbling underneath their roars. They praised till the walls peeled like a blade to bark. Stomping till they wore the bleeding carpet Open. Dancing till they weren’t here no more  2. In the cloak of night they come for the church.  The wood collapses into heaps of hot ash white capes like picket fences ignited their rugged crosses, high in the sky, a message sent  crackling and churning with sin.  The Lord’s passages roar through the fire, flames take seat in the pews, clutching hymns, melting praise into its bodies. Afar, brown eyes glow, with no tears to extinguish anything.  Again, a building rises, again, our songs sung, squalls curling against the walls, shaking the deal doors. Sun rays casting aglow the pulpit through empty windows. Sisters and brother rise, slamming calloused hands against the pew.  Shaking and convulsing, chorus of wails purer than the light cleansing like fire.  High as the days where the sun swelters our skin sweat the sweet scent of ash. 3.  The piano dwindles in its wailing lament.  The now somber steps of keys dousing these familiar folk, whose wrinkles I revere, more so, as they exhale a blackened breath. Grandma, whose arms I am tucked under once again slightly tremble with ache, creaking bones, scorched under flesh still. Like a pillow of Sunday best, my head onto rests, till the cooling moon waxes, summoning benediction. Return to Table of Contents

< 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.

< 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.

< Table of Contents Welcome to the Family by Amrita Ketireddy to my mother, who never cried in room 207 After Ocean Vuong By Aarushi Gupta “i dread the red of your eyes like a / twenty-nine-year-old dreads his birthday.” under a painting of indra (1) scorned, you make your mandir (2) in the familiar dip of the mattress. soon, the view will be replaced by the smiling portrait of your mother, who lays in bed behind. the mattress will turn white, for the only south indian snowstorm is the whirl of dupattas (3) at funerals, icicles melting under the weight of unshed tears. i dread the red of your eyes like a a twenty-nine-year-old dreads his birthday. not black remembering, but the pink of your unpolished nail forgetting itself, pressing crescents into my arm. red, commutative as death itself. if time is a mother, why does it freeze in hospital rooms, where the umbilical cord is forged again and again? locked in this furnace, withstanding the heat of being ganesha (4) for once, you think of the last time you prayed to god in this room. go on, mother, pick up the phone and call. morph into parvati, remember the time they churned my stomach, a samudra manthana (5) . painkiller amrut, splattered on the floor outside our house. floating in that puddle, i saw an eyelash, its shortness a gift you gave freely. yours or mine? perhaps, neither. it belonged to nani (6) first, but so did you. i wish i was there with you, wish i could feel the cosmic pulling of draupadi’s saree (7) pause. i wish i could tear a hole in it, sew an extra yard of cotton into the dupatta of time. but if there’s one thing i learnt the day you first walked into room 207, it’s that no one can hide from a mother’s wrath. (1) indra is the hindu god of rain, storms, thunder and lightning. (2) mandir is hindi for temple. (3) dupatta is an indian garment, similar to a shawl. (4) ganesha is the son of goddess parvati in hindu mythology. (5) samudra manthana refers to a myth wherein the gods churned the ocean to obtain the holy nectar called amrut. (6) nani is hindi for grandmother. (7) draupadi’s saree refers to a tale from the mahabharata wherein there was an attempt to humiliate draupadi by pulling off her saree. however, lord krishna intervened, making the saree infinitely long and preserving draupadi’s dignity. About the Writer... Aarushi Gupta (she/her) is a high school senior from Bangalore, India. You can find more of her work at www.aarushiwrites.com . About the Artist... Amrita Ketireddy is a junior at Creekside High School. She has done fine arts for nearly ten years alongside tennis. She is a member of numerous honor societies and clubs, though is an officer of her school's Creative Writing Club, Film Production Club, and FBLA. In the future, she hopes to study Software Engineering along with Fine Arts and follow her passion for creating things from the ground up.

< Back Scarlet Waves by Charleigh Herrin The Cadaver Lab as a Medical Student By Elise Lewis I step into the room, Blinded by a haze of fluorescent light, I can see what’s only shown in this shade of white— Clusters of crying families: Mourning mothers, Weeping wives and broken brothers, I wake up. I walk around the room, Examining the cases of vacuumed lungs, Achromatic eyes and lifeless tongues. Minds once bursting with color and creations, Praised for their unique ideas and interpretations, The way they showed kindness and how they’d think, Is now simplified to a single shade of pink. “Where shall we begin?” Shh. Let's learn how to respect the worlds torn apart, Before we tear open the silent hearts. Let’s quiet down and bow our heads. Let’s gather around and close our eyes. Let’s imagine their lungs still full of breath, The way they laughed and the things they said. Let’s imagine their eyes before resting on doves, How they once swelled with tears and made someone fall in love. Let’s imagine the words formed between their teeth, Their exaggerated letters and distinctive speech. Before we begin, let’s look around the room, At the clusters of crying families, Who sent their skin-covered sterilized love, To help save others from seeing doves. About the Author... Elise Lewis is a senior at the Willow School. She is taking Creative Writing Elective 1 and enjoys running for her school's track team. About the Artist... Charleigh Herrin is a 12th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She is studying photography. She takes inspiration from music she listens to and loving memories. Previous Next

Guardians Sarah Ermold In Theory Julienne Masopust a coyote guards my conscience, chasing rabbits across the soft tissue of my brain to protect the angel and the devil on my shoulders. the devil's perspective intrigues the rabbits. he has a way of gripping the truth twisting it into lies, the compulsion driving my body into overload exciting them. a hunter protects my emotions, hunting rabbits that come near the dam he's worked so hard to build. the gun held close to his chest his finger on the trigger, he keeps it loaded, ready for a stray rabbit to come close. the rabbits hop around my senses mixing them up to confuse the hunter and the coyote, they want the dam to break. to shake hands with the devil, to get back at the creatures guarding my inner-self, my alter-personality the world never sees. the rabbits consume me. the hundreds of them hopping around my mind they know me more than i know myself. my own little world guarded by the creatures of my mind i wouldn't want them to know what other creatures lurk in my brain, the ones they don't see the ones i keep concealed even from myself. i wouldn't want to be left to discover them myself. when the hunter shoots the rabbit. when the dam breaks and the coyote drowns, when the devil holds my brain in his hand, the pink soft tissue becoming grey as his soul seeps into my brain. Return to Table of Contents