11 < Back Where I'm From Giovanni Jacques Bantu by Nyriel Saures Where I'm From by Giovani Jacques I am from Saturday morning bible studies, men in suits preaching about Bondye, and all that he sacrificed for me. I am from hours spent,// watching Palmettos swing in the breeze,// songbirds singing their divine songs,// of love, and// freedom. I am from hours spent, watching Palmettos swing in the breeze, songbirds singing their divine songs, of love, and freedom. I am from oak trees towering over Bolete mushrooms, its mycelium in a bond with all the roots of all the oak trees one could see. All connected. I am from makak, and wop kon jorge, echoing from the lips of the ones you love, the moment you happen to be less than perfect. I’m from brothers badgering, and pesky sisters, and mothers love. I am from facetime calls with loved ones live from an island, envy held on both sides of the screen, both wishing to be in the shoes of the other, both wanting to escape. About the Writer... Giovani Jacques is a first-generation Haitian-American writer hailing from Jacksonville, Florida. He describes writing as a unique outlet for him, using it to express complex concepts and ideas that otherwise wouldn't see the light of day. About the Artist... Nyriel Saures is a senior art major. She's been creating art ever since she was a little girl. Besides art, she really likes fashion too. She plans on continuing her artistic journey going into college and even after that.

The fantastical world of Henry by Eleanor Goodwin

7 < Back Last Call at the Yellow Bird Lauren Underberg Man With the Hat by Bria McClary Last Call at the Yellow Bird by Lauren Underberg Business never used to be slow on a Tuesday night, crowds staying well over curfew, waiting to rise with the rest of the city at daylight. As the days grew longer and the sun more unforgiving, it seemed that spring had drawn to a close, and so the dancers went back home to their second lives. These nights, there were rarely “problems” at the bar, and the old docksmen weren’t any harm once they stumbled past the door, dribbling spilled baijiu on their way out. One of three waiters had shown up in the past week, a mild-mannered boy clearly too young to be working at such an establishment. Uncle probably made an exception, and Irene had a feeling it had to do with the unusually pearly white plates being bused back to the kitchen, coupled with the boy’s shifty gaze. She let him go home early ever since the crowds had begun to dwindle over the weekend, and she was ready to close the restaurant tonight at ten-thirty, the earliest since Typhoon Ellen had cast the island in total darkness, nearly six years ago. That is, if it wasn’t for the triad. “ Puk gai! ” “ Aiyah , Fanfan, there’s no reason to shout.” “Oh, you say that when you’re being cheated by an egg-headed ninny in a suit! Gimme the dice.” “It’s your turn to drink.” The scrawniest of the three grabbed an empty shot glass, downing the tepid air in a menacing wince before slamming it back down. Irene knew them by their orders: Brian Lam (gin and tonic), low voice and dreamy eyes, or so she’d overheard the girls at the bar say. He frequented the least, often away renegotiating contracts overseas, but when he did appear it was always in a different tailored suit with the same faded pair of cufflinks. She remembered that once, a British officer had gotten in without a warrant, barking in sharp consonants at one of the guys who drew in and lost the most crowds with his deck of cards. Brian drew him aside, exchanging what appeared to be strained pleasantries, and within seconds the officer gave his sincerest apologies and was promptly led away by one of the hosts, never to be mentioned again. Irene only knew Fanfan (a beer was enough to get him tipsy, three and he’d be passed out) by his nickname, but that was all that people seemed to call him. He wasn’t exactly what she’d call trouble, but she also found herself with less and less pity for his laments each time they sat at the bar. Uncle said he was the best shot on the island; rumor had it he’d killed a man three cabs away, coming in from the Cross-Harbour Tunnel. The game resumed as Fanfan shook the dice. “Three twos!” Brian sighed, glancing into his own cup. “Five threes—” “ Bu xing [1] ! ” Fanfan cried. “I can’t do this anymore,” Brian said, fingers pressing to his temple as Fanfan pouted. “Aw, are someone’s pockets getting too heavy? Maybe if you spared a few hundred dollars, you’d be better able to sit back on your—” “Gentlemen, please,” the third said, glancing up from his drink with a grin. “There’s a lady present.” Kit—the newest in town, a hot cup of oolong every night from the first he walked in. Pain in the ass. Irene turned her back, repolishing the crystal. “Yes—our apologies,” Brian quickly said, folding his napkin on the counter. “We’ll be taking our leave shortly.” “ Coward! A real backstabber finishes the job!” Fanfan howled. “Alright, alright,” Kit said, shaking the cup. “One more round.” Brian sighed. “Don’t encourage him.” “Like you did?” Kit shot him a look, and Brian fell silent, watching him tilt the cup back to examine its interior. “Four fours.” Fanfan groaned, beating his forehead against the counter. Brian frowned. “I think you’re bluffing.” Kit twirled the cup between his fingers, holding the other’s. A cryptic expression seemed to stretch itself across Brian’s face as he reached into his pocket, fanning out the bills he’d collected that night. Fanfan peeked between his fingers, while the other placed them in the center of the counter. “ Bu xing ,” Brian said. Kit slid the cup down the counter, coming to a halt between the other two players. They peered in. Irene paused, listening as the song on the jukebox drew to an end. “ Ging zau [2] ! ” Fanfan cried, snatching the bills from the counter and falling out of his seat. Kit smiled over his shoulder. “A gin and tonic, please—plus some ice.” [1] “Not possible!” (Players shout it when they suspect someone of bluffing in Chui Niu, a popular Chinese drinking game.) [2] “Cheers!” (Used in reference to when someone has to drink as a penalty, either during a toast or drinking game.) About the Writer... Lauren Underberg is a junior in the Creative Writing department at the Alabama School of Fine Arts. Their work appears in the department’s student-run literary magazine, Cadence. They have been referred to as a long-distance runner on multiple occasions, which basically means they’ll never write a short short story in their life. About the Artist.... Bria McClary is a 12th Grader at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. At the school, Bria is a visual arts major who dedicates their life to her artistry. They create art, generally in paints, and many kinds of mixed medias like cloths, collage, embroidery, inks, and charcoal because of the looseness the materials creates and the freedom in creating such pieces. Bria also has been apart of NAHS—National Arts Honors Society throughout her junior and Senior year at Douglas Anderson. Entering and winning multiple silver keys and a gold key art portfolio along with multiple scholarships from Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.

< Back Returning to the Nest by Marin Schultz Fly By the Western Coast By Nichole Perez Gaze over the coast at the n ē n ē who soars but doesn’t go very far. Just a bit higher, a bit farther, or to the right. He carries himself across the sandy lands, only to settle down on the short shrub, where his young lie and laze in the sun. He could run across the hottest coals, or summit down the largest mountains on his wings that carry him just enough. But, in doing so— he leaves the sweet gosling whose only crime was to be born at a young age; to be dependent on shared blood and DNA. He who may find it easy to return. He who may not. He who says he clocked out, but leaves it up to the night shift. She, that sweet gosling, who is still waiting for him to finish his night shift on the other side, not realizing he’s been off for hours. Auwe or hoka ? I’d quite like to be the gosling waiting by the shore. The hope that a new will begin simply because the old ended prematurely. Penance for lost time. Apologies for promises broken and walls torn down in the blaze of who we once pretended to be. Regret of offering sorrows. Regret of not, or even the regret of walls being torn or burned or smashed with his hammer. Such a delicacy that hammer is. Bring it and its friends with you. Invite the family. The gosling doesn’t mind her time. And when she does, do not mind it. She is emotional, young, and dumb. Too swayed, not like he would be. Or maybe, we are wrong. The n ēnē has not heard her call or squawk in a while. She could be behind glass or on display. Maybe, just maybe—he should fly down the Western Coast one more time. His eyes aren’t what they used to be. About the Author... Nichole Perez is a young writer who specializes in poetry and historical fiction, mainly known for her speech at the Virginia Art Education Association conference. By reading the works from George Orwell and other classical writers, she is working towards reviving the art of classical literature. In her free time, she mentors kids her age as president of the Churchland Highschool Creative Writing club. About the Artist... Marin Schultz is a junior at Savannah Arts Academy. Her favorite medium is pen and ink, but she also enjoys experimenting with media such as charcoal or pencils. Previous Next

11 < Table of Contents Bare Bones by Yiming Low Men's Jeans by Yeshaya Rawat Engineer I walk through fluorescent strobing lights to the “Men’s” section And bravely pull off the rack, jeans. Jeans, blue. Jeans, ripped to be cool — distressed, they call it. Jeans, classic. Jeans, new. Men’s Jeans . New clothes must be saved for a special occasion. I will wear this out when I have something important to do; Something worthy, worthy of my new men’s jeans. Bowling, perhaps; Or the movies with a girl. A girl with soft hands, so unlike mine. A girl with a kinder voice, but sharper words than mine. A girl who would never wear Men’s Jeans . " I’ll sit back straight. Straighter, so her head can rest on my shoulder and I will do what I have so / desperately wanted to; / I will be a man." We will split a single tub of styrofoamy corn; over priced but I’ll offer to pay. Hands will delve into pockets so deep they may drown; a leather square, the catch of the day. Grab a drink or two. And just like I’ve learned; Studied, for years. I’ll sit back straight. Straighter, so her head can rest on my shoulder and I will do what I have so desperately wanted to; I will be a man. In Men’s Jeans And when I breathe air scented by her perfume, and popcorn, and Pepsi, and perfectly picked out seats; It will burrow in my bloodstream and flow down to my thighs. My thighs wrapped in jeans. Men’s Jeans . But as new dishes in the Mikveh Or a child in holy water, The new must be cleansed to come home. To be a part of the tribe; Of the group And such is also true of my clothes. Of my Men’s Jeans . My thighs wrapped in my men’s jeans wage silent warnings of the imminent. I ignore them, I am a man. I ignore them, I am a man. I ignore them, I am a man . I ignore them, the credits roll, I throw my jacket over her shoulders, I walk her home, I walk alone, I am a man. I unlock my door, I am a man. I walk to my room, I am a man. I go to pull down my blue, ripped to be cool — distressed they call it, classic, new, Men's Jeans . They are part of the tribe, Of the group. Baptised by blood, By fire. Christened red, my blue, ripped to be cool — distressed they call it, classic, once new, men’s jeans remind me, I bleed, am I a man? About the Writer... Yeshaya Rawat Engineer is a young trans man from Pune, India; currently studying at UWC Mostar in Bosnia and Herzegovina. He has called Frankfurt, Germany home since 2019. His interests include playing music, learning random new things, and writing poetry. He studies Visual Arts, Global Politics, and Environmental Science and is extremely passionate about climate studies and ecology. About the Artist... Yiming Low is a visual arts major at the Savannah Arts Academy in Savannah, Georgia. Along with traditional styles of realism, she enjoys experimenting with graphic design, photography, and printmaking.

< Back Red Eyes by Jasmine Walker Vietnam jungle fatigues in a Salvation Army By Hannes Duncan I’m sitting in the bed of a U.S Army truck with my rifle between my legs and I’m measuring the distance between the muzzle and my throat. We sit in a cloud of chemical rot with our backs pressed up against piercing metal dirt in our eyes and a stranger’s pulse in the threads of our jungle fatigues. Our rapid heartbeats are synchronized in a song that will keep me up at night for the rest of my life. The thought of my death being the end of my family’s name has kept my bullets as generous as the God I used to pray to before I realized I’m beyond repair. The boy next to me kisses his rosary & I white-knuckle my dog tags. I could use a rapture. The truck’s gears whine under the weight of our nineteen-year-old shadows as it delivers us to another village in need of pacification. About the Author... Hannes Duncan is in 12th grade studying creative writing at Douglas Anderson. He is an avid writer and enjoys poetry of all kinds. His work has also appeared in UNF's literary magazine, The Talon Review. About the Artist... Jasmine Walker is a 12th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her favorite mediums are printmaking and painting. Previous Next

< Table of Contents Editors' Note As Élan has continued to sail into its 38th year of publication we have explored the fluidity of authentic art, and the variety of ways it can appear. In these pieces, artists from around the world grapple with the hard realities of what makes them belong and stand out as they perch on the precipice between childhood and adulthood. Journey with us as we dive deep into the true meaning of these human desires. As Editors-in-Chief, we are beyond proud of the work the staff and artists have put into this issue. We hope that you will allow this collection of work to sit with you. Let the tides of emotion within these pages take you out to sea and lead you somewhere different from where you began. Signed, Niveah Glover, Emma Klopfer, Avery Grossman, & Jaslyn Dickerson

14 < Table of Contents Blue Record by Jiranan Lowchaiwakul Eighteen and Up by Nadine Shanks There are gray giant double doors to enter the Emergency Department. So simple to push open and enter, one swing enough to say goodbye. Instead I hold my year-old cousin on my lap in a small-doored room adjacent. Minutes pass by, baby bouncing bubbles on my lap, fussing for his mother. My parents and aunt are inside, gone to see my grandfather for what only I know will be the final time. Holding his cries to my chest, I stand pacing in the waiting room, thirteen and unsure how to comfort his growing wails. As we walk the stark hallways he begins to quiet. The windows are clear- not one streak and the small garden outside them is a vibrant green. So silent, I can hear only the ringing in my ears, the AC pounding the walls. This is where I watch Death walk. She is a simple visitor. Quiet in her approach: a chaste licorice kiss brought along to answer final calls. Frankenstein’s Monster. "She is both messenger and deliverer. / Veiled beauty in onyx black, / Malice does not know her name." She is both messenger and deliverer. Veiled beauty in onyx black, Malice does not know her name. Her hands are a delicate framework of warm bone, she caresses every face as she walks by. Yet, not one pair of swollen eyes ever lands on her resting smile. Death: ethereal. A step away, she smells of spiderlily and winter water breeze. When her hands reach my face, my fingers flex once into tender baby flesh and release as a breath pushes past trachea. From my eyes, to my cheeks, to my lips, to my chin. Her fingers are smooth as a banister, her smile as sincere as the richest of sonnets, her eyes as honest as the dying man. She trails my cousin’s face with the outside of her index finger, And for the briefest of moments I meet her eyes. And again she began her procession, Moving person by person to the giant double doors at the end of the hall. In a swing, she is gone, and we are left alone with the garden. About the Writer... Nadine Shanks is a senior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts with a focus on Creative Writing. She has published a minor collection of poetry in Scholastic Art and Writing. Centered around ideas of identity and childhood, she predominantly writes in memoir and poetry. About the Artist... Jiranan Lowchaiwakul is an 11th grade visual artist at Douglas Anderson who majors in printmaking. She enjoys doing block printing, painting, and photography.

< Back Inner Child Manifesto by Brooke Coulter Beached By Olivia Chao You’re standing on the concrete plateau that lies next to the number one beach on the Oregon Coast. Though, you can’t quite remember the name of said beach because, at the time, you were only so young and now, you’re all grown up. Memories long forgotten have begun to surface in your mind because—scratch your face. Remember why you’re here in the first place—a beach trip with your uncle and cousin. The sun is setting and you can see the dip just where the waves meet the rays. Imagine placing yourself there, nestled between a warm and cool embrace. Your uncle is talking about your mother like she’s here. Something about how sad your grandfather is. How your mother never visits, never calls. You don’t know it yet but years into the future, right before you enter puberty, you’ll see your mother cry for the first time in your life. She’ll tell you how awful your grandfather was to her, how he didn’t support the marriage. You didn’t notice you were barefoot. Scratch your legs. Stare off in the distance, right on the line where the sea meets the shore. Think on it. Imagine shedding your clothes. Your skin. Consider entering the water, letting the sea take you, naked as the day you were born. “It just feels like she doesn’t love us,” your uncle says with tears in his eyes. Scan the beach. See a grey mass further down the coast, so far that it’s barely a dot in your vision, but it’s there. Put back on your skin, your clothes, walk down the stairs of the plateau. Let your soles sink in the sand. Your uncle and cousin don’t notice you’ve disappeared. Continue walking. Surely, they wouldn’t mind you staying on the sand for just a bit longer. Walk more, farther than when you started and consider giving up on this venture. Think about abandoning your skin again. Can’t. The gray dot begins to take shape, fins, a tail, eyes. Something more than base curiosity spurs you on. Run. Trip. Stumble. Eat a face full of sand. Don’t let it stop you till you reach what you’ve been looking for. Take no time to consider that, however, because you’ve reached your destination. A dead sperm whale lies beached on the sand. Well. Not dead yet. She’s still breathing. With every breath she takes, the sand vibrates. Scars cover her from head to tail. Some old, some new. The sand stops moving. Due to bacteria after death, gas forms. Her body swells. A concoction of carbon dioxide, methane, and ammonia forces the fetus out. Her dead body births a Calf, covered in only Its own amniotic fluid for comfort. The umbilical cord pulses, the mother has left the Calf without milk. Her body deflates in Its absence. Stand over the Baby’s body. Touch Its skin, find your fingers coated in pieces of placenta. You’re done. Walk past the Baby and let your feet touch the water. Almost walk knee deep before doubling back, head snapping to where the Baby lays. It’s dead. In one last rattle, the Baby cries. Remember your childhood. No, not this childhood. Further back. When you first started sleeping alone, without your parents and in a different room. Remember the events of those mornings. You’d stand in your new room, with orange walls this time, by the window and peered through the blinds—the best you could, given how short you were—and stared at the neighborhood kids playing in the driveway. One’s riding a skateboard with another pushing him, and everyone is laughing. Ask your mother if you can join. “They’re hooligans,” she said, every baleen on display. “What if you get hurt while you’re out there?” Slink back to your room to watch. The sun sets. Get scared of the dark. Find your parents and ask if you can sleep with them. Know that they’ll say no, it’s routine, go down the stairs to their room anyway. Carefully open the red door. Shuffle to your mother’s side of the bed. Listen to each creak of the floorboards. Stand over her body. Watch. Wait. You don’t know for what. Listen to the sound of her breathing. Find that you’ve been waiting for nothing. About the Author... Olivia Chao is a young writer and artist from Florida. She attends Douglas Anderson School of the Arts with a major in Creative Writing. Her artwork has previously been featured at the Jacksonville Public Library, and her writing has also previously been featured in Élan. About the Artist... Brooke Coulter is a junior Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her chosen mediums are acrylic painting and block printing. Previous Next

Braids Mackenzie Shaner Abyss of Gold Joshua Hein I write this poem for my Grammy. The only woman who did my hair since it was long enough to work with. She’s the only person I know who could twist it in beautiful braids. I’d sit on my knees, hands clasped in front of me, Staring at the cartoons on her TV. Her coarse hairbrush- With bare bristles from their plastic bulbs being long forgotten- Combing through the thick strands. Nimble fingers parting each side expertly Like pieces of thread she used to suture old teddy bears. I’ve always been aware of my indigenous heritage, Though even more aware that I don’t look like it. It’s far more apparent in my Grammy. Her skin is tanned indefinitely, With long black hair resembling that of an elegant horse's tail, Swaying in air as it prances with such confidence, You’d wonder if it had been taught, or simply born that way. I’m white as snow, With the type of skin that peels in the sun, And instead of gold underneath, All I see is red- But I’m told you still see it in my hair. Besides vague ideas and a name, I didn’t know about my heritage, Only recently I learned that hair has meaning, Some teachings say that your hair holds your life story So, it’s put in braids- for protection To keep it safe so the story may grow with you. Part of me was always bitter that I didn’t know much about myself But that wasn’t completely true In every day she did my hair, she was protecting me. Return to Table of Contents

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.